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“If we Cannot defend our own door from the dog, Let us be worried; and our nation lose The name of hardiness, and policy.” _Henry V._ The combat between the Crisis and _la Dame de Nantes_ took place in 42.37'.12” north latitude, and 34.16'.43” west longitude, from Greenwich. This was very near the centre of the northern Atlantic, and gave us ample time to get our ship in good condition before we drew in with the land. Shortly after the affair, the wind came out light at northeast, forcing us down nearer to the Bay of Biscay than was at all convenient, when bound to London. The weather grew foggy, too, which is not usual on the coast of Europe, with the wind at east, and the nights dark. Just a fortnight after the action, I was awakened early one morning by a rough shake of the shoulder from Marble, who had the watch, but who was calling me at least an hour before the time. “Bear a hand and turn out,” he said; “I want you on deck, Mr. Wallingford.” I obeyed, of course, and soon stood in the presence of the chief-mate, rubbing my eyes diligently, as if they had to be opened by friction. It was just six bells, or seven o'clock, and one of the watch was on the point of making the bell proclaim as much, when Mr. Marble ordered him not to strike the hour. The weather was thick, or rather foggy, and the wind light, with very little sea going. All this I had time to notice, to listen to the unusual order about the bell, and to gape twice, before the male turned to me. He seized my arm, carried me on the lee side of the quarter-deck, shook his finger at a vacant spot in the fog, and said-- “Miles, my boy, down yonder, within half a mile of this very spot, is our friend the Frenchman!” “How is it possible you can know that, Mr. Marble?” I demanded in surprise. “Because I have seen him, with these two good-looking eyes of mine. This fog opens and shuts like a playhouse-curtain, and I got a peep at the chap, about ten minutes since. It was a short look, but it was a sure one; I would swear to the fellow in any admiralty court in Christendom.” “And what do you intend to do, Mr. Marble? We found him a hard subject in clear weather; what can we do with him in thick?” “That depends on the old man; his very natur' is overlaid by what has happened already, and I rather think he will be for a fresh skrimmage”--Marble was an uneducated Kennebunk man, and by no means particular about his English. “There'll be good picking in that French gentleman, Master Miles, for those who come in at the beginning of the plunder!” The chief-mate then told me to go below and turn up all hands, making as little rumpus about it as possible. This I did; and when I returned to the deck, I found the fingers of Marble going again, with Captain Williams for his auditor, just as they had gone to me, a few minutes earlier. Being an officer, I made no scruples about joining the party. Marble was giving his account of the manner in which he had momentarily seen the enemy, the canvass he was under, the course he was steering, and the air of security that prevailed about him. So much, he insisted he had noted, though he saw the ship for about twenty seconds only. All this, however, might be true, for a seaman's eye is quick, and he has modes of his own for seeing a great deal in a brief space of time. Marble now proposed that we should go to quarters, run alongside of the Frenchman, pour in a broadside, and board him in the smoke. Our success would be certain, could we close with him without being seen; and it would be almost as certain, could we engage him with our guns by surprise. The chief-mate was of opinion we had dosed him in the other affair, in a way to sicken him; this time we should bring him to with a round turn! The “old man” was pleased with the notion, I saw at a glance; and I confess it took my fancy also. We all felt very sore at the result of the other attempt, and here it seemed as if fortune gave us a good occasion for repairing the evil. “There can be no harm in getting ready, Mr. Marble,” the captain observed; “and when we are ready ourselves we shall know better what to think of the matter.” This was no sooner said, than away we went to clear ship. Our task was soon done; the tompions were got out, the guns cast loose, ammunition was brought up, and a stand of grape was put in over the shot in every piece in both batteries. As the men were told the motive, they worked like dray-horses; and I do not think we were ten minutes before the ship was ready to go into action, at a moment's notice. All this time, Captain Williams refused to keep the ship away. I believe he wanted to get a look at our neighbour himself, for he could not but foresee what might be the consequences, should he run down in the fog, and engage a heavier vessel than his own, without the ceremony of a hail. The sea was covered with Englishmen, and one of their cruisers might not very easily pardon such a mistake, however honestly made. But preparation seems to infer a necessity for performance. When everything was ready, all eyes were turned aft in a way that human nature could hardly endure, and the captain was obliged to yield. As Marble, of all on board, had alone seen the other vessel, he was directed to conn the Crisis in the delicate operation she was about to undertake. As before, my station was on the forecastle. I had been directed to keep a bright look-out, as the enemy would doubtless be first seen from forward. The order was unnecessary, however, for never did human beings gaze into a fog more anxiously, than did all on board our ship on this occasion. Calculating by the distance, and the courses steered, we supposed ten or fifteen minutes would bring us square alongside of Mr. Marble's ship; though some among us doubted his having seen any vessel at all. There was about a five-knot breeze, and we had all our square sails set, knowing it was necessary to go a little faster than our adversary, to catch up with him. The intense expectation, not to say anxiety, of such a scene, is not easily described. The surrounding fog, at times, seemed filled with ships; but all vanished into _thick_ air, one after another, leaving nothing but vapour. Severe orders had been given for no one to call out, but, the moment the ship was seen, for the discoverer to go aft and report. At least a dozen men left their quarters on this errand, all returning in the next instant, satisfied they had been deceived. Each moment, too, increased the expectation; for each moment must we be getting nearer and nearer to her, if any vessel were really there. Quite twenty minutes, however, passed in this manner, and no ship was seen. Marble continued cool and confident, but the captain and second-mate smiled, while the people began to shake their heads, and roll the tobacco into their cheeks. As we advanced, our own ship luffed by degrees, until we had got fairly on our old course again, or were sailing close upon the wind. This change was made easily, the braces not having been touched; a precaution that was taken expressly to give us this advantage. When we found ourselves once more close upon the wind, we gave the matter up forward, supposing the mate had been deceived. I saw by the expression of the captain's face that he was about to give the order to secure the guns, when, casting my eyes forward, there was a ship, sure enough, within a hundred yards of us! I held up both arms, as I looked aft, and luckily caught the captain's eye. In an instant, he was on the forecastle. It was easy enough to see the stranger now. There he was in the fog, looking mystical and hazy; but there he was, under his main-top-gallant-sail, close-hauled, and moving ahead in all the confidence of the solitude of the ocean. We could not see his hull, or so faintly as only to distinguish its mass; but from his tops up, there was no mistaking the objects. We had shot away the Frenchman's mizen-royal-mast. It was a pole, and there the stump stood, just as it was when we had last seen him on the evening of the day of the combat. This left no doubt of the character of our neighbour, and it at once determined our course. As it was, we were greatly outsailing him, but an order was immediately given to set the light staysails. As Captain Williams passed aft, he gave his orders to the men in the batteries. In the mean time, the second-mate, who spoke very good New York French, came upon the forecastle, in readiness to answer the expected hail. As the Crisis was kept a little free, in order to close, and as she sailed so fast, it was apparent we were coming up with the chase, hand over hand. The two ships were not more than a hundred feet asunder when the Frenchmen first saw us. This blindness was owing to several circumstances. In the first place, ten men look forward in a ship, where one looks aft. Those who looked aloft, too, were generally on the quarter-deck, and this prevented them from looking astern. Then the Frenchman's crew had just gone to their breakfasts, most of them eating below. She was so strong-handed, moreover, as to give a forenoon's watch below, and this still left many of the sluggards in their hammocks. In that day, even a French ship-of-the-line was no model of discipline or order, and a letter-of-marque was consequently worse. As it afterwards appeared, we were first seen by the mate of the watch, who ran to the taffrail, and, instead of giving an order to call all hands, he hailed us. Mr. Forbank, our second-mate, answered; mumbling his words so, that, if they were bad French, they did not sound like good English. He got out the name “Le Hasard, de Bordeaux,” pretty plainly, however; and this served to mystify the mate for a few seconds. By the end of that time, our bows were doubling on the Frenchman's quarter, and we were sheering into him so fast as quite to distract the Nantes man. The hail had been heard below, however, and the Frenchmen came tumbling up by the dozen, forward and aft. Captain Williams was a prime seaman, and one of the coolest men that ever lived. Everything that day was done at precisely the proper moment. The Frenchman attempted to keep off, but our wheel was so touched as to keep us lapping in nearly a parallel line with them, the whole time; and our forward sails soon becalmed even their mainsail. Of course we went two feet to their one. Marble came on the forecastle, just as our cat-head was abreast of “The Lady's” forward-rigging. Less than a minute was required to take us so far forward, and that minute was one of great confusion among the French. As soon as Marble got on the forecastle, he made a signal, the ensign was run up, and the order was given to fire. We let fly all five of our nine-pounders, loaded with two round and a stand of grape, at the same moment. At the next instant, the crash of the ships coming foul of each other was heard. Marble shouted “Come on, boys!” and away he, and I, and Neb, and all hands of us, went on board of the Frenchman like a hurricane. I anticipated a furious hand to hand conflict; but we found the deck deserted, and had no difficulty whatever in getting possession. The surprise, the rush, and the effect of the broadside, gave us an easy victory. The French captain had been nearly cut in two by a nine-pound shot, moreover, and both of the mates were severely wounded. These accidents contributed largely to our success, causing the enemy to abandon the defence as hopeless. We had not a soul hurt. The prize proved to be the ship I have mentioned, a letter-of-marque, from Guadaloupe, bound to Nantes. She was a trifle larger than the Crisis, mounted twelve French nines, and had eighty-three souls on board when she sailed. Of these, however, no less than twenty-three had been killed and wounded in our previous affair with her, and several were absent in a prize. Of the wounded, nearly all were still in their hammocks. Among the remainder, some sixteen or eighteen suffered by our close and destructive broadside on the present occasion, reducing the efficient part of her crew to about our own numbers. The vessel was new and valuable, and her cargo was invoiced at something like sixty thousand dollars, having some cochineal among it. As soon as assured of our victory, the Crisis's main-top-sail was braced aback, as well as it could be, and her helm put down. At the same time, the Dame was kept away, and the two ships went clear of each other. Little injury had been done by the collision, or the grinding; and, in consequence of our guns having been so much shotted, no damage whatever was done the lower masts of the prize. The shot had just force enough to pass through the bulwarks, make splinters, and to lodge. This left both vessels in good condition for going into port. At first it was determined to leave me in _la Dame de Nantes,_ as prize-master, with directions to follow the Crisis into Falmouth, whither she was bound for orders. But, on further examination, it was discovered that the crew of an American brig was on board the prize as prisoners; _la Dame de Nantes_ having captured the vessel only two days before we met the former the first time, taken out her people, manned her, and ordered her for Nantes. These Americans, including the master and two mates, amounted to thirteen souls in all, and they enabled us to make a different disposition of the prize. The result of an hour or two's deliberations was as follows: Our old second-mate, whose hurt was likely to require better care than could be had on the North-west Coast, was put on board the French ship as prize-master, with orders to make the best of his way to New York. The master and chief-mate of the American brig agreed to act under him, and to assist in carrying _la Dame_ across the ocean. Three or four of our invalids were sent home also, and the liberated Americans took service for the passage. All the French wounded were left in the ship, under the charge of their own surgeon, who was a man of some little merit, though a good deal of a butcher, as was too much the fashion of that day. It was dark before all the arrangements were made, when _la Dame de Nantes_ turned short round on her heel, and made sail for America. Of course our captain sent in his official report by her, and I seized a moment to write a short letter to Grace, which was so worded as to be addressed to the whole family. I knew how much happiness a line from me would bestow, and I had the pleasure to inform them, also, that I was promoted to be second-mate--the second-mate of the American brig having shipped as my successor in the rank of third-officer. The parting on the wide ocean, that night, was solemn, and, in some respects, sad. We knew that several who were in _la Dame de Nantes_ would probably be left behind, as she travelled her long, solitary path, in the depths of the ocean; and there were the chances that she, herself, might never arrive. As respects the last, however, the odds were in her favour, the American coast being effectually cleared of French privateers by that time; and I subsequently received eleven hundred and seventy-three dollars for my share in that exploit. How I was affected by the circumstance, and what I did with the money, will appear in the sequel. The Crisis made sail on a bowline, at the same moment her prize filled away for America; Miles Wallingford a much more important personage than he had been a few hours before. We put the prisoners below, keeping a good watch over them, and hauled off to the northward and westward, in order to avoid any French cruisers that might be hovering on their own coast. Captain Williams seemed satisfied with the share of glory he had obtained, and manifested no further disposition to seek renown in arms. As for Marble, I never knew a man more exalted in his own esteem, than he was by the results of that day's work. It certainly did him great credit; but, from that hour, woe to the man who pretended to dispute with him concerning the character of any sail that happened to cross our path. The day after we parted company with our prize, we made a sail to the westward, and hauled up to take a look at her, the wind having shifted. She was soon pronounced to be an American; but, though we showed our colours, the stranger, a brig, manifested no disposition to speak us. This induced Captain Williams to make sail in chase, more especially as the brig endeavoured to elude us by passing ahead, and the run was pretty nearly on our course. At 4, P. M. we got near enough to throw a nine-pound shot between the fellow's masts, when the chase hove-to, and permitted us to come up. The brig proved to be the prize of _la Dame de Nantes_, and we took possession of her forthwith. As this vessel was loaded with flour, pot and pearl ashes, &c., and was bound to London, I was put in charge of her, with a young man of my own age, of the name of Roger Talcott, for my assistant, having six men for my crew. Of course the Frenchmen, all but one who acted as cook and steward excepted, were received on board the Crisis. Neb went with me, through his own and my earnest entreaties, though spared by Marble with great reluctance. This was my first command; and proud enough did I feel on the occasion, though almost dying with the apprehension of doing something wrong. My orders were, to make the Lizard light, and to crawl along up-channel, keeping close in with the English coast; Captain Williams anticipating instructions to go to the same port to which the Amanda (the brig) was bound, and expecting to overtake us, after he had called at Falmouth for his orders. As the Crisis could go four feet to the Amanda's three, before sunset our old ship was hull down ahead of us. When I took charge of the deck the next morning, I found myself on the wide ocean, with nothing in sight, at the age of eighteen, and in the enemy's seas, with a valuable vessel to care for, my way to find into narrow waters that I had never entered, and a crew on board, of whom just one-half were now on their first voyage. Our green hands had manifested the aptitude of Americans, and had done wonders in the way of improvement; but a great deal still remained to be learned. The Crisis's complement had been too large to employ everybody at all sorts of work, as is usually done in a merchant-vessel with her ordinary number of hands and the landsmen had to take their chances for instruction. Notwithstanding, the men I got were stout, healthy, willing and able to pull and haul with the oldest salts. By the arrangement that had been made, I was now thrown upon my own resources. Seamanship, navigation, address, prudence, all depended on me. I confess I was, at first, nearly as much depressed by the novelty and responsibility of my command, as Neb was delighted. But it is surprising how soon we get accustomed to changes of this sort. The first five or six hours set me quite at my ease, though it is true nothing occurred in the least out of the usual way; and, by the time the sun set, I should have been happy, could I have got over the uneasiness produced by the darkness. The wind had got round to south-west, and blew fresh. I set a lower and a top-mast studding-sail, and by the time the light had entirely vanished, the brig began to drag after her canvass in a way to keep me wide awake. I was at a loss whether to shorten sail or not. On the one hand, there was the apprehension of carrying away something; and, on the other, the fear of seeming timid in the eyes of the two or three seamen I had with me. I watched the countenances of these men, in order to glean their private sentiments; but, usually, Jack relies so much on his officers, that he seldom anticipates evils. As for Neb, the harder it blew, the greater was his rapture. He appeared to think the wind was Master Miles's, as well as the ocean, the brig, and himself. The more there was of each, the richer I became. As for Talcott, he was scarcely as good a seaman as myself, though he was well-educated, had good manners, was well-connected, and had been my original competitor for the office of third-mate. I had been preferred only through the earnest recommendations of Marble. Talcott, however, was as expert a navigator as we had in the ship, and had been placed with me on that account; Captain Williams fancying two heads might prove better than one. I took this young man into the cabin with me, not only as a companion, but to give him consideration with the people forward. On shore, though less fortunate in the way of state, he would have been considered as fully my equal in position. Talcott and myself remained on deck together nearly the whole of the first night and the little sleep I did get was caught in a top-mast studding-sail that lay on the quarterdeck, and which I had determined not to set, after rowsing it up for that purpose. When daylight returned, however, with a clear horizon, no increase of wind, and nothing in sight, I was so much relieved as to take a good nap until eight. All that day we started neither tack nor sheet, nor touched a brace. Towards evening I went aloft myself to look for land, but without success, though I knew, from our observation at noon, it could not be far off. Fifty years ago the longitude was the great difficulty with navigators. Both Talcott and myself did very well with the lunars, it is true; but there was no chance to observe, and even lunars soon get out of their reckoning among currents and tides. Glad enough, then, was I to hear Neb sing but “Light ahead!” from the fore-top-sail-yard. This was about ten o'clock. I knew this light must be the Lizard, as we were too far to the eastward for Scilly. The course was changed so as to bring the light a little on the weather-bow; and I watched for its appearance to us on deck with an anxiety I have experienced, since, only in the most trying circumstances. Half an hour sufficed for this, and then I felt comparatively happy. A new beginner even is not badly off with the wind fresh at south-west, and the Lizard light in plain view on his weather-bow, if he happen to be bound up-channel. That night, consequently, proved to be more comfortable than the previous. Next morning there was no change, except in the brig's position. We were well in the channel, had the land as close aboard as was prudent, and could plainly see, by objects ashore, that we were travelling ahead at a famous rate. We went within a mile of the Eddystone, so determined was I to keep as far as possible from the French privateers. Next morning we were up abreast of the Isle of Wight; but the wind had got round to the southward and eastward, becoming much lighter, and so scant as to bring us on a taut bowline. This made England a lee-shore, and I began to be as glad to get off it, as I had lately been to hug it. All this time, it will easily be understood that we kept a sharp look-out, on board the brig, for enemies. We saw a great many sail, particularly as we approached the Straits of Dover, and kept as much aloof from all as circumstances would allow. Several were evidently English vessels-of-war, and I felt no small concern on the subject of having some of my men impressed; for at that period, and for many years afterwards, ships of all nations that traded with the English lost many of their people by this practice, and the American craft more than any other. I ascribed to our sticking so close to the coast, which we did as long as it was at all safe, the manner in which we were permitted to pass unnoticed, or, at least, undetained. But, as we drew nearer to the narrow waters, I had little hope of escaping without being boarded. In the mean while, we made short stretches off the land, and back again, all one day and night, working slowly to the eastward. We still met with no interruption. I was fast getting confidence in myself; handling the Amanda, in my own judgment, quite as welt as Marble could have done it, and getting my green hands into so much method and practice, that I should not have hesitated about turning round and shaping our course for New York, so far as the mere business of navigating the vessel was concerned. The lights on the English coast were safe guides for our movements, and they let me understand how much we made or lost on a tack. Dungeness was drawing nearer slowly, to appearances, and I was beginning to look out for a pilot; when Talcott, who had the watch, about three in the morning, came with breathless haste into the cabin, to tell me there was a sail closing with us fast, and, so far as he could make her out in the darkness, she was lugger-rigged. This was startling news indeed, for it was almost tantamount to saying the stranger was a Frenchman. I did not undress at all, and was on deck in a moment. The vessel in chase was about half a mile distant on our lee-quarter, but could be plainly enough distinguished, and I saw at a glance she was a lugger. There were certainly English luggers; but all the traditions of the profession had taught me to regard a vessel of that particular rig as a Frenchman. I had heard of privateers from Dunkirk, Boulogne, and various other ports in France, running over to the English coast in the night, and making prizes, just as this fellow seemed disposed to serve us. Luckily, our head was toward the land, and we were looking about a point and a half to windward of the light on Dungeness, being also favoured with a flood-tide, so far as we could judge by the rapid drift of the vessel to windward. My decision was made in a minute. I knew nothing of batteries, or where to seek protection; but there was the land, and I determined to make for it as fast as I could. By keeping the brig a good full, and making all the sail she could carry, I thought we might run ashore before the lugger could get alongside us. As for her firing, I did not believe she would dare to attempt that, as it might bring some English cruiser on her heels, and France was some hours' sail distant. The fore and mizen top-gallant-sails were set as fast as possible, the weather-braces pulled upon a little, the bowlines eased, and the brig kept a rap-full. The Amanda was no flyer, certainly; but she seemed frightened as much as we were ourselves, that night. I never knew her to get along so fast, considering the wind; and really there was a short time when I began to think she held her own, the lugger being jammed up as close as she could be. But this was all delusion, that craft coming after us more like a sea-serpent than a machine carried ahead by canvass. I was soon certain that escape from such a racer by sailing, was altogether out of the question. The land and light were now close aboard us, and I expected every moment to hear the brig's keel grinding on the bottom. At this instant I caught a faint glimpse of a vessel at anchor to the eastward of the point, and apparently distant about a quarter of a mile. The thought struck me that she might be an English cruiser, for they frequently anchored in such places; and I called out, as it might be instinctively, “luff!” Neb was at the helm, and I knew by his cheerful answer that the fellow was delighted. It was lucky we luffed as we did, for, in coming to the wind, the vessel gave a scrape that was a fearful admonisher of what would have happened in another minute. The Amanda minded her helm beautifully, however, and we went past the nearest land without any further hints, heading up just high enough to fetch a little to windward of the vessel at anchor. At the next moment, the lugger, then about a cable's length from as, was shut in by the land. I was now in great hopes the Frenchman would be obliged to tack; but he had measured his distance well, and felt certain, it would seem, that he could lay past. He reasoned, probably, as Nelson is _said_ to have reasoned at the Nile, and as some of his captains unquestionably _did_ reason; that is, if there was water enough for us, there was water enough for him. In another minute I saw him, jammed nearly into the wind's eye, luffing past the point, and falling as easily into our wake as if drawn by attraction. All this time, the night was unbroken by any sound. Not a hail, nor a call, our own orders excepted, and they had been given in low tones, had been audible on board the Amanda. As regards the vessel at anchor, she appeared to give herself no concern. There she lay, a fine ship, and, as I thought, a vessel-of-war, like a marine bird asleep on its proper element. We were directly between her and the lugger, and it is possible her anchor-watch did not see the latter. The three vessels were not more than half a cable's length asunder; that is, we were about that distance from the ship, and the lugger was a very little farther from us. Five minutes must determine the matter. I was on the brig's forecastle, anxiously examining all I could make out on board the ship, as her size, and shape, and rig, became slowly more and more distinct; and I hailed-- “Ship ahoy!” “Hilloa! What brig's that?” “An American, with a French privateer-lugger close on board me, directly in my wake. You had better be stirring!” I heard the quick exclamation of “The devil there is!” “Bloody Yankees!” came next. Then followed the call of “All hands.” It was plain enough my notice had set everything in motion in that quarter. Talcott now came running forward to say he thought, from some movements on board the lugger, that her people were now first apprised of the vicinity of the ship. I had been sadly disappointed at the call for all hands on board the ship, for it was in the manner of a merchantman, instead of that of a vessel-of-war. But we were getting too near to remain much longer in doubt. The Amanda was already sweeping up on the Englishman's bows, not more than forty yards distant. “She is an English West-Indiaman, Mr. Wallingford,” said one of my oldest seamen; “and a running ship; some vessel that has deserted or lost her convoy.” “Do you _know_ anything of the lugger?” demanded an officer from on board the ship, in a voice that was not very amicable. “No more than you see; she has chased me, close aboard, for the last twenty minutes.” There was no reply to this for a moment, and then I was asked--“To tack, and give us a little chance, by drawing him away for a few minutes. We are armed, and will come out to your assistance.” Had I been ten years older, experience in the faith of men, and especially of men engaged in the pursuit of gain, would have prevented me from complying with this request; but, at eighteen, one views these things differently. It did appear to me ungenerous to lead an enemy in upon a man in his sleep, and not endeavour to do something to aid the surprised party. I answered “ay, ay!” therefore, and tacked directly alongside of the ship. But the manoeuvre was too late, the lugger coming in between the ship and the brig, just as we began to draw ahead again, leaving him room, and getting a good look at us both. The Englishman appeared the most inviting, I suppose, for she up helm and went on board of him on his quarter. Neither party used their guns. We were so near, however, as plainly to understand the whole, to distinguish the orders, and even to hear the blows that were struck by hand. It was an awful minute to us in the brig. The cries of the hurt reached us in the stillness of that gloomy morning, and oaths mingled with the clamour. Though taken by surprise, John Bull fought well; though we could perceive that he was overpowered, however, just as the distance, and the haze that was beginning to gather thick around the land, shut in the two vessels from our view. The disappearance of the two combatants furnished me with a hint how to proceed. I stood out three or four minutes longer, or a sufficient distance to make certain we should not be seen, and tacked again. In order to draw as fast as possible out of the line of sight, we kept the brig off a little, and then ran in towards the English coast, which was sufficiently distant to enable us to stand on in that direction some little time longer. This expedient succeeded perfectly; for, when we found it necessary to tack again, day began to dawn. Shortly after, we could just discern the West-Indiaman and the lugger standing off the land, making the best of their way towards the French coast. In 1799, it is possible that this bold Frenchman got his prize into some of his own ports, though three or four years later it would have been a nearly hopeless experiment. As for the Amanda, she was safe; and Nelson did not feel happier, after his great achievement at the Nile, than I felt at the success of my own expedient. Talcott congratulated me and applauded me; and I believe all of us were a little too much disposed to ascribe to our own steadiness and address, much that ought fairly to have been imputed to chance. Off Dover we got a pilot, and learned that the ship captured was the Dorothea, a valuable West-Indiaman that had stolen away from her convoy, and come in alone, the previous evening. She anchored under Dungeness at the first of the ebb, and, it seems, had preferred taking a good night's rest to venturing out in the dark, when the flood made. Her berth was a perfectly snug one, and the lugger would probably never have found her, had we not led her directly in upon her prey. I was now relieved from all charge of the brig; and a relief I found it, between shoals, enemies, and the tides, of which I knew nothing. That day we got into the Downs, and came-to. Here I saw a fleet at anchor; and a pretty stir it made among the man-of-war's-men, when our story was repeated among them. I do think twenty of their boats were alongside of us, to get the facts from the original source. Among others who thus appeared, to question me, was one old gentleman, whom I suspected of being an admiral. He was in shore-dress, and came in a plain way; the men in his boat declining to answer any questions; but they paid him unusual respect. This gentleman asked me a great many particulars, and I told him the whole story frankly, concealing or colouring nothing. He was evidently much interested. When he went away, he shook me cordially by the hand, and said--“Young gentleman, you have acted prudently and well. Never mind the grumbling of some of our lads; they think only of themselves. It was your right and your duty to save your own vessel, if you could, without doing anything dishonourable; and I see nothing wrong in your conduct. But it's a sad disgrace to us, to let these French rascals be picking up their crumbs in this fashion, right under our hawse-holes.”

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“How pleasant and how sad the turning tide Of human life, when side by side The child and youth begin to glide Along the vale of years: The pure twin-being for a little space, With lightsome heart, and yet a graver face. Too young for woe, though not for tears.” ALLSTON. With what interest and deference most Americans of any education regarded England, her history, laws and institutions, in 1799! There were a few exceptions--warm political partisans, and here and there an individual whose feelings had become embittered by some particular incident of the revolution--but surprisingly few, when it is recollected that the country was only fifteen years from the peace. I question if there ever existed another instance of as strong provincial admiration for the capital, as independent America manifested for the mother country, in spite of a thousand just grievances, down to the period of the war of 1812. I was no exception to the rule, nor was Talcott. Neither of us had ever seen England before we made the Lizard on this voyage, except through our minds' eyes; and these had presented quantities of beauties and excellencies that certainly vanished on a nearer approach. By this I merely mean that we had painted in too high colours, as is apt to be the case when the imagination holds the pencil; not that there was any unusual absence of things worthy to be commended. On the contrary, even at this late, hour, I consider England as a model for a thousand advantages, even to our own inappreciable selves. Nevertheless, much delusion was blended with our admiration. English history was virtually American history; and everything on the land, as we made our way towards town, which the pilot could point out, was a source of amusement and delight. We had to tide it up to London, and had plenty of leisure to see all there was to be seen. The Thames is neither a handsome, nor a very magnificent river; but it was amazing to witness the number of vessels that then ascended or descended it. There was scarce a sort of craft known to Christendom, a few of the Mediterranean excepted, that was not to be seen there; and as for the colliers, we drifted through a forest of them that seemed large enough to keep the town a twelvemonth in fire-wood, by simply burning their spars. The manner in which the pilot handled our brig, too, among the thousand ships that lay in tiers on each side of the narrow passage we had to thread, was perfectly surprising to me; resembling the management of a coachman in a crowded thoroughfare, more than the ordinary working of a ship. I can safely say I learned more in the Thames, in the way of keeping a vessel in command, and in doing what I pleased with her, than in the whole of my voyage to Canton and back again. As for Neb, he rolled his dark eyes about in wonder, and took an occasion to say to me--“He'll make her talk, Masser Miles, afore he have done.” I make no doubt the navigation from the Forelands to the bridges, as it was conducted thirty years since, had a great influence on the seamanship of the English. Steamers are doing away with much of this practice, though the colliers still have to rely on themselves. Coals will scarcely pay for tugging. I had been directed by Captain Williams to deliver the brig to her original consignee, an American merchant established in the modern Babylon, reserving the usual claim for salvage. This I did, and that gentleman sent hands on board to take charge of the vessel, relieving me entirely from all farther responsibility. As the captain in his letter had, inadvertently I trust, mentioned that he had put “Mr. Wallingford, his _third_ mate,” in charge, I got no invitation to dinner from the consignee; though the affair of the capture under Dungeness found its way into the papers, _viâ_ Deal, I have always thought, with the usual caption of “Yankee Trick.” Yankee trick! This phrase, so often carelessly used, has probably done a great deal of harm in this country. The young and ambitious--there are all sorts of ambition, and, among others, that of being a rogue; as a proof of which, one daily hears people call envy, jealousy, covetousness, avarice, and half of the meaner vices, ambition--the young and _ambitious_, then, of this country, too often think to do a _good_ thing, that shall have some of the peculiar merit of a certain other good thing that they have heard laughed at and applauded, under this designation. I can account in no other manner for the great and increasing number of “Yankee tricks” that are of daily occurrence among us. Among other improvements in taste, not to say in morals, that might be introduced into the American press, would be the omission of the histories of these rare inventions. As two-thirds of the editors of the whole country, however, are Yankees, I suppose they must be permitted to go on exulting in the cleverness of their race. We are indebted to the Puritan stock for most of our instructors--editors and school-masters--and when one coolly regards the prodigious progress of the people in morals, public and private virtue, honesty, and other estimable qualities, he must indeed rejoice in the fact that our masters so early discovered “a church without a bishop.” I had an opportunity, while in London, however, of ascertaining that the land of our fathers, which by the way has archbishops, contains something besides an unalloyed virtue in its bosom. At Gravesend we took on board _two_ customhouse officers, (they always set a rogue to watch a rogue, in the English revenue system,) and they remained in the brig until she was discharged. One of these men had been a gentleman's servant, and he owed his place to his former master's interest. He was a miracle of custom-house integrity and disinterestedness, as I discovered in the first hour of our intercourse. Perceiving a lad of eighteen in charge of the prize, and ignorant that this lad had read a good deal of Latin and Greek under excellent Mr. Hardinge, besides being the heir of Clawbonny, I suppose he fancied he would have an easy time with him. This man's name was Sweeney. Perceiving in me an eager desire to see everything, the brig was no sooner at her moorings, than he proposed a cruise ashore. It was Sweeney who showed me the way to the consignee's, and, that business accomplished, he proposed that we should proceed on and take a look at St. Paul's, the Monument, and, as he gradually found my tastes more intellectual than he had at first supposed, the wonders of the West End. I was nearly a week under the pilotage of the “Admirable Sweeney.” After showing me the exteriors of all the things of mark about the town, and the interiors of a few that I was disposed to pay for, he descended in his tastes, and carried me through Wapping, its purlieus and its scenes of atrocities. I have always thought Sweeney was sounding me, and hoping to ascertain my true character, by the course he took; and that he betrayed his motives in a proposition which he finally made, and which brought our intimacy to a sudden close. The result, however, was to let me into secrets I should probably have never learned in any other manner. Still, I had read and heard too much to be easily duped; and I kept myself not only out of the power of my tempter, but out of the power of all that could injure me, remaining simply a curious observer of what was placed before my eyes. Good Mr. Hardinge's lessons were not wholly forgotten; I could run away from him, much easier than from his precepts. I shall never forget a visit I made to a house called the Black Horse, in St. Catherine's Lane. This last was a narrow street that ran across the site of the docks that now bear the same name; and it was the resort of all the local infamy of Wapping. I say _local_ infamy; for there were portions of the West End that were even worse than anything which a mere port could produce. Commerce, that parent of so much that is useful to man, has its dark side as everything else of earth; and, among its other evils, it drags after it a long train of low vice; but this train is neither so long nor so broad as that which is chained to the chariot-wheels of the great. Appearances excepted, and they are far less than might be expected, I think the West End could beat Wapping out and out, in every essential vice; and, if St. Giles be taken into the account, I know of no salvo in favour of the land over the sea. Our visit to the Black Horse was paid of a Sunday, that being the leisure moment of all classes of labourers, and the day when, being attired in their best, they fancied themselves best prepared to appear in the world. I will here remark, that I have never been in any portion of Christendom that keeps the Sabbath precisely as it is kept in America. In all other countries, even the most rigorously severe in their practices, it is kept as a day of recreation and rest, as well as of public devotion. Even in the American towns, the old observances are giving way before the longings or weaknesses of human nature; and Sunday is no longer what it was. I have witnessed scenes of brawling, blasphemy and rude tumult, in the suburbs of New York, on Sundays, within the last few years, that I have never seen in any other part of the world on similar occasions; and serious doubts of the expediency of the high-pressure principle have beset me, whatever may be the just constructions of doctrine. With the last I pretend not to meddle; but, in a worldly point of view, it would seem wise, if you cannot make men all that they ought to be, to aim at such social regulations as shall make them as little vile as possible. But, to return to the Black Horse in St. Catherine's Lane--a place whose very name was associated with vileness. It is unnecessary to speak of the characters of its female visiters. Most of them were young, many of them were still blooming and handsome, but all of them were abandoned. “I need tell you nothing of these girls,” said Sweeney, who was a bit of a philosopher in his way, ordering a pot of beer, and motioning me to take a seat at a vacant table--“but, as for the men you see here, half are house-breakers and pickpockets, come to pass the day genteelly among you gentlemen-sailors. There are two or three faces here that I have seen at the Old Bailey, myself; and how they have remained in the country, is more than I can tell you. You perceive these fellows are just as much at their ease, and the landlord who receives and entertains them is just as much at _his_ ease, as if the whole party were merely honest men.” “How happens it,” I asked, “that such known rogues are allowed to go at large, or that this inn-keeper dares receive them?” “Oh! you're a child yet, or you would not ask such a question! You must know, Master Wallingford, that the law protects rogues as well as honest men. To convict a pickpocket, you must have witnesses and jurors to agree, and prosecutors, and a sight of things that are not as plenty as pocket-handkerchiefs, or even wallets and Bank of England notes. Besides, these fellows can prove an alibi any day in the week. An alibi, you must know--” “I know very well what an alibi means, Mr. Sweeney.” “The deuce you do!” exclaimed the protector of the king's revenue, eyeing me a little distrustfully. “And pray how should one as young as you, and coming from a new country like America, know that?” “Oh!” said I, laughing, “America is just the country for _alibis_--everybody is everywhere, and nobody anywhere. The whole nation is in motion, and there is every imaginable opportunity for _alibis_.” I believe I owed the development of Sweeney's “ulterior views” to this careless speech. He had no other idea of the word than its legal signification; and it must have struck him as a little suspicious that one of my apparent condition in life, and especially of my years, should be thus early instructed in the meaning of this very useful professional term. It was a minute before he spoke again, having been all that time studying my countenance. “And pray, Master Wallingford,” he then inquired, “do you happen to know what _nolle prosequi_ means, too?” “Certainly; it means to give up the chase. The French lugger under Dungeness entered a _nolle prosequi_ as respects my brig, when she found her hands full of the West-Indiaman.” “So, so; I find I have been keeping company all this time with a knowing one, and I such a simpleton as to fancy him green! Well, that I should live to be done by a raw Jonathan!” “Poh, poh, Mr. Sweeney, I can tell you a story of two of our naval officers, that took place just before we sailed; and then you will learn that all hands of us, on the other side of the Big Pond, understand Latin. One of these officers had been engaged in a duel, and he found it necessary to lie hid. A friend and shipmate, who was in his secret, came one day in a great hurry to tell him that the authorities of the State in which the parties fought had entered a _nolle prosequi”_ against the offenders. He had a newspaper with the whole thing in it, in print. “What's a _nolle prosequi_, Jack?” asked Tom. “Why, it's Latin, to be sure, and it means some infernal thing or other. We must contrive to find out, for it's half the battle to know who and what you've got to face.” “Well, you know lots of lawyers, and dare show your face; so, just step out and ask one.” “I'll trust no lawyer; I might put the question to some chap who has been fee'd. But we both studied a little Latin when boys, and between us we'll undermine the meaning.” Tom assented, and to work they went. Jack had the most Latin; but, do all he could, he was not able to find a “_nolle_” in any dictionary. After a great deal of conjecture, the friends agreed it must be the root of “knowledge,” and that point was settled. As for “_prosequi_” it was not so difficult, as “sequor” was a familiar word; and, after some cogitation, Jack announced his discoveries. “If this thing were in English, now,” he said, “a fellow might understand it. In that case, I should say that the sheriff's men were in “pursuit of knowledge;” that is, hunting after _you_; but Latin, you remember, was always an inverted sort of stuff, and that '_pro_' alters the whole signification. The paper says they've '_entered_ a _nolle prosequi;_' and the 'entered' explains the whole. 'Entered a nolle' means, have entered on the knowledge, got a scent; you see it is law English; 'pro' means 'how,' and 'sequi,' 'to give chase.' The amount of it all is, Tom, that they are on your heels, and I must go to work and send you off, at once, two or three hundred miles into the interior, where you may laugh at them and their 'nolle prosequis' together.” {*] {Footnote *: There is said to be foundation for this story.] Sweeney laughed heartily at this story, though he clearly did not take the joke, which I presume he fancied lay concealed under an American flash language; and he proposed by way of finishing the day, to carry me to an entertainment where, he gave me to understand, American officers were fond of sometimes passing a few minutes. I was led to a Wapping assembly-room, on entering which I found myself in a party composed of some forty or fifty cooks and stewards of American vessels, all as black as their own pots with partners of the usual colour and bloom of English girls I have as few prejudices of colour as any American well can have; but I will confess this scene struck me as being painfully out of keeping. In England, however, nothing seemed to be thought of it; and I afterwards found that marriages between English women, and men of all the colours of the rainbow, were very common occurrences. When he had given me this ball as the climax of his compliments, Sweeney betrayed the real motive of all his attentions. After drinking a pot of beer extra, well laced with gin, he offered his services in smuggling anything ashore that the Amanda might happen to contain, and which I, as the prize-master, might feel a desire to appropriate to my own particular purposes. I met the proposal with a little warmth, letting my tempter understand that I considered his offer so near an insult, that it must terminate our acquaintance. The man seemed astounded. In the first place, he evidently thought all goods and chattels were made to be plundered, and then he was of opinion that plundering was a very common “Yankee trick.” Had I been an Englishman, he might possibly have understood my conduct; but, with him, it was so much a habit to fancy an American a rogue, that, as I afterwards discovered, he was trying to persuade the leader of a press-gang that I was the half-educated and illegitimate son of some English merchant, who wished to pass himself off for an American. I pretend not to account for the contradiction, though I have often met with the same moral phenomena among his countrymen; but here was as regular a rogue as ever cheated, who pretended to think roguery indigenous to certain nations, among whom his own was not included. At length I was cheered with the sight of the Crisis, as she came drifting through the tiers, turning, and twisting, and glancing along, just as the Amanda had done before her. The pilot carried her to moorings quite near us; and Talcott, Neb and I were on board her, before she was fairly secured. My reception was very favourable, Captain Williams having seen the account of the “Yankee trick” in the papers; and, understanding the thing just as it had happened, he placed the most advantageous construction on all I had done. For myself, I confess I never had any misgivings on the subject. All hands of us were glad to be back in the Crisis again. Captain Williams had remained at Falmouth longer than he expected, to make some repairs that could not be thoroughly completed at sea, which alone prevented him from getting into the river as soon as I did myself. Now the ship was in, we no longer felt any apprehension of being impressed, Sweeney's malignancy having set several of the gang upon the scent after us. Whether the fellow actually thought I was an English subject or not, is more than I ever knew; but I felt no disposition myself to let the point be called in question, before my Lord Chief Justice of a Rendezvous. The King's Bench was more governed by safe principles, in its decisions, than the gentlemen who presided in these marine courts of the British navy. As I was the only officer in the ship who had ever seen anything of London, my fortnight's experience made me a notable man in the cabin. It was actually greater preferment for me than when I was raised from third to be second-mate. Marble was all curiosity to see the English capital, and he made me promise to be his pilot, as soon as duty would allow time for a stroll, and to show him everything I had seen myself. We soon got out the cargo, and then took in ballast for our North-West voyage; the articles we intended to traffic with on the coast, being too few and too light to fill the ship. This kept us busy for a fortnight, after which we had to look about us to obtain men to supply the places of those who had been killed, or sent away in _la Dame de Nantes_. Of course we preferred Americans; and this so much the more, as Englishmen were liable to be pressed at any moment. Fortunately, a party of men that had been taken out of an American ship, a twelvemonth before, by an English cruiser, had obtained their discharges; and they all came to London, for the double purpose of getting some prize-money, and of obtaining passages home. These lads were pleased with the Crisis and the voyage, and, instead of returning to their own country, sailor-like, they took service to go nearly round the world. These were first-rate men--Delaware-river seamen--and proved a great accession to our force. We owed the windfall to the reputation the ship had obtained by her affairs with the letter-of-marque; an account of which, copied from the log-book and a little embellished by some one on shore, he consignee had taken care should appear in the journals. The history of the surprise, in particular, read very well; and the English were in a remarkably good humour, at that time, to receive an account of any discomfiture of a Frenchman. At no period since the year 1775, had the American character stood so high in England as it did just then; the two nations, for a novelty, fighting on the same side. Not long after we left London, the underwriters at Lloyd's actually voted a handsome compliment to an American commander for capturing a French frigate. Stranger things have happened than to have the day arrive when English and American fleets may be acting in concert. No one can tell what is in the womb of time; and I have lived long enough to know that no man can foresee who will continue to be his friends, or a nation what people may become its enemies. The Crisis at length began to take in her bales and boxes for the North-West Coast, and, as the articles were received slowly, or a few packages at a time, it gave us leisure for play. Our captain was in such good humour with us, on account of the success of the outward-bound passage, that he proved very indulgent. This disposition was probably increased by the circumstance that a ship arrived in a very short passage from New York, which spoke our prize; all well, with a smacking southerly breeze, a clear coast, and a run of only a few hundred miles to make. This left the almost moral certainty that _la Dame de Nantes_ had arrived safe, no Frenchman being likely to trust herself on that distant coast, which was now alive with our own cruisers, going to or returning from the West Indies. I had a laughable time in showing Marble the sights of London. We began with the wild beasts in the Tower, as in duty bound; but of these our mate spoke very disparagingly. He had been too often in the East “to be taken in by such animals;” and, to own the truth, the cockneys were easily satisfied on the score of their _menagerie_. We next went to the Monument; but this did not please him. He had seen a shot-tower in America--there was but one in that day--that beat it out and out as to height, and he thought in beauty, too. There was no reasoning against this. St. Paul's rather confounded him. He frankly admitted there was no such church at Kennebunk; though he did not know but Trinity, New York, “might stand up alongside of it.” “Stand up along side of it!” I repeated, laughing. “Why, Mr. Marble, Trinity, steeple and all, could stand up in it--_under_ that dome-and then leave more room in this building than all the other churches in New York contain, put altogether.” It was a long time before Marble forgave this speech. He said it was “unpatriotic;” a word which was less used in 1799 than it is used to-day, certainly; but which, nevertheless, _was_ used. It often meant then, as now, a thick and thin pertinacity in believing in provincial marvels; and, in this, Marble was one of the most patriotic men with whom I ever met. I got him out of the church, and along Fleet street, through Temple Bar, and into the Strand, however, in peace; and then we emerged into the arena of fashion, aristocracy and the court. After a time, we worked our way into Hyde Park, where we brought up, to make our observations. Marble was deeply averse to acknowledging all the admiration he really felt at the turn-outs of London, as they were exhibited in the Park, of a fine day, in their season. It is probable the world elsewhere never saw anything approaching the beauty and magnificence that is here daily seen, at certain times, so far as beauty and magnificence are connected with equipages, including carriages, horses and servants. Unable to find fault with the _tout ensemble_, our mate made a violent attack on the liveries. He protested it was indecent to put a “hired man”--the word _help_ never being applied to the male sex, I believe, by the most fastidious New England purist--in a cocked hat; a decoration that ought to be exclusively devoted to the uses of ministers of the gospel, governors of States, and militia officers. I had some notions of the habits of the great world, through books, and some little learned by observation and listening; but Marble scouted at most of my explanations. He put his own construction on everything he saw; and I have often thought, since, could the publishers of travels have had the benefit of his blunders, how many would have profited by them. Gentlemen were just then beginning to drive their own coaches; and I remember, in a particular instance, an ultra in the new mode had actually put his coachman in the inside, while he occupied the dickey in person. Such a gross violation of the proprieties was unusual, even in London; but there sat Jehu, in all the dignity of cotton-lace, plush, and a cocked hat. Marble took it into his head that this man was the king, and no reasoning of mine could persuade him to the contrary. In vain I pointed out to him a hundred similar dignitaries, in the proper exercise of their vocation, on the hammer-cloths; he cared not a straw--this was not showing him one _inside_; and a gentleman inside of a carriage, who wore so fine a coat, and a cocked hat in the bargain, could be nothing less than some dignitary of the empire; and why not the king! Absurd as all this will seem, I have known mistakes, connected with the workings of our own institutions, almost as great, made by theorists from Europe. While Marble and I were wrangling on this very point, a little incident occurred, which led to important consequences in the end. Hackney-coaches, or any other public conveyance, short of post-chaises and post-horses, are not admitted into the English parks. But glass-coaches are; meaning by this term, which is never used in America, hired carriages that do not go on the stands. We encountered one of these glass-coaches in a very serious difficulty. The horses had got frightened by means of a wheelbarrow, aided probably by some bad management of the driver, and had actually backed the hind-wheels of the vehicle into the water of the canal. They would have soon had the whole carriage submerged, and have followed it themselves, had it not been for the chief-mate and myself. I thrust the wheelbarrow under one of the forward-wheels, just in time to prevent the final catastrophe; while Marble grasped the spoke with his iron gripe, and, together, he and the wheelbarrow made a resistance that counterbalanced the backward tendency of the team. There was no footman; and, springing to the door, I aided a sickly-looking, elderly man--a female who might very well have been his wife, and another that I took for his daughter--to escape. By my agency all three were put on the dry land, without even wetting their feet, though I fared worse myself. No sooner were they safe, than Marble, who was up to his shoulders in the water, and who had made prodigious efforts to maintain the balance of power, released his hold, the wheelbarrow gave way at the same moment, and the whole affair, coach and horses, had their will, and went, stern foremost, overboard. One of the horses was saved, I believe, and the other drowned; but, a crowd soon collecting, I paid little attention to what was going on in the carriage, as soon as its cargo was discharged. The gentleman we had saved, pressed my hand with fervour, and Marble's, too; saying that we must not quit him--that we must go home with him. To this we consented, readily enough, thinking we might still be of use. As we all walked towards one of the more private entrances of the Park, I had an opportunity of observing the people we had served. They were very respectable in appearance; but I knew enough of the world to see that they belonged to what is called the middle class in England. I thought the man might be a soldier; while the two females had an air of great respectability, though not in the least of fashion. The girl appeared to be nearly as old as myself, and was decidedly pretty. Here, then, was an adventure! I had saved the life of a damsel of seventeen, and had only to fall in love, to become the hero of a romance. At the gate, the gentleman stopped a hackney-coach, put the females in, and desired us to follow. But to this we would not consent, both being wet, and Marble particularly so. After a short parley, he gave us an address in Norfolk Street, Strand; and we promised to stop there on our way back to the ship. Instead of following the carriage, however, we made our way on foot into the Strand, where we found an eating-house, turned in and eat a hearty dinner each, the chief-mate resorting to some brandy in order to prevent his taking cold. On what principle this is done, I cannot explain, though I know it is often practised, and in all quarters of the world. As soon as we had dined and dried ourselves, we went into Norfolk street. We had been told to ask for Major Merton, and this we did. The house was one of those plain lodging-houses, of which most of that part of the town is composed: and we found the Major and his family in the occupation of the first floor, a mark of gentility on which some stress is laid in England. It was plain enough, however, to see that these people were not rolling in that splendour, of which we had just seen so much in the Park. “I can trace the readiness and gallantry of the English tar in your conduct,” observed the Major, after he had given us both quite as warm a reception as circumstances required, at the same time taking out his pocket-book, and turning over some bank-notes. “I wish, for your sakes, I was better able than I am to reward you for what you have done; but twenty pounds is all I can now offer. At some other time, circumstances may place it in my power to give further and better proofs of my gratitude.” As this was said, the Major held two ten-pound notes towards Marble, doubtless intending that I should receive one of them, as a fair division of the spoils. Now, according to all theory, and the established opinion of the Christian world, America is _the_ avaricious country; the land, of all others, in which men are the most greedy of gain; in which human beings respect gold more, and themselves less, than in any other portion of this globe. I never dispute anything that is settled by the common consent of my fellow-creatures, for the simple reason that I know the decision must be against me; so I will concede that money _is_ the great end of American life--that there is little else to live for, in the great model republic. Politics have fallen into such hands, that office will not even give social station; the people are omnipotent, it is true; but, though they can make a governor, they cannot make gentlemen and ladies; even kings are sometimes puzzled to do that; literature, arms, arts, and fame of all sorts, are unattainable in their rewards, among us as in other nations, leaving the puissant dollar in its undisturbed ascendency; still, as a rule, twenty Europeans can be bought with two ten-pound Bank of England notes, much easier than two Americans. I leave others to explain the phenomenon; I only speak of the _fact_. Marble listened to the Major's speech with great attention and respect, fumbling in his pocket for his tobacco-box, the whole time. The box was opened just as the Major ended, and even I began to be afraid that the well-known cupidity of Kennebunk was about to give way before the temptation, and the notes were to be stowed alongside of the tobacco but I was mistaken. Deliberately helping himself to a quid, the chief-mate shut the box again, and then he made his reply. “Quite ginerous in you, Major,” he said, “and all ship-shape and right. I like to see things done just in that way. Put up the money; we thank you as much as if we could take it, and that squares all accounts. I would just mention, however, to prevent mistakes, as the other idee might get us impressed, that this young man and I are both born Americans--he from up the Hudson somewhere, and I from York city, itself, though edicated down east.” “Americans!” resumed the Major, drawing himself up a little stiffly; “then _you_, young man,” turning to me, and holding out the notes, of which he now seemed as anxious to be rid, as I had previously fancied he was sorry to see go--“_you_ will do me the favour to accept of this small token of my gratitude.” “It is quite impossible, sir,” I answered, respectfully. “We are not exactly what we seem, and you are probably deceived by our roundabouts; but we are the first and second officers of a letter-of-marque.” At the word “officers,” the Major drew back his hand, and hastily apologised. He did not understand us even then, I could plainly see; but he had sufficient sagacity to understand that his money would not be accepted. We were invited to sit down, and the conversation continued. “Master Miles, there,” resumed Marble, “has an estate, a place called Clawbonny, somewhere up the Hudson; and he has no business to be sailing about the world in jacket and trowsers, when he ought to be studying law, or trying his hand at college. But as the old cock crows, the young 'un l'arns; his father was a sailor before him, and I suppose that's the reason on't.” This announcement of my position ashore did me no harm, and I could see a change in the deportment of the whole family--not that it had ever treated me haughtily, or even coldly; but it now regarded me as more on a level with itself. We remained an hour with the Mertons, and I promised to repeat the call before we sailed. This I did a dozen times, at least; and the Major, finding, I suppose, that he had a tolerably well-educated youth to deal with, was of great service in putting me in a better way of seeing London. I went to both theatres with the family, taking care to appear in a well-made suit of London clothes, in which I made quite as respectable a figure as most of the young men I saw in the streets. Even Emily smiled when she first saw me in my long-togs, and I thought she blushed. She was a pretty creature; gentle and mild in her ordinary deportment, but full of fire and spirit at the bottom, as I could see by her light, blue, English eye. Then she had been well-educated; and, in my young ignorance of life, I fancied she knew more than any girl of seventeen I had ever met with. Grace and Lucy were both clever, and had been carefully taught by Mr. Hardinge; but the good divine could not give two girls, in the provincial retirement of America, the cultivation and accomplishments that were within the reach of even moderate means in England. To me, Emily Merton seemed a marvel in the way of attainments; and I often felt ashamed of myself, as I sat at her side, listening to the natural and easy manner in which she alluded to things, of which I then heard for the first time.

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“Boatswain!” “Here, master: what cheer?” “Good: speak to the mariners; fall to 't Yarely, or we run ourselves aground: bestir, bestir.” _Tempest. _ As Captain Williams wished to show me some favour for the manner in which I had taken care of the brig, he allowed me as much time ashore as I asked for. I might never see London again; and, understanding I had fallen into good company, he threw no obstacle in the way of my profiting by it. So careful was he, indeed, as to get one of the consul's clerks to ascertain who the Mertons were, lest I should become the dupe of the thousands of specious rogues with which London abounds. The report was favourable, giving us to understand that the Major had been much employed in the West Indies, where he still held a moderately lucrative, semi-military appointment, being then in England to settle certain long and vexatious accounts, as well as to take Emily, his only child, from school. He was expected to return to the old, or some other post, in the course of a few months. A portion of this I gleaned from Emily herself, and it was all very fairly corroborated by the account of the consul's clerk. There was no doubt that the Mertons were persons of respectable position; without having any claims, however, to be placed very high. From the Major, moreover, I learned he had some American connexions, his father having married in Boston. For my part, I had quite as much reason to rejoice at the chance which threw me in the way of the Mertons, as they had. If I was instrumental in saving their lives, as was undeniably the case, they taught me more of the world, in the ordinary social sense of the phrase, than I had learned in all my previous life. I make no pretensions to having seen London society; that lay far beyond the reach of Major Merton himself, who was born the son of a merchant, when merchants occupied a much lower position in the English social scale than they do to-day, and had to look to a patron for most of his own advancement. But, he was a gentleman; maintained the notions, sentiments, and habits of the caste; and was properly conscious of my having saved his life when it was in great jeopardy. As for Emily Merton, she got to converse with me with the freedom of a friend; and very pleasant it was to hear pretty thoughts expressed in pretty language, and from pretty lips. I could perceive that she thought me a little rustic and provincial; but I had not been all the way to Canton to be brow-beaten by a cockney girl, however clever and handsome. On the whole--and I say it without vanity, at this late day--I think the impression left behind me, among these good people, was favourable. Perhaps Clawbonny was not without its influence; but, when I paid my last visit, even Emily looked sorrowful, and her mother was pleased to say they should all miss me much. The Major made me promise to hunt him up, should I ever be in Jamaica, or Bombay; for one of which places he expected to sail himself, with his wife and daughter, in the course of a few months. I knew he had had one appointment, thought he might receive another, and hoped everything would turn out for the best. The Crisis sailed on her day; and she went to sea from the Downs, a week later, with a smacking southerly wind. Our Philadelphians turned out a noble set of fellows; and we had the happiness of beating an English sloop-of-war, just as we got clear of the channel, in a fair trial of speed. To lessen our pride a little, a two-decker that was going to the Mediterranean, treated us exactly in the same manner, only three days later. What made this last affair more mortifying, was the fact that Marble had just satisfied himself, and all hands, that, a sloop-of-war being the fastest description of vessel, and we having got the better of one of them, it might be fairly inferred we could outsail the whole British navy. I endeavoured to console him, by reminding him that “the race was not always to the swift.” He growled out some sort of an answer, denouncing all sayings, and desiring to know out of what book I had picked up that nonsense. I have no intention of dwelling on every little incident that occurred on the long road we were now travelling. We touched at Madeira, and landed an English family that went there for the benefit of an invalid; got some fruit, fresh meat and vegetables, and sailed again. Our next stopping-place was Rio, whither we went for letters from home, the captain being taught to expect them. The ship's letters were received, and they were filled with eulogiums on our good conduct, having been written after the arrival of _la Dame de Nantes;_ but great was my disappointment on finding there was not even a scrawl for myself. Our stay at Rio was short, and we left port with a favourable slant of wind, running as far north as 50°, in a very short time. As we drew near to the southern extremity of the American continent, however, we met with heavy weather and foul winds. We were now in the month that corresponds to November in the northern hemisphere, and had to double The Horn at that unpropitious season of the year, going westward. There is no part of the world of which navigators have given accounts so conflicting, as of this celebrated passage. Each man appears to have described it as he found it, himself, while no two seem to have found it exactly alike. I do not remember to have ever heard of calms off Cape Horn; but light winds are by no means uncommon, though tempests are undoubtedly the predominant characteristic. Our captain had already been round four times, and he held the opinion that the season made no difference, and that it was better to keep near the land. We shaped our course accordingly for Staten Land, intending to pass through the Straits of Le Maire and hug the Horn, as close as possible, in doubling it. We made the Falkland Islands, or West Falkland rather, just as the sun rose, one morning, bearing a little on our weather-quarter, with the wind blowing heavily at the eastward. The weather was thick, and, what was still worse, there was so little day, and no moon, that it was getting to be ticklish work to be standing for a passage as narrow as that we aimed at. Marble and I talked the matter over, between ourselves, and wished the captain could be persuaded to haul up, and try to go to the eastward of the island, as was still possible, with the wind where it was. Still, neither of us dared propose it; I, on account of my youth, and the chief-mate, as he said, on account of “the old fellow's obstinacy.” “He likes to be poking about in such places,” Marble added, “and is never so happy as when he is running round the ocean in places where it is full of unknown islands, looking for sandal wood, and bêche-la-mar! I'll warrant you, he'll give us a famous time of it, if he ever get us up on the North-West Coast.” Here the consultation terminated, we mates believing it wiser to let things take their course. I confess to having seen the mountains on our weather-quarter disappear, with melancholy forebodings. There was little hope of getting any observation that day; and to render matters worse, about noon, the wind began to haul more to the southward. As it hauled, it increased in violence, until, at midnight, it blew a gale; the commencement of such a tempest as I had never witnessed in any of my previous passages at sea. As a matter of course, sail was reduced as fast as it became necessary, until we had brought the ship down to a close-reefed main-top-sail, the fore-top-mast staysail, the fore-course, and the mizen-staysail. This was old fashioned Canvass; the more recent spencer being then unknown. Our situation was now far from pleasant. The tides and currents, in that high latitude, run with great velocity; and, then, at a moment when it was of the greatest importance to know precisely where the ship was, we were left to the painful uncertainty of conjecture, and theories that might be very wide of the truth. The captain had nerve enough, notwithstanding, to keep on the larboard tack until daylight, in the hope of getting in sight of the mountains of Terra del Fuego. No one, now, expected we should be able to fetch through the Straits; but it would be a great relief to obtain a sight of the land, as it would enable us to get some tolerably accurate notions of our position. Daylight came at length, but it brought no certainty. The weather was so thick, between a drizzling rain, sea-mist and the spray, that it was seldom we could see a league around us, and frequently not half a mile. Fortunately, the general direction of the eastern coast of Terra del Fuego, is from north-west to south-east, always giving us room to ware off shore, provided we did not unexpectedly get embarrassed in some one of the many deep indentations of that wild and inhospitable shore. Captain Williams showed great steadiness in the trying circumstances in which we were placed. The ship was just far enough south to render it probable she could weather Falkland Islands, on the other tack, could we rely upon the currents; but it would be ticklish work to undertake such a thing, in the long, intensely dark nights we had, and thus run the risk of finding ourselves on a lee shore. He determined, therefore, to hold on as long as possible, on the tack we were on, expecting to get through another night, without coming upon the land, every hour now giving us the hope that we were drawing near to the termination of the gale. I presume he felt more emboldened to pursue this course by the circumstance that the wind evidently inclined to haul little by little, more to the southward, which was not only increasing our chances of laying past the islands, but lessened the danger from Terra del Fuego. Marble was exceedingly uneasy during that second night. He remained on deck with me the whole of the morning watch; not that he distrusted my discretion in the least, but because he distrusted the wind and the land. I never saw him in so much concern before, for it was his habit to consider himself a timber of the ship, that was to sink or swim with the craft. “Miles,” said he, “you and I know something of these 'bloody currents,' and we know they take a ship one way, while she looks as fiercely the other as a pig that is dragged aft by the tail. If we had run down the 50th degree of longitude, now, we might have had plenty of sea-room, and been laying past the Cape, with this very wind; but, no, the old fellow would have had no islands in that case, and he never could be happy without half-a-dozen islands to bother him.” “Had we run down the 50th degree of longitude,” I answered, “we should have had twenty degrees to make to get round the Horn; whereas, could we only lay through the Straits of Le Maire, six or eight of those very same degrees would carry us clear of everything.” “Only lay through the Straits of Le Maire, on the 10th November, or what is the same thing in this quarter of the world, of May, and with less than nine hours of day-light! And such day-light, too! Why, our Newfoundland fogs, such stuff as I used to eat when a youngster and a fisherman, are high noon to it! Soundings are out of the question hereabouts; and, before one has hauled in the deep-sea, with all its line out, his cut-water may be on a rock. This ship is so weatherly and drags ahead so fast, that we shall see _terra firma_ before any one has a notion of it. The old man fancies, because the coast of Fuego trends to the north-west, that the land will fall away from us, as fast as we draw towards it. I hope he may live long enough to persuade all hands that he is right!” Marble and I were conversing on the forecastle at the time, our eyes turned to the westward, for it was scarcely possible for him to look in any other direction, when he interrupted himself, by shouting out--“hard up with the helm--spring to the after-braces, my lads--man mizen-staysail downhaul!” This set everybody in motion, and the captain and third-mate were on deck in a minute. The ship fell off, as soon as we got the mizen-staysail in, and the main-topsail touching. Gathering way fast, as she got the wind more aft, her helm threw her stern up, and away she went like a top. The fore-topmast staysail-sheet was tended with care, and yet the cloth emitted a sound like the report of a swivel, when the sail first filled on the other tack. We got the starboard fore-tack forward, and the larboard sheet aft, by two tremendously severe drags, the blocks and bolts seeming fairly to quiver, as they felt the strains. Everything succeeded, however, and the Crisis began to drag off from the coast of Terra del Fuego, of a certainty; but to go whither, no one could precisely tell. She headed up nearly east, the wind playing about between south-and-by-east, and south-east-and-by-south. On that course, I own I had now great doubt whether she could lay past the Falkland Islands, though I felt persuaded we must be a long distance from them. There was plenty of time before us to take the chances of a change. As soon as the ship was round, and trimmed by the wind on the other tack, Captain Williams had a grave conversation with the chief-mate, on the subject of his reason for what he had done. Marble maintained he had caught a glimpse of the land ahead--“Just as you know I did of la Dame de Nantes, Captain Williams,” he continued, “and seeing there was no time to be lost, I ordered the helm hard up, to ware off shore.” I distrusted this account, even while it was in the very process of coming out of the chief mate's mouth, and Marble afterwards admitted to me, quite justly; but the captain either was satisfied, or thought it prudent to seem so. By the best calculations I afterwards made, I suppose we must have been from fifteen to twenty leagues from the land when we wore ship; but, as Marble said, when he made his private confessions, “Madagascar was quite enough for me, Miles, without breaking our nose on this sea-gull coast; and there may be 'bloody currents' on this side of the Cape of Good Hope, as well as on the other. We've got just so much of a gale and a foul wind to weather, and the ship will do both quite as well with her head to the eastward, as with her head to the westward.” All that day the Crisis stood on the starboard tack, dragging through the raging waters as it might be by violence; and just as night shut in again, she wore round, once more, with her head to the westward. So far from abating, the wind increased, and towards evening we found it necessary to furl our topsail and fore-course. Mere rag of a sail as the former had been reduced to, with its four reefs in, it was a delicate job to roll it up. Neb and I stood together in the bunt, and never did I exert myself more than on that occasion. The foresail, too, was a serious matter, but we got both sails in without losing either. Just as the sun set, or as night came to increase the darkness of that gloomy day, the fore-topmast-staysail went out of the bolt-rope, with a report that was heard all over the ship; disappearing in the mist, like a cloud driving in the heavens. A few minutes later, the mizen-staysail was hauled down in order to prevent it from travelling the same road. The jerks even this low canvass occasionally gave the ship, made her tremble from her keel to her trucks. For the first time, I now witnessed a tempest at sea. Gales, and pretty hard ones, I had often seen; but the force of the wind on this occasion, as much exceeded that in ordinary gales of wind, as the force of these had exceeded that of a whole-sail breeze. The seas seemed crushed, the pressure of the swooping atmosphere, as the currents of the air went howling over the surface of the ocean, fairly preventing them from rising; or, where a mound of water did appear, it was scooped up and borne off in spray, as the axe dubs inequalities from the log. In less than an hour after it began to blow the hardest, there was no very apparent swell--the deep breathing of the ocean is never entirely stilled--and the ship was as steady as if hove half out, her lower yard-arms nearly touching the water, an inclination at which they remained as steadily as if kept there by purchases. A few of us were compelled to go as high as the futtock-shrouds to secure the sails, but higher it was impossible to get. I observed that when I thrust out a hand to clutch anything, it was necessary to make the movement in such a direction as to allow for lee-way, precisely as a boat quarters the stream in crossing against a current. In ascending it was difficult to keep the feet on the ratlins, and in descending, it required a strong effort to force the body down towards the centre of gravity. I make no doubt, had I groped my way up to the cross-trees, and leaped overboard my body would have struck the water, thirty or forty yards from the ship. A marlin-spike falling from either top, would have endangered no one on deck. When the day returned, a species of lurid, sombre light was diffused over the watery waste, though nothing was visible but the ocean and the ship. Even the sea-birds seemed to have taken refuge in the caverns of the adjacent coast, none re-appearing with the dawn. The air was full of spray, and it was with difficulty that the eye could penetrate as far into the humid atmosphere as half a mile. All hands mustered on deck, as a matter of course, no one wishing to sleep at a time like that. As for us officers, we collected on the forecastle, the spot where danger would first make itself apparent, did it come from the side of the land. It is not easy to make a landsman understand the embarrassments of our situation. We had had no observations for several days, and had been moving about by dead reckoning, in a part of the ocean where the tides run like a mill-tail, with the wind blowing a little hurricane. Even now, when her bows were half submerged, and without a stitch of canvass exposed, the Crisis drove ahead at the rate of three or four knots, luffing as close to the wind as if she carried after-sail. It was Marble's opinion that, in such smooth water, do all we could, the vessel would drive towards the much-dreaded land again, between sun and sun of that short day, a distance of from thirty to forty miles. “Nor is this all, Miles,” he added to me, in an aside, “I no more like this 'bloody current,' than that we had over on the other side of the pond, when we broke our back on the rocks of Madagascar. You never see as smooth water as this, unless when the wind and current are travelling in the same direction.” I made no reply, but there all four of us, the captain and his three mates, stood looking anxiously into the vacant mist on our lee-bow, as if we expected every moment to behold our homes. A silence of ten minutes succeeded, and I was still gazing in the same direction, when by a sort of mystic rising of the curtain, I fancied I saw a beach of long extent, with a dark-looking waste of low bottom extending inland, for a considerable distance. The beach did not appear to be distant half a knot, while the ship seemed to glide along it, as compared with visible objects on shore, at a rate of six or eight miles the hour. It extended, almost in a parallel line with our course, too, as far as could be seen, both astern and ahead. “What a strange delusion is this!” I thought to myself, and turned to look at my companions, when I found all looking, one at the other, as if to ask a common explanation. “There is no mistake here,” said captain Williams, quietly. “That is _land_, gentlemen.” “As true as the gospel,” answered Marble, with the sort of steadiness despair sometimes gives. “What is to be done, sir?” “What _can_ be done, Mr. Marble? --We have not room to ware, and, of the two, there seems, so far as I can judge more sea-room ahead than astern.” This was so apparent, there was no disputing it. We could still see the land, looking low, chill, and of the hue of November; and we could also perceive that ahead, if anything, it fell off a little towards the northward, while astern it seemingly stretched in a due line with our course. That we passed it with great velocity, too, was a circumstance that our eyes showed us too plainly to admit of any mistake. As the ship was still without a rag of sail, borne down by the wind as she had been for hours, and burying to her hawse-holes forward, it was only to a racing tide, or current of some sort, that we could be indebted for our speed. We tried the lead, and got bottom in six fathoms! The captain and Marble now held a serious consultation; That the ship was entering some sort of an estuary was certain, but of what depth, how far favoured by a holding ground, or how far without any anchorage at all, were facts that defied our inquiries. We knew that the land called Terra del Fuego was, in truth, a cluster of islands, intersected by various channels and passages, into which ships had occasionally ventured, though their navigation had never led to any other results than some immaterial discoveries in geography. That we were entering one of these passages, and under favourable circumstances, though so purely accidental, was the common belief; and it only remained to look out for the best anchorage, while we had day-light. Fortunately, as we drove into the bay, or passage, or what ever it was, the tempest lifted less spray from the water, and, owing to this and other causes, the atmosphere gradually grew clearer. By ten o'clock, we could see fully a league, though I can hardly say that the wind blew less fiercely than before. As for sea, there was none, or next to none; the water being as smooth as in a river. The day drew on, and we began to feel increased uneasiness at the novelty of our situation. Our hope and expectation were to find some anchorage; but to obtain this it was indispensable also to find a lee. As the ship moved forward, we still kept the land in view, on our starboard hand, but that was a lee, instead of a weather shore; the last alone could give our ground-tackle any chance, whatever, in such a tempest. We were drawing gradually away from this shore, too, which trended more northerly, giving us additional sea-room. The fact that we were in a powerful tide's way, puzzled us the most. There was but one mode of accounting for the circumstance. Had we entered a bay, the current must have been less, and it seemed necessary there should be some outlet to such a swift accumulation of water. It was not the mere rising of the water, swelling in an estuary, but an arrow-like glancing of the element, as it shot through a pass. We had a proof of this last fact, about eleven o'clock, that admitted of no dispute. Land was seen directly ahead, at that hour, and great was the panic it created. A second look, however, reassured us, the land proving to be merely a rocky islet of some six or eight acres in extent. We gave it a berth, of course, though we examined closely for an anchorage near it, as we approached. The islet was too low and too small to make any lee, nor did we like the looks of the holding-ground. The notion of anchoring there was consequently abandoned; but we had now some means of noting our progress. The ship was kept a little away, in order to give this island a berth, and the gale drove her through the water at the rate of seven or eight knots. This, however, was far from being our whole speed, the tide sweeping us onward at a furious rate, in addition. Even Captain Williams thought we must be passing that rock at the rate of fifteen knots! It was noon, and there was no abatement in the tempest, no change in the current, no means of returning, no chance of stopping; away we were driven, like events ruled by fate. The only change was the gradual clearing up of the atmosphere, as we receded from the ocean, and got farther removed from its mists and spray. Perhaps the power of the gale had, in a small degree, abated, by two o'clock, and it would have been possible to carry some short sail; but there being no sea to injure us, it was unnecessary, and the ship continued to drive ahead, under bare poles. Night was the time to dread. There was, now, but one opinion among us, and that was this:--we thought the ship had entered one of the passages that intersect Terra del Fuego, and that there was the chance of soon finding a lee, as these channels were known to be very irregular and winding. To run in the night seemed impossible; nor was it desirable, as it was almost certain we should be compelled to return by the way we had entered, to extricate ourselves from the dangers of so intricate a navigation. Islands began to appear, moreover, and we had indications that the main passage itself, was beginning to diminish in width. Under the circumstances, therefore, it was resolved to get everything ready, and to let go two anchors, as soon as we could find a suitable spot. Between the hours of two and four, the ship passed seventeen islets, some of them quite near; but they afforded no shelter. At last, and it was time, the sun beginning to fall very low, as we could see by the waning light, we saw an island of some height and size ahead, and we hoped it might afford us a lee. The tide had changed too, and that was in our favour. Turning to windward, however, was out of the question, since we could carry no sail, and the night was near. Anchor, then, we must, or continue to drive onward in the darkness, sheered about in all directions by a powerful adverse current. It is true, this current would have been a means of safety, by enabling us to haul up from rocks and dangers ahead, could we carry any canvass; but it still blew too violently for the last. To anchor, then, it was determined. I had never seen so much anxiety in Captain Williams's countenance, as when he was approaching the island mentioned. There was still light enough to observe its outlines and shores, the last appearing bold and promising. As the island itself may have been a mile in circuit, it made a tolerable lee, when close to it. This was then our object, and the helm was put to starboard as we went slowly past, the tide checking our speed. The ship sheered into a sort of roadstead--a very wild one it was--as soon as she had room. It was ticklish work, for no one could tell how soon we might hit a rock; but we went clear, luffing quite near to the land, where we let go both bowers at the same instant. The ship's way had been sufficiently deadened, by throwing her up as near the wind as she could be got, and there was no difficulty in snubbing her. The lead gave us seven fathoms, and this within pistol-shot of the shore. We knew we were temporarily safe. The great point was to ascertain how the vessel would tend, and with how much strain upon her cables. To everybody's delight, it was found we were in a moderate eddy, that drew the ship's stern from the island, and allowed her to tend to the wind, which still had a fair range from her top-sail yards to the trucks. Lower down, the tempest scuffled about, howling and eddying, and whirling first to one side, and then to the other, in a way to prove how much its headlong impetuosity was broken and checked by the land. It is not easy to describe the relief we felt at these happy chances. It was like giving foothold to some wretch who thought a descent of the precipice was inevitable. The ship was found to ride easily by one cable, and the hands were sent to the windlass to heave up the other anchor, as our lead told us, we had rocks beneath us, and the captain was afraid of the chafing. The larboard-bower anchor was catted immediately, and there it was left suspended, with a range of cable overhauled, in readiness to let go at a moment's notice. After this, the people were told to get their suppers. As for us officers, we had other things to think of. The Crisis carried a small quarter-boat, and this was lowered into the water, the third-mate and myself manned its oars, and away we went to carry the captain round the ship, in order that he might ascertain the soundings, should it be necessary to get under way in the night. The examination was satisfactory, on all points but one; that of the holding-ground; and we returned to the vessel, having taken good care to trust ourselves in neither the wind nor the current. An anchor-watch was set, with a mate on deck, four hours and four hours, and all hands turned in. I had the morning watch. What occurred from seven o'clock (the captain keeping the dog-watches himself,) until a few minutes before four, I cannot tell in detail, though I understood generally, that the wind continued to blow in the same quarter, though it gradually diminished in violence, getting down to something like a mere gale, by midnight. The ship rode more easily; but, when the flood came in, there was no longer an eddy, the current sucking round each side of the island in a very unusual manner. About ten minutes before the hour when it was my regular watch on deck, all hands were called; I ran on deck, and found the ship had struck adrift, the cable having parted. Marble had got the vessel's head up to the wind, under bare poles as before, and we soon began to heave in the cable. It was found that the mischief had been done by the rocks, the strands being chafed two-thirds through. As soon as the current took the vessel's hull with force, the cable parted. We lost our anchor, of course, for there was no possible way of getting back to the island at present, or until the ebb again made. It wanted several hours of day, and the captain called a council. He told us, he made no doubt that the ship had got into one of the Terra del Fuego passages, guided by Providence; and, as he supposed we must be almost as far south as Staten Land, he was of opinion we had made an important discovery! Get back we could not, so long as the wind held where it was, and he was disposed to make sail, and push the examination of the channel, as far as circumstances would allow. Captain Williams had a weakness on this point, that was amiable and respectable perhaps, but which hardly comported with the objects and prudence of a trading ship-master. We were not surprised, therefore, at hearing his suggestion; and, in spite of the danger, curiosity added its impulses to our other motives of acquiescing. We could not get back as the wind then was, and we were disposed to move forward. As for the dangers of the navigation, they seemed to be lessening as we advanced, fewer islands appearing ahead, and the passage itself grew wider. Our course, however, was more to the southward bringing the ship close up by the wind, once more. The morning promised to be lighter than we had found the weather for several days, and we even experienced some benefit from the moon. The wind, too, began to back round to the eastward again, as we approached the dawn; and we got the three top-sails, close-reefed, the fore-course, and a new fore-top-mast stay-sail, on the ship. At length day appeared, and the sun was actually seen struggling among dark masses of wild-looking, driving clouds. For the first time since we entered those narrow waters, we now got a good look around us. The land could be seen in all directions. The passage in which we found the Crisis, at sunrise on the morning of the second of these adventurous days, was of several leagues in width; and bounded, especially on the north, by high, precipitous mountains, many of which were covered with snow. The channel was unobstructed; and not an island, islet, or rock, was visible. No impediment to our proceeding offered, and we were still more encouraged to push on. The course we were steering was about south-south-west, and the captain predicted we should come out into the ocean to the _westward_ of the Straits of Le Maire, and somewhere near the Cape itself. We should unquestionably make a great discovery! The wind continued to back round, and soon got to be abaft the beam. We now shook our reefs out, one after another, and we had whole topsails on the vessel by nine o'clock. This was carrying hard, it must be owned; but the skipper was determined to make hay while the sun shone. There were a few hours, when I think the ship went fifteen knots by the land, being so much favoured by the current. Little did we know the difficulties towards which we were rushing! Quite early in the day, land appeared ahead, and Marble began to predict that our rope was nearly run out. We were coming to the bottom of a deep bay. Captain Williams thought differently; and when he discovered a narrow passage between two promontories, he triumphantly predicted our near approach to the Cape. He had seen some such shape to the mountains inland, in doubling the Horn, and the hill-tops looked like old acquaintances. Unfortunately we could not see the sun at meridian, and got no observation. For several hours we ran south-westerly, in a passage of no great width, when we came to a sudden bend in our course, which led us away to the north-west. Here we still had the tide with us, and we then all felt certain that we had reached a point where the ebb must flow in a direction contrary to that in which we had found it, in the other parts of the passage. It followed, that we were now halfway through to the ocean, though the course we were steering predicted a sinuous channel. We were certainly not going now towards Cape Horn. Notwithstanding the difficulties and doubts which beset us, Captain Williams packed on the ship, determined to get ahead as fast as he could, while there was light. It no longer blew a gale, and the wind was hauling more to the southward again. It soon got to be right aft, and before sunset it had a little westing in it. Fortunately, it moderated, and we set our main-sail and top-gallant-sails. We had carried a lower and top-mast studding-sails nearly all day. The worst feature in our situation, now, was the vast number of islands, or islets, we met. The shore on each side was mountainous and rude, and deep indentations were constantly tempting us to turn aside. But, rightly judging that the set of the tide was a lair index to the true course, the captain stood on. The night that followed was one of the most anxious I ever passed. We were tempted to anchor a dozen times, in some of the different bays, of which we passed twenty; but could not make up our minds to risk another cable. We met the flood a little after sunset, and got rid of it before morning. But the wind kept hauling, and at last it brought us fairly on a taut bow-line; under top-gallant-sails, however. We had come too far to recede, or now would have been the time to turn round, and retrace our steps. But we hoped every moment to reach some inclination south, again, that would carry us into the open sea. We ran a vast many chances of shipwreck, passing frightfully near several reefs; but the same good Providence which had so far protected us, carried us clear. Never was I so rejoiced as when I saw day returning. We had the young ebb, and a scant wind, when the sun rose next day. It was a brilliant morning, however, and everybody predicted an observation at noon. The channel was full of islands, still, and other dangers were not wanting; but, as we could see our way, we got through them all safely. At length our course became embarrassed, so many large islands, with passages between them, offering on different sides. One headland, however, lay before us; and, the ship promising to weather it, we held on our way. It was just ten o'clock as we approached this cape, and we found a passage westward that actually led into the ocean! All hands gave three cheers as we became certain of this fact, the ship tacking as soon as far enough ahead, and setting seaward famously with the tide. Captain Williams now told us to get our quadrants, for the heavens were cloudless, and we should have a horizon in time for the sun. He was anxious to get the latitude of our discovery. Sure enough, it so fell out, and we prepared to observe; some predicting one parallel, some another. As for the skipper himself, he said he thought we were still to the eastward of the Cape; but he felt confident that we had come out to the westward of Le Maire. Marble was silent; but he had observed, and made his calculations, before either of the others had commenced the last. I saw him scratch his head, and go to the chart which lay on the companionway. Then I heard him shout-- “In the Pacific, by St. Kennebunk!” --he always swore by this pious individual when excited--“We have come through the Straits of Magellan without knowing it!”

12

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“Sound trumpets, ho! --weigh anchor--loosen sail-- The seaward-flying banners chide delay; As if't were heaven that breathes this kindly gale, Our life-like bark beneath it speeds away. --” PINKNEY. The stout ship Crisis had, like certain persons, done a good thing purely by chance, Had her exploit happened in the year 1519, instead of that of 1800, the renowned passage we had just escaped from would have been called the Crisis Straits, a better name than the mongrel appellation it now bears; which is neither English, nor Portuguese. The ship had been lost, like a man in the woods, and came out nearer home, than those in her could have at all expected. The “bloody currents” had been at the bottom of the mistake, though this time they did good, instead of harm. Any one who has been thoroughly lost on a heath, or in a forest, or, even in a town, can comprehend how the head gets turned on such occasions, and will understand the manner in which we had mystified ourselves. I shall remember the feelings of delight with which I looked around me, as the ship passed out into the open ocean, to my dying day. There lay the vast Pacific, its long, regular waves rolling in towards the coast, in mountain-like ridges, it is true, but under a radiant sun, and in a bright atmosphere. Everybody was cheered by the view, and never did orders sound more pleasant in my ears, than when the captain called out, in a cheerful voice, “to man the weather braces.” This command was given the instant it was prudent; and the ship went foaming past the last cape with the speed of a courser. Studding-sails were then set, and, when the sun was dipping, we had a good offing, were driving to the northward under everything we could carry, and had a fair prospect of an excellent run from the neighbourhood of Terra del Fuego, and its stormy seas. It is not my intention to dwell on our passage along the western coast of South America. A voyage to the Pacific was a very different thing in the year 1800, however, from what it is to-day. The power of Spain was then completely in the ascendant, intercourse with any nation but the mother country, being strictly prohibited. It is true, a species of commerce, that was called the “forced trade on the Spanish Main” existed under that code of elastic morals, which adapts the maxim of “your purse or your life” to modern diplomacy, as well as to the habits of the highwayman. According to divers masters in the art of ethics now flourishing among ourselves, more especially in the atmosphere of the journals of the commercial communities, the people that “_can_ trade and _won't_ trade, _must be made to trade_.” At the commencement of the century, your mercantile moralists were far less manly in the avowal of their sentiments, though their practices were in no degree wanting in the spirit of our more modern theories. Ships were fitted out, armed, and navigated, on this just principle, quite as confidently and successfully as if the tongue had declared all that the head had conceived. Guarda-Costas were the arguments used, on the other side of this knotty question, by the authorities of Spain; and a very insufficient argument, on the whole, did they prove to be. It is an old saying, that vice is twice as active as virtue; the last sleeping, while the former is hard at work. If this be true of things in general, it is thrice true as regards smugglers and custom-house officers. Owing to this circumstance, and sundry other causes, it is certain that English and American vessels found the means of plundering the inhabitants of South America, at the period of which I am writing, without having recourse to the no longer reputable violence of Dampier, Wood, Rogers, or Drake. As I feel bound to deal honestly with the reader, whatever I may have done by the Spanish laws, I shall own that we made one or two calls, as we proceeded north, shoving ashore certain articles purchased in London, and taking on board dollars, in return for our civility. I do not know whether I am bound, or not, to apologize for my own agency in these irregular transactions--regular, would be quite as apposite a word--for, had I been disposed to murmur, it would have done my morals no good, nor the smuggling any harm. Captain Williams was a silent man, and it was not easy to ascertain precisely what he _thought_ on the subject of smuggling; but, in the way of _practice_, I never saw any reason to doubt that he was a firm believer in the doctrine of Free Trade. As for Marble, he put me in mind of a certain renowned editor of a well-known New York journal, who evidently thinks that all things in heaven and earth, sun, moon, and stars, the void above and the caverns beneath us, the universe, in short, was created to furnish materials for newspaper paragraphs; the worthy mate, just as confidently believing that coasts, bays, inlets, roadsteads and havens, were all intended by nature, as means to run goods ashore wherever the duties, or prohibitions, rendered it inconvenient to land them in the more legal mode. Smuggling, in his view of the matter, was rather more creditable than the regular commerce, since it required greater cleverness. I shall not dwell on the movements of the Crisis, for the five months that succeeded her escape from the Straits of Magellan. Suffice it to say, that she anchored at as many different points on the coast; that all which came up the main-hatch, went ashore; and all that came over the bulwarks, was passed down into the run. We were chased by _guarda-costas_ seven times, escaping from them on each occasion, with ease; though we had three little running fights. I observed that Captain Williams was desirous of engaging these emissaries of the law, as easily as possible, ordering us to fire altogether at their spars. I have since thought that this moderation proceeded from a species of principle that is common enough--a certain half-way code of right and wrong--which encouraged him to smuggle, but which caused him to shrink from taking human life. Your half-way rogues are the bane of honesty. After quitting the Spanish coast, altogether, we proceeded north, with the laudable intention of converting certain quantities of glass-beads, inferior jack-knives, frying-pans, and other homely articles of the same nature, into valuable furs. In a word, we shaped our course for that district which bids fair to set the mother and daughter by the ears, one of these days, unless it shall happen to be disposed of _à la Texas_, or, what is almost as bad, _à la Maine_, ere long. At that time the whole north-west coast was unoccupied by white men, and I felt no scruples about trading with the natives who presented themselves with their skins as soon as we had anchored, believing that they had the best right to the country and its products. We passed months in this traffic, getting, at every point where we stopped, something to pay us for our trouble. We went as far north as 53°, and that is pretty much all I ever knew of our last position. At the time, I thought we had anchored in a bay on the main land, but I have since been inclined to think it was in one of the many islands that line that broken coast. We got a very secure berth, having been led to it by a native pilot who boarded us several leagues at sea, and who knew enough English to persuade our captain that he could take us to a point where sea-otter skins might be had for the asking. Nor did the man deceive us, though a more unpromising-looking guide never had charge of smuggling Christians. He carried us into a very small bay, where we found plenty of water, capital holding-ground, and a basin as smooth as a dock. But one wind--that which blew from the north-west--could make any impression on it, and the effects of even that were much broken by a small island that lay abreast of the entrance; leaving good passages, on each side of it, out to sea. The basin itself was rather small, it is true, but it did well enough for a single ship. Its diameter may have been three hundred yards, and I never saw a sheet of natural water that was so near a circle. Into a place like this, the reader will imagine, we did not venture without taking the proper precautions. Marble was sent in first, to reconnoitre and sound, and it was on his report that Captain Williams ventured to take the ship in. At that time, ships on the North-West Coast had to use the greatest precautions against the treachery and violence of the natives. This rendered the size of our haven the subject of distrust; for, lying in the middle of it, where we moored, we were barely an arrow's flight from the shore, in every direction but that which led to the narrow entrance. It was a most secure anchorage, as against the dangers of the sea, but a most insecure one as against the dangers of the savages. This we all felt, as soon as our anchors were down; but, intending to remain only while we bartered for the skins which we had been told were ready for the first ship that should offer, we trusted to vigilance as our safeguard in the interval. I never could master the uncouth sounds of the still more uncouth savages of that distant region. The fellow who carried us in had a name of his own, doubtless, but it was not to be pronounced by a Christian tongue, and he got the _sobriquet_ of the Dipper from us, owing to the manner in which he ducked at the report of our muskets, which had been discharged by Marble merely with the intention to renew the cartridges. We had hardly got into the little basin, before the Dipper left us, returning in an hour, however, with a canoe loaded to the water's edge, with beautiful skins, and accompanied by three savages as wild-looking, seemingly as fierce, and certainly as avaricious as he was himself. These auxiliaries, through various little circumstances, were known among us that same afternoon, by the several appellations of Smudge, Tin-pot, and Slit-nose. These were not heroic names, of a certainty, but their owners had as little of the heroic in their appearance, as usually falls to the lot of man in the savage state. I cannot tell the designation of the tribes to which these four worthies belonged, nor do I know any more of their history and pursuits than the few facts which came under my own immediate observation. I did ask some questions of the captain, with a view to obtain a few ideas on this subject, but all he knew was, that these people put a high value on blankets, beads, gun-powder, frying-pans, and old hoops, and that they set a remarkably low price on sea-otter skins, as well as on the external coverings of sundry other animals. An application to Mr. Marble was still less successful, being met by the pithy answer that he was “no naturalist, and knew nothing about these critturs, or any wild beasts, in general.” Degraded as the men certainly were, however, we thought them quite good enough to be anxious to trade with them. Commerce, like misery, sometimes makes a man acquainted with strange bed-fellows. I had often seen our own Indians after they had become degraded by their intercourse with the whites and the use of rum, but never had I beheld any beings so low in the scale of the human race, as the North-Western savages appeared to be. They seemed to me to be the Hottentots of our own continent. Still they were not altogether without the means of commanding our respect. As physical men they were both active and strong, and there were gleams of ferocity about them, that all their avarice and art could not conceal. I could not discover in their usages, dress, or deportment, a single trace of that chivalrous honour which forms so great a relief to the well-established cruelty of the warrior of our own part of the continent. Then, these sea-otter dealers had some knowledge of the use of fire-arms, and were too well acquainted with the ships of us civilized men to have any superstitious dread of our power. The Dipper, and his companions, sold us one hundred and thirty-three sea-otter skins the very afternoon we anchored. This, of itself, was thought to be a sufficient reward for the trouble and risk of coming into this unknown basin. Both parties seemed pleased with the results of the trading, and we were given to understand that, by remaining at anchor, we might hope for six or eight times our present number of skins. Captain Williams was greatly gratified with the success with which he had already met, and having found that all the Dipper had promised came true, he determined to remain a day or two, in his present berth, in order to wait for more bargains. This resolution was no sooner communicated to the savages than they expressed their delight, sending off Tin-pot and Slit-nose with the intelligence, while the Dipper and Smudge remained in the ship, apparently on terms of perfect good-fellowship with everybody on board. The gentry of the North-West Coast being flagrant thieves, however, all hands had orders to keep a good look-out on our two guests, Captain Williams expressing his intention to flog them soundly, should they be detected in any of their usual light-fingered dexterity. Marble and myself observed that the canoe, in which the messengers left us, did not pull out to sea, but that it entered a small stream, or creek, that communicated with the head of the bay. As there was no duty on board, we asked the captain's permission to explore this spot; and, at the same time, to make a more thorough examination of our haven, generally. The request being granted, we got into the yawl, with four men, all of us armed, and set out on our little expedition. Smudge, a withered, grey-headed old Indian, with muscles however that resembled whip-cord, was alone on deck, when this movement took place. He watched our proceedings narrowly, and, when he saw us descend into the boat, he very coolly slipped down the ship's side, and took his place in the stern-sheets, with as much quiet dignity as if he had been captain. Marble was a good deal of a ship's martinet in such matters, and he did not more than half like the familiarity and impudence of the procedure. “What say you, Miles,” he asked, a little sharply, “shall we take this dried ourang-outang ashore with us, or shall we try to moisten him a little, by throwing him overboard'!” “Let him go, by all means, Mr. Marble. I dare say the man wishes to be of use, and he has only a bad manner of showing it.” “Of use! He is worth no more than the carcase of a whale that has been stripped of its blubber. I say, Miles, there would be no need of the windlass to heave the blanket off of this fish!” This professional witticism put Marble in good humour with himself, and he permitted the fellow to remain. I remember the thoughts that passed through my mind, as the yawl pulled towards the creek, on that occasion, as well as if it had all occurred yesterday. I sat looking at the semi-human being who was seated opposite, wondering at the dispensation of Divine Providence which could leave one endowed with a portion of the ineffable; nature of the Deity, in a situation so degraded. I had seen beasts in cages that appeared to me to be quite as intelligent, and members of the diversified family of human caricatures, or of the baboons and monkeys, that I thought were quite as agreeable objects to the eye. Smudge seemed to be almost without ideas. In his bargains, he had trusted entirely to the vigilance of the Dipper, whom we supposed to be some sort of a relation; and the articles he received in exchange for his skins, failed to arouse in his grim, vacant countenance, the smallest signs of pleasure. Emotion and he, if they had been acquainted, now appeared to be utter strangers to each other; nor was this apathy in the least like the well-known stoicism of the American Indian; but had the air of downright insensibility. Yet this man assuredly had a soul, a spark of the never-dying flame that separates man from all the other beings of earth! The basin in which the Crisis lay was entirely fringed with forest. The trees in most places even overhung the water, forming an impenetrable screen to everything inland, at the season when they were in leaf. Not a sign of a habitation of any sort was visible; and, as we approached the shore, Marble remarked that the savages could only resort to the place at the moments when they had induced a ship to enter, in order to trade with them. “No--no,” added the mate, turning his head in all directions, in order to take a complete survey of the bay; “there are no wigwams, or papooses, hereabouts. This is only a trading-post; and luckily for us, it is altogether without custom-house officers.” “Not without smugglers, I fancy, Mr. Marble, if contriving to get other people's property without their knowledge, can make a smuggler. I never saw a more thorough-looking thief than the chap we have nick-named the Dipper. I believe he would swallow one of our iron spoons, rather than not get it!” “Ay, there's no mistake about him, 'Master Mile,' as Neb calls you. But this fellow here, hasn't brains enough to tell his own property from that of another man. I would let him into our bread-lockers, without any dread of his knowing enough to eat. I never saw such a vacancy in a human form; a down-east idiot would wind him up in a trade, as handily as a pedlar sets his wooden clocks in motion.” Such was Marble's opinion of the sagacity of Mr. Smudge; and, to own the truth, such, in a great measure, was my own. The men laughed at the remarks--seamen are a little apt to laugh at chief-mates' wit--and their looks showed how thoroughly they coincided with us in opinion. All this time, the boat had been pushing ahead, and it soon reached the mouth of the little creek. We found the inlet deep, but narrow and winding. Like the bay itself, it was fringed with trees and bushes, and this in a way to render it difficult to get a view of anything on the land; more especially as the banks were ten or fifteen feet in height. Under the circumstances, Marble proposed that we should land on both sides of the creek, and follow its windings on foot, for a short distance, in order to get a better opportunity to reconnoitre. Our dispositions were soon made. Marble and one of the boat's crew, each armed, landed on one side of the inlet, while Neb and myself, similarly provided, went ashore on the other. The two remaining men were ordered to keep abreast of us in the boat, in readiness to take us on board again, as soon as required. “Leave that Mr. Smudge in the boat, Miles,” Marble called out across the creek, as I was about to put foot on the ground. I made a sign to that effect to the savage, but when I reached the level ground on the top of the bank, I perceived the fellow was at my elbow. It was so difficult to make such a creature understand one's wishes, without the aid of speech, that, after a fruitless effort or two to send him back by means of signs, I abandoned the attempt, and moved forward, so as to keep the whole party in the desired line. Neb offered to catch the old fellow in his arms, and to carry him down to the yawl; but I thought it more prudent to avoid anything like violence. We proceeded, therefore, accompanied by this escort. There was nothing, however, to excite alarm, or awaken distrust. We found ourselves in a virgin forest, with all its wildness, dampness, gloomy shadows, dead and fallen trees, and unequal surface. On my side of the creek, there was not the smallest sign of a foot-path; and Marble soon called out to say, he was equally without any evidences of the steps of man. I should think we proceeded quite a mile in this manner, certain that the inlet would be a true guide on our return. At length a call from the boat let us know there was no longer water enough to float it, and that it could proceed no farther. Marble and myself descended the banks at the same moment, and were taken in, intending to return in the yawl. Smudge glided back to his old place, with his former silence. “I told you to leave the ourang-outang behind,” Marble carelessly observed, as he took his own seat, after assisting in getting the boat round, with its head towards the bay. “I would rather have a rattlesnake for a pet, than such a cub.” “It is easier said than done, sir. Master Smudge stuck to me as close as a leech.” “The fellow seems all the better for his walk--I never saw him look half as amiable as he does at this moment.” Of course this raised a laugh, and it induced me to look round. For the first time, I could detect something like a human expression in the countenance of Smudge, who seemed to experience some sensation a little akin to satisfaction. “I rather think he had taken it into his head we were about to desert the coppers,” I remarked, “and fancied he might lose his supper. Now, he must see we are going back, he probably fancies he will go to bed on a full stomach.” Marble assented to the probability of this conjecture, and the conversation changed. It was matter of surprise to us that we had met no traces of anything like a residence near the creek, not the smallest sign of man having been discovered by either. It was reasonable to expect that some traces of an encampment, at least, would have been found. Everybody kept a vigilant look-out at the shore as we descended the creek; but, as on the ascent, not even a foot-print was detected. On reaching the bay, there being still several hours of day-light, we made its entire circuit, finding nowhere any proof of the former presence of man. At length, Marble proposed pulling to the small wooded island that lay a little without the entrance of the haven, suggesting that it was possible the savages might have something like an encampment there, the place being more convenient as a look-out into the offing, than any point within the bay itself. In order to do this, it was necessary to pass the ship; and we were hailed by the captain, who wished to know the result of our examinations. As soon as he learned our present object, he told us to come alongside, intending to accompany us to the island in person. On getting into the boat, which was small and a little crowded by the presence of Smudge, Captain Williams made a sign for that personage to quit the yawl. He might as well have intimated as much to one of the thwarts! Laughing at the savage's stupidity, or obstinacy, we scarce knew which to term it, the boat was shoved off, and we pulled through the entrance, two hundred yards outside perhaps, until our keel grated against the low rocks of this islet. There was no difficulty in landing; and Neb, who preceded the party, soon gave a shout, the proof that he had made some discovery. Every man among us now looked to his arms, expecting to meet an encampment of savages; but we were disappointed. All that the negro had discovered were the unequivocal traces of a former bivouac; and, judging from a few of the signs, that of no very recent occupation. The traces were extensive, covering quite half of the interior of the island; leaving an extensive curtain of trees and bushes, however, so as completely to conceal the spot from any eyes without. Most of the trees had been burnt down, as we at first thought, in order to obtain fuel; but, farther examination satisfied us, that it had been done as much by accident, as by design. At first, nothing was discovered in this encampment, which had every appearance of not having been extensively used for years, though the traces of numerous fires, and the signs of footsteps, and a spring in the centre, indicated the recent occupation, of which I have just spoken. A little further scrutiny, however, brought to light certain objects that we did not note without much wonder and concern. Marble made the first discovery. It was impossible for seamen to mistake the object, which was the head of a rudder, containing the tiller-hole, and which might have belonged to a vessel of some two hundred and fifty, or three hundred tons. This set all hands of us at work, and, in a few minutes we found, scattered about, fragments of plank, top-timbers, floor-timbers, and other portions of a ship, all more or less burnt, and stripped of every particle of metal. Even the nails had been drawn by means of perseverance and labour. Nothing was left but the wood, which proved to be live-oak, cedar and locust, the proofs that the unfortunate craft had been a vessel of some value. We wanted no assurance of this, however, as none but a North-West trader could well have got as high up the coast, and all vessels of that class were of the best description. Then the locust, a wood unknown to the ship-builders of Europe, gave us the nearly certain assurance that this doomed craft had been a countryman. At first, we were all too much occupied with our interesting discovery to bethink us of Smudge. At length, I turned to observe its effect on the savage. He evidently noted our proceedings; but his feelings, if the creature had any, were so deeply buried beneath the mask of dullness, as completely to foil my penetration. He saw us take up fragment after fragment, examine them, heard us converse over them, though in a language he could not understand, and saw us throw them away, one after another, with seemingly equal indifference. At length he brought a half-burned billet to the captain, and held it before his eyes, as if he began to feel some interest in our proceedings. It proved to be merely a bit of ordinary wood, a fragment of one of the beeches of the forest that lay near an extinguished pile; and the act satisfied us all, the fellow did not comprehend the reason of the interest we betrayed. He clearly knew nothing of the strange vessel. In walking around this deserted encampment, the traces of a pathway to the shore were found. They were too obvious to be mistaken, and led us to the water in the passage opposite to that by which the Crisis had been carried in by the Dipper, and at a point that was not in view from her present anchorage. Here we found a sort of landing, and many of the heavier pieces of the wreck; such as it had not been thought necessary to haul up to the fires, having no metal about them. Among other things of this sort, was a portion of the keel quite thirty feet long, the keelson bolts, keelson, and floor-timbers all attached. This was the only instance in which we discovered any metal; and this we found, only because the fragment was too strong and heavy to be manageable. We looked carefully, in all directions, in the hope of discovering something that might give us an insight into the nature of the disaster that had evidently occurred, but, for some time without success. At length I strolled to a little distance from the landing, and took a seat on a flat stone, which had been placed on the living rock that faced most of the island, evidently to form a resting-place. My seat proved unsteady, and in endeavouring to adjust it more to my mind, I removed the stone, and discovered that it rested on a common log-slate. This slate was still covered with legible writing, and I soon had the whole party around me, eager to learn the contents. The melancholy record was in these precise words: viz.-- “The American brig Sea-Otter, John Squires, master, _coaxed_ into this bay, June 9th, 1797, and seized by savages, on the morning of the 11th. Master, second-mate, and seven of the people killed on the spot. Brig gutted first, then hauled up _here_, and burnt to the water's edge for the iron. David King, first-mate, and six others, viz., George Lunt, Henry Webster, Stephen Stimpson and John Harris, seamen, Bill Flint, cook, and Peter Doolittle, boy, still living, but God only knows what is to be our fate. I shall put this slate beneath the stone I now sit on, in the hope it may one day let our friends learn what has happened.” -- We looked at each other, astounded. Both the captain and Marble remembered to have heard that a brig in this trade, called the Sea-Otter, was missing; and, here, by a communication that was little short of miraculous, we were let into the secret of her disappearance. “_Coaxed_ in--” repeated the captain, running his eye over the writing, which had been thus singularly preserved, and that, in a situation where one would think it might have been discovered a thousand times. --“Yes, yes--I now begin to understand the whole matter. If there were any wind, gentlemen, I would go to sea this very night.” “That would be hardly worth our while, Captain Williams,” the chief-mate answered, “since we are now on our guard, and I feel pretty certain that there are no savages in our neighbourhood. So far, the Dipper and his friends have traded with us fairly enough, and it is likely they have more skins to dispose of. This chap, whom the people have christened Smudge, takes matters so coolly, that I hardly think he knows anything about the Sea-Otter, which may have been cut off by another gang, altogether.” There was good reason in these remarks, and they had their effect on the captain. The latter, however, determined to put Smudge to the proof, by showing him the slate, and otherwise bringing him under such a cross-examination as signs alone could effect. I dare say, an indifferent spectator would have laughed at witnessing our efforts to confound the Indian. We made grimaces, pointed, exclaimed, hallooed, swore, and gesticulated in vain. Smudge was as unmoved at it all, as the fragment of keel to which he was confronted. The fellow either did not, or would not understand us. His stupidity defied our tests; and Marble gave the matter up in despair, declaring that “the beast knows nothing of anything, much less of the Sea-Otter.” As for the slate, he did not seem to have the smallest notion what such a thing meant. We returned to the ship, carrying with us the slate, and the report of our discoveries. All hands were called, and the captain made us a speech. It was sufficiently to the point, though it was not in the least, of the “God-like” character. We were told how ships were lost by the carelessness of their crews; reminded we were on the North-West Coast, where a vessel with a few boxes of beads and bales of blankets, to say nothing of her gunpowder, firearms, and metals, was as valuable, as a vessel laden with gold dust would be in one of our own ports. Vigilance, while on watch, and obedience to the orders of the vessel, in the event of an alarm, were the principal things dwelt on. By observing these two great requisites, we should all be safe enough; whereas, by disregarding them, we should probably share the fate of the people of the brig, of which we had just discovered some of the remains. I will confess, I passed an uncomfortable night. An unknown enemy is always a formidable enemy; and I would rather have fought three _guarda-costas_ at once, than lie where we did, in a bay as smooth as a looking-glass, surrounded by forests as silent as a desert, and in a well-armed ship, that was prepared at all points, to meet her foes, even to her boarding-nettings. Nothing came of it all. The Dipper and Smudge eat their supper with the appetites of injured innocence, and slept like tops. If guilty, we all agreed that they must be utterly destitute of consciences. As for ourselves, we were on the alert until near morning, the very moment when the danger would probably be the greatest, provided there were any at all; and then weariness overcame all who were not on the look-out, and some who were. Still, nothing happened. The sun returned to us in due season, gilding the tree-tops with its beams; our little bay began to bask in its glory, and with the cheerfulness that usually accompanies such a scene, vanished most of our apprehensions for the moment. A night of reflection had quieted our fears, and we all woke up next morning, as indifferent to the fate of the Sea-Otter, as was at all decent.

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“The monarch mind--the mystery of commanding, The godlike power--the art Napoleon, Of winning, fettering, moulding, wielding, banding The hearts of millions, till they move as one; Thou hast it.” HALLECK--_Red Jacket_. Smudge and the Dipper behaved admirably all next day. Beef, pork and bread--those great desiderata of life, which the European is apt to say form the _primum mobile_ of American existence--seemed to engross their thoughts; and when they were not eating, they were busy with sleep. At length we grew ashamed of watching such mere animals, and turned our thoughts to other subjects. We had understood the Dipper, that eight-and-forty hours must elapse before we might expect to see any more skins; and Captain Williams, passing from alarm to extreme security, determined to profit by a lovely day, and send down, or rather strip, all three of the top-masts, and pay some necessary attention to their rigging. At nine o'clock, accordingly, the hands were turned-to, and before noon the ship was pretty thoroughly _en deshabille_. We sent as little down as possible, keeping even the top-sail-yards aloft, though without their lifts or braces, steadying them by guys; but the top-masts were lowered as far as was found possible, without absolutely placing the lower yards on the hammock-cloths. In a word, we put the ship in the most unmanageable position, without absolutely littering our decks. The security of the haven, and the extreme beauty of the weather, emboldened the captain to do this; apprehension of every sort appearing to have quite taken leave of him. The work proceeded merrily. We had not only a strong crew, but we had a good crew; and our Philadelphians were in their element, the moment there was a question of the rigging. By sunset, the chafes were examined, and parcelled, and served anew; and the top-mast rigging was all got up and put over the mast-heads again, and everything was ready to sway upon in the morning. But an uncommonly active day required a good night's rest; and the people were all ordered to turn in, as soon as they had supped. The ship was to be left to the vigilance of the captain and the three mates, during the night. The anchor-watch was set at eight, and ran from two hours, to two hours. My turn commenced at midnight, and was to last until two; Marble succeeding me from two until four, when all hands were to be called to get our sticks aloft. When I turned out at twelve, I found the third-mate conversing, as well as he could, with the Dipper; who, with Smudge, having slept so much of the day, appeared disposed to pass the night in smoking. “How long have these fellows been on deck?” I asked of the third-mate, as he was about to go below. “All my watch; I found them with the captain, who passed them over to me for company. If that chap, the Dipper, only knew anything of a human language, he would be something of society; but I'm as tired of making signs to him, as I ever was with a hard day's work.” I was armed, and felt ashamed of manifesting fear of an unarmed man. Then the two savages gave no additional cause of distrust; the Dipper having taken a seat on the windlass, where he was smoking his pipe with an appearance of philosophy that would have done credit to the gravest-looking baboon. As for Smudge, he did not appear to be sufficiently intellectual to smoke; an occupation that has at least the merit of affecting the air of wisdom and reflection. I never could discover whether your great smokers were actually wiser than the rest of the race, or not; but, it will be admitted, they occasionally seem to be so. It was a pity Smudge did not have recourse to the practice, as it might have given the fellow an appearance of sometimes cogitating. As it was, while his companion was enjoying his pipe at the windlass, he kept strolling about the deck, much as a pig would have wandered in the same place, and seemingly with the same object. I took charge of the decks with a very lively sense of the peculiarity of our situation. The security that prevailed on board struck me as unnatural; and yet I could detect no particular reason for immediate alarm. I might be thrown overboard or murdered by the two savages on deck, it was very true; but of what use would it be to destroy me, since they could not hope to destroy all the rest on board without being discovered. The night was star-lit, and there was little chance of a canoe's approaching the ship without my seeing it; a circumstance that, of itself, in a great measure, removed the danger. I passed the first quarter of an hour in reflecting on these things; and then, as use accustomed me to my situation, I began to think less of them, and to revert to other subjects. Clawbonny, Grace, Lucy, and Mr. Hardinge, often rose before my mind's eye, in those distant seas. It was seldom I passed a tranquil watch at night, without revisiting the scenes of my boyhood, and wandering through my own fields, accompanied by my beloved sister, and her quite as well beloved friend. How many hours of happiness had I thus passed on the trackless wastes of the Pacific and the Atlantic; and with how much fidelity did memory recall the peculiar graces, whether of body or mind, of each of the dear girls in particular! Since my recent experience in London, Emily Merton would occasionally adorn the picture, with her more cultivated discourse and more finished manner; and yet I do not remember to have ever given her more than a third place on the scale of my admiration. On the present occasion I was soon lost in ruminations on the past, and in imagining events for the future. I was not particularly expert at building castles in the air; but what youth of twenty, or maiden of sixteen, never reared some sort of a fabric of this nature? These fanciful structures are the results of inexperience building with the materials of hope. In my most imaginative moments, I could even fancy Rupert an industrious, staid lawyer, adorning his profession, and rendering both Lucy and Grace happy. Beyond this, it was not easy for the human faculties to conceive. Lucy sang sweetly. At times, her songs fairly haunted me, and for hours I could think of nothing but their tender sentiment and their touching melody. I was no nightingale myself, though I sometimes endeavoured to hum some one of the airs that floated in my recollection, like beautiful visions of the past. This night, in particular, my thoughts recurred to one of these songs that told of affection and home; and I stood, for several minutes, leaning over the railing forward, humming the tune to myself, while I endeavoured to recall not only the words, but the sweet voice that was wont to give them so much thrilling pathos. I did this sometimes at Clawbonny; and time and again had Lucy placed her soft little hand on my mouth, as she would laughingly say, “Miles, Miles! do not spoil so pretty a song! You will never succeed with music, so work the harder with your Latin.” Sometimes she would steal behind me--I fancied I could hear her breathing at my shoulder, even as I leaned over the rail--and would apply her hand slyly to my lips, in her many attempts of this nature. So vivid did one of these scenes become, that I thought I really felt the soft smooth hand on my mouth, and I was actually about to kiss it, when something that was smooth enough, certainly, but which was very far from being soft, passed between my teeth, and I felt it drawn so tight as completely to prevent my calling out. At the same moment, my arms were seized from behind, and held as if grasped by a vice. Turning, as well as I was able, I found that rascal Smudge had been breathing within an inch of my ear, while he passed the gag; and the Dipper was busy in lashing my arms together behind my back. The whole had been done so suddenly, and yet with so much skill, that I was a helpless prisoner, as it might be, in a single instant! Resistance being as much out of my power as it was to give any alarm, I was soon secured, hands and feet, and placed carefully in the waist, a little out of the way; for I probably owed my life solely to the wish of Smudge to keep me as his slave. From that instant every appearance of stupidity vanished from this fellow's countenance and manner, and he became the moving spirit, and I might say the soul, of all the proceedings of his companions. As for myself, there I sat, lashed to a spar, utterly unable to help myself, an unwilling witness of all that followed. I felt the imminent danger of our situation, but I think I felt the disgrace of having such a surprise occur in my watch, more even than the personal risks I ran! In the first place, I was disarmed. Then, the Dipper took a lantern which stood on the binnacle, lighted it, and showed it, for half a minute, above the taffrail. His signal must have been instantly answered, for he soon extinguished the light, and moved about the deck, in attentive watchfulness to seize any straggler, who might happen to come on deck. Little fear of that, however, weariness chaining the men to their berths as closely as if they had been bolted down with iron. I now expected to see the fellows fill the yawl with effects, and run away with them, for, as yet, I could not believe that two men would have the hardihood to attack such a ship's company as ours. I reckoned without my host. It might have been ten minutes after I was seized, that dark-looking figures began to climb the ship's sides, until more than thirty of them were on her decks. This was done so noiselessly, too, that the most vigilant attention on my part gave no notice of their approach, until they stood among us. All these men were armed; a few with muskets; others with clubs, and some with bows and arrows. So far as I could discover, each had some sort of a knife, and a few had hatchets, or tomahawks. To my great regret, I saw that three or four were immediately stationed at the companion-way, aft, and as many more at the booby-hatch, forward. This was effectually commanding the only two passages by which the officers and men would be likely to ascend, in the event of their attempting to come on deck. It is true, the main hatch, as well as that of the steerage, was used by day, but both had been covered over night, and no one would think of using either, unless aware of the danger that existed on deck. I suffered a good deal, both from the gag and the ropes that bound my limbs, and yet I hardly thought of the pain, so intense was my curiosity as to what was to follow. After the savages were all on board, the first quarter of an hour passed in making their dispositions, Smudge, the stupid, inanimate, senseless Smudge, acting as leader, and manifesting not only authority, but readiness and sagacity. He placed all his people in ambush, so that, one appearing from below, would not at once be apprized of the change that had taken place on deck, and thus give the savages time to act. After this, another quarter of an hour passed, during which the fall of a pin might almost have been heard, so profound was the silence. I shut my eyes in this terrific interval, and endeavoured to pray. “On deck, here--forward, there!” said a voice suddenly, that, at once, I knew to be the captain's. I would have given the world to be able to answer, in order to warn him of the danger, but this was impossible. I did groan, and I believe the captain heard me; for he moved away from the cabin-door, and called out “Mr. Wallingford--where have you got to, Mr. Wallingford?” He was without his hat, having come on deck half-clad, simply to ascertain how went the night, and it makes me shudder, even now, to write about the blow that fell on his unprotected skull. It would have felled an ox, and it crushed him on the spot. The caution of his murderers prevented his falling, however, for they did not wish to alarm the sleepers below; though the plash on the water that followed, could not fail to reach ears which took in every sound with the avidity of mine. Thus perished Captain Williams, a mild, well-meaning man, an excellent seaman, and one whose principal fault was want of caution. I do not think the water was necessary to complete his fate, as nothing human could have survived such a blow. Smudge had been the principal actor in this frightful scene; and, as soon as it was over, he caused his men to return to their ambushes. I now thought the officers and men were to be murdered, in this manner, as one by one they appeared on deck. It would soon be time for Marble to turn out, though there was the hope he might not unless called, and I could not do this office, situated as I was. But, I was mistaken. Instead of enticing any men on deck, the savages pursued a different course. Having destroyed the captain, they closed the doors of the companion-way, drew over the booby-hatch, and adopted the safe expedient of making all below prisoners. This was not done altogether without noise, and the alarm was evidently given by the means taken to secure the fastenings. I heard a rush at the cabin-doors, which was soon followed by one at the booby-hatch; but Smudge's ingenuity had been sufficient to prevent either from being successful. As soon as certain that their prisoners were safe, the savages came and loosened the ropes of my arms sufficiently to put me more at my ease. They removed those which bound my feet entirely, and, at the same instant, the gag was taken from my mouth. I was then led to the companionway, and, by a sign, given to understand I might communicate with my friends below. In the management of all this, I found that Smudge, the semi-human, dull, animal-seeming Smudge, was at the head. I also came to the conclusion my life was to be spared, for a time at least, and for some purpose that, as yet, baffled my conjectures. I did not call out immediately, but waited until I heard a movement on the ladder, when I complied with the orders of my captors and masters. “Mr. Marble,” I cried, loud enough to be heard below, “is that you?” “Ay, ay--and is that you, Master Miles?” “This is I. Be cautious how you act, Mr. Marble. The savages are in possession of the upper deck, and I am their prisoner. The people are all below, with a strong watch at the fore-scuttle.” I heard a long, low whistle, within the companion-way doors, which it was easy enough to interpret into an expression of the chief-mate's concern and wonder. For myself, I saw no use in attempting concealment, but was resolved to speak out fully, even though it might be at the risk of betraying some of my feelings to my captors, among whom I thought it probable there might be more than one who understood something of English. “We miss Captain Williams below here,” Marble resumed, after a short delay. “Do you know anything of his movements?” “Alas! Mr. Marble--poor Captain Williams can be of no service to any of us, now.” “What of him?” was demanded in a clear, full voice and as quick as lightning. “Let me know, at once.” “He has been killed by a blow from a club, and is thrown overboard.” A dead silence followed, and it lasted near a minute. “Then it has fallen to my duty to decide what is to be done!” Marble at length exclaimed. “Miles, are you at liberty? --dare you say what you think?” “I am held here, by two of the savages, whose prisoner I certainly am. Still, Mr. Marble, they encourage me to speak, but I fear some among them understand what we say.” There was another pause, during which the mate was doubtless reflecting on the best course to pursue. “Harkee, Miles,” Marble continued, “we know each other, and can tell what is meant without blabbing. How old are you, out there, on deck.” “Quite thirty years, Mr. Marble--and good stout years they are, too.” “Well provided for, with sulphur and the pills, or only with Indian tools, such as our boys sometimes play with?” “A little of the first--half-a-dozen, perhaps; with some of the last, and a plenty of carvers.” An impatient push from the Dipper warned me to speak plainer, and satisfied me that the fellow could comprehend what passed, so long as we confined ourselves to a straight, forward discourse. This discovery had the effect to put me still more on my guard. “I understand you, Miles,” Marble answered, in a thoughtful manner; “we must be on our guard. Do you think they mean to come below?” “I see no signs at present--but _understanding_--” emphasizing the word, “is more general than you imagine, and no secrets must be told. My advice is 'Millions for defence, and not a cent for tribute.'” As this last expression was common in the mouths of the Americans of the day, having been used on the occasion of the existing war with France, I felt confident it would be understood. Marble made no answer, and I was permitted to move from the companion-way, and to take a seat on the hen-coops. My situation was sufficiently remarkable. It was still dark; but enough light fell from the stars to permit me to see all the swarthy and savage forms that were gliding about the decks, and even to observe something of the expression of the countenances of those, who, from time to time, came near to stare me in the face. The last seemed ferociously disposed; but it was evident that a master-spirit held all these wild beings in strict subjection; quelling the turbulence of their humours, restraining their fierce disposition to violence, and giving concert and design to all their proceedings. This master-spirit was Smudge! Of the fact, I could not doubt; his gestures, his voice, his commands, giving movement and method to everything that was done. I observed that he spoke with authority and confidence, though he spoke calmly. He was obeyed, without any particular marks of deference, but he was obeyed implicitly. I could also see that the savages considered themselves as conquerors; caring very little for the men under hatches. Nothing material occurred until day dawned. Smudge--for so I must continue to call this revolting-looking chief, for want of his true name--would permit nothing to be attempted, until the light became sufficiently strong to enable him to note the proceedings of his followers. I subsequently ascertained, too, that he waited for reinforcements, a yell being raised in the ship, just as the sun appeared, which was answered from the forest. The last seemed fairly alive with savages; nor was it long before canoes issued from the creek, and I counted one hundred and seven of these wretches on board the ship. This was their whole force, however, no more ever appearing. All this time, or for three hours, I had no more communication with our own people. I was certain, however, that they were all together, a junction being easy enough, by means of the middle-deck, which had no other cargo than the light articles intended for the north-west trade, and by knocking down the forecastle bulk-head. There was a sliding board in the last, indeed, that would admit of one man's passing at a time, without having recourse to this last expedient. I entertained no doubt Marble had collected all hands below; and, being in possession of plenty of arms, the men having carried their muskets and pistols below with them, with all the ammunition, he was still extremely formidable. What course he would pursue, I was obliged to conjecture. A sortie would have been very hazardous, if practicable at all; and it was scarcely practicable, after the means taken by Smudge and the Dipper to secure the passages. Everything, so far as I was concerned, was left to conjecture. The manner in which my captors treated me, excited my surprise. As soon as it was light, my limbs were released, and I was permitted to walk up and down the quarter-deck to restore the circulation of the blood. A clot of blood, with some fragments of hair, marked the spot where poor Captain Williams had fallen; and I was allowed to dash a bucket of water over the place, in order to wash away the revolting signs of the murder. For myself, a strange recklessness had taken the place of concern, and I became momentarily indifferent to my fate. I expected to die, and I am now ashamed to confess that my feelings took a direction towards revenge, rather than towards penitence for my past sins. At times, I even envied Marble, and those below, who might destroy their enemies at a swoop, by throwing a match into the magazine. I felt persuaded, indeed, it would come to that before the mate and men would submit to be the captives of such wretches as were then in possession of the deck. Smudge and his associates, however, appeared to be perfectly indifferent to this danger, of the character of which they were probably ignorant. Their scheme had been very cunningly laid; and, thus far, it was perfectly successful. The sun was fairly up, and the savages began to think seriously of securing their prize, when the two leaders, Smudge and the Dipper, approached me in a manner to show they were on the point of commencing operations. The last of these men I now discovered had a trifling knowledge of English, which he had obtained from different ships. Still he was a savage, to all intents and purposes, the little information thus gleaned, serving to render his worst propensities more dangerous, rather than, in any manner, tempering them. He now took the lead, parading all his men in two lines on the deck, making a significant gesture towards his fingers, and uttering, with emphasis, the word “count.” I did count the wretches, making, this time, one hundred and six, exclusively of the two leaders. “Tell him, down there”--growled the Dipper, pointing below. I called for Mr. Marble, and when he had reached the companion-way, the following conversation took place between us: “What is it now, Miles, my hearty?” demanded the chief-mate. “I am ordered to tell you, sir, that the Indians number one hundred and eight, having just counted them, for this purpose.” “I wish there were a thousand, as we are about to lift the deck from the ship, and send them all into the air. Do you think they can understand what I say, Miles?” “The Dipper does, sir, when you speak slow and plain. He has only half a notion of what you now mean, as I can see by his countenance.” “Does the rascal hear me, now? --is he anywhere near the companion-way?” “He does, and is--he is standing, at this moment, on the larboard side of the companion-way, kneeling one knee, on the forward end of the hen-coop.” “Miles”--said Marble, in a doubting sort of a voice. “Mr. Marble--I hear what you say.” “Suppose--eh--lead through the companion-way--eh--what would happen to _you? _” “I should care little for that, sir, as I've made up my mind to be murdered. But it would do no good, just now, and might do harm. I will tell them, however, of your intention to blow them up, if you please; perhaps _that_ may make them a little shy.” Marble assented, and I set about the office, as well as I could. Most of my communication had to be made by means of signs; but, in the end, I succeeded in making the Dipper understand my meaning. By this man the purport was told to Smudge, in terms. The old man listened with grave attention, but the idea of being blown up produced no more effect on him, than would have been produced by a message from home to tell him that his chimney was on fire, supposing him to have possessed such a civilized instrument of comfort. That he fully comprehended his friend, I could see by the expression of his ourang-outang-looking countenance. But fear was a passion that troubled him very little; and, sooth to say, a man whose time was passed in a condition as miserable as that in which he habitually dwelt, had no great reason to set a very high value on his life. Yet, these miserable wretches never commit suicide! That is a relief reserved rather for those who have become satiated with human enjoyments, nine pampered sensualists dying in this mode, for one poor wretch whose miseries have driven him to despair. I was astonished at seeing the intelligence that gleamed in the baboon-like face of Smudge, as he listened to his friend's words. Incredulity was the intellectual meaning in his eye, while indifference seemed seated in his whole visage. It was evident the threat had made no impression, and I managed to let Marble understand as much, and that in terms which the Dipper could not very well comprehend. I got no answer, a death-like stillness reigning below decks, in lieu of the bustle that had so lately been heard there. Smudge seemed struck with the change, and I observed he was giving orders to two or three of the elder savages, apparently to direct a greater degree of watchfulness. I confess to some uneasiness myself, for expectation is an unpleasant guest, in a scene like that, and more especially when accompanied by uncertainty. Smudge now seemed to think it time to commence his operations in earnest. Under the direction of the Dipper a quantity of line was thrown into the yawl, studding-halyards, and such other rope of convenient size as could be found in the launch, and the boat was towed by two or three canoes to the island. Here the fellows made what seamen call a “guess-warp,” of their rope; fastening one end to a tree, and paying out line, as the yawl was towed back again to the ship. The Dipper's calculation proved to be sufficiently accurate, the rope reaching from the vessel to the tree. As soon as this feat was accomplished, and it was done with sufficient readiness, though somewhat lubberly, twenty or thirty of the savages clapped on the warp, until they had tautened it to as great a strain as it would bear. After this they ceased pulling, and I observed a search around the galley in quest of the cook's axe, evidently with a design to cut the cables. I thought this a fact worth communicating to Marble, and I resolved to do so at the risk of my life. “The Indians have run a line to the island, and are about to cut the cables, no doubt intending to warp the ship ashore; and that, too, at the very spot where they once had the Sea-Otter.” “Ay, ay--let them go on; we'll be ready for them in time,” was the only answer I received. I never knew whether to ascribe the apathy the savages manifested to this communication, to a wish that the fact might be known to the people below, or to indifference. They certainly proceeded in their movements with just as much coolness as if they had the ship all to themselves. They had six or eight canoes, and parties of them began to move round the vessel, with precisely the same confidence as men would do it in a friendly port. What most surprised me were the quiet and submission to orders they observed. At length the axe was found secreted in the bows of the launch, and Marble was apprised of the use to which it was immediately applied, by the heavy blows that fell upon the cables. “Miles,” said the chief-mate--“these blows go to my heart! Are the blackguards really in earnest?” “The larboard bower is gone, sir, and the blows you now hear are on the starboard, which is already half in two--that finishes it; the ship now hangs only by the warp.” “Is there any wind, boy?” “Not a breath of it in the bay, though I can see a little ripple on the water, outside.” “Is it rising or falling water, Miles?” “The ebb is nearly done--they'll never be able to get the ship up on the shelving rock where they had the Sea-Otter, until the water rises ten or twelve feet.” “Thank God for that! I was afraid they might get her on that accursed bed, and break her back at once.” “Is it of any importance to us, Mr. Marble? What hope can we have of doing anything against such odds, and in our circumstances?” “The odds I care nothing for, boy. My lads are screwed up so tight, they'd lick the whole North-West Coast, if they could only get on deck without having their fashion-pieces stove in. The circumstances, I allow, must count for a great deal.” “The ship is moving fast towards the island--I see no hope for us, Mr. Marble!” “I say, Miles, it is worth some risk to try and save the craft--were it not for fear of you, I would have played the rascals a trick half an hour since.” “Never mind me, sir--it was my fault it has happened, and I ought to suffer for it--do what duty and discretion tell you is best.” I waited a minute after this, in intense expectation, not knowing what was to follow, when a report made me fancy for an instant some attempt was making to blow up the deck. The wails and cries that succeeded, however, soon let me into the real state of the case. A volley of muskets had been fired from the cabin-windows, and every individual in two canoes that were passing at the time, to the number of eleven, were shot down like bullocks. Three were killed dead, and the remainder received wounds that promised to be mortal. My life would have been the instant sacrifice of this act, had it not been for the stern authority of Smudge, who ordered my assailants off, with a manner and tone that produced immediate compliance. It was clear I was reserved for some peculiar fate. Every man who could, rushed into the remaining canoes and the ship's yawl, in order to pick up the killed and wounded, as soon as the nature of the calamity was known. I watched them from the taffrail, and soon ascertained that Marble was doing the same from the windows below me. But the savages did not dare venture in a line with a fire that had proved so fatal, and were compelled to wait until the ship had moved sufficiently ahead to enable them to succour their friends, without exposing their own lives. As this required some distance, as well as time, the ship was not only left without a canoe, or boat of any sort, in the water, but with only half her assailants on board of her. Those who did remain, for want of means to attack any other enemy, vented their spite on the ship, expending all their strength in frantic efforts on the warp. The result was, that while they gave great way to the vessel, they finally broke the line. I was leaning on the wheel, with Smudge near me, when this accident occurred. The tide was still running ebb, and with some strength; and the ship was just entering the narrow passage between the island and the point that formed one termination of the bay, heading, of course, toward the tree to which the warp had been secured. It was an impulsive feeling, rather than any reason, that made me give the vessel a sheer with the helm, so as to send her directly through the passage, instead of letting her strike the rocks. I had no eventual hope in so doing, nor any other motive than the strong reluctance I felt to have the good craft hit the bottom. Luckily, the Dipper was in the canoes, and it was not an easy matter to follow the ship, under the fire from her cabin-windows, had he understood the case, and been disposed to do so. But, like all the rest in the canoes, he was busy with his wounded friends, who were all carried off towards the creek. This left me master of the ship's movements for five minutes, and by that time she had drawn through the passage, and was actually shooting out into the open ocean. This was a novel, and in some respects an embarrassing situation. It left a gleam of hope, but it was a hope without a direction, and almost without an object. I could perceive that none of the savages on board had any knowledge of the cause of our movement, unless they might understand the action of the tide. They had expected the ship to be run ashore at the tree; and here she was gliding into the ocean, and was already clear of the passage. The effect was to produce a panic, and fully one-half of those who had remained in the ship, jumped overboard and began to swim for the island. I was momentarily in hope all would take this course; but quite five-and-twenty remained, more from necessity than choice, as I afterwards discovered, for they did not know how to swim. Of this number was Smudge, who probably still remained to secure his conquest. It struck me the moment was favourable, and I went to the companion-way, and was about to remove its fastenings, thinking the ship might be recovered during the prevalence of the panic. But a severe blow, and a knife gleaming in the hands of Smudge, admonished me of the necessity of greater caution. The affair was not yet ended, nor was my captor a man as easily disconcerted as I had incautiously supposed. Unpromising as he seemed, this fellow had a spirit that fitted him for great achievements, and which, under other circumstances, might have made him a hero. He taught me the useful lesson of not judging of men merely by their exteriors.

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_Court_--“Brother John Bates, is not that the morning which breaks yonder?” _Bates_. --“I think it be; but we have no great cause to desire the approach of day.” _Will_. --“We see yonder the beginning of the day; but I think we shall never see the end of it----” _Henry V._ The ship did not lose her steerage-way. As soon as past the point of the island, a gentle southerly breeze was felt; and, acting on the spars and hull, it enabled me, by putting the helm a little up, to keep her head off shore, and thus increase her distance from the bay. The set of the tide did more for her than the wind, it is true; but the two, acting in unison, carried her away from the coast at a rate that nearly equalled two knots in the hour. This was slow moving, certainly, for a vessel in such a strait; but it would require fifteen or twenty minutes for the canoes to return from the creek, and make the circuit of the island by the other channel. By that time we should be near half a mile at sea. Smudge, beyond a question, understood that he was in a dilemma, though totally ignorant of some of the leading difficulties of his case. It was plain to me he could not comprehend why the ship took the direction of the offing, for he had no conception of the power of the rudder. Our tiller worked below, and it is possible this circumstance mystified him, more small vessels in that day managing their helms without the aid of the wheel, than with it. At length the movement of the vessel became too palpable to admit of further delay; and this savage approached me, with a drawn knife, and a manner that proved natural affection had not been the motive of his previous moderation. After flourishing his weapon fiercely before my eyes, and pressing it most significantly, once or twice, against my breast, he made signs for me to cause the ship to turn round and re-enter the port. I thought my last moment had come, but naturally enough pointed to the spars, giving my master to understand that the vessel was not in her usual trim. I believe I was understood as to this part of my excuses, it being too apparent that our masts and yards were not in their usual places, for the fact to be overlooked even by a savage. Smudge, however, saw that several of the sails were bent, and he pointed to those, growling out his threats, should I refuse to set them. The spanker, in particular, being near him, he took hold of it, shook it, and ordered me to loosen it forthwith. It is scarcely necessary to say, I obeyed this order with secret joy. Casting loose the brails, I put the out-hauler in the hands of a dozen of the savages, and set the example of pulling. In a minute we had this sail spread, with the sheet a little eased off. I then led a party forward, and got the fore and main stay-sails on the ship. To these were added the mizen stay-sail, the only other piece of canvass we could show, until the top-masts were fidded. The effect of these four sails, however, was to add at least another knot to the way of the ship, and to carry her out sooner to a point where she felt the full force of the light breeze that was blowing from the south-east. By the time the four sails were set, we were fully a quarter of a mile from the island, every instant getting more fairly into the true currents of the air. Smudge watched me with the eyes of a hawk. As I had obeyed his own orders in making sail, he could not complain of that; but the result evidently disappointed him. He saw we were still moving in the wrong direction, and, as yet, not a canoe was visible. As for these last, now the vessel had way on her, I was not without hopes of being able to keep them exposed to the fire from the cabin-windows, and, finally, of getting rid of them by drawing off the land to a distance they would not be likely to follow. The Dipper, however, I was aware, was a bold fellow--knew something of vessels--and I was determined to give a hint to Marble to pick _him_ off, should he come within range of his muskets. In the meantime the alarm and impatience of Smudge and his companions, very sensibly increased. Five minutes were an age in the circumstances in which they were placed, and I saw that it would soon be necessary to adopt some new expedient, or I might expect to be sacrificed to the resentment of these savages. Necessity sharpens the wits, and I hit upon a scheme which was not entirely without the merit of ingenuity. As it was, I suppose I owed my life to the consciousness of the savages, that they could do nothing without me. Smudge, with three or four of the fiercest of his companions, had begun again to menace me with the knife, making signs, at the same time, for me to turn the ship's head towards the land. I asked for a little room, and then describing a long circle on the deck, pointing to the four sails we had set, and this in a way to tell them that under the canvass we carried, it would be necessary to go a great distance in order to turn round. When I had succeeded in communicating this idea, I forthwith set about giving them to understand that by getting up the top-masts, and making more sail, we might return immediately. The savages understood me, and the explanation appearing reasonable to them, they went aside and consulted together. As time pressed, it was not long before Smudge came to me with signs to show him and his party how to get the remainder of the sails set. Of course, I was not backward in giving the desired information. In a few minutes, I had a string of the savages hold of the mast-rope, forward, a luff-tackle being applied. As everything was ready aloft, all we had to do was to pull, until, judging by the eye, I thought the spar was high enough, when I ran up the rigging and clapped in the fid. Having the top-mast out of the way, without touching any of its rigging, I went down on the fore-yard, and loosened the sail. This appeared so much like business, that the savages gave sundry exclamations of delight; and, by the time I got on deck, they were all ready to applaud me as a good fellow. Even Smudge was completely mystified; and when I set the others at work at the jeer-fall to sway up the fore-yard, he was as active as any of them. We soon had the yard in its place, and I went aloft to secure it, touching the braces first so as to fill the sail. The reader may rest assured I did not hurry myself, now I had things in so fair a way. I could perceive that my power and importance increased with every foot we went from the land; and the ship steering herself under such canvass, the wheel being a trifle up, there was no occasion for extraordinary exertion on my part. I determined now to stay aloft as long as possible. The yard was soon secured, and then I went up into the top, where I began to set up the weather-rigging. Of course, nothing was very thoroughly done, though sufficiently so for the weather we had. From the top I had a good view of the offing, and of the coast for leagues. We were now quite a mile at sea, and, though the tide was no longer of any use to us, we were drawing through the water quite at the rate of two knots. I thought that the flood had made, and that it took us a little on our lee-bow, hawsing us up to windward. Just as I had got the last lanyard fastened, the canoes began to appear, coming round the island by the farther passage, and promising to overtake us in the course of the next twenty minutes. The crisis demanded decision, and I determined to get the jib on the ship. Accordingly, I was soon on deck. Having so much the confidence of the savages, who now fancied their return depended on me, I soon had them at work, and we had the stay set up in two or three minutes. I then ran out and cast off the gaskets, when my boys began to hoist at a signal from me. I have seldom been so happy as when I saw that large sheet of canvass open to the air. The sheet was hauled in and belayed as fast as possible, and then it struck me I should not have time to do any more before the canoes would overtake us. It was my wish to communicate with Marble. While passing aft, to effect this object, I paused a moment to examine the movement of the canoes; old Smudge, the whole time, expressing his impatience that the ship did not turn round. I make no doubt I should have been murdered a dozen times, had I lives enough, were it not that the savages felt how dependent they were on me, for the government of the vessel. I began to see my importance, and grew bold in proportion. As for the canoes, I took a look at them through a glass, They were about half-a-mile distant; had ceased paddling, and were lying close together, seemingly in consultation. I fancied the appearance of the ship, under canvass, had alarmed them, and that they began to think we had regained the vessel, and were getting her in sailing condition again, and that it might not be prudent to come too near. Could I confirm this impression, a great point would be gained. Under the pretence of making more sail, in order to get the ship's head round, a difficulty I had to explain to Smudge by means of signs some six or eight times, I placed the savages at the _main_-top-mast mast-rope, and told them to drag. This was a task likely to keep them occupied, and what was more, it kept them all looking forward, leaving me affecting to be busied aft. I had given Smudge a segar too, to put him in good humour, and I had also taken the liberty to light one for myself. Our guns had all been primed, levelled, and had their tompions taken out the night before, in readiness to repel any assault that might be made. I had only to remove the apron from the after-gun, and it was ready to be discharged. Going to the wheel, I put the helm hard up, until our broadside bore on the canoes. Then glancing along my gun, until I saw it had a tolerable range, I clapped the segar to the priming, springing back to the wheel, and putting the helm down. The explosion produced a general yell among the savages, several of whom actually leaped into the chains ready to go overboard, while Smudge rushed towards me, fiercely brandishing his knife. I thought my time had come! but, perceiving that the ship was luffing fast, I motioned eagerly forward, to draw the attention of my assailant in that quarter. The vessel was coming-to, and Smudge was easily induced to believe it was the commencement of turning round. The breathing time allowed me to mystify him with a few more signs; after which, he rejoined his people, showed them exultingly the ship still luffing, and I make no doubt, he thought himself, and induced the rest to think, that the gun had a material agency in producing all these apparent changes. As for the canoes, the grape had whistled so near them, that they began to paddle back, doubtless under the impression, that we were again masters of the ship, and had sent them this hint to keep aloof. Thus far I had succeeded beyond my most sanguine expectations; and I began to entertain lively hopes of not only saving my life, but of recovering the command of the vessel. Could I manage to get her out of sight of land, my services would be so indispensable, as almost to insure success. The coast was very low, and a run of six or eight hours would do this, provided the vessel's head could be kept in the right direction. The wind, moreover, was freshening, and I judged that the Crisis had already four knots way on her. Less than twenty miles would put all the visible coast under water. But, it was time to say something to Marble. With a view to lull distrust, I called Smudge to the companion-way, in order that he might hear what passed, though I felt satisfied, now that the Dipper was out of the ship, not a soul remained among the savages, who could understand a syllable of English, or knew anything of vessels. The first call brought the mate to the door. “Well, Miles; what is it?” --he asked--“what meant the gun, and who fired it?” “All right, Mr. Marble. I fired the gun to keep off the canoes, and it has had the effect I wished.” “Yes; my head was out of the cabin-window at the time, for I believed the ship was waring, and thought you had given up, and were going back into port. I saw the roundshot strike within twenty fathoms of the canoes, and as for the grape, some of it flew beyond them. Why, we are more than half a league from the land, boy! --Will Smudge stand that much longer?” I then told Marble precisely how we were situated on deck, the sail we were under, the number of savages we had on board, and the notion the savages entertained on the subject of turning the ship round. It is not easy to say which listened with the most attention, Marble, or Smudge. The latter made frequent gestures for me to turn the ship towards the coast, for by this time she had the wind abeam again, and was once more running in a straight line. It was necessary, on more accounts than one, to adopt some immediate remedy for the danger that began to press on me anew. Not only must Smudge and his associates be pacified, but, as the ship got into the offing, she began to feel the ground-swell, and her spars, aloft, were anything but secure. The main-top-mast was about half-up, and it was beginning to surge and move in the cap, in a way I did not like. It is true, there was not much danger yet; but the wind was rising, and what was to be done, ought to be done at once. I was not sorry, however, to perceive that five or six of the savages, Smudge among the number, began to betray signs of sea-sickness. I would have given Clawbonny, at the moment, to have had all the rascals in rough water! I now endeavoured to make Smudge understand the necessity of my having assistance from below, both to assist in turning the vessel, and in getting the yards and masts into their places. The old fellow shook his head, and looked grave at this. I saw he was not sick enough yet, to be indifferent about his life. After a time, however, he pronounced the names of Neb and Yo, the blacks having attracted the attention of the savages, the last being the cook. I understood him, he would suffer these two to come to my assistance, provided it could be done without endangering his own ascendency. Three unarmed men could hardly be dangerous to twenty-five who were armed; and then I suspected that he fancied the negroes would prove allies to himself, in the event of a struggle, rather than foes. As for Neb, he made a fatal mistake; nor was he much nearer the truth in regard to Joe-or Yo, as he called him--the cook feeling quite as much for the honour of the American flag, as the fairest-skinned seaman in the country. It is generally found, that the loyalty of the negroes is of proof. I found means to make Smudge understand the manner in which these two blacks could be got on deck, without letting up the rest. As soon as he fairly comprehended the means to be used, he cheerfully acquiesced, and I made the necessary communication to Marble. A rope was sent down, over the stern-boat, to the cabin-windows, and Neb took a turn round his body; when he was hauled up to the gunwale of the boat, into which he was dragged by the assistance of the savages. The same process was used with Joe. Before the negroes were permitted to go aloft, however, Smudge made them a brief oration, in which oracular sentences were blended with significant gestures, and indications of what they were to expect, in the event of bad behaviour. After this, I sent the blacks into the main-top, and glad enough I thought they were both to get there. Thus reinforced, we had the main-top-mast fidded in a very few minutes. Neb was then directed to set up the rigging, and to clear away the yard, so it might be got into its place. In a word, an hour passed in active exertions, at the end of which, we had everything rove, bent, and in its place, on the main-mast, from the top-mast-head to the deck. The top-gallant-mast was lying fore and aft in the waist, and could not then be touched; nor was it necessary. I ordered the men to loosen both sails, and to overhaul down their rigging. In the eyes of Smudge, this looked highly promising; and the savages gave a yell of delight when they saw the top-sail fairly filled and drawing. I added the main-sail to the pressure, and then the ship began to walk off the coast, at a rate that promised all I hoped for. It was now necessary for me to stick by the wheel, of the uses of which Smudge began to obtain some notions. At this time, the vessel was more than two leagues from the island, and objects began to look dim along the coast. As for the canoes, they could no longer be seen, and chasing us any farther was quite out of the question. I felt that the crisis was approaching. Smudge and his companions now became more and more earnest on the subject of turning the ship round. The indistinctness of the land began seriously to alarm them, and sea-sickness had actually placed four of their number flat on the deck. I could see that the old fellow himself was a good deal affected, though his spirit, and the risks he ran, kept him in motion, and vigilantly on the watch. It was necessary to seem to do something; and I sent the negroes up into the fore-top, to get the top sail-yard in its place, and the sail set. This occupied another hour, before we were entirely through, when the land was getting nearly _awash_. As soon as the mizen-top-sail was set, I braced sharp up, and brought the ship close upon the wind. This caused the Indians to wilt down like flowers under a burning sun, just as I expected; there being, by this time, a seven-knot breeze, and a smart head-sea on. Old Smudge felt that his forces were fast deserting him, and he now came to me, in a manner that would not be denied, and I felt the necessity of doing something to appease him. I got the savages stationed as well as I could, hauled up the main-sail, and put the ship in stays. We tacked better than I could have believed possible, and when my wild captors saw that we were actually moving in the direction of the land, again, their delight was infinite. Their leader was ready to hug me; but I avoided this pleasure in the best manner I could. As for the consequences, I had no apprehensions, knowing we were too far off to have any reason to dread the canoes, and being certain it was easy enough to avoid them in such a breeze. Smudge and his companions were less on the alert, as soon as they perceived the ship was going in the proper direction. They probably believed the danger in a measure over, and they began to yield a little to their physical sufferings. I called Neb to the wheel, and leaning over the taffrail, I succeeded in getting Marble to a cabin-window, without alarming Smudge. I then told the mate to get all his forces in the forecastle, having observed that the Indians avoided that part of the vessel, on account of the heavy plunges she occasionally made, and possibly because they fancied our people were all aft. As soon as the plan was understood, I strolled forward, looking up at the sails, and touching a rope, here and there, like one bent on his ordinary duty. The savage stationed at the fore-scuttle was as sick as a dog, and with streaming eyes, he was paying the landsmen's tribute to the sea. The hatch was very strong, and it was secured simply by its hasp and a bit of iron thrust through it. I had only to slip my hand down, remove the iron, throw open the hatch, when the ship's company streamed up on deck, Marble leading. It was not a moment for explanations. I saw, at a glance, that the mate and his followers regarded the situation of the ship very differently from what I did myself. I had now been hours with the savages, had attained a little of their confidence, and knew how dependent they were on myself for their final safety; all of which, in a small degree, disposed me to treat them with some of the lenity I fancied I had received from them, in my own person. But, Marble and the crew had been chafing below, like caged lions, the whole time, and, as I afterwards learned, had actually taken an unanimous vote to blow themselves up, before they would permit the Indians to retain the control of the vessel. Then poor Captain Williams was much beloved forward, and his death remained to be avenged. I would have said a word in favour of my captors, but the first glance I got at the flushed face of the mate, told me it would be useless. I turned, therefore, to the sick savage who had been left as a sentinel over the fore-scuttle, to prevent his interference. This man was armed with the pistols that had been taken from me, and he showed a disposition to use them. I was too quick in my motions, however, falling upon him so soon as to prevent one who was not expert with the weapons from using them. We clenched, and fell on the deck together, the Indian letting the pistols fall to meet my grasp. As this occurred, I heard the cheers of the seamen; and Marble, shouting out to “revenge Captain Williams,” gave the order to charge. I soon had my own fellow perfectly at my mercy, and got him so near the end of the jib downhaul, as to secure him with a turn or two of that rope. The man made little resistance, after the first onset; and, catching up the pistols, I left him, to join in what was doing aft. As I lay on the deck, I heard several plunges into the water, and then half-a-dozen of most cruelly crushing blows succeeded. Not a shot was fired by either party, though some of our people, who had carried all their arms below the night the ship was seized, used their pikes with savage freedom. By the time I got as far aft as the main-mast, the vessel was our own. Nearly half the Indians had thrown themselves into the sea; the remaining dozen had either been knocked in the head like beeves, or were stuck, like so many porkers. The dead bodies followed the living into the sea. Old Smudge alone remained, at the moment of which I have spoken. The leader of the savages was examining the movements of Neb, at the moment the shout was raised; and the black, abandoning the wheel, threw his arms round those of the old man, holding him like a vice. In this situation he was found by Marble and myself, who approached at the same instant, one on each side of the quarter-deck. “Overboard with the blackguard!” called out the excited mate; “overboard with him, Neb, like a trooper's horse!” “Hold--” I interrupted, “spare the old wretch, Mr. Marble;--he spared me.” A request from me would, at any moment, outweigh an order from the captain, himself, so far as the black was concerned, else Smudge would certainly have gone into the ocean, like a bundle of straw. Marble had in him a good deal of the indifference to bodily suffering that is generated by habit, and, aroused, he was a dangerous, and sometimes a hard man; but, in the main, he was not cruel; and then he was always manly. In the short struggle which he had passed, he had actually dropped his pike, to knock an Indian down with his fist; bundling the fellow through a port without ceremony, ere he had time to help himself. But he disdained striking Smudge, with such odds against him; and he went to the helm, himself, bidding Neb secure the prisoner. Glad of this little relief to a scene so horrible, I ran forward, intending to bring my own prisoner aft, and to have the two confined together, below. But I was too late. One of the Philadelphians had just got the poor wretch's head and shoulders through the bow-port, and I was barely in time to see his feet disappear. Not a cheer was given for our success. When all was over, the men stood gazing at each other, stern, frowning, and yet with the aspects of those who felt they had been, in a manner, disgraced by the circumstances which led them to the necessity of thus regaining the command of their own vessel. As for myself, I ran and sprang upon the taffrail, to look into the ship's wake. A painful sight met me, there! During the minute or two passed in the brief struggle, the Crisis had gone steadily ahead, like the earth moving in its orbit, indifferent to the struggles of the nations that are contending on its bosom. I could see heads and arms tossing in our track for a hundred fathoms, those who could not swim struggling to the last to preserve their existence. Marble, Smudge and Neb, were all looking in the same direction, at that instant. Under an impulse I could not control, I ventured to suggest that we might yet tack and save several of the wretches. “Let them drown, and be d----d!” was the chief-mate's sententious answer. “No--no--Masser Mile,” Neb ventured to add, with a remonstrating shake of the head--“dat will nebber do--no good ebber come of Injin. If you don't drown him, he sartain drown you.” I saw it was idle to remonstrate; and by this time one dark spot, after another, began to disappear, as the victims sank in the ocean. As for Smudge, his eye was riveted on the struggling forms of his followers, in a manner to show that traces of human feeling are to be found, in some aspect or other, in every condition of life. I thought I could detect workings of the countenance of this being, indurated as his heart had become by a long life of savage ferocity, which denoted how keenly he felt the sudden destruction that had alighted on his tribe. He might have had sons and grandsons among those struggling wretches, on whom he was now gazing for the last time. If so, his self-command was almost miraculous; for, while I could see that he felt, and felt intensely, not a sign of weakness escaped him. As the last head sunk from view, I could see him shudder; a suppressed groan escaped him; then he turned his face towards the bulwarks, and stood immovable as one of the pines of his own forests, for a long time. I asked Marble's permission to release the old man's arms, and the mate granted it, though not without growling a few curses on him, and on all who had been concerned in the late occurrences on board the ship. There was too much duty to be done, to render all secure, to suffer us to waste much time in mere sympathy. All the top-mast rigging, backstays, &c., had to be set up afresh, and gangs were sent about this duty, forward and aft. The blood was washed from the decks, and a portion of the crew got along the top-gallant-masts, and pointed them. The topsails were all close-reefed, the courses hauled up, the spanker and jib taken in, and the ship hove-to. It wanted but two hours of sunset when Mr. Marble had got things to his mind. We had crossed royal-yards, and had everything set that would draw, from the trucks down. The launch was in the water towing astern; the ship was then about a mile from the southern passage into the bay, towards which she was steering with the wind very much as it had been since an hour after sunrise, though slightly falling. Our guns were loose, and the crew was at quarters. Even I did not know what the new captain intended to do, for he had given his orders in the manner of one whose mind was too immovably made up, to admit of consultation. The larboard battery was manned, and orders had been given to see the guns on that side levelled and ready for firing. As the ship brushed past the island, in entering the bay, the whole of this broadside was delivered in among its bushes and trees. We heard a few yells, in reply, that satisfied us the grape had told, and that Marble had not miscalculated the position of some of his enemies, at least. When the ship entered the little bay, it was with a moderate and steady movement, the breeze being greatly broken by the forests. The main-yard was thrown aback, and I was ordered into the launch, with its crew armed. A swivel was in the bows of the boat, and I pulled into the creek, in order to ascertain if there were any signs of the savages. In entering the creek, the swivel was discharged, according to orders, and we soon detected proofs that we disturbed a bivouac. I now kept loading and firing this little piece into the bushes, supporting it with occasional volleys of musketry, until pretty well satisfied that we had swept the shore effectually. At the bivouac, I found the canoes, and our own yawl, and what was some little revenge for what had happened, I also found a pile of no less than six hundred skins, which had doubtless been brought to trade with us, if necessary, in order to blind-our eyes until the favourable moment for the execution of the conspiracy should offer. I made no scruple about confiscating these skins, which were taken on board the ship. I next went to the island, on which I found one man dying with a grape-shot wound, and evidence that a considerable party had left it, as soon as they felt our fire. This party had probably gone outside the island, but it was getting too late to follow. On my return, I met the ship coming out, Captain Marble being determined not to trust her inside another night. The wind was getting light, and, the tides running fiercely in that high latitude, we were glad to make an offing again while there was still day. The success with the skins greatly mollified the new captain, who declared to me that, after he had hanged Smudge in sight of his own shores, he should “feel something like himself again.” We passed the night under our top-sails, standing off and on, with the wind steady, but light, at the southward. Next morning, the duty of the ship went on as usual, until the men had breakfasted, when we stood again into the bay. This time, we hove-to so as to get one of the buoys, when we dropped the stream, leaving the top-sails set. We then hove up the anchor, securing the range of cable that was bent to it. Both of the anchors, and their ranges of cable, were thus recovered; the ends of the last being entered at the hawse-holes, and the pieces spliced. This work may have occupied us four hours; after which, the stream-anchor was hove up, catted and fished. Marble then ordered a whip rove at the fore-yard-arm. I was on the quarter-deck when this command was suddenly given. I wished to remonstrate, for I had some tolerably accurate notions of legality, and the rights of persons. Still, I did not like to say anything; for Captain Marble's eye and manner were not the least in the trifling mood, at that instant. The whip was soon rove, and the men stood looking aft, in silent expectation. “Take that murdering blackguard forward, fasten his arms behind his back, place him on the third gun, and wait for orders,” added our new captain, sternly. No one dared hesitate about obeying these orders, though I could see that one or two of the lads disliked the business. “Surely,” I ventured to say, in a low voice, “you are not in earnest, Mr. Marble!” “_Captain_ Marble, if you please, Mr. Wallingford. I am now master of this vessel, and you are her chief-mate. I intend to hang your friend Smudge, as an example to the rest of the coast. These woods are full of eyes at this moment; and the sight they'll presently see, will do more good than forty missionaries, and threescore and ten years of preaching. Set the fellow up on the gun, men, as I ordered. This is the way to generalize with an Indian.” In a moment, there stood the hapless wretch, looking about him with an expression that denoted the consciousness of danger, though it was not possible he could comprehend the precise mode of his execution. I went to him, and pressed his hand, pointing upward, as much as to say his whole trust was now in the Great Spirit. The Indian understood me, for from that instant he assumed an air of dignified composure, like one every way prepared to meet his fate. It is not probable, with his habits, that he saw any peculiar hardship in his own case; for he had, doubtless, sacrificed many a prisoner under circumstances of less exasperation than that which his own conduct had provoked. “Let two of the 'niggers' take a turn with the end of the whip round the chap's neck,” said Marble, too dignified to turn Jack Ketch in person, and unwilling to set any of the white seamen at so ungracious an office. The cook, Joe, and another black, soon performed this revolting duty, from the odium of which a sailor seldom altogether escapes. I now perceived Smudge looking upward, seeming to comprehend the nature of the fate that awaited him. The deeply-seated principle within him, caused a dark shadow to pass over a countenance already so gloomy and wrinkled by suffering and exposure; and he turned his look wistfully towards Marble, at whose command each order in succession had been obeyed. Our new captain caught that gaze, and I was, for a single moment, in hope he would relent, and let the wretch go. But Marble had persuaded himself he was performing a great act of nautical justice; nor was he aware, himself, how much he was influenced by a feeling allied to vengeance. “Sway away!” he called out; and Smudge was dangling at the yard-arm in a few seconds. A block of wood could not have been more motionless than the body of this savage, after one quivering shudder of suffering had escaped it. There it hung, like a jewel-block, and every sign of life was soon taken away. In a quarter of an hour, a man was sent up, and, cutting the rope, the body fell, with a sharp plunge, into the water, and disappeared. At a later day, the account of this affair found its way into the newspapers at home. A few moralists endeavoured to throw some doubts over the legality and necessity of the proceedings, pretending that more evil than good was done to the cause of sacred justice by such disregard of law and principles; but the feeling of trade, and the security of ships when far from home, were motives too powerful to be put down by the still, quiet remonstrances of reason and right. The abuses to which such practices would be likely to lead, in cases in which one of the parties constituted himself the law, the judge, and the executioner, were urged in vain against the active and ever-stimulating incentive of a love of gold. Still, I knew that Marble wished the thing undone when it was too late, it being idle to think of quieting the suggestions of that monitor God has implanted within us, by the meretricious and selfish approbation of those who judge of right and wrong by their own narrow standard of interest.

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_1st Lord_. --“Throca movonsas, cargo, cargo, cargo.” _All_. --“Cargo, cargo, villianda par corbo, cargo.” _Par_. --“O! ransome, ransome:--Do not hide mine eyes” _1st Sold_. --“Boskos Thromuldo boskos.” _Par_. --“I know you are the Muskos' regiment, And I shall lose my life for want of language. --” _All's Well That Ends Well. _ The Crisis was tacked, as soon as the body of Smudge was cut down, and she moved slowly, her crew maintaining a melancholy silence, out of the little haven. I never witnessed stronger evidence of sadness in the evolutions of a vessel; the slow and stately departure resembling that of mourners leaving the grave on which they had just heard the fall of the clod. Marble told me afterwards, he had been disposed to anchor, and remain until the body of poor Captain Williams should rise, as it probably would within the next forty-eight hours; but the dread of a necessity of sacrificing more of the natives, induced him to quit the fatal spot, without paying the last duties to our worthy old commander. I always regretted we did not remain, for I think no Indian would have come near us, had we continued in the harbour a month. It was high-noon when the ship once more issued into the broad bosom of the Pacific. The wind was at south-east, and as we drew off from the land, it came fresh and steady. About two, having an offing of ten or twelve miles, orders were issued to set all the larboard studding-sails, and we stood to the southward and westward under a press of canvass. Every one saw in this change, a determination to quit the coast; nor did we regret the measure, for our trade had been quite successful, down to the moment of the seizure, but could hardly be prosperous after what had passed. I had not been consulted in the affair at all, but the second-mate having the watch, I was now summoned to the cabin, and let into the secret of our future movements. I found Marble seated at the cabin table, with Captain Williams's writing-desk open before him, and sundry papers under examination. “Take a seat, Mr. Wallingford,” said the new master, with a dignity and manner suited to the occasion. “I have just been overhauling the old man's instructions from the owners, and find I have done right in leaving these hang-gallows rascals to themselves, and shaping our course to the next point of destination. As it is, the ship has done surprisingly well. There are $67,370 good Spaniards down in the run, and that for goods which I see are invoiced at just $26,240; and when you consider that no duties, port-charges, or commissions are to be deducted, but that the dollars under our feet are all our own, without any drawbacks, I call the operation a good one. Then that blundering through the Straits, though it must never be talked of in any other light than a bold push for a quick passage, did us a wonderful deal of good, shoving us ahead near a month in time. It has put us so much ahead of our calculations, indeed, that I would cruise for Frenchmen for five or six weeks, were there the least probability that one of the chaps was to the westward of the Horn. Such not being the fact, however, and there still being a very long road before us, I have thought it best to push for the next point of destination. Read that page of the owner's idees, Mr. Wallingford, and you will get their advice for just such a situation as that in which we find ourselves.” The passage pointed out by Captain Marble was somewhat parenthetical, and was simply intended to aid Captain Williams, in the event of his not being able to accomplish the other objects of his voyage. It had a place in the instructions, indeed, solely on account of a suggestion of Marble's himself, the project being one of those favourite schemes of the mate, that men sometimes maintain through thick or thin, until they get to be ruling thoughts. On Captain Williams it had not weighed a feather; his intention having been to proceed to the Sandwich Islands for sandalwood, which was the course then usually pursued by North-West traders, after quitting the coast. The parenthetical project, however, was to touch at the last island, procure a few divers, and proceed in quest of certain islands where it was supposed the pearl fishery would succeed. Our ship was altogether too large, and every way too expensive, to be risked in such an adventure, and so I told the ex-mate without any scruple. But this fishery was a “fixed idea,” a quick road to wealth, in the new captain's mind, and finding it in the instructions, though simply as a contingent course, he was inclined to regard it as the great object of the voyage. Such it was in his eyes, and such it ought to be, as he imagined, in those of the owners. Marble had excellent qualities in his way, but he was not fit to command a ship. No man could stow her better, fit her better, sail her better, take better care of her in heavy weather, or navigate her better; and yet he wanted the judgment necessary to manage the property that must be committed to his care, and he had no more ideas of commercial thrift, than if he had never been employed in any of the concerns of commerce. This was, in truth, the reason he had never risen any higher in his profession, the mercantile instinct--one of the liveliest and most acute to be found in natural history--forewarning his different owners that he was already in the berth nature and art had best qualified him to fill. It is wonderful how acute even dull men get to be, on the subject of money! I own my judgment, such as it was at nineteen, was opposed to the opinion of the captain. I could see that the contingency contemplated by the instructions had not arisen, and that we should be acting more in conformity with the wishes of the owners, by proceeding to the Sandwich Islands in quest of sandal-wood, and thence to China, after a cargo of teas. Marble was not to be convinced, however, though I think my arguments shook him a little. What might have been the result, it is difficult to say, had not chance befriended the views of each of us, respectively. It is proper to add, that Marble availed himself of this opportunity to promote Talcott, who was brought into the cabin as third-mate. I rejoiced greatly in this addition to our little circle on the quarter-deck, Talcott being a man of education, much nearer my own age than the two others, and united to me by unusual ties since our common adventure in the prize. I was not only rejoiced to be able to associate with him, but to hear him called _Mr_. Talcott. We had a long, but mild, passage to the Sandwich Islands. This group occupied a very different place, in the opinions of the world, in the year 1800, from that it fills to-day. Still it had made some small advances in civilization since the time of Cook. I am told there are churches, taverns, billiard-tables, and stone dwellings in these islands now, which are fast turning to the Christian religion, and obtaining the medley of convenience, security, vice, roguery, law and comfort, that is known as civilization. It was far different then, our reception being by men who were but a small degree removed from savages. Among those who first came on board us, however, was the master of an American brig, belonging to Boston, whose vessel had got on a reef, and bilged. He intended to remain by the wreck, but wished to dispose of a considerable amount of sandal-wood that was still in his vessel, and for the safety of which he was under great concern, as the first gale of wind might scatter it to the winds of the ocean. If he could obtain a fresh stock of goods to trade on, he proposed remaining on the islands until another vessel belonging to the same owners, which was expected in a few months, should arrive, on board which vessel he intended to embark with everything he could save from the wreck, and such wood as he could purchase in the interim. Captain Marble rubbed his hands with delight, when he returned from a visit to the wreck, his arrangements all completed. “Luck is with us, Master Miles,” he said, “and we'll be off for them pearl fisheries next week. I have bought all the sandal-wood in the wreck, paying in trumpery, and at prices only about double Indian trade, and we will heave up, and carry the ship round to the wreck, and begin to take in this afternoon. There is capital holding-ground inside the reef, and the ship can be safely carried within a hundred fathoms of her cargo!” All turned out as Marble had hoped and predicted, and the Crisis was back at her anchorage in front of the village, which is now the city of Honolulu, within the week named. We got our supply of hogs, and having procured four of the best divers going, we sailed in quest of Captain Marble's Eldorado of pearls. I was less opposed to the scheme than I had been, for we were now so much in advance of our time, that we could afford to pass a few weeks among the islands, previously to sailing for China. Our course was to the south-west, crossing the line in about 170° west longitude. There was a clear sea, for more than a fortnight, while we were near the equator, the ship making but little progress. Glad enough was I to hear the order given to turn more to the northward again; for the heat was oppressive, and this was inclining towards our route to China. We had been out from Owyhee, as it was then usual to call the island where Cook was killed--Hawaii, as it is called to-day--we had been out from this island, about a month, when Marble came up to me one fine, moon-light evening, in my watch, rubbing his hands, as was his custom when in good humour, and broke out as follows:-- “I'll tell you what, Miles,” he said, “you and I have been salted down by Providence for something more than common! Just look back at all our adventures in the last three years, and see what they come to. Firstly, there was shipwreck over here on the coast of Madagascar,” jerking his thumb over a shoulder in a manner that was intended to indicate about two hundred degrees of longitude, that being somewhat near our present distance from the place he mentioned, in an air line; “then followed the boat business under the Isle of Bourbon, and the affair with the privateer off Guadaloupe. Well, as if that wern't enough, we ship together again in this vessel, and a time we had of it with the French letter-of-marque. After that, a devil of a passage we made of it through the Straits of Magellan. Then came the melancholy loss of Captain Williams, and all that business; after which we got the sandal-wood out of the wreck, which I consider the luckiest transaction of all.” “I hope you don't set down the loss of Captain Williams among our luck, sir!” “Not I, but the stuff is all logged together, you know; and, in overhauling for one idee, in such a mess, a fellow is apt to get hold of another. As I was saying, we have been amazingly lucky, and I expect nothing else but we shall discover an island yet!” “Can that be of any great service to us? There are so many owners ready to start up and claim such discoveries, that I question if it would do us any great benefit.” “Let them start up--who cares for them; we'll have the christening, and that's half the battle. Marble Land, Wallingford Bay, Talcott Hills, and Cape Crisis, would look well on a chart--ha! Miles?” “I have no objection to see it, sir.” “Land ho!” cried the look-out on the forecastle. “There it is now, by George!” cried Marble, springing forward--“I overhauled the chart half an hour since, and there ought to be nothing within six hundred miles of us.” There it was, sure enough, and much nearer to us than was at all desirable. So near, indeed, that the wash of the breakers on the reef that so generally lies off from the low coral islands of the Pacific, was distinctly audible from the ship. The moon gave a strong light, it is true, and the night was soft and balmy; but the air, which was very light, blew directly towards this reef, and then there were always currents to apprehend. We sounded, but got no bottom. “Ay, this is one of your coral reefs, where a man goes on the rocks from off soundings, at a single jump,” muttered Marble, ordering the ship brought by the wind on the best tack to haul off shore. “No notice, and a wreck. As for anchoring in such a place, a fellow might as well run a line out to Japan; and, could an anchor find the bottom, the cable would have some such berth as a man who slept in a hammock filled with open razors.” All this was true enough; and we watched the effect of our change of course with the greatest anxiety. All hands were called, and the men were stationed, in readiness to work the ship. But, a few minutes satisfied us, the hope of clawing off, in so light an air, was to the last degree vain. The vessel set in fast towards the reef, the breakers on which now became apparent, even by the light of the moon; the certain sign they were fearfully near. This was one of those moments in which Marble could show himself to be a true man. He was perfectly calm and self-possessed; and stood on the taffrail, giving his orders, with a distinctness and precision I had never seen surpassed. I was kept in the chains, myself, to watch the casts of the lead. No bottom, however, was the never-failing report; nor was any bottom expected; it being known that these reefs were quite perpendicular on their seaward side. The captain called out to me, from time to time, to be active and vigilant, as our set inshore was uncontrollable, and the boats, if in the water, as the launch could not be for twenty minutes, would be altogether useless. I proposed to lower the yawl, and to pull to leeward, to try the soundings, in order to ascertain if it were not possible to find bottom at some point short of the reef, on which we should hopelessly be set, unless checked by some such means, in the course of the next fifteen or twenty minutes. “Do it at once, sir,” cried Marble. “The thought is a good one, and does you credit, Mr. Wallingford.” I left the ship in less than five minutes, and pulled off, under the ship's lee-bow, knowing that tacking or waring would be out of the question, under the circumstances. I stood up in the stern-sheets, and made constant casts with the hand-lead, with a short line, however, as the boat went foaming through the water. The reef was now plainly in sight, and I could see, as well as hear, the long, formidable ground-swells of the Pacific, while fetching up against these solid barriers, they rolled over, broke, and went beyond the rocks in angry froth. At this perilous instant, when I would not have given the poorest acre of Clawbonny to have been the owner of the Crisis, I saw a spot to leeward that was comparatively still, or in which the water did not break. It was not fifty fathoms from me when first discovered; and towards it I steered, animating the men to redoubled exertions. We were in this narrow belt of smooth water, as it might be in an instant, and the current sucked the boat through it so fast, as to allow time to make but a single cast of the lead. I got bottom; but it was in six fathoms! The boat was turned, and headed out again, as if life and death depended on the result. The ship was fortunately within sound of the voice, steering still by the wind, though setting three feet towards the reef, for one made in the desired direction; and I hailed. “What now, Mr. Wallingford?” demanded Marble, as calmly as if anchored near a wharf at home. “Do you see the boat, sir?” “Quite plainly;--God knows you are near enough to be seen.” “Has the ship steerage-way on her, Captain Marble?” “Just that, and nothing more to boast of.” “Then ask no questions; but try to follow the boat. It is the only hope; and it may succeed.” I got no answer; but I heard the deep, authoritative voice of Marble, ordering the “helm up,” and the men “to man the weather-braces.” I could scarcely breathe, while I stood looking at the ship's bows, as they fell off, and noted her slow progress ahead. Her speed increased sensibly, however, and I kept the boat far enough to windward to give the vessel room fairly to enter the pass. At the proper moment, we moved towards the inlet, the Crisis keeping more and more away, in order to follow. I was soon in the pass itself, the water breaking within ten fathoms on each side of me, sending portions of its foam, to the very blades of our oars; but the lead still gave me six fathoms. At the next cast, I got ten; and then the shin was at the point where I had just before found six. Two breakers were roaring behind me, and I pulled round, and waited for the ship, steering to the southward, sounding as I went. I could see that the ship hauled up, and that I was already behind the reef. Straining my voice, I now called out-- “Anchor, sir--bear a hand and anchor, as soon as possible.” Not a word came back; but up went the courses, followed by the top-gallant-sails, after which down went the jib. I heard the fore and main-top-sail-halyards overhauling themselves, spite of the roar of the breakers, and then the ship luffed into the wind. Glad enough was I to hear the heavy plunge of one of the bowers, as it fell from the cathead into the water. Even then I remained stationary, to note the result. The ship took her scope of cable freely, after which I observed that she was brought up. The next moment I was on board her. “A close shave, Mr. Wallingford,” said Marble, giving me a squeeze of the hand, that said more for his feelings than any words such a being could utter; “and many thanks for your piloting. Is not that land I see, away here to leeward--more to the westward, boy?” “It is, sir, beyond a doubt. It must be one of the coral islands; and this is the reef that usually lies to seaward from them. There is the appearance of trees ashore!” “It's a discovery, youngster, and will make us all great names! Remember, this passage I call 'Miles's Inlet;' and to the reef, I give the name of 'Yawl Reef.'” I could not smile at this touch of Marble's vanity, for concern left me no thoughts but for the ship. The weather was now mild and the bay smooth; the night was fine, and it might be of the last importance to us to know something more of our situation. The cable might chafe off, probably _would_, so near a coral reef; and I offered to pull in towards the land, sounding as I went, and otherwise gaining the knowledge that might be necessary to our security. After a little reflection, the captain consented, ordering me to take provisions and water in the boat, as the duty might detain me until morning. I found the bay between the reef and the island about a league in _breadth_, and across its entire _width_, the soundings did not vary much from ten fathoms. The outer barrier of rock, on which the sea broke, appeared to be an advanced wall, that the indefatigable little insects had erected, as it might be, in defence of their island, which had probably been raised from the depths of the ocean, a century or two ago, by some of their own ancestors. The gigantic works completed by these little aquatic animals, are well known to navigators, and give us some tolerably accurate notions of the manner in which the face of the globe has been made to undergo some of its alterations. I found the land easy of access, low, wooded, and without any sign of habitation. The night was so fine that I ventured inland, and after walking more than a mile, most of the distance in a grove of cocoa and bananas, I came to the basin of water that is usually found in the islands of this particular formation. The inlet from the sea was at no great distance, and I sent one of the men back to the yawl, with orders for the boat to proceed thither. I next sounded the inlet and the bay, and found everywhere a sandy bottom, and about ten fathoms of water. As I expected, the shoalest spot was the inlet; but in this, which I sounded thoroughly, there was nowhere less than five. It was now midnight; and I should have remained on the island until morning, to make further surveys by daylight, had we not seen the ship, under her canvass, and so much nearer to us than we had supposed possible, as to satisfy me she was drifting in fast towards the land. Of course I did not hesitate, but pulled on board. It was as I suspected. The rocks so near the reef had chafed off the cable; the ship struck adrift, and Marble was under his canvass waiting my return, in order to ascertain where he might anchor anew. I told him of the lagoon in the centre of the island, and gave him every assurance of there being water enough to carry in any craft that floats. My reputation was up, in consequence of the manner the ship had been taken through the first inlet, and I was ordered to conn her into this new haven. The task was not difficult. The lightness of the wind, and uncertainty about the currents proving the only source of embarrassment, I succeeded in finding the passage, after a short trial; and sending the boat ahead, under Talcott, as an additional precaution, soon had the Crisis floating in the very centre of this natural dock. Sail was shortened as we came in, and the ship made a flying moor; after which we lay as securely, at if actually in some basin wrought by art. It is my opinion, the vessel would have ridden out the hardest gale, or anything short of a hurricane, at single anchor, in that place. The sense of security was now so strong upon us, that we rolled up our canvass, set an anchor watch of only one man, and turned in. I never laid my head down, on board ship, with greater satisfaction, than I did that night. Let the truth be frankly stated. I was perfectly satisfied with myself. It was owing to my decision and vigilance that the ship was saved, when outside the reef, out of all question; and I think she would have been lost after she struck adrift, had I not discovered her present berth. There she was, however, with land virtually all round her, a good bottom, plenty of water, and well moored. As I have said already, she could not be better secured in an artificial dock. In the midst of the Pacific, away from all custom-house officers, in a recently discovered and uninhabited island, there was nothing to fear. Men sleep soundly in such circumstances, and I should have been in a deep slumber in a minute after I was in my berth, had not Marble's conversation kept me awake, quite unwillingly on my part, for five minutes. His state-room door was open, and, through it, the following discourse was held. “I think, on the whole,” commenced the captain, “it will be better to _generalize_ a little more,”--this was a favourite expression of the ex-mate's, and one he often used without exactly knowing its application himself. --“Yes, to generalize a little more; it shall be Marble Land, Wallingford Bay, Yawl, Reef, _Talcott_ Inlet, Miles's Anchorage--and a d----d bad anchorage it was, Miles; but, never mind, we must take the good with the bad, in this wicked world.” “Very true, sir; but as for taking that anchorage, you must excuse me, as I shall never take it again.” “Perhaps not. Well, this is what I call comfort--ha! Talcott? --Is Talcott asleep, Miles?” “He and the second-mate are hard at it, sir--full and by, and going ten knots,” I muttered, wishing my tormentor in Japan, at the moment. “Ay; they are rackers at a sleep! I say, Miles, such a discovery as this will make a man's fortune! The world generalizes in discoveries, altogether, making no great matter of distinction between your Columbuses, Cooks, or Marbles. An island is an island and he who first discovers it, has the credit. Poor Captain Williams! He would have sailed this ship for a whole generation, and never found anything in the way of novelty.” “Except the Straits--” I muttered very indistinctly, breathing deep and hard. “Ay, that _was_ an affair! Hadn't you and I been aboard, the ship never would have done that. We are the very offspring of luck! There was the affair of the wreck off Madagascar--there are bloody currents in the Pacific, too, I find, Miles.” “Yes, sir--hard-a-weather--” “The fellow's dreaming. One word, boy, before you cut loose from all reason and reflection. Don't you think it would be a capital idea to poke in a little patriotism among the names; patriotism goes so far in our part of the world. Congress Rocks would be a good title for the highest part of the reef, and Washington Sands would do for the landing you told me of. Washington should have a finger in the pie.” “Crust isn't down, sir.” “The fellow's off, and I may as well follow, though it is not easy to sleep on the honour of a discovery like this. Good night, Miles!” “Ay, ay! sir.” Such was the account Marble afterwards gave me of the termination of the dialogue. Sleep, sleep, sleep! Never did men enjoy their rest more than we did for the next five hours, the ship being as silent as a church on a week-day, during the whole time. For myself, I can safely say I heard nothing, or knew nothing, until I was awakened by a violent shake of the shoulder. Supposing myself to have been aroused for an ordinary watch at sea, I was erect in an instant, and found the sun's rays streaming into my face, through the cabin-windows. This prevented me, for a moment, from seeing that I had been disturbed by Captain Marble himself. The latter waited until he perceived I could understand him, and then he said, in a grave, meaning manner-- “Miles, there is a mutiny in the ship! Do you understand me, Mr. Wallingford? --a bloody mutiny!” “A mutiny, Captain Marble! You confound me, sir--I had thought our people perfectly satisfied.” “Umph! One never knows whether the copper will come up head or tail. I thought, when I turned in last night, it was to take the surest nap I ever tasted afloat; and here I awake and find a mutiny!” I was on my feet and dressing in an instant, as a matter of course, having first gone to the berths of the two other mates, and given each a call. “But how do you know this, Captain Marble?” I resumed, as soon as there was a chance. “I hear no disturbance, and the ship is just where we left her,” glancing through the cabin-windows; “I think you must be mistaken, sir.” “Not I. I turned out, ten minutes since, and was about to go on deck to get a look at your basin, and breathe the fresh air, when I found the companion-doors fastened, precisely Smudge-fashion. I suppose you will allow that no regular ship's company would dare to fasten the officers below, unless they intended to seize the craft.” “This is very extraordinary! Perhaps some accident has befallen the doors. Did you call out, sir?” “I thumped like an admiral, but got no answer. When on the point of trying the virtue of a few kicks, I overheard a low laugh on deck, and that let me into the secret of the state of the nation at once. I suppose you will all admit, gentlemen, when sailors laugh at their officers, as well as batten them down, that they must be somewhat near a state of mutiny.” “It does look so, indeed, sir. We had better arm the moment we are dressed, Captain Marble.” “I have done that already, and you will each find loaded pistols in my state-room.” In two minutes from that moment, all four of us were in a state for action, each man armed with a brace of ship's pistols, well-loaded and freshly primed. Marble was for making a rush at the cabin-doors, at once; but I suggested the improbability of the steward or Neb's being engaged in any plot against the officers, and thought it might be well to ascertain what had become of the two blacks, before we commenced operations. Talcott proceeded instantly to the steerage, where the steward slept, and returned in a moment to report that he had found him sound asleep in his berth. Reinforced by this man, Captain Marble determined to make his first demonstration by way of the forecastle, where, by acting with caution, a surprise on the mutineers might be effected. It will be remembered that a door communicated with the forecastle, the fastenings of which were on the side of “'twixt decks.” Most of the cargo being in the lower hold, there was no difficulty in making our way to this door, where we stopped and listened, in order to learn the state of things on the other side of the bulkhead. Marble had whispered to me, as we groped our way along in the sort of twilight which pervaded the place, the hatches being on and secured, that “them bloody Philadelphians” must be at the bottom of the mischief, as our old crew were a set of as “peaceable, well-disposed chaps as ever eat duff (dough) out of a kid.” The result of the listening was to produce a general surprise. Out of all question, snoring, and that on no small scale of the gamut of Morpheus, was unequivocally heard. Marble instantly opened the door, and we entered the forecastle, pistols in hand. Every berth had its tenant, and all hands were asleep! Fatigue, and the habit of waiting for calls, had evidently kept each of the seamen in his berth, until that instant. Contrary to usage in so warm a climate, the scuttle was on, and a trial soon told us it was fast. “To generalize on this idee, Miles,” exclaimed the captain, “I should say we are again battened down by savages!” “It does indeed look so, sir; and yet I saw no sign of the island's being inhabited. It may be well, Captain Marble, to muster the crew, that we may learn who's who.” “Quite right--do you turn 'em up, and send 'em all aft into the cabin, where we have more daylight.” I set about awaking the people, which was not difficult, and in a few minutes everybody was sent aft. Following the crew, it was soon found that only one man was missing, and he was the very individual whom we had left on deck, when we had all gone below on securing the ship. Every soul belonging to the vessel was present in the cabin, or steerage, but this solitary man--Philadelphians and all! “It can never be that Harris has dared to trifle with us,” said Talcott; “and yet it does look surprisingly like it.” “Quite sure, Miles, that Marble Land is an uninhabited island?” said the captain, interrogatively. “I can only say, sir, that it is as much like all the other uninhabited coral islands we have passed, as one pea is like another; and that there were no signs of a living being visible last night. It is true, we saw but little of the island, though to all appearances there was not much to see.” “Unluckily, all the men's arms are on deck, in the arm-chest, or strapped to the boom or masts. There is no use, however, in dillydallying against one man; so I will make a rumpus that will soon bring the chap to his bearings.” Hereupon Marble made what he called a rumpus in good earnest. I thought, for a minute, he would kick the cabin-doors down. “'Andzomelee-'andzomelee,” said some one on deck. “Vat for you make so much kick?” “Who the devil are you?” demanded Marble, kicking harder than ever. “Open the cabin-doors, or I'll kick them down, and yourself overboard.” “Monsieur--sair,” rejoined another voice, “_tenez_--you air _prisonnier_. _Comprenez-vous_--prisonair, eh?” “These are Frenchmen, Captain Marble,” I exclaimed, “and we are in the hands of the enemy.” This was astounding intelligence; so much so, that all had difficulty in believing it. A further parley, however, destroyed our hopes, little by little, until we entered into an arrangement with those on deck, to the following effect: I was to be permitted to go out, in order to ascertain the real facts of our situation; while Marble and the remainder of the crew were to remain below, passive, until the result should be reported. Under this arrangement, one of the cabin-doors was opened, and I sallied forth. Astonishment almost deprived me of the power of vision, when I looked around me. Quite fifty armed white men, sailors and natives of France, by their air and language, crowded round me, as curious to see me, as I could possibly be to see them. In their midst was Harris, who approached me with an embarrassed and sorrowful air-- “I know I deserve death, Mr. Wallingford,” this man commenced; “but I fell asleep after so much work, and everything looking so safe and out-of-harm's-way like; and when I woke up, I found these people on hoard, and in possession of the ship.” “In the name of wonder, whence come they, Harris? is there a French ship at the island?” “By all I can learn and see, sir, they are the crew of a wrecked letter-of-marque--an Indiaman of some sort or other; and finding a good occasion to get off the island, and make a rich prize, they have helped themselves to the poor Crisis--God bless her! say I, though she is now under the French flag, I suppose.” I looked up at the gaff, and, sure enough, there was flying the _tri-color! _

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“The morning air blows fresh on him:” “The waves dance gladly in his sight;” “The sea-birds call, and wheel, and skim--” “O, blessed morning light!” “He doth not hear their joyous call; he sees No beauty in the wave, nor feels the breeze.” DANA. Truth is, truly, often stranger than fiction. The history of the circumstances that brought us into the hands of our enemies will fully show this. La Pauline was a ship of six hundred tons, that carried letters-of-marque from the French government. She sailed from France a few weeks after we had left London, bound on a voyage somewhat similar to our own, though neither sea-otter skins, sandal-wood, nor pearls, formed any part of her contemplated bargains. Her first destination was the French islands off Madagascar, where she left part of her cargo, and took in a few valuables in return. Thence she proceeded to the Philippine Islands, passing in the track of English and American traders, capturing two of the former, and sinking them after taking out such portions of cargo as suited her own views. From Manilla, la Pauline shaped her course for the coast of South America, intending to leave certain articles brought from France, others purchased at Bourbon, the Isle of France, and the Philippines, and divers bales and boxes found in the holds of her prizes, in that quarter of the world, in exchange for the precious metals. In effecting all this, Monsieur Le Compte, her commander, relied, firstly, on the uncommon sailing of his ship; secondly, on his own uncommon boldness and dexterity, and thirdly on the well-known disposition of the South Americans to smuggle. Doubloons and dollars taking up but little room, he reserved most of the interior of his vessel, after his traffic on the “Main,” for such property as might be found in the six or eight prizes he calculated, with certainty, on making, after getting to the eastward of the Horn. All these well-grounded anticipations had been signally realized down to a period of just three months to a day, prior to our own arrival at this unhappy island. On the night of the day just mentioned, la Pauline, without the smallest notice of the vicinity of any danger, running in an easy bowline, and without much sea, had brought up on another part of the very reef from which we had made so narrow an escape. The rocks being coral, there was little hope for her; and, in fact, they appeared through her bottom within two hours after she struck. The sugars taken in at the Isle of France, as a ground tier of ballast, were soon rendered of doubtful value, as a matter of course, but the weather remaining pleasant, Captain Le Compte succeeded, by means of his boats, in getting everything else of value on the island, and forthwith set about breaking up the wreck, in order to construct a craft that might carry himself and his people to some civilized land. Having plenty of tools, and something like sixty men, great progress had been made in the work, a schooner of about ninety tons being then so far completed, as to be nearly ready to be put in the water. Such was the state of things, when, one fine night, we arrived in the manner already related. The French kept constant look-outs, and it seems we were seen, a distant speck on the ocean, just as the sun set, while the low trees of the island eluded our vigilance. By the aid of a good night-glass, our movements were watched, and a boat was about to be sent out to warn us of our danger, when we passed within the reef. Captain Le Compte knew the chances were twenty to one that we were an enemy, and he chose to lie concealed to watch the result. As soon as we had anchored within the basin, and silence prevailed in the ship, he manned his own gig, and pulled with muffled oars up under our bows, to reconnoitre. Finding everything quiet, he ventured into the fore-chains, and thence on deck, accompanied by three of his men. He found Harris, snoring with his back supported against a gun-carriage, and immediately secured him. Then, it only remained to close the forescuttle and the cabin-doors, and to fasten them, to have us all prisoners below. The boat was sent for more men, and hours before any of us in the berths were awake, the ship had effectually changed masters. Harris told our story, and the captors knew our whole history, from the day of sailing down to the present time. Much of this I learned in subsequent conversations with the French, but enough of it was related to me then, to let me understand the outlines of the truth. My eyes also let me into many secrets. I found the island, by day-light, substantially as I had supposed it to be. It was not so large, however, as it had seemed to me by the aid of the moon, though its general character was the same. The basin in which the ship lay might have covered a hundred and fifty acres in extent, the belt of land which encircled it, varying in breadth from a quarter of a mile to three miles. Most of the island was an open grove, lying at an elevation of from ten to thirty feet above the ocean; and we ascertained there were several springs of the sweetest water on it. Nature, by one of its secret processes, had covered the earth with a beautiful short grass; and the French, with their usual attention to the table, and their commendable activity, had already several materials for salads, &c., in full growth. String-beans might be had for asking, and _petits pois_ were literally a drug. I saw the tents of the French, extending in a line beneath the shades of the trees; and there was la Petite Pauline (the schooner) on her ways, actually undergoing the process of receiving her first coat of paint. As for la Pauline, herself, I could just discover her lower mast-heads, inclining at an angle of forty-five degrees from the perpendicular, through a vista in the trees. There was a good-humoured common sense in all the proceedings of Mons. Le Compte, that showed he was a philosopher in the best sense of the word. He took things without repining himself, and wished to make others as happy as circumstances would allow. At his suggestion, I invited Marble on deck; and, after making my own commander acquainted with the state of the facts, we both listened to the propositions of our captor. Mons. Le Compte, all his officers, and not a few of his men, had been prisoners, some time or other, in England, and there was no difficulty in carrying on the negotiations in our mother tongue. “_Votre bâtiment_--your _sheep_, shall become French--_bien entendu_”--commenced our captor--“vid her _cargaison--rig,_ and _tout cela. Bien; c'est convenu. _ I shall not exact _rigueur_ in _mes conditions. _ If you shall have _possible_ to take your _sheep_ from _nous autres Français_--_d'accord. _ Every man for himself _et sa nation. _ Zere is the _pavillion Français_--and zere it shall fly, so long as we shall not help--_mais--parole d'honneur_, ze prize come cheep, and shall be sell very dear--_entendez vous? Bien. _ Now, sair, I shall put you and all your peepl' on ze island, vere you shall take our place, while we take your place. Ze arm shall be in our hand, while ze sheep stay, but we leave you _fusils, poudre et tout cela_, behind.” This was nearly verbatim, the programme of capitulation, as laid down by Captain Le Compte. As for Marble, it was not in his nature to acquiesce in such an arrangement, without much cavilling and contention. But _cui bono? _ We were in Mons. le Compte's hands; and, though disposed to deal very handsomely by us, it was easy enough to see he was determined to make his own conditions. I succeeded, at last, in making Marble understand that resistance was useless; and he submitted, though with some such grace as a man, who has not been mesmerized, submits to an amputation--those who _have,_ are said rather to delight in the amusement. The terms of the capitulation--and they differed but little from surrendering at discretion--were no sooner agreed to, than our people were ordered into the forecastle, whence they were transferred to the boats, in readiness to be sent ashore. All the chests, and private effects, were moved out, in the most honourable manner, and sent into la Pauline's boats, which lay prepared to receive them. As for us officers, we were put in the gig, Neb and the cabin steward being charged with the duty of looking after our private property. When everybody, the blacks excepted, was in a boat, we shoved off, and proceeded towards the landing, as chop-fallen and melancholy a party as ever took possession of a newly-discovered country. Marble affected to whistle, for he was secretly furious at the _nonchalance_ manifested by Captain Le Compte; but I detected him in getting parts of Monny Musk and the Irish Washerwoman, into the same strain. To own the truth, the ex-mate was morally much disturbed. As for myself, I considered the affair as an incident of war, and cared much less. “_Voila, messieurs_,” exclaimed Monsieur Le Compte, flourishing his arm, with an air of unsurpassed generosity; “you shall be master here, so soon after we shall go away, and take our leetl' property wid us!” “He's d----d generous, Miles,” growled Marble, in my ear. “He'll leave us the island, and the reef, and the cocoa-nuts, when he has gone off with our ship, and her cargo. I'll bet all I'm worth, he tows off his bloody schooner, in the bargain.” “There is no use in complaining, sir; and by keeping on good terms with the French, we may fare the better.” The truth of this was soon apparent. Captain Le Compte invited us all to share his breakfast, and we repaired to the tent of the French officers, with that purpose. In the mean time, the French sailors were transferring the few articles they intended to carry away, to the ship, with the generous object of leaving their own tents to the immediate occupation of us prisoners. As Monsieur Le Compte's plan was to proceed to the Spanish Main, in order to complete his contemplated traffic in that quarter, no sooner were the tents prepared, than the French began also to ship such articles of their own, as it had originally been proposed to exchange for Spanish dollars. In the mean time, we sat down to breakfast. “_C'est la fortune de guerre! _--vat you call fortune of war, _messieurs_,” observed Captain Le Compte, whirling the stick in a vessel of chocolate, in a very artistical manner, all the while. “_Bon--c'est excellente--Antoin--_” Antoin appeared in the shape of a well-smoked, copper-coloured cabin-boy. He was told to take a small pitcher of the chocolate, with Captain Le Compte's compliments to _mademoiselle_, and to tell her there was now every prospect of their quitting the island in a very few days, and of seeing _la belle France_, in the course of the next four or five months. This was said in French, and rapidly, with the vehemence of one who felt all he uttered, and more too but I knew enough of the language to understand its drift. “I suppose the fellow is generalizing on our misfortunes, in his d----d lingo,” growled Marble; “but, let him look out--he's not home yet, by many a thousand miles!” I endeavoured to explain it all to Marble; but it was useless; he insisted the Frenchman was sending chocolate from his own table, to his crew, in order to play the magnifico, on the score of his own good luck. There was no use in “kicking against the pricks,” and I let Marble enjoy the pleasure of believing the worst of his captor; a sort of Anglo-Saxon propensity, that has garnished many a page in English and American history--to say nothing of the propensities and histories of others, among the great family of nations. When breakfast was over, Monsieur Le Compte led me aside, in a walk under the trees, to explain his views and intentions. He gave me to understand I had been selected for this communication, on account of his observing the state of mind of my captain. I also comprehended a little French, which was quite convenient in a conversation with one who interlarded his English so much with phrases taken from his mother tongue. I was given to understand that the French would put the schooner into the water that very evening, and that we should find her masts, rigging, and sails all fitted for her. With activity, she could be ready to quit the island in a fortnight, at the farthest. A portion of our own provisions would be landed, as better suited to our habits than those which had been taken from la Pauline, while a portion of the last would be transferred to the Crisis, for the same reason, as applied to the French. As for water-casks, &c., they were all arranged; everything, of the sort having been taken from the wreck, with little or no difficulty, immediately after the loss of the ship. In a word, we should have little more to do, than to step the masts, rig our craft, stow her hold, and proceed at once to the nearest friendly port. “I zink you shall go to Canton,” added Monsieur Le Compte. “Ze distance shall not be much more than to Sout' America; and zere you shall find plenty of your _compatriotes_. Of course, you can sleep and go _chez vous_--vat you call 'home,' with _toute la facilité_. Oui--_cet arrangement est admirable. _” So the arrangement might appear to him, though I confess to a decided 'preference to remaining in the “blind Crisis,” as our men had got to call her, after her blundering through the Straits of Magellan. “_Allons! _” exclaimed the French captain, suddenly. “We are near ze tent of Mademoiselle--we shall go and demand how she carry herself _ce beau matin! _” On looking up, I saw two small tents within fifty yards of us. They were beautifully placed, in the midst of a thicker portion of the grove than usual, and near a spring of the most exquisitely limpid water I ever beheld. These tents were made of new canvass, and had been fashioned with care and skill. I could see that the one we first approached was carpeted over, and that it had many of the appliances of a comfortable abode. Mons. Le Compte, who was really a good-looking fellow under forty, put on his most amiable appearance as he got near the canvass-door; and he hemmed once or twice, as respectfully as he could, by way of letting his presence be known. In an instant, a maid-servant came out to receive him. The moment I laid eyes on this woman, it struck me her face was familiar, though I could not recall the place, or time, where, or when, we had before met. The occurrence was so singular, that I was still ruminating on it, when I unexpectedly found myself standing in the tent, face to face with Emily Merton and her father! We recognised each other at a glance, and, to Mons. Le Compte's amazement, hearty greetings passed between us, as old acquaintances. Old acquaintances, however, we could scarce be called; but, on an uninhabited island in the South Seas, one is glad to meet any face that he has ever met before. Emily looked less blooming than when we had parted, near a twelvemonth before, in London; but she was still pretty and pleasing. Both she and her father were in mourning, and, the mother not appearing, I at once guessed the truth. Mrs. Merton was an invalid when I knew her, though I had not anticipated for her so speedy a death. I thought Captain Le Compte appeared vexed at my reception. Still, he did not forget his good manners; and he rose, saying he would leave me with my friends to make mutual explanations, while he proceeded to overlook the duty of the day. On taking his leave, I was not pleased to see him approach and kiss Emily's hand. The act was done respectfully, and not entirely without grace; but there were a feeling and manner in it that could not well be mistaken. Emily blushed, as she wished him good morning, and turning to look at me, in spite of a kind of dog-in-the-manger sensation, I could not forbear smiling. “Never, Mr. Wallingford, never!” Emily said, with emphasis, the instant her admirer was out of hearing. “We are at his mercy, and must keep terms with him; but I can never marry a _foreigner_.” “That is poor encouragement for Wallingford, my dear,” said her father, laughing, “should he happen to take a fancy to you himself.” Emily looked confused, but, what, for the circumstances, was better still, she looked concerned. “I am sure, dear sir,” she answered, with a quickness I thought charming, “I am sure Mr. Wallingford will not suppose I meant anything so rude. Then, he is no importunate suitor of mine, like this disagreeable Frenchman, who always seems to me more like a Turkish master, than like one who really respects a woman. Besides--” “Besides what, Miss Merton?” I ventured to ask, perceiving that she hesitated. “Besides, Americans are hardly foreigners to _us_,” added Emily, smiling; “for we have even American relatives, you know, father.” “Quite true, my dear, and came near being Americans ourselves. Had my father established himself where he married, as had been his first intention, such would have been our national character. But, Mons. Le Compte has given us a moment to tell our stories to each other, and I think it will not be a very long moment. Let one of us commence, if we wish the offices done without unpleasant listeners.” Emily urged me to begin, and I did not hesitate. My story was soon told. Major Merton and his daughter understood all about the capture of the ship in the basin, though they were ignorant of the vessel's name. I had only to relate our voyage on the main, and the death of Captain Williams, therefore, to have my whole story told. I made it all the shorter, from an impatience to hear the circumstances which had thrown my friends into their present extraordinary position. “It seems extraordinary enough, beyond doubt,” Major Merton began, the moment I left him an opening by my closing remark, “but it is all very simple, when you commence at the right end of the sad story, and follow events in the order in which they occurred.” “When you left us in London, Wallingford, I supposed we were on the point of sailing for the West Indies, but a better appointment soon after offering in the East, my destination was changed to Bombay. It was important that I should reach my port at as early a day as possible; and, no regular Indiaman being ready, I took passage in a licensed running vessel, a ship of no size, or force. Nothing occurred until we had got within three or four days' sail of our port, when we fell in with la Pauline, and were captured. At first, I think Captain Le Compte would have been willing to let me go on parole, but no opportunity offered, and we went with the ship to Manilla. While there, the melancholy loss happened, which, no doubt, you have comprehended from our mourning; and I was strongly in hopes of making some arrangements that would still enable me to save my situation. But, by this time, Monsieur Le Compte had become an open admirer of Emily, and I suppose it is hopeless to expect any liberation, so long as he can invent excuses to frustrate it.” “I trust he does not abuse his power, in any way, and annoy Miss Merton with importunities that are unpleasant to her.” Emily rewarded me for the warmth with which I spoke, with a sweet smile and a slight blush. “Of that I cannot accuse him, in one sense at least,” resumed Major Merton. “Mons. Le Compte does all for us that his sense of delicacy can suggest; and it was not possible for passengers to be more comfortable, or retired, on board ship, than we were in the Pauline. That vessel had a poop, and its cabin was given up entirely to our use. At Manilla, I was permitted to go at large, on a mere verbal assurance of returning; and, in all other particulars, we have been treated as well as circumstances would very well allow. Nevertheless, Emily is too young to admire a suitor of forty, too English to admire a foreigner, and too well-born to accept one who is merely a merchant sailor--I mean one who is nothing, and has nothing, but what his ship makes him, or can give him.” I understood Major Merton's distinction; he saw a difference between the heir of Clawbonny, pursuing his adventures for the love of the sea, and a man who pursued the sea as an adventurer. It was not very delicately made, but it was pretty well, as coming from an European to an American; the latter being assumed _ex gratia_, to be a being of an inferior order, morally, politically, physically, socially and in every other sense, but the pecuniary. Thank Heaven! the American dollar is admitted, pennyweight for pennyweight, to a precedency immediately next to that of the metal dollar of Europe. It even goes before the paper _thaler_ of Prussia. “I can readily imagine Miss Merton would look higher than Captain Le Compte, for various reasons,” I answered, making a sort of acknowledgment for the distinction in my favour, by bowing involuntarily, “and I should hope that gentleman would cease to be importunate as soon as convinced he cannot succeed.” “You do not know a Frenchman, Mr. Wallingford,” rejoined Emily. “He is the hardest creature on earth to persuade into the notion that he is not adorable.” “I can hardly believe that this weakness extends as far as the sailors,” said I, laughing. “At all events, you will be released the instant you reach France.” “Sooner too, I trust, Wallingford,” resumed the father. “These Frenchmen can have it their own way, out here in the solitude of the Pacific; but, once in the Atlantic, I shall expect some British cruiser to pick us up, long ere we can reach France.” This was a reasonable expectation, and we conversed about it for some time. I shall not repeat all that passed; but the reader can have no difficulty in understanding, that Major Merton and myself communicated to each other every fact that was likely to be of interest to men in our situation. When I thought it prudent to take my leave, he walked some distance with me, holding his way to a point on the outer side of the island, where I could get a view of the wreck. Here he left me, for the moment, while I proceeded along the beach, ruminating on all that had passed. The process by which nature uses her materials to found islands in the midst of oceans like the Pacific, is a curious study. The insect that forms the coral rock, must be an industrious little creature, as there is reason to think that some of the reefs that have become known to navigators within the last sixty or seventy years, have since been converted into islands bearing trees, by their labours. Should the work go on, a part of this vast sea will yet be converted into a continent; and, who knows but a railroad may yet run across that portion of our globe, connecting America with the old world? I see that Captain Beechy, in his voyage, speaks of a wreck that occurred in 1792, on a _reef_, where, in 1826, he found an island near three leagues long, bearing tall trees. It would be a curious calculation to ascertain, if one family of insects can make an island three leagues long, in thirty-four years, how many families it would take to make the grading of the railroad I have mentioned. Ten years since, I would not have ventured a hint of this nature, for it might have set speculation in motion, and been the instrument of robbing more widows and orphans of their straitened means; but, Heaven be praised! we have at length reached a period in the history of the country, when a man may venture on a speculation in the theory of geography without incurring the risk of giving birth to some wild--if not unprincipled--speculation in dollars and cents. As I drew near the outer shore of the island, opposite to the wreck, I came unexpectedly on Marble. The poor fellow was seated on a raised projection of coral rock, with his arms folded, and, was in so thorough a brown study, that he did not even hear my footsteps in approaching, though I purposely trod heavily, in order to catch his ear. Unwilling to disturb him, I stood gazing at the wreck myself, for some little time, the place affording a much better view of it than any other point from which it had met my eye. The French had made far greater inroads upon their vessel, than the elements. She had struck to leeward of the island, and lay in a spot where, indeed, it might take years to break her entirely up, in that placid sea. Most of her upper works, however, were gone; and I subsequently discovered that her own carpenters had managed to get out even a portion of her floor-timbers, leaving the fabric bound together by those they left. Her lower masts were standing, but even her lower yards had been worked up, in order to make something useful for the schooner. The beach, at no great distance, was still strewed with objects brought from the reef, and which it had not yet been found necessary to use. At length a movement of mine attracted Marble's attention, and he turned his head towards me. He seemed glad I had joined him, and expressed himself happy, also, that he saw me alone. “I have been generalizing a little on our condition, Miles,” he said, “and look at it which end forward I may, I find it bad enough; almost enough to overcome me. I loved that ship, Mr. Wallingford, as much as some folks love their parents--of wife or children, I never had any--and the thought that she has fallen into the hands of a Frenchman, is too much for my natur'. Had it been Smudge, I could have borne up against it; but, to haul down one's colours to a wrack, and a bloody French wrack, too, it is superhuman!” “You must remember all the circumstances, Captain Marble, and you will find consolation. The ship was surprised, as we surprised the Lady of Nantes.” “That's just it--put that on a general principle, now, and where are you? Surprisers mustn't be surprised. Had we set a quarter-watch, sir, it never could have happened; and nothing less than a quarter-watch should have been set in a strange haven. What mattered it, that it was an uninhabited island, and that the ship was land-locked and well-moored, and the holding-ground was capital? It is all of no account when you come to look at the affair in the way of duty. Why, old Robbins, with his rivers in the ocean, would never have been caught in this miserable manner.” Then Marble fairly gave in, placed his two hard hands on his face, and I could see tears trickling from beneath them, as if water were squeezed from a stone. “The chances of the sea, Captain Marble,” I said, greatly shocked at such an exhibition, coming from such a quarter--“the chances of the sea are sometimes too much for the best sailors. We should look at this loss, as we look at the losses occasioned by a gale--then there is some hope left, after all.” “I should like to know what--to me, there is no land ahead.” “Surprisers may not only be surprised, but they may carry on their old trade again, and surprise once more, in their turn.” “What do you mean by that, Miles,” said Marble, looking up eagerly, and speaking as quick as lightning; “are you generalizing, or have you any particular project in view?” “Both, Sir. Generalizing, so far as taking the chances of war are concerned, and particularizing, as to a certain notion that has come into my head.” “Out with the last, Miles--out with it, boy; the Lord made you for something uncommon.” “First, let me know, Captain Marble, whether you have had any further conversation with Monsieur Le Compte? whether he has said any more on the subject of our future proceedings?” “I just left the grinning rascal--these amiable smiles of his, Miles, are only so many grins thrown into our faces to let us feel his good luck; but, d--n him, if I ever get home, I'll fit out a privateer and be after him, if there's a fast-going schooner to be had in all America for love or money. I think I'd turn pirate, to catch the villain!” Alas! poor Marble. Little would he, who never got higher than a mate, unless by accident, be likely to persuade your cautious ship-owners to intrust him with a vessel of any sort, to go tilting against wind-mills afloat, in that fashion. “But, why go to America for a schooner, Captain Marble, when the French are polite enough to give us one here, exactly where we are?” “I begin to understand you, boy. There is a little consolation in the idee, but this Frenchman has already got my commission, and without the document we should be no better than so many pirates.” “I doubt that, sir, even were a ship to act generally, provided she actually sailed with a commission, and lost it by accident. Commissions are all registered, and proof of our character could be found at home.” “Ay, for the Crisis, but not for this 'Pretty Polly'”--for so Marble translated Petite Pauline--“The commission is only good for the vessel that is named in it.” “I don't know that, Captain Marble. Suppose our ship had been sunk in an action in which we took our enemy, could we not continue our voyage in the prize, and fight anything that came in our way, afterwards?” “By George, that does look reasonable. Here was I just threatening to go out as a pirate, yet hesitating about taking my own.” “Do not the crews of captured vessels often rise upon their captors, and recapture their own vessels? and were any of them ever called pirates? Besides, nations at war authorise almost every sort of hostile act against their enemies.” “Miles, I have been mistaken--you _are_ a good seaman, but natur' meant you for a lawyer! Give me your hand, boy; I see a gleam of hope ahead, and a man can live on less hope than food.” Marble then told me the substance of the conversation he had held with Captain Le Compte. The latter had expressed a sudden and violent impatience to be off--I understood the cause in a moment; he wished to separate Emily from her old acquaintance, as soon as possible--intending to put the schooner into the water for us, that very afternoon, and to sail himself in the morning. This was a sudden resolution, and the French were moving heaven and earth to carry it into effect. I confess to some little regret at hearing it, for it was pleasant to meet the Mertons in that unexpected manner, and the influence of woman in such a solitude is unusually great. I now told Marble of my discovery, and when he had got through with his expressions of wonder, I carried him to the tents, and led him into the presence of his old acquaintances. In consequence of this visit, I enjoyed another half hour's _tête à tête_ with Emily, Marble soon taking the Major to walk with him, beneath the trees. We were both recalled to a sense of our real situation, by the reappearance of Monsieur Le Compte. I cannot say that our conqueror behaved in the least unhandsomely towards us, notwithstanding his evident jealousy. He had the tact to conceal most of his feelings, and owing either to liberality or to art, he assumed an air of generous confidence, that would be much more likely to touch the feelings of the maid he sought, than any acts of severity. First asking permission of Miss Merton, he even invited us, and himself, to dine with the Major, and, on the whole, we had an agreeable entertainment. We had turtle and champaigne, and both of a quality that was then out of the reach of all the aldermen of London or New York; begging pardon of the Sir Peters and Sir Johns of Guildhall, for putting them, in any sense, on a level with the “gentleman from the Fourth Ward” or “the gentleman from the Eleventh Ward;” though, if the truth must be told, the last very often eat the best dinners, and drink, out of all comparison, the best wines. Who pays, is a fact buried in the arcana of aldermanic legerdemain. It was late before we left the table, though Monsieur Le Compte quitted us early. At five o'clock precisely we were summoned to witness the launch. Champaigne and claret had brought Marble into good humour, nor was I at all out of spirits, myself. Emily put on her hat, and took her parasol, just as she would have done at home, and accepting my arm, she walked to the ship-yard, like all the rest of us. Getting her a good place for the sight, I accompanied Marble to take a look at the “Pretty Poll,” which had not as yet attracted as much of our attention as she ought. I had suggested to him the probability of an occasion offering to rise upon the Frenchman, while their attention was taken up with the schooner; but Monsieur Le Compte warily kept quite half his men in the ship, and this put the attempt out of the question, since the guns of the Crisis would have swept any part of the island. The French mechanics deserved great credit for the skill they had manifested in the construction of _La Petite Pauline. _ She was not only a safe and commodious craft for her size, but, what was of great importance to us, her lines promised that she would turn out to be a fast sailer. I afterwards ascertained that Captain Le Compte had been her draftsman, possessing not only much taste for, but a good deal of practice in, the art. The ship in which the Merton's had taken passage to Bombay, had the copper for a teak-built frigate and sloop of war in her, and this had been transferred, among; other articles, to la Pauline, before the prize was burned. Availing himself of this circumstance, Monsieur Le Compte had actually coppered his schooner, and otherwise he had made her as neat and commodious as possible. I make no doubt he intended to surprise his friends at Marseilles, by showing what clever mariners, wrecked on an island of the Pacific, could do, on an emergency. Then, doubtless, he found it pleasant to linger on this island, eating fresh cocoa-nuts, with delicious turtle, and making love to Emily Merton. Some of the charms of “Pretty Poll” were fairly to be attributed to the charms of the young lady. The men began to wedge up, the moment we were all present, and this portion of the labour was _soon_ completed. Monsieur Le Compte then took his station in the head of the schooner. Making a profound bow to Emily, as if to ask her permission, the signal was given; the spur-shores were knocked away, and the little craft slid off into the water so easily, making so little ripple as she shot a hundred fathoms into the bay, as to give the assurance she would prove a fast vessel. Just as she was water-borne, Le Compte dashed a bottle against the tiller, and shouted, at the top of his voice, “_succés à la Belle Emelie. _” I turned to Emily, and saw by the blush that she understood French, while the manner in which she pouted her pretty plump lip betrayed the humour in which the compliment had been received. In a few minutes, Captain Le Compte landed, and, in a set speech, he gave up the schooner to our possession. We were told not to consider ourselves as prisoners, our captain handsomely admitting that he had gained no laurels by his victory. “We shall go away good friend,” he concluded, “mais, suppose we shall meet, and _nos dux republique_ shall not be at peace, then each must fight for _son pavillion! _” This was a good concluding sentiment, for such a scene. Immediately after the Mertons and their domestics, of whom there were a man and a woman, embarked, I took leave of them on the beach, and, either my observation, or my vanity, induced me to think Emily got into the boat with reluctance. Many good wishes were exchanged, and the Major called out to us, “we shall meet again, gentlemen--there has been a Providence in our previous intercourse. Adieu, until _then_.” The French were now in a great bustle. Most of the articles they intended to carry away were already on board the ship; and, by the time it was dusk, they had closed their communication with the land. When Captain Le Compte took his leave of us, I could not but thank him for his many civilities. He had certainly dealt generously by us, though I still think his sudden departure, which made us fall heirs to many things we otherwise might not have so done, was owing to his wish to remove Emily Merton, as quickly as possible, from my sight. At daylight next morning, Neb came to the officers' tents to say, the ship was getting her anchors. I was up and dressed in a moment. The distance to the inlet was about a mile, and I reached it, just as the Crisis was cast. In a few minutes she came sweeping into the narrow pass, under her topsails, and I saw Emily and her father, leaning over the hammock-cloths of the quarter-deck. The beautiful girl was so near, that I could read the expression of her soft eyes, and I fancied they were filled with gentle concern. The Major called out, “God bless you, dear Wallingford”--then the ship swept past, and was soon in the outer bay. Half an hour later, or before I left the spot, she was at sea, under everything that would draw from her trunks down.

17

None

“I better brook the loss of brittle life, Than those proud titles thou hast won of me; They wound my thoughts, worse than thy sword my flesh.” SHAKESPEARE Half-way between this inlet and the ship-yard, I found Marble, standing with his arms folded, gazing after the receding ship. His countenance was no longer saddened; but it was fierce. He shook his hand menacingly at the French ensign, which was flying at our old gaff, and said-- “Ay, d----n you, flutter away; you quiver and shake now like one of your coxcombs pigeon-winging; but where will you be this day two months? Miles, no man but a bloody Frenchman would cast away a ship, there where this Mister Count has left the bones of his vessel; though _here_, where we came so nigh going, it's a miracle any man could escape. Hadn't we brought the Crisis through that opening first, he never would have dared to go out by it.” I confess I saw little about Monsieur Le Compte's management but skill and good seamanship; but nothing is more painful to most men than to admit the merit of those who have obtained an advantage over them. Marble could not forget his own defeat; and the recollection jaundiced his eyes, and biassed his judgment. “I see our people are busy, already, sir,” I remarked, by way of drawing the captain's attention to some other subject. “They have hauled the schooner up to the yard, and seem to be getting along spars for shores.” “Ay, ay--Talcott has his orders; and I expect you will bestir yourself. I shall step the masts myself, and you will get all the rigging ready to be put into its place, the moment it is possible. That Frenchman calculated, he told me to my face, that we might get to sea in a fortnight; I will let him see that a set of Yankees can rig and stow his bloody schooner, in three days, and then leave themselves time to play.” Marble was not a man of idle vaunts. He soon had everybody at work, with a system, order, silence, and activity, that proved he was master of his profession. Nor was the language which might sound so boastful to foreign ears, altogether without its justification. Forty Americans were a formidable force; and, well directed, I make no doubt they would accomplish far more than the ordinary run of French seamen, as they were governed and managed in the year 1800, and, counting them man for man, would have accomplished in double the time. Our crew had now long acted together, and frequently under the most trying circumstances; and they showed their training, if men ever did, on the present occasion. Everybody was busy; and we had the shears up, and both masts stepped, in the course of a few hours. By the time the main-mast was in, I had the fore-mast rigged, the jib-boom in its place, the sprit-sail yard crossed--everything carried a spar under its bowsprit then--and the lower yard up. It is true, the French had got everything ready for us; and when we turned the hands to, after dinner, we actually began to strike in cargo, water, provisions, and such other things, as it was intended to carry away. At dusk, when we knocked off work, the Emily looked like a sea-going craft, and there was every prospect of our having her ready for sea, by the following evening. But, the duty had been carried on, in silence. Napoleon said there had been more noise made in the little schooner which carried him from l'Orient to Basque Roads, than was made on board the line-of-battle ship that conveyed him to St. Helena, during the whole passage. Since that memorable day, the French have learned to be silent on board ship, and the fruits remain to be seen. That night, Marble and myself consulted together on the aspect of things--or, as he expressed it, “we generalized over our prospects.” Monsieur Le Compte had done one thing which duty required of him. He did not leave us a kernel of the gunpowder belonging to either ship; nor could we find a boarding-pike, cutlass, or weapon of any sort, except the officers' pistols. We had a canister of powder, and a sufficiency of bullets for the last, which had been left as, out of an _esprit de corps_, or the feeling of an officer, which told him we might possibly need these means to keep our own crew in order. Such was not the fact, however, with the particular people we happened to have; a more orderly and reasonable set of men never sailing together. But, Monsieur Le Compte knew it was his duty to put it out of their power to trouble us, so far as it lay in his; but, at the same time, while he left us the means of safety, he provided against our doing any further injury to his own countrymen. In this he had pretty effectually succeeded, so far as armament was concerned. The next morning I was up with the appearance of the dawn, and, having suffered much from the heat the preceding day, I walked to a suitable spot, threw off my clothes, and plunged into the basin. The water was transparent almost as air; and I happened to select a place where the coral grew within a few yards of the surface. As I dove, my eye fell on a considerable cluster of large oysters that were collected on the rock, and, reaching them, I succeeded in bringing up half a dozen that clung to each other. These dives I repeated, during the next quarter of an hour, until I had all the oysters, sixty or eighty in number, safe on the shore. That they were the pearl oysters, I knew immediately; and beckoning to Neb, the fellow soon had them snug in a basket, and put away in a place of security. The circumstance was mentioned to Marble, who, finding no more heavy drags to be made, ordered the Sandwich Islanders to take a boat and pass a few hours in their regular occupation, on account of the owners--if, indeed, the last had any further claim on our services. These men met with tolerable success, though, relatively, nothing equal to mine. What, just then, was of far more importance, they made a discovery of an arm-chest lying on the bottom of the basin, at the anchorage of the Crisis, and which had doubtless been sunk there by the French. We had all la Pauline's boats but the captain's gig. I went in one of them with a gang of hands, and, the divers securing a rope to the handles of the chest, we soon got it in. It turned out to be one of the arm-chests of the Crisis, which the French had found in their way and thrown overboard, evidently preferring to use weapons to which they were accustomed. They had done better by carrying the chest out to sea, and disposing of it in fifty or a hundred fathom water. The prize was turned over to the gunner, who reported that it was the chest in which we kept our cutlasses and pistols, of both of which there was a sufficient supply to give every man one of each. There were also several horns of powder, and a bag of bullets; but the first was ruined by the water. As for the arms, they were rubbed dry, oiled, and put away again in the chest, after the last had stood a whole day, in the hot sun, open. Thus, through the agency of men brought for a very different purpose, we were put in possession of the means of achieving the exploit, which might now be said to form the great object of our lives. That day we got everything on board the schooner that it was thought desirable to take with us. We left much behind that was valuable, it is true, especially the copper; but Marble wisely determined that it was inexpedient to put the vessel deeper than good ballast-trim, lest it should hurt her sailing. We had got her fairly to her bearings, and this was believed to be as low as was expedient. It is true, a great deal remained to be stowed; the deck being littered, and the hold, the ground-tier excepted, in great confusion. But our bread, water, beef, pork, and other eatables, were all there, and in abundance; and, though not to be had for the asking, they were still to be had. The sails were bent, and the only anchor, la Pauline's stream, with her two largest kedges, was on our bows. While in this condition, Marble gave the unexpected order for all hands to come on board, and for the shore-fasts to be cast off. Of course, there was no dissenting to so positive a command. We had signed new shipping-articles for the schooner, extending the engagements made when we entered on board the Crisis, to this new vessel, or any other she might capture. The wind was a steady trade, and, when we showed our main-sail and jib to it, the little craft glided athwart the basin like a duck. Shooting through the pass, Marble tacked her twice, as soon as he had an offing; and everybody was delighted with the quickness with which she was worked. There was barely light enough to enable us to find our way through the opening in the reef; and, just thirty-eight hours after the Crisis sailed, we were on her track. We had only conjecture to guide us as to the ship's course, with the exception of the main fact of her having sailed for the west coast of South America; but we had not failed to notice that she disappeared in the north-east trades on a bow-line. We put the schooner as near as possible on the same course, making a proper allowance for the difference in the rig of the two vessels. The distance run that night, satisfied us all that Mons. Le Compte was a good draftsman. The schooner ran 106 miles in twelve hours, against a very respectable sea, which was at least ten or fifteen more than the Crisis could have done under the same circumstances. It is true, that what was close-hauled for her, was not close-hauled for us; and, in this respect, we had the advantage of her. Marble was so well pleased with our night's work, that when he came on deck next morning, the first thing he did was to order a bottle of rum to be brought him, and then all hands to be called. As soon as the people were up, he went forward, got into the head, and commanded every body to muster on the forecastle. Marble now made a speech. “We have some good, and some bad luck, this v'y'ge, men,” he said; “and, when we generalize on the subject, it will be found that good luck has usually followed the bad luck. Now, the savages, with that blackguard Smudge, knocked poor Captain Williams in the head, and threw him overboard, and got the ship from us; then came the good luck of getting her back again. After this, the French did us that unhandsome thing: now, here comes the good luck of their leaving us a craft that will overhaul the ship, when I needn't tell _you,_ what will come of it.” Here all hands, as in duty bound, gave three cheers. “Now, I neither sail nor fight in a craft that carries a French name. Captain Count christened the schooner the--Mr. Wallingford will tell you her exact name.” “_La Belle Emélie,_” said I, “or the Beautiful Emily.” “None of your belles for me, nor your Beautiful Emilys either,” cried Marble, smashing the bottle over the schooner's nose; “So here goes three cheers again, for the 'Pretty Poll,' which was the name the craft was born to, and the name she shall bear, as long as Moses Marble sails her.” From that moment, the schooner was known by the name of the “Pretty Poll.” I met with portions of our crew years afterwards, and they always spoke of her by this appellation; sometimes familiarly terming her the “Poll,” or the “Polly.” All the first day out, we were busy in making ourselves comfortable, and in getting the Polly's trim. We succeeded so well in this last, that, according to our calculations, we made a knot an hour more than the Crisis could have done under the same circumstances, fast as the ship was known to be. As the Crisis had about thirty-eight hours the start of us, and ran, on an average, about seven knots the hour for all that time, it would require about ten days to overtake her. Of course this could only happen, according to our own calculations, when we were from eighteen hundred to two thousand miles from the island. For my own part, I sincerely hoped it would not occur at all, at sea; feeling satisfied our only chances of success depended on surprise. By following the vessel into some port, it might be possible to succeed; but, for an unarmed schooner to attack a ship like the Crisis, with even a large crew on board; it seemed rashness to think of it. Marble, however, would not listen to my remonstrances. He insisted we had more than powder enough to load all our pistols half-a-dozen times each, and, laying the ship plump aboard, the pistols would do the rest. I was silenced, quite as a matter of course, if not convinced. The fifth day out, Neb came to me, saying--“Master Miles, somet'ing must be done wid 'em 'ere 'ysters! Dey smell, onaccountable; and de people swear dey will t'row 'em overboard, if I don't eat 'em. I not hungry enough for _dat_, sir.” These were the pearl oysters, already mentioned, which had been hastening to dissolution and decomposition, by the heat of the hold. As the captain was as much concerned in this portion of the cargo, as I was myself, I communicated the state of things to him, and he ordered the bags and barrels on deck, forthwith. It was well something was done, or I doubt not a disease would have been the consequence. As decomposition was the usual process by which to come at the treasures of these animals, however, everything was exactly in the state we wished. An uninterested observer would have laughed, at seeing the employment of the quarter-deck, for the next four hours. Marble, and the two mates, attacked a barrel belonging to the captain, while Neb and I had my own share to ourselves. It was a trying occupation, the odour far exceeding in strength that of the Spice Islands. We stood it, however--for what will not man endure for the sake of riches? Marble foresaw the difficulties, and had once announced to the mates that they then would “open on shares.” This had a solacing influence, and amid much mirth and sundry grimaces, the work went on with tolerable rapidity. I observed, however, that Talcott threw one or two subjects, that doubtless were tougher than common, overboard, after very superficial examinations. The first seven oysters I examined, contained nothing but seed pearl, and not many of these. Neb opened, and I examined; and the latter occupation was so little to my taste, that I was just on the point of ordering the whole lot thrown overboard, when Neb handed me another. This oyster contained nine beautiful pearls, of very uniform dimensions, and each about as large as a good-sized pea. I dropped them into a bowl of fresh water, whence they came out sweet, pearly, and lustrous. They were of the sort known as the “white water,” which is the kind most prized among Christian nations, doubtless on account of their harmonizing so well with the skins of their women. No sooner was my luck known, than it brought all the other “pearl fishermen” around me; Marble, with his nostrils plugged with oakum, and a quid of tobacco in his mouth, that was as large as a small potatoe. “By George, Miles, that looks like business,” the captain exclaimed, going back to his work, with renovated zeal, “though it is a calling fit only for hogs and scavengers! Did I embark in it largely, I would keep as many clerks as a bank. What do you suppose now, these nine chaps may be worth?” “Some fifty dollars, or thereabouts--you see, sir, they are quite large--much larger than it is usual to see our women wear.” The ninth of my oysters produced eleven pearls, and all about the size and quality of the first. In a few minutes I had seventy-three just such pearls, besides a quantity of seed pearl. Then followed a succession of barren shells; a dozen not giving a pearl. The three that succeeded them gave thirty-one more; and another yielded four pearls, each of which was as large as a small cherry. After that, I got one that was almost as large as a common hickory-nut, and six more of the size of the cherry-sized pearls. In addition to these, I got in all, one hundred and eighty-seven of the size of peas, besides a large handful of the seed pearl. I afterwards ascertained, that the pearls I had thus obtained were worth in the market about eighteen hundred dollars; as they were far more remarkable for their beauty, than for their size. Notwithstanding the oakum plugs, and the tobacco, and the great quantity of shells his divers had found, for they had brought up something like two hundred and fifty oysters in the course of the day, the party of the captain found in all, but thirty-six pearls, the seed excepted; though they obtained some beautiful specimens among the shells. From that moment, Marble discontinued the trade, and I never heard him say anything more on the subject of pursuing it. My own beauties were put carefully away, in reserve for the time when I might delight the eyes of certain of my female friends with them. I never intended to sell one, but they were very precious to me on other accounts. As for the crew, glad enough were they to be rid of such uncomfortable shipmates. As I gazed on the spotless and lustrous pearls, and compared them with the revolting tenements from which they had just been redeemed, I likened them to the souls of the just escaping from their tenements of clay, to enjoy hereafter an endless existence of purity. In the meantime, the Pretty Poll continued to find her way along miles and miles of the deserted track across the Pacific. Marble had once belonged to a Baltimore clipper, and he sailed our craft probably much better than she would have been sailed by Mons. Le Compte, though that officer, as I afterwards learned, had distinguished himself in command of a lugger-privateer, in the British Channel. Our progress was generally from a hundred and fifty to two hundred and twenty miles in twenty-four hours; and so it continued to be for the first ten days, or the period, when, according to our own calculations, we ought to be near the Crisis, had that vessel steered a course resembling our own. For my own part, I neither wished nor expected to see the ship, until we reached the coast of South America, when we might ascertain her position by communicating with the shore. As for the _guarda-costas_, I knew we could easily elude them, and there might be a small chance of regaining the vessel, something like the way in which we had lost her. But Marble's impatience, and the keenness with which he felt our disgrace, would not make terms even with the elements; and I do believe, he would have run alongside of the Crisis in a gale of wind, could he have come up with her. The chance of our having sailed so far, however, on a line so nearly resembling that of the chase as to bring us together, was so very small, that few of us thought it worth our consideration. On the morning of the eleventh day, the look-out we had kept on the fore-top-sail-yard, sang out “Sail-ho!” Marble and myself were soon on the yard, there being nothing visible from the deck. The upper sails, top-gallant-sails, and royals of a ship were visible on our weather-quarter, distant from fifteen to twenty miles. As we were now in the track of whalers, of which there were a good many in that part of the Pacific, I thought it was probable this was one; but Marble laughed at the notion, asking if I had ever heard of a whaler's carrying royals on her cruising ground. He affirmed it was the Crisis, heading the same way we were ourselves, and which had only got to windward of us, by keeping a better luff. We had calculated too much on the schooner's weatherly qualities, and had allowed her to fall off more than was necessary, in the night-watches. The Pretty Poll was now jammed up on a wind, in the hope of closing with the chase in the course of the night. But the wind had been growing lighter and lighter for some hours, and by noon, though we had neared the chase so much as to be able to see her from deck, there was every prospect of its falling calm; after which, in the trades, it would be surprising if we did not get a blow. To make the most of our time, Marble determined to tack, when we had just got the chase a point off our weather-bow. An hour after tacking, an object was seen adrift on the ocean, and keeping away a little to close with it, it was ascertained to be a whale-boat, adrift. The boat was American built, had a breaker of water, the oars, and all the usual fittings in it; and the painter being loose, it had probably been lost, when towing in the night, in consequence of having been fastened by _three_ half-hitches. The moment Marble ascertained the condition of this boat, he conceived his plan of operations. The four Sandwich Islanders had been in whalers, and he ordered them into the boat, put in some rum, and some food, gave me his orders, got in himself, and pulled ahead, going off at five knots the hour, leaving the schooner to follow at the rate of two. This was about an hour before sunset; and by the time it was dark, the boat had become a mere speck on the water, nearly half-way between us and the ship, which was now some fifteen miles distant, heading always in the same direction. My orders had been very simple. They were, to stand on the same course, until I saw a light from the boat, and then tack, so as to run on a parallel line with the ship. The signal was made by Marble about nine o'clock. It was immediately answered from the schooner. The light in the boat was concealed from the ship, and our own was shown only for a few seconds, the disappearance of Mr. Marble's telling us in that brief space, that our answer was noted. I tacked immediately; and, taking in the fore-sail, stood on the directed course. We had all foreseen a change in the weather, and probably a thunder-squall. So far from its giving Marble any uneasiness, he anticipated the blow with pleasure, as he intended to lay the Crisis aboard in its height. He fancied that success would then be the most certain. His whole concern was at not being able to find the ship in the darkness; and it was to obviate this difficulty that he undertook to pilot us up to her in the manner I have just mentioned. After getting round, a sharp look-out was kept for the light. We caught another view of it, directly on our weather-beam. From this we inferred that the ship had more wind than we felt; inasmuch as she had materially altered her position, while we had not moved a mile since we tacked. This was on the supposition that Marble would endeavour to follow the movements of the ship. At ten, the tempest broke upon us with tropical violence, and with a suddenness that took everybody by surprise. A squall had been expected; but no one anticipated its approach for several hours; and we had all looked for the return of the whale-boat, ere that moment should come. But, come it did, when least expected; the first puff throwing our little schooner down, in a way to convince us the elements were in earnest. In fifteen minutes after the first blast was felt, I had the schooner, under a reefed foresail, and with that short canvass, there were instants, as she struggled up to the summit of the waves, that it seemed as if she were about to fly out of the water. My great concern, however, was for the boat, of which nothing could now be seen. The orders left by Marble anticipated no such occurrence as this tempest, and the concert between us was interrupted. It was naturally inferred among us, in the schooner, that the boat would endeavour to close, as soon as the danger was foreseen; and, as this would probably be done, by running on a converging line, all our efforts were directed to keeping the schooner astern of the other party, in order that they might first reach the point of junction. In this manner there _was_ a chance of Marble's finding the schooner, while there was little of our finding the boat. It is true, we carried several lights; but as soon as it began to rain, even a bonfire would not have been seen at a hundred yards. The water poured down upon us, as if it fell from spouts, occasionally ceasing, and then returning in streams. I had then never passed so miserable a night; even that in which Smudge and his fellows murdered Captain Williams and seized the ship, being happiness in comparison. I loved Marble. Hardy, loose, in some respects, and unnurtured as he was in others, the man had been steadily my friend. He was a capital seaman; a sort of an instinctive navigator; true as the needle to the flag, and as brave as a lion. Then, I knew he was in his present strait on account of mortified feeling, and the rigid notions he entertained of his duty to his owners. I think I do myself no more than justice, when I say that I would gladly have exchanged places with him, any time that night. We held a consultation on the quarter-deck, and it was determined that our only chance of picking up the boat, was by remaining as nearly as possible, at the place where her crew must have last seen the schooner. Marble had a right to expect this; and we did all that lay in our power to effect the object; waring often, and gaining on our tacks what we lost in coming round. In this manner we passed a painful and most uncomfortable night; the winds howling about us a sort of requiem for the dead, while we hardly knew when we were wallowing in the seas or not, there being so much water that came down from the clouds, as nearly to drown us on deck. At last the light returned, and soon after the tempest broke, appearing to have expended its fury. An hour after the sun had risen, we got the trade-wind again, the sea became regular once more, and the schooner was under all her canvass. Of course, every one of us officers was aloft, some forward, some aft, to look out for the boat; but we did not see her again. What was still more extraordinary, nothing could be seen of the ship! We kept all that day cruising around the place, expecting to find at least the boat; but without success. My situation was now altogether novel to me. I had left home rather more than a twelvemonth before, the third officer of the Crisis. From this station, I had risen regularly to be her first officer; and now, by a dire catastrophe, I found myself in the Pacific, solely charged with the fortunes of my owners, and those of some forty human beings. And this, too, before I was quite twenty years old. Marble's scheme of attacking the ship had always seemed to me to be wild and impracticable. This was while it was _his_ project, not my own. I still entertained the same opinion, as regards the assault at sea; but I had, from the first, regarded an attempt on the coast as a thing much more likely to succeed. Then Emily, and her father, and the honour of the flag, and the credit I might personally gain, had their influence; and, at sunset, all hope of finding the boat being gone, I ordered sail made on our course. The loss of the whale-boat occurred when we were about two thousand miles from the western coast of South America. We had a long road before us, consequently; and, as I had doubted whether the ship we had seen was the Crisis, it was necessary to be in motion, if anything was to be effected with our old enemies. The reader may feel some desire to know in what manner my succession to the command was received by the people. No man could have been more implicitly obeyed. I was now six feet and an inch in height, of a powerful and active frame, a good seaman, and had the habit of command, through a twelvemonth's experience. The crew knew me, having seen me tried, from the weather-earings down; and it is very likely I possessed more of their confidence than I deserved. At all events, I was as implicitly obeyed as if I had sailed from New York at their head. Everybody regretted Marble; more, I think, than we regretted poor Captain Williams, though it must have been on account of the manner we saw him disappear, as it might be, from before our eyes; since, of the two, I think the last was the most estimable man. Nevertheless, Marble had his strong points, and they were points likely to take with seamen; and they had particularly taken with us. As for the four Sandwich Islanders, I do not know that they occupied any of our minds at all. We had been accustomed to regard them as strange beings, who came from that ocean to which they had thus suddenly returned. Fifteen days after the loss of the whale-boat, we made the peaks of the Andes, a very few degrees to the southward of the equator. From some casual remarks made by the French, and which I had overheard, I had been led to believe they intended to run for Guayaquil, or its vicinity; and I aimed at reaching the coast near the same point. We had been in, ourselves, at several bays and roadsteads, moreover, on this part of the shore, on our way north; and I felt at home among them. We had acquaintances, too, who could not fail to be of use to us; and everything conspired to render this an advantageous land-fall. On the evening of the twenty-ninth day after quitting the island, we took the schooner into an open roadstead, where we had carried on some extensive traffic in the ship, about eight months before, and where I fancied we should still be recognised. As was expected, we had scarcely anchored, before a Don Pedro Something, a fellow with a surprising string of names, came off to us in a boat, in order to ascertain who we were, and what we wanted. Perhaps it would be better to say, what we had that _he_ wanted. I knew the man at a glance, having delivered to him, myself, three boat-loads of goods, and received a small bag of doubloons in exchange. A very few words, half-English, half-Spanish, served to renew our acquaintance; and I gave our old friend to understand that I was in search of the ship, from which I had been separated on some extra duty. After beating the bush to discover all he could, the Don Pedro gave me to understand that _a_ ship had gone in behind an island that was only ten miles to the southward of us, that very afternoon; that he had seen her himself, and had supposed she might be his old friend the Crisis, until he saw the French ensign at her gaff. This was sufficient, and I made inquiries for a pilot. A man qualified to carry us to the place was found in one of the boatmen. As I feared the news of the arrival of a schooner might be carried to the ship, much as we had got our intelligence, no time was lost, but we were under-way by ten o'clock. At midnight we entered the pass between the main and the island; there I got into a boat, and pulled ahead, in order to reconnoitre. I found the ship lying close under a high bluff, which made a capital lee, and with every sign about her of tranquillity. Still, I knew a vessel that was always in danger from the _guarda-costas_, and which relied on the celerity of its movements for its safety, would have a vigilant look-out. Accordingly, I took a cool and careful examination of the ship's position, landing and ascending the bluff, in order to do this at my ease. About two o'clock in the morning, I returned to the schooner. When I put my foot on the Polly's deck again, she was quite near the point, or bluff, having set down towards it during my absence. All hands were on deck, armed, and in readiness. Expectation had got to be so keen, that we had a little difficulty in keeping the men from cheering; but silence was preserved, and I communicated the result of my observations in as few words as possible. The orders were then given, and the schooner was brought under short sail, for the attack. We were so near our side of the bluff, while the ship lay so near the other, that my principal apprehension was of falling to leeward, which might give the French time to muster, and recollect themselves. The canvass, accordingly, was reduced to the fore-sail, though the jib, main-sail, and top-sail were all loose, in readiness to be set, if wanted. The plan was to run the ship aboard, on her starboard-bow, or off-side, as respected the island; and to do this with as little of a shock as possible. When everything was ready, I went aft, stood by the man at the helm, and ordered him to bear up. Neb placed himself just behind me. I knew it was useless to interfere, and let the fellow do as he pleased. The pilot had told me the water was deep, up to the rocks of the bluff; and we hugged the land as close as possible, in rounding the point. At the next moment the ship was in sight, distant less than a hundred fathoms. I saw we had good way, and, three minutes later, I ordered the fore-sail brailed. At the same instant I walked forward. So near were we, that the flapping of the canvass was heard in the ship, and we got a hail. A mystified answer followed, and then crash came our bows along those of the Crisis. “Hurrah! for the old craft!” shouted our men, and aboard we tumbled in a body. Our charge was like the plunge of a pack of hounds, as they leap through a hedge. The scene that followed was one of wild tumult. Some twenty pistols were fired, and a good many hard blows were struck; but the surprise secured us the victory. In less than three minutes, Talcott came to report to me that our lads had complete possession of the deck, and that the French asked for quarter. At first, the enemy supposed they had been seized by a _guarda-costa_, for the impression had been general among them that we intended to quit the island for Canton. Great was the astonishment among them when the truth came to be known. I heard a great many “_sacr-r-r-es! _” and certain other maledictions in low French, that it is scarcely worth while to repeat. Harris, one of the-Philadelphians, and the man who had got us into the difficulty by falling asleep on his watch, was killed; and no less than nine of our men, myself among the number, were hurt in this brisk business. All the wounds, however, were slight; only three of the injuries taking the parties off duty. As for the poor fellow who fell, he owed his death to risking too much, in order to recover the ground he had lost. The French fared much worse than ourselves. Of those killed outright, and those who died before morning, there were no less than sixteen; our fellows having fired a volley into a group that was rushing on deck, besides using their cutlasses with great severity for the first minute or two. This was on the principle that the first blow was half the battle. There were few wounded; most of those who fell being cut or thrust at by several at the same time--a species of attack that left little chance for escape. Poor Mons. Le Compte was found stone-dead at the cabin-doors, having been shot in the forehead, just as he put his foot on the deck. I heard his voice once in the fray, and feared it boded no good; but the silence which succeeded was probably caused by his just then receiving the fatal bullet. He was in his shirt.

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_1st Witch_. “Hail!” _2d Witch_. “Hail!” _3d Witch_. “Hail!” _1st Witch_. “Lesser than Macbeth, and greater.” _2d Witch_. “Not so happy, yet much happier.” MACBETH. I hope I shall be believed in saying, if Marble had been with us when we retook the ship, I should have been perfectly happy. He was not, however, and regret was left to mingle in our triumph. I had a hasty interview with Major Merton that night, and communicated all that was necessary to quiet the apprehensions of his daughter. Emily was in her state-room, and had been alarmed, as a matter of course; but when she learned that all was over, and had terminated successfully, her fears yielded to reason. Of course, both she and her father felt it to be a great relief that they were no longer prisoners. We were no sooner fairly in command of our old ship, again, than I had all hands called to get the anchor. We hove up, and passed out to sea without delay, it being necessary to cover our movements with as much mystery as possible, in order to prevent certain awkward demands from the Spanish government, on the subject of the violation of neutral territory. A hint from Major Merton put me on my guard as respected this point, and I determined to disappear as suddenly as we had arrived, in order to throw obstacles in the way of being traced. By day-light, therefore, both the ship and schooner were four leagues from the land, and on the “great highway of nations;” a road, it may be said in passing, that was then greatly infested by foot-pads and other robbers. Just as the sun rose, we buried the dead. This was done decently, and with the usual ceremony, the triumph of victory giving place to the sad reflections that are so apt to succeed to the excited feelings of most of our struggles. I saw poor Le Compte disappear from sight with regret, and remembered his recent hopes, his generous treatment, his admiration of Emily, and all that he had so lately thought and felt, as a warning of the fragile nature of life, and that which life can bestow. Thus terminated an acquaintance of a month; but a month that had been pregnant with incidents of great importance to myself. It now became necessary to decide on our future course. I had the ship, just as the French got her from us, with the addition of those portions of their own cargo with which they had intended to trade on the coast of South America. These consisted of silks and various fancy articles, with a little wine, and would be nearly as valuable at home as they were in Spanish America. I was strongly averse to smuggling, and the ship having already followed out her original instructions on this point, I saw no necessity for pursuing the ungrateful trade any further. Could I return to the island, and get the articles of value left on it by the French, such as the copper they had not used, and divers pales received from the Bombay ship, which had been abandoned by us all under a tent, more profit would accrue to my owners than by any illicit commerce we could now possibly carry into effect on the coast. While Talcott, and the new chief-mate, and myself were discussing these points, the cry of “sail ho!” was heard. A large ship had suddenly hove up out of the morning's mist, within a mile of us, and I thought, at first, we had got under the guns of a Spanish man-of-war. A second look at her, however, satisfied us all, that, though heavy and armed, she was merely one of those clumsy traders that sailed, periodically, from the colonies to Spain. We went to quarters, and cleared ship, but made no effort to avoid the stranger. The Spaniards, of the two, were the most uneasy, I believe, their country being then at war with England; but we spoke each other without coming to blows. As soon as the strangers saw the American ensign, they expressed a wish to communicate with us; and, unwilling to let them come on board us, I volunteered a visit to the Spanish captain. He received me with formal politeness, and, after some preliminary discourse, he put into my hands some American newspapers, which contained a copy of the treaty of peace between the United States and France. On looking over the articles of this new compact, I found that, had our recapture of the Crisis been delayed to that very day, at noon, it would have been illegal. The two nations, in fact, were at peace, when the French seized the ship, but the customary provisions as to captures in distant seas, just brought us within the saving clauses. Such is war, and its concomitants! In the course of half an hour's conversation, I discovered that the Spaniard intended to touch at Valparaiso, and called, in order to get men, his own having suffered, up the coast, with the small-pox. His ship was large, carried a considerable armament, and he should not deem her safe from the smaller English cruisers, unless he doubled the Cape much stronger handed than he then was. I caught at the idea, and inquired what he thought of Frenchmen? They would answer his purpose, for France and Spain had a common enemy, and nothing would be easier than to send the French from Cadiz to Marseilles. A bargain was consequently struck on the spot. When I got back on board the Crisis, I had all the prisoners mustered on deck. They were made acquainted with the offers of the Spanish captain, with the fact that peace now existed between our respective countries, and with the chance that presented itself, so opportunely, for them to return home. The proposition was cheerfully accepted, anything being better than captivity. Before parting, I endeavoured to impress on the French the necessity of prudence on the subject of our recapturing the Crisis in Spanish waters, inasmuch as the circumstance might induce an inquiry as to what took the ship there; it being well understood that the mines were the punishment of those who were taken in the contraband trade in that quarter of the world. The French promised fairly. Whether they kept their words I never knew, but, if they did not, no consequences ever followed from their revelations. In such a case, indeed, the Spanish government would be very apt to consider the question one that touched the interests of smugglers alike, and to feel great indifference between the parties. At all events, no complaints were ever made to the American government; or, if made, they never reached my ears, or those of my owners. It is most probable nothing was ever said on the subject. About noon we had got rid of our prisoners. They were allowed to take away with them all their own effects, and, as usually happens in such cases, I make little doubt some that belonged to other persons. The ships then made sail, each on her own course; the Spaniard running down the coast, while we spread our studding-sails for the island. As soon as this was done, I felt relieved from a great burthen, and had leisure to think of other matters. I ought to mention, however, that I put the second-mate, or him who had become chief-mate by my own advancement, in command of the “Pretty Poll,” giving him two experienced seamen as his own mates, and six men, to sail her. This made Talcott the Crisis' first officer, and glad was I to see him in a station a little suited to his attainments. That evening, just as the sun was setting, I saw Emily again, for the first time since she had stood leaning over the rail as the Crisis shot through the inlet of the lagoon. The poor girl was pale, and it was evident, while she could not but rejoice at her liberation, and her release from the solicitations of the unfortunate Le Compte, that his death had cast a shade of sadness over her pretty features. It could not well be otherwise, the female breast ever entertaining its sympathies for those who submit to the influence of its owner's charms. Then, poor Le Compte had some excellent qualities, and he treated Emily, as she admitted to me herself, with the profoundest respect, and delicacy. His admiration could scarce be an offence in _her_ eyes, however disagreeable it proved, in certain points of view. Our meeting partook of the character of our situation, being a mixture of melancholy and happiness. I rejoiced in our success, while I regretted Marble, and even our late enemies, while the Major and his daughter could not but remember all the gloomy particulars of their late, and, indeed, of their present position. “We seem to be kept, like Mahomet's coffin, sir,” Emily observed, as she looked affectionately at her father, “suspended between heaven and earth--the Indies and America--not knowing on which we are to alight. The Pacific is our air, and we are likely to breathe it, to our heart's content.” “True, love--your comparison is not an unhappy one. But, Wallingford, what has become of Captain Marble in these stirring times? You have not left him, Sancho Panza like, to govern Barritaria, while you have come to recover his ship?” I told my passengers of the manner in which our old friend had disappeared, and inquired if anything had been seen of the whale-boat, or the schooner, on the night of the tropical tempest. “Nothing”--answered the Major. “So far from expecting to lay eyes on the 'Beautiful Emily,' again, we supposed you would be off for Canton by the end of the fortnight that succeeded our own departure. At least, that was poor Le Compte's version of the matter. I am certain however, that no sail was seen from this ship, during the whole passage; nor, had we any storm like that you have described. More beautiful weather, I never met at sea.” Upon this, I sent for the log-book, and ascertained, by day and date, that the Crisis was not within fifty leagues of the spot, where we encountered the thunder-squall. Of course the ship we saw was a stranger; most probably a whaler. This destroyed any little hope that was left concerning Marble's fate. But it is time I should mention a _galanterie_ of poor Le Compte's. He was well provided with shipwrights--better, indeed, than with seamen--as was apparent by the readiness with which he had constructed the schooner. During the passage from Marble Land, he had set these workmen about building a poop on the Crisis' quarter-deck, and I found the work completed. There was a very pretty, airy cabin, with two state-rooms communicating with light quarter-galleries, and everything that is customary with such accommodations. Furniture had been made, with French dexterity and taste, and the paint was just dry to receive it. Emily and her father were to take possession of these new accommodations the very day succeeding that in which the ship fell again into our hands. This alteration was not such as I would have made, as a seaman; and I wonder Mons. Le Compte, who had the gauntlet to run through the most formidable navy in the world, should have ventured on it, since it sensibly affected the ship's sailing on a wind. But, now it was peace, I cared little about it, and determined to let it remain, so long, at least, as Miss Merton continued on board. That very night, therefore, the Major occupied one of the state-rooms, and his daughter the other. Imitating poor Le Compte's gallantry, I gave them a separate table, though I took quite half my meals with them, by invitation. Emily did not absolutely dress my wound, a flesh injury in the shoulder, that office falling to her father's share, who had seen a good deal of service, and was familiar with the general treatment of hurts of this nature; but she could, and did, show many of those gentle and seductive attentions, that the tenderness of her sex can alone bestow, with full effect, on man. In a fortnight my hurt was cured, though Emily had specifics to recommend, and advice to bestow, until we were both ashamed to allude to the subject any longer. As for the passage, it was just such a one as might be expected to occur, in the trades of the Pacific. The ship was under studding-sails nearly the whole time, making, day in and day out, from a hundred and twenty to two hundred miles in the twenty-four hours. The mates kept the watches, and I had little to do, but to sit and chat with the Major and his daughter, in the cool, airy cabin, that Le Compte had provided for us; listen to Emily's piano, which had been transferred from the prize, and subsequently saved from the wreck; or read aloud out of some of the two or three hundred beautifully bound, and sweetly-scented volumes that composed her library. In that day, people read Pope, and Young, and Milton, and Shakspeare, and that sort of writers; a little relieved by Mrs. Radcliffe, and Miss Burney, and Monk Lewis, perhaps. As for Fielding and Smollet, they were well enough in their place, which was not a young lady's library, however. There were still more useful books, and I believe I read everything in the ship, before the voyage ended. The leisure of a sea-life, in a tranquil, well-ordered vessel, admits of much study; and books ought to be a leading object in the fitting out that portion of a vessel's equipment which relates chiefly to the welfare of her officers and crew. Time passed pleasantly enough, with a young fellow who had certainly some reason to be satisfied with his own success thus far in life, and who could relieve the tedium of ship's duty in such society. I cannot say I was in love, though I often thought of Emily when she was not before my eyes, and actually dreamt of her three times, in the first fortnight after the re-capture of the ship. What was a little remarkable, as I conceive, I often found myself drawing comparisons between her and Lucy, though I hardly knew why, myself. The result was very much after this sort;--Emily had vastly the advantage in all that related to art, instruction, training--I am wrong, Mr. Harding had given his daughter a store of precise, useful knowledge, that Emily did not possess; and then I could not but see that Lucy's tact in moral feeling, was much of the highest order of the two. But, in purely conventional attainments, in most that relates to the world, its usages, its finesse of feeling and manner, I could see that Emily was the superior. Had I known more myself, I could have seen that both were provincial--for England, in 1801, was but a province, as to mere manners, though on a larger scale than America is even now--and that either would have been remarked for peculiarities, in the more sophisticated circles of the continent of Europe. I dare say, half my own countrymen would have preferred Lucy's nature to the more artificial manner of Emily; but, it will not do to say that even female deportment, however delicate and feminine nature may have made it, cannot be improved by certain general rules for the government of that which is even purely conventional. On the whole, I wished that Lucy had a little of Emily's art, and Emily a good deal more of Lucy's nature. I suppose the perfection in this sort of thing is to possess an art so admirable that it shall appear to be nature, in all things immaterial, while it leaves the latter strictly in the ascendant, in all that is material. In person, I sometimes fancied Emily was the superior, and, sometimes, when memory carried me back to certain scenes that had occurred during my last visit to Clawbonny, that it was Lucy. In complexion, and perhaps in eyes, the English girl beat her rival; possibly, also, in the teeth; though Lucy's were very even and white; but, in the smile, in the outline of the face, most especially in the mouth, and in the hands, feet, and person generally, I think nine judges in ten would have preferred the American. One peculiar charm was common to both; and it is a charm, though the strongest instance I ever saw of it in my life, was in Italy, that may be said to belong, almost exclusively, to the Anglo-Saxon race: I mean that expression of the countenance which so eminently betokens feminine purity and feminine tenderness united; the look which artists love to impart to the faces of angels. Each of the girls had much of this; and I suppose it was principally owing to their heavenly blue eyes. I doubt if any woman with black, or hazel eyes notwithstanding all the brilliancy of their beauty, ever possessed this charm in the higher degree. It belonged to Grace even more than to Lucy or Emily; though, of the two last, I think the English girl possessed it, in a slight degree, the most, so far as it was connected with mere shading and colour; while the American exhibited the most of it, in moments of feeling and emotion. Perhaps, this last advantage was owing to Lucy's submitting most to nature, and to her impulses. It must be remembered, however, that I had not seen Lucy, now, for near two years; and two of the most important years of a young female's life, as respected her personal appearance. As relates to character, I will not now speak as plainly as I shall be called on to do, hereafter. A youth of twenty is not the best judge of such things, and I shall leave events to tell their own story, in this particular. We had been at sea a fortnight, when happening to allude to the pearl fishery, I bethought me of my own prizes. A ship that carries a numerous crew, is a sort of _omnium gatherum_, of human employments. For ordinarily manned craft, seamen are necessary; but ships of war, privateers and letters-of-marque, can afford, as poor Marble would express it, to generalize. We had several tradesmen in the Crisis--mechanics, who found the restraints of a ship necessary for their own good--and, among others, we happened to have a goldsmith. This man had offered to perforate my pearls, and to string them; an operation to which I consented. The fellow had performed his task as well as could be desired, and supplying from his own stores a pair of suitable clasps, had formed the whole into a simple, but as beautiful a necklace, as I ever laid eyes on. He had put the largest pearl of all directly in the centre, and then arranged the remainder, by placing several of the smaller together separated by one of the second size, until the whole formed a row that would much more than encircle my own neck, and which, of course, would drop gracefully round that of a female. When I produced this beautiful ornament, one that a woman of rank might have coveted, Emily did not endeavour to conceal her admiration. Unaccustomed, herself, to the higher associations of her own country, she had never seen a necklace of the same value, and she even fancied it fit for a queen. Doubtless, queens usually possess much more precious pearls than those of mine, and yet it was to be supposed they would not disdain to wear even such as they. Major Merton examined the necklace carefully, and I could see by his countenance, he was surprised and pleased. On the whole, I think it may be questioned, if any other man enjoys as many _physical_ advantages with the same means, as the Americans. I speak more of his habits, than of his opportunities; but I am of opinion, after seeing a good deal of various parts of the world, that the American of moderate fortune has more physical indulgences than any other man. While this is true, however, as a whole, there are certain points on which he signally fails. He fails _often_, when it comes to the mere outward exhibition; and it is probable there is not a single well-ordered household--meaning for the purposes of comfort and representation united--in the whole country. The particular deficiency, if deficiency it be, applies in an almost exclusive degree to the use of precious stones, jewelry, and those of the more valuable metals in general. The ignorance of the value of precious stones is so great, that half the men, meaning those who possess more or less of fortune, do not even know the names of those of the commoner sorts. I doubt, if one educated American in twenty could, even at this moment, tell a sapphire from an amethyst, or a turquoise from a garnet; though the women are rather more expert as lapidaries. Now, I was a true American in this respect; and, while I knew I possessed a very beautiful ornament, I had not the smallest idea of its value, as an article of commerce. With the Major it was different. He had studied such things, and he had a taste for them. The reader will judge of my surprise, therefore, when I heard him say:-- “That necklace, in the hands of Rundle and Bridges, would bring a thousand pounds, in London!” “Father!” exclaimed Emily. “I do think it. It is not so much the size of the pearls, though these largest are not common even in that particular, but it is their extreme beauty; their colour and transparency--their _water_, as it is called.” “I thought that a term applied only to diamonds”--observed Emily, with an interest I wished she had not manifested. “It is also applied to pearls--there are pearls of what is called the 'white water,' and they are of the sort most prized in Europe. The 'yellow water' are more esteemed among nations of darker skins; I suppose that is the secret. Yes, I think if you send this necklace to London, Wallingford, you will get six or eight hundred pounds for it.” “I shall never sell it, sir--at least, not as long as I can avoid it.” I saw that Emily looked at me, with an earnestness for which I could not account. “Not sell it! --” repealed her father--“Why, what in the name of Neptune can _you_ do with such an ornament?” “Keep it. It is strictly my own. I brought it up, from the bottom of the sea, with my own hands; removed the pearls from what the editors would call their 'native homes' myself, and I feel an interest in them, that I never could feel in any ornament that was purchased.” “Still, this will prove rather an expensive taste. Pray, What interest do you obtain for money, in your part of the world, Wallingford?” “Six per cent., in New York, sir, perhaps, on the better sort of permanent securities.” “And how much is sixty pounds sterling, when turned into dollars?” “We usually say five for one, though it is not quite that; from two hundred and eighty to two hundred and ninety, all things considered--though two hundred and sixty-six, nominally, or thereabouts.” “Well, even two hundred and sixty-six dollars a year, is a good deal for a young man like you to pay, for the pleasure of saying he owns a pearl necklace that he cannot use.” “But it cost me nothing, sir, and of course I can lose nothing by it.” “I rather think you will lose what I tell you, if the ornament can be sold for that sum. When a man has property from which he might derive an income, and does not, he is, in one sense, and that the most important, a loser.” “I have a sister, Major Merton; I may possibly give it to her--or, should I marry, I would certainly give it to my wife.” I could see a smile struggling about the mouth of the major, which I was then too young, and I may add, too American, to understand. The incongruity of the wife of a man of two thousand, or five and twenty hundred dollars a-year, wearing two years' income round her neck, or of being magnificent in only one item of her dress, household, or manner of living, never occurred to my mind. We can all laugh when we read of Indian chiefs wearing uniform-coats, and cocked-hats, without any other articles of attire; but we cannot imagine inconsistencies in our own cases, that are almost as absurd in the eyes of highly sophisticated and conventional usages. To me, at that age, there was nothing in the least out of the way, in Mrs. Miles Wallingford's wearing the necklace, her husband being unequivocally its owner. As for Emily, she did not smile, but continued to hold the necklace in her own very white, plump hand, the pearls making the hand look all the prettier, while the hand assisted to increase the lustre of the pearls. I ventured to ask her to put the necklace on her neck. She blushed slightly, but she complied. “Upon my word, Emily,” exclaimed the gratified father, “you become each other so well, that I am losing a prejudice, and begin to believe even a poor man's daughter may be justified in using such an ornament.” The sight was certainly sufficient to justify anything of the sort. The dazzling whiteness of Miss Merlon's skin, the admirable outlines of her throat and bust, and the flush which pleasure gave her cheeks, contributed largely to the beauty of the picture. It would have been difficult to say, whether the charms of the woman ornamented the pearls, or those of the pearls ornamented the woman! I remember I thought, at the time, my eyes had never dwelt on any object more pleasing, than was Miss Merton during the novelty of that spectacle. Nor did the pleasure cease, on the instant; for I begged her to continue to wear the necklace during the remainder of the day; a request with which she had the good nature to comply. Which was most gratified by this exhibition, the young lady or myself, it might be difficult to say; for there is a mutual satisfaction in admiring, and in being admired. When I went into the cabin to say good-night, I found Emily Merton, with the necklace in her hand, gazing at it, by the light of a powerful lamp, with eyes as liquid and soft as the pearls themselves. I stood still to admire her; for never before had I seen her so bewitchingly beautiful. Her countenance was usually a little wanting in intellectual expression, though it possessed so much of that which I have described as _angelic_; but, on this occasion, _it seemed to me_, to be full of ideas. Can it be possible, whispered conceit--and what very young man is entirely free from it--can it be possible, she is now thinking how happy a woman Mrs. Miles Wallingford will one day be? --Am I in any manner connected with that meditating brow, that reflecting air, that fixed look, that pleased and yet doubting expression? “I was about to send for you, Captain Wallingford,” said Emily, the instant she saw me, and confirming my conceited conjectures, by blushing deeper than I had seen her before, in the whole of that blushing, sensitive, and enjoyable day; “about to send for you, to take charge of your treasure.” “And could you not assume that much responsibility, for a single night?” “'T would be too great--it is an honour reserved for Mrs. Wallingford, you know.” This was smilingly said, I fancied sweetly and kindly, and yet it was said not altogether without something that approached to an _équivoque_; a sort of manner that the deep, natural feeling of Grace, and needle-like truth of Lucy had rendered unpleasant to me. I took the necklace, shook the young lady's hand for good-night--we always did that, on meeting and parting for the day--paid my compliments to the father, and withdrew. I was dressing next morning, when Neb came bolting into my state-room, with his Clawbonny freedom of manner, his eyes looking lobsters, and _his_ necklace of pearl, glittering between a pair of lips that might have furnished a cannibal two famous steaks. As soon as fairly established in command, I had brought the fellow aft, berthing him in the steerage, in order to have the benefit of more of his personal service than I could obtain while he was exclusively a foremast Jack. Still, he kept his watch; for it would have been cruel to deprive, him of that pleasure. “Oh! Masser Mile!” exclaimed the black, as soon as he could speak; “'e boat! --'e boat!” “What of the boat? --Is any one overboard?” “'E whale-boat, sir! --Poor Captain Marble--'e whale-boat, sir!” “I understand you, Neb--go on deck, and desire the officer of the watch to heave-to the ship, as soon as it is proper; I will come up, the instant I can.” Here, then, I thought, Providence has brought us on the track of the unfortunate whale-boat; and we shall doubtless see the mutilated remains of some of our old companions--poor Marble, doubtless, from what Neb said--well, the will of God be done. I was soon dressed; and, as I went up the cabin-ladder, the movement on deck denoted the nature of the excitement that now prevailed generally, in the ship. Just as I reached the quarter-deck, the main-yard swung round, and the sails were brought aback. The whole crew was in commotion, and it was some little time before I could learn the cause. The morning was misty, and the view round the ship, until within a few minutes, had been confined to a circle of less than a mile in diameter. As the sun rose, however, the mist broke away gradually, and then the watch caught a view of the whale-boat mentioned by Neb. Instead of being floating about on the ocean, with the remains of its unfortunate crew lying in its bottom, as I had expected to see it, when I caught the first glimpse of the unlooked-for object, it was not a mile distant, pulling briskly for us, and containing not only a full, but a strong and an animated crew. Just at that instant, some one cried out “Sail-ho!” and sure enough, a ship was seen some four or five miles to leeward, a whaler evidently, turning to windward, under easy canvass, in order to rejoin her boat, from which she had lately been separated by the night and the fog. This, then, was no more than a whaler and her boat; and, on sweeping the horizon with a glass, Talcott soon discovered, a mile to windward of the boat, a dead whale, with another boat lying by it, in waiting for the approach of the ship, which promised to fetch as far to windward, on its next tack. “They desire to speak us, I suppose, Mr. Talcott,” I remarked. “The ship is probably an American; it is likely the captain is in the boat, and he wishes to send letters or messages home.” A shout came from Talcott, at the next instant--then he cried out-- “Three cheers, my lads; I see Captain Marble in that boat, as plainly as I see the boat itself!” The cheers that followed, were a spontaneous burst of joy. They reached the approaching boat, and gave its inmate an earnest of his reception. In three more minutes. Marble was on the deck of his old ship. For myself, I was unable to speak; nor was poor Marble much better off though more prepared for the interview. “I knew you, Miles; I knew you, and the bloody 'Pretty Poll,'” he at last got out, the tears running down his cheeks like water, “the moment the fog lifted, and gave me a fair glimpse. They've got her--yes--d----n her--God bless her, I mean--they've got her, and the bloody Frenchmen will not go home with _that_ feather in their caps. Well, it couldn't have happened to a cleverer fellow; and I'm just as happy as if I had done it myself!” There he stood, sound, safe, and sturdy as ever; and the four Sandwich Islanders were all in the boat, just as well as if they had never quitted the ship. Every man of the crew had to shake hands with Marble, congratulations were to be exchanged, and a turbulent quarter of an hour passed, before it was possible to get a coherent account from the man of what had befallen him. As soon as practicable, however, he motioned for silence, and told his own story aloud, for the benefit of all hands. “You know how I left you, men,” Marble commenced, swabbing his eyes and cheeks, and struggling to speak with something like an appearance of composure, “and the errand on which I went. The last I saw of you was about half an hour before the gust broke. At that time I was so near the ship, as to make out she was a whaler; and, nothing doubting of being in sight of you in the morning, I thought it safer to pull alongside of _her_, than to try to hunt for the schooner in the dark. I found an old shipmate in the whaler's captain, who was looking for a boat that had struck adrift the night before; and both parties were pleased. There was not much time for compliments, however, as you all know. The ship bore up to speak you, and then she bore up, again and again, on account of the squalls. While Mr. Wallingford was probably hugging the wind in order to find _me_, we were running off to save our spars; and next morning we could see nothing of you. How else we missed each other, is more than I can say; for I've no idee you went off and left me out here, in the middle of the ocean--” “We cruised for you, within five miles of the spot, for a whole day!” I exclaimed, eagerly. “No, no--Captain Marble,” the men put in, in a body, “we did all that men could do, to find you.” “I know it! I could swear to it, without a word from one of you. Well, that's the whole story. We could not find you, and I stuck by the ship as a matter of course, as there was no choice between that and jumping overboard; and here has the Lord brought us together again, though we are every inch of five hundred miles from the place where we parted.” I then took Marble below, and related to him all that had occurred since the separation. He listened with the deepest interest, manifesting the strongest sympathy in our success. Nothing but expressions of gratification escaped him, until I remarked, as I concluded my account-- “And here is the old ship for you, sir, just as we lost her; and glad am I to see her once more in so good hands.” “Who put that bloody poop on her, you or the Frenchman, Miles?” “The Frenchman. Now it is peace, however, it is no great matter; and the cabin is very convenient for the Major and his daughter.” “It's just like 'em! Spoiling the neatest quarter-deck on the ocean, with a bloody supernumerary cabin!” “Well, sir, as you are master now, you can have it all cut away again, if you think proper.” “I! I cut away anything! I take the command of this ship from the man who has so fairly won it! If I do, may I be d----d!” “Captain Marble! You astonish me by this language, sir; but it is nothing more than a momentary feeling, of which your own good sense--nay, even your duty to the owners--will cause you to get rid.” “You never were more mistaken in your life, Master Miles Wallingford,” answered Marble, solemnly. “I thought of all this the moment I recognised the ship, and that was as soon as I saw her; and my mind was made up from that instant. I cannot be so mean as to come in at the seventh hour, and profit by your courage and skill. Besides, I have no legal right to command here. The ship was more than twenty-four hours in the enemy's hands, and she comes under the usual laws of recapture and salvage.” “But the owners, Captain Marble--remember there is a cargo to be taken in at Canton, and there are heavy interests at stake.” “By George, that would make me so much the more firm. From the first, I have thought matters would be better in your hands than mine; you have an education, and that's a wonderful thing, Miles. As to sailing a ship, or stowing her, or taking care of her in heavy weather, or finding my way across an ocean, I'll turn my back on no man; but it's a different thing when it comes to figures and calculations.” “You disappoint me greatly in all this, sir; we have gone through so much together--” “We did not go through _the recapture of this vessel_ together, boy.” “But it was _your_ thought, and, but for an accident, would have been your _deed_.” “I don't know that; I have reflected coolly in the matter, after I got over my mortification; and I think we should have been flogged, had we attacked the French at sea. Your own plan was better, and capitally carried out. Harkee, Miles, this much will I do, and not a jot more. You are bound to the island, I take it for granted, to pick up odds and ends; and then you sail for Canton?” “Precisely--I am glad you approve of it, as you must by seeing into it so readily.” “Well, at the island, fill up the schooner with such articles as will be of no use at Canton. Let her take in the copper, the English goods, and the like of that; and I will carry her home, while you can pursue the v'y'ge in the ship, as you alone have a right to do.” No arguments of mine could turn Marble from his resolution. I fought him all day on the subject, and at night he was put in command of the “Pretty Poll,” with our old second-mate for his first officer.

19

None

“Thou shalt seek the beach of sand, Where the water bounds the elfin land; Thou shalt watch the oozy brine Till the sturgeon leaps in the light moonshine.” DRAKE. There is but a word to say of the whaler. We spoke her, of course, and parted, leaving her her boat. She passed half an hour, close to us, and then went after her whale. When we lost sight of her, she was cutting in the fish, as coolly as if nothing had happened. As for ourselves, we made the best of our way for the island. Nothing worth relating occurred during the remainder of the passage. We reached our place of destination ten days after we found Marble; and carried both the ship and schooner into the lagoon, without any hesitation or difficulty. Everything was found precisely as we had left it; two months having passed as quietly as an hour. The tents were standing, the different objects lay where they had been hastily dropped at our hurried departure, and everything denoted the unchangeable character of an unbroken solitude. Time and the seasons could alone have produced any sensible alteration. Even the wreck had neither shifted her bed, nor suffered injury. There she lay, seemingly an immovable fixture on the rocks, and as likely to last, as any other of the durable things around her. It is always a relief to escape from the confinement of a ship, even if it be only to stroll along the vacant sands of some naked beach. As soon as the vessels were secured, we poured ashore in a body, and the people were given a holiday. There was no longer an enemy to apprehend; and we all enjoyed the liberty of movement, and the freedom from care that accompanied our peculiar situation. Some prepared lines and commenced fishing; others hauled the seine; while the less industriously disposed lounged about, selected the fruit of the cocoa-nut tree, or hunted for shells, of which there were many, and those extremely beautiful, scattered along the inner and outer beaches, or lying, visible, just within the wash of the water. I ordered two or three of the hands to make a collection for Clawbonny; paying them, as a matter of course, for their extra services. Their success was great; and I still possess the fruits of their search, as memorials of my youthful adventures. Emily and her maid took possession of their old tents, neither of which had been disturbed; and I directed that the necessary articles of furniture should be landed for their use. As we intended to remain eight or ten days at Marble Land, there was a general disposition to make ourselves comfortable; and the crew were permitted to bring such things ashore as they desired, care being had for the necessary duties of the ships. Since quitting London, we had been prisoners, with the short interval of our former visit to this place, and it was now deemed wisest to give the people a little relaxation. To all this, I was advised by Marble; who, though a severe, and so often seemingly an obdurate man, was in the main disposed to grant as much indulgence, at suitable moments, as any officer I ever sailed with. There was an ironical severity, at times, about the man, which misled superficial observers. I have heard of a waggish boatswain in the navy, who, when disposed to menace the crew with some of his official visitations, used to cry out, “Fellow-citizens, I'm coming among you;” and the anecdote never recurs to my mind, without bringing Marble back to my recollection. When in spirits, he had much of this bitter irony in his manner; and his own early experience had rendered him somewhat insensible to _professional_ suffering; but, on the whole, I always thought him a humane man. We went into the lagoon, before the sun had risen; and before the breakfast hour of those who lived aft, we had everything landed that was necessary, and were in possession of our tents. I had ordered Neb to attend particularly to the wants of the Mertons; and, precisely as the bell of the ship struck eight, which, at that time of day, meant eight o'clock, the black came with the major's compliments, inviting “_Captain_” Wallingford and “_Captain_” Marble to breakfast. “So it goes, Miles,” added my companion, after promising to join the party in a few moments. “This arrangement about the schooner leaves us both captains, and prevents anything like your downhill work, which is always unpleasant business. _Captain_ Marble and _Captain_ Wallingford sound well; and I hope they may long sail in company. But natur' or art never meant me for a captain.” “Well, admitting this, where there are _two_ captains, one must outrank the other, and the senior commands. You should be called _Commodore_ Marble.” “None of your pleasantry, Miles,” returned Marble, with a severe look and a shake of the head; “it is by your favour, and I hope by your good opinion, that I am master of even that little, half-blooded, part French, part Yankee, schooner. It is my second, and I think it will be my last command. I have generalized over my life, upon a large scale, within the last ten days, and have come to the conclusion that the Lord created me to be your mate, and not you to be mine. When natur' means a man for anything partic'lar, she doesn't set him adrift among human beings, as I was set adrift.” “I do not understand you, sir--perhaps you will give me an outline of your history; and then all will be plain.” “Miles, oblige me in one particular--it will cost you no great struggle, and will considerably relieve my mind.” “You have only to name it, sir, to be certain it will be done.” “Drop that bloody _sir_, then; it's unbecoming now, as between you and me. Call me Marble, or Moses; as I call you, Miles.” “Well, be it so. Now for this history of yours, which you have promised to give me, by the way, any time these two years.” “It can be told in a few words; and I hope it may be of service. A human life, properly generalized on, is at any time as good as most sermons. It is full of what I call the morality of idees. I suppose you know to what I owe my names?” “Not I--to your sponsors in baptism, like all the rest of us, I suppose.” “You're nearer the truth than you may imagine, this time, boy. I was found, a child of a week old, they tell me, lying in a basket, one pleasant morning, in a stone-cutter's yard, on the North River side of the town, placed upon a bit of stone that was hewing out for the head of a grave, in order, as I suppose, that the workmen would be sure to find me, when they mustered at their work. Although I have passed for a down-easter, having sailed in their craft in the early part of my life, I'm in truth York born.” “And is this all you know of your origin, my dear Marble?” “All I _want_ to know, after such a hint. A man is never anxious to make the acquaintance of parents who are afraid to own him. I dare say, now, Miles, that _you_ knew, and loved, and respected _your_ mother?” “Love, and respect her! I worshipped her, Marble; and she deserved it all, if ever human being did!” “Yes, yes; I can understand _that_,” returned Marble, making a hole in the sand with his heel, and looking both thoughtful and melancholy. “It must be a great comfort to love and respect a mother! I've seen them, particularly young women, that I thought set quite as much store by their mothers, as they did by themselves. Well, no matter; I got into one of poor Captain Robbins's bloody currents at the first start, and have been drifting about ever since, just like the whale-boat with which we fell in, pretty much as the wind blew. They hadn't the decency to pin even a name--they might have got one out of a novel or a story-book, you know, to start a poor fellow in life with--to my shirt; no--they just set me afloat on that bit of a tombstone, and cast off the standing part of what fastened me to anything human. There they left me, to generalize on the 'arth and its ways, to my heart's content.” “And you were found next morning, by the stone-cutter, when he came, again, to use his chisel.” “Prophecy couldn't have better foretold what happened. There I was found, sure enough; and there I made my first escape from destruction. Seeing the basket, which it seems was one in which he had brought his own dinner, the day before, and forgotten to carry away with him, he gave it a jerk to cast away the leavings, before he handed it to the child who had come to take it home, in order that it might be filled again, when out I rolled on the cold stone. There I lay, as near the grave as a tomb-stone, when I was just a week old.” “Poor fellow--you could only know this by report, however. And what was done with you?” “I suppose, if the truth were known, my father was somewhere about that yard; and little do I envy the old gentleman his feelings, if he reflected much, over matters and things. I was sent to the Alms-House, however; stone-cutters being nat'rally hard-hearted, I suppose. The fact that I was left among such people, makes me think so much the more, that my own father must have been one of them, or it never could have happened. At all events, I was soon rated on the Alms-House books; and the first thing they did was to give me some name. I was No. 19, for about a week; at the age of fourteen days, I became Moses Marble.” “It was an odd selection, that your 'sponsors in baptism' made!” “Somewhat--Moses came from the scriptur's, they tell me; there being a person of that name, as I understand, who was turned adrift pretty much as I was, myself.” “Why, yes--so far as the basket and the abandonment were concerned; but he was put afloat fairly, and not clapped on a tomb-stone, as if to threaten him with the grave at the very outset.” “Well, Tombstone came very near being my name. At first, they thought of giving me the name of the man for whom the stone was intended; but, that being Zollickoffer, they thought I never should be able to spell it. Then came Tombstone, which they thought melancholy, and so they called me Marble; consaiting, I suppose, it would make me _tough. _” “How long did you remain in the Alms-House, and at what age did you first go to sea?” “I staid among them the public feeds, until I was eight years old, and then I took a hazy day to cut adrift from charity. At that time, Miles, our country belonged to the British--or they treated it as if it did, though I've heard wiser men than myself say, it was always our own, the king of England only happening to be our king--but I was born a British subject, and being now just forty, you can understand I went to sea several years before the revolution.” “True--you must have seen service in that war, on one side, or the other?” “If you say _both_ sides, you'll not be out of the way. In 1775, I was a foretop-man in the Romeny 50, where I remained until I was transferred to the Connecticut 74--” “The what?” said I, in surprise. “Had the English a line-of-battle ship called the Connecticut?” “As near as I could make it out: I always thought it a big compliment for John Bull to pay the Yankees.” “Perhaps the name of your ship was the Carnatic? The sounds are not unlike.” “Blast me, if I don't think you've hit it, Miles. Well, I'm glad of it, for I run from the ship, and I shouldn't half like the thought of serving a countryman such a trick. Yes, I then got on board of one of our sloops, and tried my hand at settling the account with my old masters. I was taken prisoner for my pains, but worried through the war without getting my neck stretched. They wanted to make it out, on board the old Jarsey, that I was an Englishman, but I told 'em just to prove it. Let 'em only prove where I was born, I said, and I would give it up. I was ready to be hanged, if they could only prove where I was born. D----, but I sometimes thought I never _was_ born, at all.” “You are surely an American, Marble? A Manhattanese, born and educated?” “Why, as it is not likely any person would import a child a week old, to plant it on a tombstone, I conclude I am. Yes, I must be _that_; and I have sometimes thought of laying claim to the property of Trinity Church, on the strength of my birth-right. Well, as soon as the war was over, and I got out of prison, and that was shortly after you were born, Captain Wallingford, I went to work regularly, and have been ever since sarving as dickey, or chief-mate, on board of some craft or other. If I had no family bosom to go into, as a resting-place, I had my bosom to fill with solid beef and pork, and that is not to be done by idleness.” “And, all this time, my good friend, you have been living, as it might be, alone in the world, without a relative of any sort?” “As sure as you are there. Often and often, have I walked through the streets of New York, and said to myself, Among all these people, there is not one that I can call a relation. My blood is in no man's veins, but my own.” This was said with a bitter sadness, that surprised me. Obdurate, and insensible to suffering as Marble had ever appeared to me, I was not prepared to find him giving such evidence of feeling. I was then young, but now am old; and one of the lessons learned in the years that have intervened, is not to judge of men by appearances. So much sensibility is hidden beneath assumed indifference, so much suffering really exists behind smiling countenances, and so little does the exterior tell the true story of all that is to be found within, that I am now slow to yield credence to the lying surfaces of things. Most of all had I learned to condemn that heartless injustice of the world, that renders it so prompt to decide, on rumour and conjectures, constituting itself a judge from which there shall be no appeal, in cases in which it has not taken the trouble to examine, and which it had not even the power to examine evidence. “We are all of the same family, my friend,” I answered, with a good design at least, “though a little separated by time and accidents.” “Family! --Yes, I belong to my own family. I'm a more important man in my family, than Bonaparte is in his; for I am all in all; ancestors, present time and posterity!” “It is, at least, your own fault you are the last; why not marry and have children?” “Because my parents did not set me the example,” answered Marble, almost fiercely. Then clapping his hand on my shoulder, in a friendly way, as if to soothe me after so sharp a rejoinder, he added in a gentler tone--“Come, Miles, the Major and his daughter will want their breakfasts, and we had better join them. Talking of matrimony, there's the girl for you, my boy, thrown into your arms almost nat'rally, as one might say.” “I am far from being so sure of that. Marble.” I answered, as both began to walk slowly towards the tent “Major Merton might hot think it an honour, in the first place, to let his daughter marry a Yankee sailor.” “Not such a one as myself, perhaps; but why not one like you? How many generations have there been of you, now, at the place you call Clawbonny?” “Four, from father to son, and all of us Miles Wallingfords.” “Well, the old Spanish proverb says 'it takes three generations to make a gentleman;' and here you have four to start upon. In _my_ family, all the generations have been on the same level, and I count myself old in my sphere.” “It is odd that a man like you should know anything of old Spanish proverbs!” “What? Of _such_ a proverb, think you, Miles? A man without even a father or mother--who never had either, as one may say--and he not remember such a proverb! Boy, boy, I never forget anything that so plainly recalls the tomb-stone, and the basket, and the Alms-House, and Moses, and the names!” “But Miss Merton might object to the present generation,” I resumed, willing to draw my companion from his bitter thoughts, “however favourably disposed her father might prove to the last.” “That will be your own fault, then. Here you have her, but on the Pacific Ocean, all to yourself; and if you cannot tell your own story, and that in a way to make her believe it, you are not the lad I take you for.” I made an evasive and laughing answer; but, being quite near the tent by this time, it was necessary to change the discourse. The reader may think it odd, but that was the very first time the possibility of my marrying Emily Merton ever crossed my mind. In London, I had regarded her as an agreeable acquaintance, with just as much of the colouring of romance and of the sentimental about our intercourse, as is common with youths of nineteen and girls a little younger; but as nothing more. When we met on the island, Emily appeared to me like a friend--a _female_ friend--and, of course, one to be viewed with peculiarly softened feelings; still, as only a friend. During the month we had just passed in the same ship, this tie had gradually strengthened; and I confess to a perfect consciousness of there being on board a pretty girl in her nineteenth year, of agreeable manners, delicate sentiments, and one whose presence gave the Crisis a charm she certainly never enjoyed during poor Captain Williams's time. Notwithstanding all this, there was something--though what that something was, I did not then know myself--which prevented me from absolutely falling in love with my fair guest. Nevertheless, Marble's suggestion was not unpleasant to me; but, on the other hand, it rather conduced to the satisfaction of my present visit. We were kindly received by our hosts, who always seemed to remember the commencement of our acquaintance, when Marble and myself visited them together. The breakfast had a little of the land about it; for Mons. Le Compte's garden still produced a few vegetables, such as lettuce, pepper-grass, radishes, &c.; most of which, however, had sown themselves. Three or four fowls, too, that he had left on the island in the hurry of his departure, had begun to lay; and Neb having found a nest, we had the very unusual treat of fresh eggs. I presume no one will deny that they were sufficiently “country-laid.” “Emily and myself consider ourselves as old residents here,” the Major observed, as he gazed around him, the table being set in the open air, under some trees; “and I could almost find it in my heart to remain on this beautiful island for the remainder of my days--quite, I think, were it not for my poor girl, who might find the society of her old father rather dull work, at her time of life.” “Well, Major,” said Marble, “you have only to let your taste be known, to have the ch'ice among all our youngsters to be her companion. There is Mr. Talcott, a well-edicated and mannerly lad enough, and of good connexions, they tell me; and as for Captain Wallingford here, I will answer for _him_. My life on it, he would give up Clawbonny, and the property on which he is the fourth of his name, to be king, or Prince of Wales of this island, with such company!” Now, it was Marble, and not I, who made this speech; and yet I heartily wished it unsaid. It made me feel foolish and I dare say it made me look foolish; and I know it caused Emily to blush. Poor girl! she, who blushed so easily, and was so sensitive, and so delicately situated--she was entitled to have more respect paid to her feelings. The Major and Marble, however, took it all very coolly, continuing the discourse as if nothing out of the way had been said. “No doubt--no doubt,” answered the first; “romance always finds votaries among young people, and this place may well excite romantic feelings in those who are older than these young men. Do you know, gentlemen, that ever since I have known this island, I have had a strong desire to pass the remainder of my days on it? The idea I have just mentioned to you, therefore, is by no means one of a moment's existence.” “I am glad, at least, dear sir,” observed Emily, laughing, “that the desire has not been so strong as to induce you to make formal proposals on the subject.” “You, indeed, are the great obstacle; for what could I do with a discontented girl, whose mind would be running on balls, theatres, and other amusements? We should not have even a church.” “And, Major Merton,” I put in, “what could you, or any other man, do with _himself_, in a place like this, without companions, books, or occupation ?” “If a conscientious man, Miles, he might think over the past; if a wise one, he would certainly reflect on the future. I should have books, since Emily and I could muster several hundred volumes between us; and, _with_ books, I should have companions. What could I do? I should have everything to create, as it might be, and the pleasure of seeing everything rising up under my own hand. There would be a house to construct--the materials of that wreck to collect--ropes, canvass, timber, tar, sugar, and divers other valuables that are still out on the reef, or which lie scattered about on the beach, to gather together, and save against a rainy day. Then I would have a thought for my poultry; and possibly you might be persuaded to leave me one or two of these pigs, of which I see the French forgot half a dozen, in their haste to cheat the Spaniards. Oh! I should live like a prince and be a prince _regnant_ in the bargain.” “Yes, sir, you would be captain and all hands, if that would be any gratification; but I think you would soon weary of your government, and be ready to abdicate.” “Perhaps so, Miles; yet the thought is pleasant to me: but for this dear girl, it would be particularly so. I have very few relatives; the nearest I have being, oddly enough, your own country-people, gentlemen. My mother was a native of Boston, where my father, a merchant, married her; and I came very near being a Yankee myself, having been born but a week after my parents landed in England. On my father's side, I have not five recognised relatives, and they are rather distant; while those on my mother's are virtually all strangers. Then I never owned a foot of this earth on which we live, in my life--” “Nor I,” interrupted Marble, with emphasis. “My father was a younger son; and younger sons in England are generally lack-lands. My life has been such, and, I may add, my means such, that I have never been in the way of purchasing even enough earth to bury me in; and here, you see, is an estate that can be had for asking. How much land do you fancy there is in this island, gentlemen? I mean, apart from the beach, the sands and rocks; but such as has grass, and bears trees--ground that might be tilled, and rendered productive, without much labour?” “A hundred thousand acres,” exclaimed Marble, whose calculation was received with a general laugh. “It seems rather larger to me, sir,” I answered, “than the farm at Clawbonny. Perhaps there may be six or eight hundred acres of the sort of land you mention; though the whole island must contain several thousands--possibly four, or five.” “Well, four or five thousand acres of land make a good estate--but, as I see Emily is getting frightened, and is nervous under the apprehension of falling heir to such extensive possessions, I will say no more about them.” No more _was_ said, and we finished our breakfasts, conversing of the past, rather than of the future. The Major and Marble went to stroll along the groves, in the direction of the wreck; while I persuaded Emily to put on her hat and stroll--the other way. “This is a singular notion of my father's,” my fair companion remarked, after a moment of musing; “nor is it the first time, I do assure you, on which he has mentioned it. While we were here before, he spoke of it daily.” “The scheme might do well enough for two ardent lovers,” said I, laughing; “but would scarcely be Wise for an elderly gentleman and his daughter. I can imagine that two young people, warmly attached to each other, might get along in such a place for a year or two, without hanging themselves; but I fancy even love would tire out, after a while, and they would set about building a boat, in which to be off.” “You are not very romantic, I perceive, Mr. Wallingford,” Emily answered, and I thought a little reproachfully. “Now, I own that to my taste, I could be happy anywhere--here, as well as in London, surrounded by my nearest and dearest friends.” “Surrounded! Ay, that would be a very different matter. Let me have your father, yourself, honest Marble, good Mr. Hardinge, Rupert, dear, dear Grace, and Lucy, with Neb and some others of my own blacks, and I should ask no better home. The island is only in twenty, has plenty of shade some delicious fruits, and Would be easily tilled--one might do here, I acknowledge, and it would be pleasant to found a colony.” “And who are all these people you love so well, Mr. Wallingford, that their presence would make a desert island pleasant?” “In the first place, Major Merton is a half-pay officer in the British service, who has been appointed to some civil station in India”--I answered, gallantly. “He is a respectable, agreeable, well-informed gentleman, a little turned of fifty, who might act as Judge and Chancellor. Then he has a daughter--” “I know more of her and her bad qualities than you do yourself, _Sire_--but who are Rupert, and Grace, and Lucy--_dear, dear_ Grace, especially?” “Dear, _dearest_ Grace, Madam, is my sister--my _only_ sister--all the sister I ever can have, either by marriage, or any other means, and sisters are usually _dear_ to young men, I believe.” “Well--I knew you had a sister, and a _dear_ sister, but I also knew you had but one. Now as to Rupert--” “He is not another sister, you may be well assured. I have mentioned to you a friend from childhood, who went to sea with me, at first, but, disliking the business, has since commenced the study of the law.” “That, then, is Rupert. I remember some such touches of his character, but did not know the name. Now, proceed on to the next--” “What, Neb! --You know _him_ almost as well as I do myself. He is yonder feeding the chickens, and will save his passage money.” “But you spoke of another--that is--was there not a Mr.--, Hardinge was the name, I think?” “Oh! true--I forgot Mr. Hardinge and Lucy, though they would be two of the most important of the colonists. Mr. Hardinge is my guardian, and will continue to be so a few months longer, and Lucy is his daughter--Rupert's sister--the old gentleman is a clergyman, and would help us to keep Sundays as one should, and might perform the marriage ceremony, should it ever be required.” “Not much danger of that, I fancy, on your _desert_ island--your Barrataria”--observed Miss Merton, quickly. I cannot explain the sensitiveness of certain young ladies on such points, unless it be through their consciousness. Now, had I been holding this idle talk with Lucy, the dear, honest creature would have laughed, blushed ever so little, possibly, and nodded her head in frank assent; or, perhaps, she would have said “oh! certainly,” in a way to show that she had no desire to affect so silly a thing as to wish one to suppose she thought young people would not get married at Marble Land, as well as Clawbonny, or New York. Miss Merton, however, saw fit to change the discourse, which soon turned on her father's health. On this subject she was natural and full of strong affection. She was anxious to get the Major out of the warm latitudes. His liver had been touched in the West Indies, but he had hoped that he was cured, or he never would have accepted the Bombay appointment. Experience, however, was giving reason to suspect the contrary, and Emily wished him in a cold climate as soon as possible, and that with an earnestness that showed she regarded all that had been said about the island as sheer pleasantry. We continued the conversation for an hour when, returning to the tent, I left my fair companion with a promise to be as active as possible, in order to carry the ship into a higher latitude. Still I did not deem the island a particularly dangerous place, notwithstanding its position; the trades and sea breezes, with its ample shades, rendering the spot one of the most delightful tropical abodes I had ever been in. After quitting Emily, I went to join Marble, who was alone, pacing a spot beneath the trees, that poor Le Compte had worn into a path, and which he had himself called his “quarter-deck.” “This Major Merton is a sensible man, Miles,” the ex-mate began, as soon as I dropped in alongside of him, and joined in his semi-trot; “a downright, sensible sort of a philosopher-like man, accordin' to my notion.” “What has he been telling you, now, that has seized your fancy so much stronger than common?” “Why, I was thinking of this idee of his, to remain on the island, and pass the remainder of the v'y'ge here, without slaving day and night to get up two or three rounds of the ladder of promotion, only to fall down again.” “And did the Major speak of such things? I know of no disappointments of his, to sour him with the world.” “I was not speaking for Major Merton, but for myself, Miles. To tell you the truth, boy, this idee seems just suited to me, and I have almost made up my mind to remain behind, here, when you sail.” I looked at Marble with astonishment; the subject on which the Major had spoken in pleasantry, rather than with any real design of carrying his project into execution, was one that my old messmate regarded seriously! I had noted the attention with which he listened to our discourse, during breakfast, and the strong feeling with which he spoke at the time, but had no notion of the cause of either. I knew the man too well, not to understand, at once, that he was in sober earnest, and had too much experience of his nature, not to foresee the greatest difficulty in turning him from his purpose. I understood the true motive to be professional mortification at all that occurred since he had succeeded Captain Williams in command; for Marble was much too honest and too manly, to think for a moment of concealing his own misfortunes behind the mantle offered by my success. “You have not thought of this matter sufficiently, my friend,” I answered, evasively, knowing the folly of attempting to laugh the matter off--“when you have slept on it a night, you will see things differently.” “I fancy not, Miles. Here is all I want, and just what I want. After you have taken away everything that can be required for the vessels, or desirable to the owners, there will be enough left to keep me a dozen lives.” “It is not on account of food, that I speak--the island alone in its fruits, fish and birds, to say nothing as to the seeds, and fowls, and pigs, we could leave you, would be sufficient to keep fifty men; but, think of the solitude, the living without object, the chances of sickness--the horrible death that would follow to one unable to rise and assist himself, and all the other miseries of being alone. Depend on it, man was not created to live alone. Society is indispensable to him, and--” “I have thought of it all, and find it entirely to my taste. I tell you, Miles, I should be exactly in my sphere, in this island, and that as a hermit. I do not say I should not like _some_ company, if it could be yourself, or Talcott, or the Major, or even Neb; but no company is better than bad; and as for asking, or _allowing_ any one to stay with me, it is out of the question. I did, at first, think of keeping the Sandwich Islanders; but it would be bad faith, and they would not be likely to remain quiet, after the ship had sailed. No, I will remain alone. You will probably report the island when you get home, and that will induce some vessel, which may be passing near, to look for me, so I shall hear of you all, every four or five years.” “Gracious heaven! Marble, you cannot be serious in so mad a design?” “Just look at my situation, Miles, and decide for yourself. I am without a friend on earth--I mean nat'ral friend--I know what sort of friend you are, and parting with you will be the toughest of all--but I have not a relation on the wide earth--no property, no home no one to wish to see me return, not even a cellar to lay my head in. To me all places are alike, with the exception of this, which, having discovered, I look upon as my own.” “You have a _country_, Marble; and that is the next thing to family and home--overshadows all.” “Ay, and I'll have a country here. This will be America, having been discovered by Americans, and in their possession. You will leave me the buntin', and I'll show the stars and stripes of a 4th of July, just as you will show 'em, in some other part of the world. I was born Yankee, at least, and I'll die Yankee, I've sailed under that flag, boy, ever since the year '77, and will not sail under another you may depend on it.” “I never could justify myself to the laws for leaving a man behind me in such a place.” “Then I'll run, and that will make all right. But, you know well enough, boy, that leaving a captain is one thing, and leaving a man another.” “And what shall I tell all your acquaintances, those who have sailed with you so often and so long, has become of their old ship-mate?” “Tell 'em that the man who was once _found_, is now _lost_,” answered Marble, bitterly. “But I am not such a fool as to think myself of so much importance as you seem to imagine. The only persons who will consider the transaction of any interest will be the newspaper gentry, and they will receive it only as _news_, and thank you about half as much as they would for a murder, or a robbery, or the poisoning of a mother and six little children.” “I think, after all, you would scarcely find the means of supporting yourself,” I added, looking round in affected doubt; for I felt, at each instant, how likely my companion was to adhere to his notion, and this from knowing him so well. “I doubt if the cocoa is healthy, all the year round, and there must be seasons when the trees do not bear.” “Have no fear of that sort. I have my own fowling-piece, and you will leave me a musket, or two, with some ammunition. Transient vessels, now the island is known, will keep up the supply. There are two hens setting, at this moment, and a third has actually hatched. Then one of the men tells me there is a litter of pigs, near the mouth of the bay. As for the hogs and the poultry, the shell-fish and berries will keep them; but there are fifteen hogsheads of sugar on the beach, besides thirty or forty more in the wreck, and all above water. There are casks of beans and peas, the sea-stores of the French, besides lots of other things. I can plant, and fish, and shoot, and make a fence from the ropes of the wreck, and have a large garden, and all that a man can want. Our own poultry, you know, has long been out; but there is still a bushel of Indian-corn left, that was intended for their feed. One quart of that, will make me a rich man, in such a climate as this, and with soil like that on the flat between the two groves. I own a chest of tools, and am, ship-fashion, both a tolerable carpenter and blacksmith; and I do not see that I shall want for anything. You _must_ leave half the things that are scattered about, and so far from being a man to be pitied, I shall be a man to be envied. Thousands of wretches in the greatest thoroughfares of London, would gladly exchange their crowded streets and poverty, for my solitude and abundance.” I began to think Marble was not in a state of mind to reason with, and changed the subject. The day passed in recreation, as had been intended; and next morning we set about filling up the schooner. We struck in all the copper, all the English goods, and such portions of the Frenchman's cargo as would be most valuable in America. Marble, however, had announced to others his determination to remain behind, to abandon the seas, and to turn hermit. As his first step, he gave up the command of the Pretty Poll, and I was obliged to restore her, again, to our old third-mate, who was every way competent to take care of her. At the end of the week, the schooner was ready, and despairing of getting Marble off in _her_, I ordered her to sail for home, viâ Cape Horn; giving especial instructions not to attempt Magellan. I wrote to the owners, furnishing an outline of all that had occurred, and of my future plans, simply remarking that Mr. Marble had declined acting out of motives of delicacy, since the re-capture of the ship; and that, in future, their interests must remain in my care. With these despatches the schooner sailed. Marble and I watched her until her sails became a white speck on the ocean, after which she suddenly disappeared. As for the ship, she was all ready; and my only concern now was in relation to Marble. I tried the influence of Major Merton; but, unfortunately, that gentleman had already said too much in favour of our friend's scheme, in ignorance of its effect, to gain much credit when he turned round, and espoused the other side. The arguments of Emily failed, also. In fact, it was not reason, but feeling that governed Marble; and, in a bitter hour, he had determined to pass the remainder of his days where he was. Finding all persuasion useless, and the season approaching when the winds rendered it necessary to sail, I was compelled to yield, or resort to force. The last I was reluctant to think of; nor was I certain the men would have obeyed me had I ordered them to use it. Marble had been their commander so long, that he might, at any moment, have re-assumed the charge of the ship; and it was not probable his orders would have been braved under any circumstances that did not involve illegality, or guilt. After a consultation with the Major, I found it necessary to yield to this whim, though I did so with greater reluctance than I ever experienced on any other occasion.

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“Pass on relentless world! I grieve No more for all that thou hast riven! Pass on, in God's name--only leave The things thou never yet hast given. --” LUNT. After every means had been uselessly exhausted to persuade Marble from his design, it only remained to do all we could to make him comfortable and secure. Of enemies, there was no danger, and care was not necessary for defence. We got together, however, some of the timber, planks and other materials, that were remaining at the shipyard, and built him a cabin, that offered much better shelter against the tropical storms that sometimes prevailed, than any tent could yield. We made this cabin as wide as a plank is long, or twelve feet, and some five or six feet longer. It was well sided and tightly roofed, having three windows and a door. The lights of the wreck supplied the first, and her cabin-door the last. We had hinges, and everything that was necessary to keep things in their place. There was no chimney required, fire being unnecessary for warmth in that climate; but the French had brought their camboose from the wreck, and this we placed under a proper covering at a short distance from the hut, the strength of one man being insufficient to move it. We also enclosed, by means of ropes, and posts made of the ribs of the wreck, a plot of ground of two acres in extent, where the land was the richest and unshaded, so as to prevent the pigs from injuring the vegetables; and, poor Marble knowing little of gardening, I had a melancholy pleasure in seeing the whole piece dug, or rather hoed up, and sown and planted myself, before we sailed. We put in corn, potatoes, peas, beans, lettuce, radishes, and several other things, of which we found the seeds in the French garden. We took pains, moreover, to transport from the wreck, many articles that it was thought might prove of use, though they were too heavy for Marble to handle. As there were near forty of us, all busy in this way for three or four days, we effected a great deal, and may be said to have got the island in order. I felt the same interest in the duty, that I should in bestowing a child for life. Marble, himself, was not much among us all this time. He rather complained that I should leave him nothing to do, though I could see he was touched by the interest we manifested in his welfare. The French launch had been used as the means of conveyance between the wreck and the beach, and we found it where it had been left by its original owners, anchored to-leeward of the island, and abreast of the ship. It was the last thing I meddled with and it was my care to put it in such a state that, at need, it might be navigated across that tranquil sea, to some other island, should Marble feel a desire to abandon his solitude. The disposition I made of the boat was as follows:-- The launch was large and coppered, and it carried two lug-sails. I had both masts stepped, with the yards, sails, sheets, &c. prepared, and put in their places; a stout rope was next carried round the entire boat, outside, and a few inches below the gunwale, where it was securely nailed. From this rope, led a number of lanyards, with eyes turned into their ends. Through these eyes I rove a sort of ridge-rope, leading it also through the eyes of several stancheons that were firmly stepped on the thwarts. The effect, when the ridge-rope was set up, was to give the boat the protection of this waist-cloth, which inclined inboard, however, sufficiently to leave an open passage between the two sides, of only about half the beam of the boat. To the ridge-rope and lanyards, I had tarpaulins firmly attached, tacking their lower edges strongly to the outer sides of the boat. By this arrangement, when all was in its place, and properly secured, a sea might break, or a wave slap against the boat, without her taking in much water. It doubled her security in this particular, more than answering the purposes of a half-deck and wash-board. It is true, a very heavy wave might carry all away; but very heavy waves would probably fill the boat, under any circumstances. Such a craft could only find safety in her buoyancy; and we made her as safe as an undecked vessel very well could be. Marble watched me while I was superintending these changes in the boat, with a good deal of interest; and one evening--I had announced an intention to sail next morning, the Major and Emily having actually gone on board--that evening, he got my arm, and led me away from the spot, like a man who has urgent business. I could see that he was much affected, and had strong hopes he intended to announce a change of purpose. His hand actually trembled, the whole time it grasped my arm. “God bless you! Miles--God bless you, dear boy!” he said, speaking with difficulty, as soon as we were out of earshot from the others. “If any being could make me pine for the world, it would be such a friend as you. I could live on without father or mother, brother or sister, ship or confidence of my owners, good name even, were I sure of meeting such a lad as yourself in only every thousandth man I fell in with. But, young as you are, you know how it is with mankind; and no more need be said about it. All I ask now is, that you will knock off with this 'making him comfortable,' as you call it, or you'll leave me nothing to do for myself. I can fit out that boat as well as e'er a man in the Crisis, I'd have you to know.” “I am well aware of that, my friend; but I am not so certain that you _would. _ In that boat, I am in hopes you will follow us out to sea, and come on board again, and take your old place as master.” Marble shook his head, and I believe he saw by my manner that I had no serious expectations of the sort I named. We walked some distance farther, in silence, before he again spoke. Then he said suddenly, and in a way to show how much his mind was troubled-- “Miles, my dear fellow, you must let me hear from you!” “Hear from me! By what means, pray? You cannot expect the Postmaster-General will make a mail-route between New York and this island?” “Poh! I'm getting old, and losing my memory. I was generalizing on friendship, and the like of that, and the idee ran away with me. I know, of course, when you are out of sight, that I shall be cut off from the rest of the world--probably shall never see a human face again. But what of that? My time cannot be long now, and I shall have the fish, fowls and pigs to talk to. To tell you the truth, Miles. Miss Merton gave me her own Bible yesterday, and, at my request, she pointed out that part which gives the account about Moses in the bulrushes, and I've just been looking it over: it is easy enough, now, to understand why I was called Moses.” “But Moses did not think it necessary to go and live in a desert, or on an uninhabited island, merely because he was found in those bulrushes.” _“That_ Moses had no occasion to be ashamed of his parents. It was fear, not shame, that sent him adrift. Nor did Moses ever let a set of lubberly Frenchmen seize a fine, stout ship, like the Crisis, with a good, able-bodied crew of forty men on board her.” “Come, Marble, you have too much sense to talk in this manner. It is, fortunately, not too late to change your mind; and I will let it be understood that you did so at my persuasion.” This was the commencement of a final effort on my part to induce my friend to abandon his mad project. We conversed quite an hour, until I had exhausted my breath, as well as my arguments, indeed; and all without the least success. I pointed out to him the miserable plight he must be in, in the event of illness; but it was an argument that had no effect on a man who had never had even a headach in his life. As for society, he cared not a straw for it when ashore, he often boasted; and he could not yet appreciate the effects of total solitude. Once or twice, remarks escaped him as if he thought it possible I might one day return; but they were ventured in pleasantry, rather than with any appearance of seriousness. I could see that the self-devoted hermit had his misgivings, but I could obtain no verbal concession from him to that effect. He was reminded that the ship must positively sail next day, since it would not do to trifle with the interests of the owners any longer. “I know it, Miles,” Marble answered, “and no more need be said on the subject. Your people are through with their work, and here comes Neb to report the boat ready to go off. I shall try my hand ashore to-night, alone; in the morning, I suppose you would like to take an old shipmate by the hand for the last time, and you will nat'rally look for me at the water-side. Good-night! Before we part, however, I may as well thank you for the supply of clothes I see you have put in my hut. It was scarcely wanted, as I have enough needles and thread to supply a slop-shop; and the old duck left by the French will keep me in jackets and trowsers for the remainder of my days. Good-night, my dear boy! God bless you--God bless you!” It was nearly dark, but I could see that Marble's eyes looked moist, and feel that his hand again trembled. I left him, not without the hope that the solitude of this night, the first in which he had been left by himself, would have the effect to lessen his desire to be a hermit. When I turned in, it was understood that all hands were to be called at daylight, and the ship unmoored. Talcott came to call me, at the indicated moment. I had made him chief-mate, and taken one of the Philadelphians for second officer; a young man who had every requisite for the station, and one more than was necessary, or a love of liquor. But, drunkards do tolerably well on board a ship in which reasonable discipline is maintained. For that matter, Neptune ought to be a profound moralist, as youths are very generally sent to sea to cure most of the ethical flings. Talcott was directed to unmoor, and heave short. As for myself, I got into a boat and pulled ashore, with an intention of making a last and strong appeal to Marble. No one was visible on the island when we reached it. The pigs and fowls were already in motion, however, and were gathering near the door of the hut, where Marble was accustomed to feed them about that hour; the fowls on _sugar_, principally. I proceeded to the door, opened it, entered the place, and found it empty! Its late inmate was then up, and abroad. He had probably passed a sleepless night, and sought relief in the fresh air of the morning. I looked for him in the adjacent grove, on the outer beach, and in most of his usual haunts. He was nowhere visible. A little vexed at having so long a walk before me, at a moment when we were so much pressed for time, I was about to follow the grove to a distant part of the island, to a spot that I knew Marble frequented a good deal, when moody; but my steps were arrested by an accidental glance at the lagoon. I missed the Frenchman's launch, or the boat I had: myself caused to be rigged with so much care, the previous day, for the intended hermit's especial advantage. This was a large boat; one that had been constructed to weigh a heavy anchor; and I had left her, moored between a grapnel and the shore, so securely, as to forbid the idea she could have been moved, in so quiet a time, without the aid of hands. Rushing to the water, I got into my own boat, and pulled directly on board. On reaching the ship, a muster of all hands was ordered. The result proved that everybody was present, and at duty. It followed that Marble, alone, had carried the boat out of the lagoon. The men who had had the anchor-watches during the past night, were questioned on the subject; but no one had seen or heard anything of a movement in the launch. Mr. Talcott was told to continue his duty, while I went aloft myself, to look at the offing. I was soon in the main-top-mast cross-trees, where a view was commanded of the whole island, a few covers excepted, of all the water within the reef, and of a wide range without. Nowhere was the boat or Marble to be seen. It was barely possible that he had concealed himself behind the wreck, though I did not see how even this could be done, unless he had taken the precaution to strike the launch's masts. By this time, our last anchor was aweigh, and the ship was clear of the bottom. The top-sails had been hoisted before I went aloft, and everything was now ready for filling away. Too anxious to go on deck, under such circumstances, and a lofty position being the best for ascertaining the presence of rocks, I determined to remain where I was, and conn the ship through the passes, in my own person. An order was accordingly given to set the jib, and to swing the head-yards, and get the spanker on the ship. In a minute, the Crisis was again in motion, moving steadily towards the inlet. As the lagoon was not entirely free from danger, coral rocks rising in places quite near the surface of the water, I was obliged to be attentive to the pilot's duty, until we got into the outer bay, when this particular danger in a great measure disappeared. I could then look about me with more freedom. Though we so far changed our position, as respected the wreck, as to open new views of it, no launch was to be seen behind it. By the time the ship reached the passage through the reef, I had little hope of finding it there. We had got to be too familiar with the channels, to have any difficulty in taking the ship through them; and we were soon fairly to windward of the reef. Our course, however, lay to leeward; and we passed round the southern side of the rocks, under the same easy canvass, until we got abreast, and within half a cable's length of the wreck. To aid my own eyes, I had called up Talcott and Neb; but neither of us could obtain the least glimpse of the launch. Nothing was to be seen about the wreck; though I took the precaution to send a boat to it. All was useless. Marble had gone out to sea, quite alone, in the Frenchman's launch; and, though twenty pairs of eyes were now aloft, no one could even fancy that he saw anything in the offing, that resembled a boat. Talcott and myself had a private interview on the subject of Marble's probable course. My mate was of opinion, that our friend had made the best of his way for some of the inhabited islands, unwilling to remain here, when it came to the pinch, and yet ashamed to rejoin us. I could hardly believe this; in such a case, I thought he would have waited until we had sailed; when he might have left the island also, and nobody been the wiser. To this Talcott answered that Marble probably feared our importunities; possibly, compulsion. It seemed singular to me, that a man who regretted his hasty decision, should adopt such a course; and yet I was at a loss to explain the matter much more to my own satisfaction. Nevertheless, there was no remedy. We were as much in the dark as it was possible to be with a knowledge of the circumstance that the bird had flown. We hovered around the reef for several hours, most of which time I passed in the cross-trees, and some of it on the royal-yard. Once, I thought I saw a small speck on the ocean, dead to windward, that resembled a boat's sail; but there were so many birds flying about, and glancing beneath the sun's rays, that I was reluctantly compelled to admit it was probably one of them. At meridian, therefore, I gave the order to square away, and to make sail on our course. This was done with the greatest reluctance, however, and not without a good deal of vaciliation of purpose. The ship moved away from the land rapidly, and by two o'clock, the line of cocoa-nut trees that fringed the horizon astern, sunk entirely beneath the rolling margin of our view. From that moment, I abandoned the expectation of ever seeing Moses Marble again, though the occurrence left all of us sad, for several days. Major Merton and his daughter were on the poop, nearly the whole of this morning. Neither interfered in the least; for the old soldier was too familiar with discipline to venture an opinion concerning the management of the ship. When we met at dinner, however, the conversation naturally turned on the disappearance of our old friend. “It is a thousand pities that pride should have prevented Marble from acknowledging his mistake,” observed the Major, “and thus kept him from getting a safe passage to Canton, where he might have left you, and joined another ship had he thought it necessary.” “Where we shall do the same thing, I suppose, dear sir,” added Emily, with a manner that I thought marked, “and thus relieve Captain Wallingford from the encumbrance of our presence.” “Me! --call your delightful society anything but an enumbrance, I beg of you, Miss Merton,” I rejoined in haste. “Now, that Mr. Le Compte has furnished this comfortable cabin, and you are no longer at any inconvenience to yourselves, I would not be deprived of the advantage and pleasure of this association, for more than I dare mention.” Emily looked gratified; while her father appeared to me to be thoughtful. After a brief pause, however, the Major resumed the discourse. “I should certainly feel myself bound to make many apologies for the trouble we are giving,” he said, “especially, since I understand from Wallingford, he will not accept, either for himself or his owners, anything like compensation even for the food we consume, were it not that we are here by constraint, and not by any agency of our own. As soon as we reach Canton, however, I shall feel it a duty to get on board the first English ship that will receive us.” I stole a glance at Emily, but could not understand the expression of her countenance, as she heard this announcement. Of course, I made an earnest protest against the Major's doing anything of the sort; and yet I could not well find any sufficient reason for urging him to remain where he was, beyond my own gratification. I could not go to either England, or Bombay; and I took it for granted Major Merton wished to proceed, at once, to one, if not to both of these places. We conversed, a little generally perhaps, on the subject for some time longer; and when I left the cabin, it struck me, Emily's melancholy had, in no degree, lessened. It is a long road to traverse over half of the Pacific. Weeks and weeks were thus occupied; Talcott and myself profiting by every suitable occasion, to enjoy the advantages of the association chance had thus thrown in our way. I make no doubt I was greatly benefited by my constant communications with the Mertons; the Major being a cultivated, though not a particularly brilliant, man; while I conceive it to be utterly impossible for two young men, of our time of life and profession, to be daily, almost hourly, in the company of a young woman like Emily Merton, without losing some of the peculiar roughness of the sea, and getting, in its place, some small portion of the gentler qualities of the saloon. I date a certain _a plomb_, an absence of shyness in the company of females, from this habitual intercourse with one of the sex who had, herself, been carefully educated in the conventionalities of respectable, if not of very elegant or sophisticated society. At length we reached the China seas, and falling in to windward, we made a quick run to Canton. It now became necessary for me to attend to the ship and the interests of my owners; suffering my passengers to land at Whampoa, with the understanding we were to meet before either party sailed. I soon disposed of the sandal-wood and skins, and found no difficulty in procuring teas, nankins, china-ware, and the other articles pointed out, in the instructions to poor Captain Williams. I profited by the occasion, also, to make certain purchases on my own account, that I had a presentiment would be particularly agreeable to the future mistress of Clawbonny, let that lady turn out to be whomsoever she might. The dollars obtained on the west coast of South America enabled me to do this; my instructions giving the necessary authority to use a few of them on private account. My privilege as master rendered all proper. In a word, the residence of six or eight weeks at Canton, proved a very advantageous affair for those whose money was embarked in the Crisis. Sandal-wood and sea-otter skins brought particularly high prices; while teas, and the manufactures of the country, happened to be low. I had no merit in this; not a particle; and yet I reaped the advantage, so far as advantage was connected with the mere reputation of the voyage; success being of nearly as great account in commerce, as in war. It is true, I worked like a dog; for I worked under an entirely novel sense of responsibility, and with a feeling I am certain that could never have oppressed me in the care of my own property; and I deserved some portion of the credit subsequently obtained. At all events, I was heartily rejoiced when the hatches were on, and the ship was once more ready for sea. It now became a duty, as well as a pleasure, to seek Major Merton, whom I had seen but once or twice during the last two months. He had passed that time at Whampao, while I had been either at the factories, or on board. The Major was occupied when I called; and Emily received me alone. When she learned that I was ready to sail for home, and had come to take my leave, it was easy to see that she was uneasy, if not distressed. I felt unhappy at parting too, and perhaps I had less scruple about saying as much. “God only knows, Miss Merton, whether we are ever to be permitted to see each other again,” I remarked, after the preliminary explanations had been made. The reader will remember that I am now an old man, and that vanity no longer has any of that influence over me which it might be supposed to possess over one of more juvenile hopes and feelings; that I relate facts, without reference to their effect on myself, beyond the general salvo of some lingering weaknesses of humanity. I trust, therefore, I shall be understood in all my necessary allusions to the estimation in which I was apparently held by others. Emily fairly started when I made this remark concerning the probable duration of the approaching separation, and the colour left her cheek. Her pretty white hand shook, so that she had difficulty in using her needle; and there was an appearance of agitation and distress about the charming girl, that I had never before witnessed in one whose manner was usually so self-possessed and calm. I _now_ know the reason why I did not throw myself on my knees, and beg the charming girl to consent to accompany me to America, though I wondered at myself afterwards, when I came to reflect coolly on all that passed, for my stoicism. I will not affirm that I fancied Emily's agitation to be altogether owing to myself; but I confess to an inability to account for it, in any other manner, as agreeable to myself. The appearance of Major Merton at that instant, however, prevented everything like a scene, and probably restored us both to a consciousness of the necessity of seeming calm. As for the Major, himself, he was evidently far from being unconcerned, something having occurred to disturb him. So very apparent was this, that I commenced the discourse by asking if he were unwell. “Always _that,_ I fear, Miles,” he answered; “my physician has just told me frankly, unless I get into a cold climate as soon as possible, my life will not be worth six months' purchase.” “Then sail with me, sir,” I cried, with an eagerness and heartiness that must have proved my sincerity. “Happily, I am not too late to make the offer; and, as for getting away, I am ready to sail to-morrow!” “I am forbidden to go near Bombay,” continued the Major, looking anxiously at his daughter; “and that appointment must be abandoned. If I could continue to hold it, there is no probability of a chance to reach my station this half-year.” “So much the better for me, sir. In four or five months from this moment, I will land you in New York, where you will find the climate cold enough for any disease. I ask you as friends--as guests--not as passengers; and to prove it, the table of the upper cabin, in future, shall be mine. I have barely left room in the lower cabin to sleep or dress in, having filled it with my own private venture, as is my right.” “You are as generous as kind, Miles; but what will your owners think of such an arrangement?” “They have no right to complain. The cabin and passengers, should any of the last offer, after deducting a very small allowance for the ship's portion of the food and water, are mine by agreement. All the better food I find at my own charge; and, should you insist on remunerating the owners for the coarser, or such as they find, you can do so, it will be less than a hundred dollars, at the most.” “On these conditions, then, I shall thankfully profit by your offer; attaching, however, one more that I trust you may be permitted to fulfil. It is important to me that I reach England--can you touch at St. Helena?” “Willingly, if it be your wish. The health of the crew, moreover, may render it desirable.” “There, then, I will quit you, if an opportunity offer to proceed to England. Our bargain is made, dear Miles; and to-morrow I shall be ready to embark.” I think Emily never looked more beautiful than she did while listening to this arrangement. It doubtless relieved her mind on the painful subject of her father's health, and I fancied it relieved it also on the subject of our own immediate separation. Months must elapse before we could reach St. Helena; and who could foresee what those months might bring forth? As I had a good deal to do at such a moment, I took my leave, with my feelings lightened, as it might be, of a burthen. The reader will at once infer, I was in love. But he will be mistaken. I was not in love; though my imagination, to use a cant phrase of some of the sects, was greatly exercised. Lucy, even then, had a hold of my _heart_ in a way of which I was ignorant myself; but it was not in nature for a youth, just approaching his majority, to pass months and months, almost alone, in the society of a lovely girl who was a year or two his junior, and not admit some degree of tenderness towards her in big feelings. The circumstances were sufficient to try the constancy of the most faithful swain that ever lived. Then, it must be remembered that I had never professed love to Lucy--was not at all aware that she entertained any other sentiment towards me than that she entertained towards Rupert; whereas Emily--but I will not prove myself a coxcomb on paper, whatever I might have been, at the moment, in my own imagination. Next day, at the appointed hour, I had the happiness to receive my old passengers. It struck me that Talcott was as much gratified as I was myself; for he, too, had both pleasure and improvement in Emily Morton's society. It has often been said that the English East-India ships are noted for quarrelling and making love. The quarrels may be accounted for on the same principle as the love-making, viz., propinquity; the same proximity producing hostility in whose sterner natures, that, in others of a gentler cast, produces its opposite feeling. We sailed, and it is scarcely necessary to tell the reader how much the tedium of so long a voyage, and the monotony of a sea-voyage, was relieved by the graces and gentle intercourse of our upper cabin. The other apartment being so crowded and hot, I passed most of my time in the poop, which was both light and airy. Here I generally found the father and daughter, though often the latter alone. I played reasonably well on the flute and violin, and had learned to accompany Emily on her piano, which, it will be remembered, Mons. Le Compte had caused to be transferred from the Bombay ship to his own vessel, and which had subsequently been saved from the wreck. Talcott played also on the flute, far better than I did myself; and we frequently made a trio, producing very respectable sea-music--better, indeed, than Neptune often got for his smiles. In this manner, then, we travelled our long road, sometimes contending with head-winds and cross-seas, sometimes becalmed, and sometimes slipping along at a rate that rendered everybody contented and happy. In passing the Straits of Sunda, I related to Major Merton and Emily the incidents of the John's affair with the proas, and her subsequent loss on the island of Madagascar; and was rewarded by the interest they took in the tale. We all spoke of Marble, as indeed we often did, and expressed our regrets at his absence. The fate of my old shipmate was frequently discussed among us, there being a great diversity of opinion on the subject. As for the Major, he thought poor Marble must be lost at sea, for he did not perceive how any one man could manage a boat all alone by himself. Talcott, who had juster notions of what a seaman could do, was of opinion that our late commander had run to leeward, in the hope of finding some inhabited island, preferring the association of even cannibals, when it came to the trying moment, to total solitude. I thought he had gone to windward, the boat being so well equipped for that service, and that Marble was in the expectation of falling in with some of the whalers, who were known to be cruising in certain latitudes. I was greatly struck, however, by a remark made by Emily, on the evening of the very day when we passed the Straits of Sunda. “Should the truth be ever known, gentlemen,” she said, “I am of opinion it will be found that poor Mr. Marble only left the island to escape from your importunities, and returned to it after the ship disappeared; and that he is there at this moment, enjoying all the happiness of a hermit.” This might be true, and from that hour the thought would occasionally recur to my mind. As I looked forward to passing at least several more years at sea, I secretly determined to ascertain the fact for myself, should occasion ever offer. In the mean time, the Crisis had reached a part of the ocean where, in those days, it was incumbent on those who had the charge of a ship to keep a vigilant look-out for enemies. It seems we were not fated to run the gauntlet of these pirates entirely unharmed. Early on the following morning, I was awoke by Talcott's giving me a hearty shake of the shoulder. “Turn out at once, Captain Wallingford,” cried my mate, “the rascals are closing around us like crows about a carcase. As bad luck will have it, we have neither room nor breeze, to spare. Everything looks like a busy morning for us, sir.” In just three minutes from that moment, I was on deck, where all hands were soon collected, the men tumbling up, with their jackets in their hands. Major Merton was already on the poop, surveying the scene with a glass of his own; while the two mates were clearing away the guns, and getting the ship in a state to make a suitable defence. To me, the situation was altogether novel. I had been six times in the presence of enemies before, and twice as commander; but never under circumstances that called so imperiously for seamanship and good conduct. The ocean seemed covered with enemies, Major Merton declaring that he could count no less than twenty-eight proas, all full of men, and some of them armed with artillery. These chaps were ahead, astern, to windward, and to leeward; and, what was worse, they had just wind enough to suit their purposes, there being about a five-knot breeze. It was evident that the craft acted in concert, and that they were desperately bent on our capture, having closed around us in this manner in the night. Nevertheless, we were a warm ship for a merchantman; and not a man in the Crisis betrayed any feeling that indicated any other desire than a wish to resist to the last. As for Neb, the fellow was in a broad grin, the whole time; he considered the affair as a bit of fun. Yet this negro was afraid to visit certain places about the farm in the dark, and could not have been induced to cross a church-yard alone, under a bright sun, I feel well persuaded. He was the oddest mixture of superstitious dread and lion-hearted courage, I ever met with in my life. It was still early, when the proas were near enough to commence serious operations. This they did, by a nearly simultaneous discharge of about a dozen guns, principally sixes, that they carried mounted in their bows. The shot came whistling in among our spars and rigging, literally from every direction, and three struck, though they were not of a size to do any serious injury. Our people were at quarters, having managed to man both batteries, though it left scarcely any one to look after the braces and rigging, and none but the officers with small-arms. Mr. Merton must have felt that he and his daughter's liberty, if not their lives, were in the keeping of a very youthful commander; still, his military habits of subordination were so strong, he did not venture even a suggestion. I had my own plan, and was just of an age to think it derogatory to my rank, to ask advice of any one. The proas were strongest ahead and on both bows, where they were collecting to the number of near twenty, evidently with the intention of boarding, should an opportunity offer; while, astern, and on our quarter, they were much fewer, and far more scattered. The reason of all this was apparent by our course, the pirates naturally supposing we should continue to stand on. Orders were given to haul up the mainsail and to man the spanker-brails. The men were taken from the starboard battery, exclusively, to perform this work. When all was ready, the helm was put up, and the ship was brought as short round on her heel, as possible, hauling up, on an easy bowline, on the other tack. In coming round, we delivered all our larboard guns among the crowd of enemies, well crammed with grape; and the distance being just right for scattering, this broadside was not without effect. As soon as braced up, on the other tack, we opened starboard and larboard, on such of the chaps as came within range; clearing our way as we went. The headmost proas all came round in chase; but, being from half a mile to a mile astern, we had time to open a way out of the circle, and to drive all the proas who were now ahead of us, to take refuge among the crowd of their fellows. The manoeuvre was handsomely executed; and, in twenty minutes we ceased firing, having all our enemies to the westward of us, and in one group: this was an immense advantage, as it enabled us to fight with a single broadside, prevented our being raked, and rendered our own fire more destructive, by exposing to it a more concentrated, and, at the same time, a larger object. I ought to have said before, that the wind was at the southward. The Crisis now tacked, setting the courses and royals. The ship lay up well, and the proas having collected around their admiral, there was a prospect of her passing to windward of everything. Six of the fellows, however, seemed determined to prevent this, by hauling close on a wind, and attempting to cross our bows, firing as they did so. The ship stood on, apparently as if to intercept them; when, finding ourselves near enough, we kept away about three points, and swept directly down in the very centre of the main body of the proas. As this was done, the enemy, taken by surprise, cleared a way for us, and we passed the whole of them, delivering grape and canister, as fast as we could deal it out. In the height of the affair, and the thickest of the smoke, three or four of the proas were seen quite near us, attempting to close; but I did not think it necessary to call the people from the guns, which were worked with great quickness, and did heavy execution. I fancy the pirates found it hotter than they liked, for they did not keep on with us; though our lofty sails gave us an advantage, and would have enabled us to leave them, had they pursued a different course. As it was, we were clear of them, in about five minutes; and the smoke beginning to rise, we soon got a view of what had been done in that brief space. In order to increase our distance, however, we still kept away, running pretty fast through the water. By the confusion which prevailed among the pirates, the rascals had been well peppered. One had actually sunk, and five or six were round the spot, endeavouring to pick up the crew. Three more had suffered in their spars, and the movements indicated that all had enough. As soon as satisfied of this, I hauled the ship up to her course, and we continued to leave the cluster of boats, which remained around the spot where their consort had gone down. Those of the fellows to windward, however, did not seem disposed to give it up, but followed us for two hours, by which time the rest of their flotilla were hull down. Believing there was now plenty of room, I tacked towards these persevering gentry, when they went about like tops, and hauled off sharp on a wind. We tacked once more to our course, and were followed no further. The captain of a pepper ship afterwards told me, that our assailants lost forty-seven men, mostly killed, or died of their hurts, and that he had understood that the same officer commanded the Crisis that had commanded the “John,” in _her_ affair, near the same spot. We had some rigging cut, a few of our spars slightly injured, and two men hurt, one of whom happened to be Neb. The man most hurt died before we reached the Cape, but more from the want of surgical assistance, than from the original character of his wound. As for Neb, he went to duty before we reached St. Helena. For my part, I was surprised one of the proas did not get down his throat, his grin being wide enough, during the whole affair, to admit of the passage of a two-decker. We went into the island, as had been agreed, but no ship offering and none being expected soon, it became necessary for my passengers to continue on with us to New York. Emily had behaved uncommonly well in the brush with the pirates, and everybody was glad to keep her in the ship. The men swore she brought good luck, forgetting that the poor girl must have met with much ill-luck, in order to be in the situation in which she was actually placed. Nothing occurred on the passage from St. Helena to New York, worthy of being specially recorded. It was rather long, but I cannot say it was unpleasant. At length our reckoning told us to look out for land. The Major and Emily were on deck, all expectation, and ere long we heard the welcome cry. A hazy cloud was just visible on our lee-bow. It grew more and more dense and distinct, until it showed the hues and furrows of a mountain-side. The low point of the Hook, and the higher land beyond, then came in view. We glided past the light, doubled the Spit, and got into the upper bay, just an hour before the sun of a beautiful day in June was setting. This was in the year of our Lord 1802.

21

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“Drink! drink! to whom shall we drink? To a friend or a mistress? --Come, let me think! To those who are absent or those who are here? To the dead that we loved, or the living still dear? Alas! when I look I find none of the last! The present is barren--let's drink to the past.” PAULDING. Though strictly a Manhattanese as a sailor, I shall not run into rhapsody on the subject of the beauties of the inner or outer bay of this prosperous place. No man but one besotted with provincial conceit could ever think of comparing the harbour of New York with the Bay of Naples; nor do I know two places, that have the same great elements of land and water that are less alike. The harbour of New York is barely pretty; not a particle more, if quite as much; while the Bay of Naples is almost what its owners so fondly term it, “a little bit of heaven, fallen upon earth.” On the other hand, however, Naples, as a haven, is not to be mentioned in the same breath with the great American mart, which, _as a port_, has no competitor within the circle of my knowledge, Constantinople alone excepted. I wish my semi-townsmen, the Manhattanese, could be persuaded of these facts, as, when they _do_ brag, as the wisest of mortals sometimes will, they might brag of their strong, and not of their weak points, as is now too often the case. The Major, Emily and myself, stood on the poop, regarding the scene, as the ship glided onward, before a good south-east breeze. I watched the countenances of my companions with interest, for I had the nervousness of a tyro and a provincial, on the subject of the opinions of the people of other lands, concerning everything that affected my own. I could see that the Major was not particularly struck; and I was disappointed, _then_, whatever may be my opinion _now_. Emily better answered my hopes. Whether the charming girl really felt the vast contrast between a view of the unbroken expanse of the ocean, and the scene before her, or was disposed to please her host, she did not hesitate to express delight. I let her understand how much I was gratified; and thus our long, long voyage, and that, so far as degrees of longitude were concerned, nearly embraced the circuit of the earth, may be said to have terminated with the kindest feelings. The ship was off Bedlow's, and the pilot had begun to shorten sail, when a schooner crossed our fore-foot, beating down. I had been too much occupied with the general movement of the bay, to notice one small craft; but, this vessel happening to tack quite near us, I could not but turn my eyes in her direction. At that instant I heard a shout from Neb, who was furling one of the royals. It was one of those irrepressible “nigger gollies” that often escaped from the fellow involuntarily. “What do you mean by that uproar, on the mizen-royal yard,” I called out angrily--for the _style_ of my ship had now become an object of concern with me. “Keep silence, sir, or I'll find a way to instruct you in the art.” “Lord! --masser Mile--” cried the negro, pointing eagerly towards the schooner--“there go Pretty Poll.” It was our old craft sure enough, and I hailed her, incontinently. “Pretty Polly, ahoy!” “Halloo!” “Where are you bound, sir; and when did that schooner get in from the Pacific?” “We are bound to Martinique--The Poll got home from the South Seas about six months since. This is her third voyage to the West Indies, since.” Here then was the certainty that the cargo sent home, and the letter with it, were all safe. I must be expected, and the owners would soon hear of my arrival. We were not kept long in doubt; for, as the ship entered the Hudson, a boat approached, and in her were two of the principal members of our firm. I had seen them, and that is all; but my own letters, and the report of the officer who brought home the schooner, had told them all about me. Could Nelson, after his victory of the Nile, have walked into the King of England's private cabinet with the news of his own success, his reception would not have been more flattering than that I now received. I was “Captain Wallingforded” at every sentence; and commendations were so intermixed with inquiries about the value of the cargo, that I did not know which to answer first. I was invited to dine the very next day by both the gentlemen in the same breath; and when I raised some objections connected with the duty of the ship, the invitations were extended from day to day, for a week. So very welcome is he who brings us gold! We went alongside of a North River wharf, and had everything secure, just as the sun was setting. The people were then allowed to go ashore for the night. Not a soul of them asked for a dollar; but the men walked up the wharf attended by a circle of admiring landlords, that put them all above want. The sailor who has three years' pay under his lee, is a sort of Rothschild on Jack's Exchange. All the harpies about our lads knew that the Crisis and her teas, &c. were hypothecated to meet their own ten and twenty dollar advances. I dressed myself hurriedly, and ordered Neb to imitate my example. One of the owners had kindly volunteered to see Major Merton and Emily to a suitable residence, with an alacrity that surprised me. But the influence of England, and Englishmen, in all America, was exceedingly great forty years since. This was still more true in New York, than in the country generally; and a half-pay English Major was a species of nobleman among the better sort of Manhattanese of that day. How many of these quasi lords have I seen, whose patents of nobility were merely the commissions of captains and lieutenants, signed by the Majesty of England! In that day--it is nonsense to deny it--the man who had served _against_ the country, provided he was a “British officer,” was a better man than he who had served in our own ranks. This was true, however, only as regarded _society;_ the ballot-boxes, and the _people_, giving very different indications of their sentiments on such subjects. Nor is this result, so far as New York was concerned, as surprising as, at first sight, it may possibly appear. Viewed as a class, the gentry of New York took sides with the crown. It is true, that the portion of this gentry which might almost be called _baronial_--it was strictly _manorial_--was pretty equally divided, carrying with them their collaterals; but the larger portions of this entire class of the elite of society took sides with the crown; and the peace of '83 found no small part of them in possession of their old social stations; the confiscations affecting few beyond the most important, and the richest of the delinquents. I can give an instance, within my own immediate knowledge, of the sort of justice of these confiscations. The head of one of the most important of all the colonial families, was a man of indolent habits, and was much indisposed to any active pursuits. This gentleman was enormously rich, and his estates were confiscated and sold. Now this attainted traitor had a younger brother who was actually serving in the British army in America, his regiment sharing in the battles of Bunker Hill, Brandywine, Monmouth, &c. But the Major was a younger son; and, in virtue of that republican merit, he escaped the consequences of his adhesion to the service of the crown; and after the revolution, the cadet returned to his native country, took quiet possession of a property of no inconsiderable amount, while his senior passed his days in exile, paying the bitter penalty of being rich in a revolution. It was a consequence of the peculiarities first mentioned, that the Manhattanese society set so high a value on English connection. They still admired, as the provincial only can admire; and they worshipped, as the provincial worships; or, at a safe distance. The strange medley of truth, cant, selfishness, sophistry and good faith, that founded the political hostility to the movements of the French revolution, had as ardent believers in this country, as it had in England itself; and this contributed to sustain the sort of feeling I have described. Of the fact, there can be no doubt, as any one will testify who knew New York society forty years ago. No wonder then, that Major Merton and Emily fared well, on their sudden arrival in the country. Some romance, moreover, was attached to their adventures; and I had no great reason to give myself any anxiety on their account. There was little doubt of their soon being much more at home, than I could hope to be, though in my native land. Neb soon reported himself ready for shore-duty, and I ordered him to follow me. It was my intention to proceed to the counting-house of the owners, to receive some letters that awaited me, and, after writing short answers, to despatch the black at once to Clawbonny, with the intelligence of my return. In 1802, the Battery was the court-end of the town, and it was a good deal frequented by the better classes, particularly at the hour at which I was now about to cross it. I have never returned from a voyage, especially to Europe, without being particularly struck with two things in the great Western Emporium--since the common councils and the editors insist on the word--viz., the provincial appearance of everything that meets the eye, and the beauty of the younger females; meaning, however, by the last, the true, native, portion of the population, and not the throng from Ireland and Germany, who now crowd the streets; and who, certainly, as a body, are not in the least remarkable for personal charms. But an American can tell an American, man or woman, as soon as he lays eyes on either; and there were few besides native girls on the Battery at the time of which I am writing. As there were many children taking their evening walk, and black servants were far more common than now, Neb had his share of delights, too, and I heard him exclaim “Golly!” twice, before we reached the centre of the Battery. This exclamation escaped him on passing as many sable Venuses, each of whom bridled up at the fellow's admiration, and doubtless was as much offended as the sex is apt to be on such occasions. I must have passed twenty young women, that evening, either of whom would induce a youth to turn round to look again; and, for the moment, I forgot my errand. Neither Neb nor I was in any hurry. We were strolling along, in this manner, gazing right and left, when a party approached, under the trees, that drew all my attention to itself. In front walked a young man and young woman, who were dressed simply, but with a taste that denoted persons of the better class. The former was remarkable for nothing, unless it might be a rattling vivacity, of which large doses were administered to his fair companion, who, seemingly, swallowed it less reluctantly than doses of another sort are so often received. At least, I thought so, while the two were at a distance, by the beautiful glistening teeth that were shining like my own spotless pearls, between lips of coral. The air, beauty, figure, and, indeed, all connected with this singularly lovely young creature, struck my imagination at once. It was not so much her beauty, though that was decided and attractive, as the admixture of feminine delicacy with blooming health; the walk, so natural and yet so full of lightness and grace; the laugh, so joyous and still so quiet and suited to her sex; and the entire air and manner, which denoted equally, buoyant health and happiness, the gracefulness of one who thought not of herself, and the refinement which is quite as much the gift of native sentiment, as the fruit of art and association. I could not tell what her companion was saying; but, as they approached, I fancied them acknowledged lovers, on whom fortune, friends, and circumstances smiled alike. A glance aside told me that even Neb was struck by the being before him, and that he had ceased looking at the sable Venuses, to gaze at this. I could not keep my gaze off the face of this lovely creature, who did not let me get a good look of her dark-blue eyes, however, until I was quite near, when they were naturally turned towards the form that approached. For a few seconds, while in the very act of passing, we looked intently at each other, and the charm said to be possessed by certain animals, was not more powerful than was our mutual gaze. In this manner we had actually passed each other, and I was still in a sort of mystified prance, when I heard suddenly, in a voice and tone that caused every nerve to thrill within me, the single word-- “Miles!” Turning, and taking another look, it was impossible any longer to mistake. Lucy Hardinge stood before me, trembling, uncertain, her face now pale as death, now flushed to scarlet, her hands clasped, her look doubting, eager, shrinking, equally denoting hope and fear, and all so blended, as to render her the most perfect picture of female truth, feeling, diffidence, and natural modesty, I had ever beheld. “Lucy--is it--_can_ it be possible! --It is then _you_, I thought so gloriously beautiful, and that without knowing you, too.” I take it for granted, had I studied a week, I should not have composed a more grateful salutation than this, which burst forth in a way that set all the usual restraints of manners at defiance. Of course, I felt bound to go through with the matter as prosperously as I had commenced, and in spite of the publicity of the place, in spite of half a dozen persons, who heard what passed, and had turned, smiling, to see what would come next, in spite of the grave-looking gentleman who had so lately been all vivacity and gaiety, I advanced, folded the dear girl to my heart, and gave her such a kiss, as I'll take upon myself to say, she had never before received. Sailors, usually, do not perform such things by halves, and I never was more in earnest in my life. Such a salutation, from a young fellow who stood rather more than six feet in his stockings, had a pair of whiskers that had come all the way from the Pacific with very little trimming, and who possessed a manliness about him of which mere walking up and down Broadway would have robbed a young Hercules, had the effect to cover poor Lucy with blushes and confusion. “There--that will do, Miles,” she said, struggling to get free--“a truce, I pray you. See, yonder are Grace and my father, and Rupert.” There they all were, sure enough, the whole family having come out, to take an evening walk, in company with a certain Mr. Andrew Drewett, a young gentleman who was a fellow-student of Rupert's, and who, as I afterwards ascertained, was a pretty open admirer of Rupert's sister. There was a marked difference in the manner in which I was received by Grace and Lucy. The first exclaimed “Miles!” precisely as the last had exclaimed; her colour heightened, and tears forced themselves into her eyes, but she could not be said to blush. Instead of first manifesting an eagerness to meet my salute, and then shrinking sensitively from it, she flung her delicate arms round my neck, without the slightest reserve, both arms too, kissed me six or eight times without stopping, and then began to sob, as if her heart would break. The spectators, who saw in all this the plain, honest, natural, undisguised affection of a sister, had the good taste to walk on, though I could see that their countenances sympathised with so happy a family meeting. I had but a moment to press Grace to my heart, before Mr. Hardinge's voice drew my attention to him. The good old man forgot that I was two inches taller than he was himself; that I could, with ease, have lifted him from the earth, and carried him in my arms, as if he were an infant; that I was bronzed by a long voyage, and had Pacific Ocean whiskers; for he caressed me as if I had been a child, kissed me quite as often as Grace had done, blessed me aloud, and then gave way to his tears, as freely as both the girls. But for this burst of feeling on the part of a grey-headed old clergyman, I am afraid our scene would not altogether have escaped ridicule. As it was, however, this saved us. Clergymen were far more respected in America, forty years ago, than they are to-day, though I think they have still as much consideration here as in most other countries; and the general respect felt for the class would have insured us from any manifestations of the sort, without the nature and emotion which came in its aid. As for myself, I was glad to take refuge in Rupert's hearty but less sentimental shake of the hand. After this, we all sought a seat, in a less public spot, and were soon sufficiently composed to converse. As for the gentleman named Drewett, he waited long enough to inquire of Lucy who I was, and then he had sufficient tact to wish us all good evening. I overheard the little dialogue which produced this explanation. “A close friend, if not a near relation, Miss Hardinge?” he observed, inquiringly. “Oh, yes,” answered the smiling, weeping girl, with the undisguised truth of her honest nature--“both friend and relative.” “May I presume to ask the name?” “The name, Mr. Drewett! --Why it is Miles--dear Miles--you surely have heard us speak of Miles--but I forget; you never were at Clawbonny--is it not a most joyful surprise, dearest, dearest Grace!” Mr. Andrew Drewett waited, I thought, with most commendable patience for Grace to squeeze Lucy's hand, and to murmur her own felicitations, when he ventured to add-- “You were about to say something, Miss Hardinge?” “Was I--I declare I have forgotten what it was. Such a surprise--such a joyful, blessed surprise--I beg pardon, Mr. Drewett--ah. I remember now; I was about to say that this is Mr. Miles Wallingford, of Clawbonny, the gentleman who is my father's ward--Grace's brother, you know.” “And how related to yourself, Miss Hardinge?” the gentleman continued, a little perseveringly. “To me! Oh! very, very near--that is--I forget so much this evening--why, not at all.” It was at this moment Mr. Drewett saw fit to make his parting salutations with studied decorum, and to take his leave in a manner so polite, that, though tempted, I could not, just at the moment, stop the current of my feelings, to admire. No one seemed to miss him, however, and we five, who remained, were soon seated in the spot I have mentioned, and as much abstracted from the scene around us, as if we had been on the rustic bench, under the old elm, on the lawn--if I dare use so fine a word, for so unpretending a place--at Clawbonny. I had my station between Mr. Hardinge and Grace, while Lucy sat next her father, and Rupert next to my sister. My friend could see me, without difficulty, owing to his stature, while I saw the glistening eyes of Lucy, riveted on my face, as leaning on her father's knee, she bent her graceful form forward, in absorbed attention. “We expected you; we have not been taken _altogether_ by surprise!” exclaimed good Mr. Hardinge, clapping his hand on my shoulder, as if to say he could now begin to treat me like a man. “I consented to come down, just at this moment, because the last Canton ship that arrived brought the intelligence that the Crisis was to sail in ten days.” “And you may judge of our surprise,” said Rupert, “when we read the report in the papers, 'The Crisis, _Captain Wallingford_.'” “I supposed my letters from the island had prepared you for this,” I observed. “In them, you spoke of Mr. Marble, and I naturally concluded, when it came to the pinch, the man would resume the command, and bring the ship home. Duty to the owners would be apt to induce him.” “He did not,” I answered, a little proudly perhaps, forgetting poor Marble's probable situation, for an instant, in my own vanity. “Mr. Marble understood well, that if I knew nothing else, I knew how to take care of a ship.” “So it seems, my dear boy, indeed, so it doth seem!” said Mr. Hardinge, kindly. “I hear from all quarters, you conduct commended; and the recovery of the vessel from the French, was really worthy of Truxtun himself.” At that day, Truxtun was the great gun of American naval idolatry, and had as much local reputation, as Nelson himself enjoyed in England. The allusion was a sore assault on my modesty; but I got along with it, as well as I could. “I endeavoured to do my duty, sir,” I answered, trying not to look at Lucy, and seem meek; “and it would have been a terrible disgrace to have come home, and been obliged to say the French got the ship from us, when we were all asleep.” “But you took a ship from the French, in that manner, and kept her too!” said a soft voice, every intonation of which was music to me. I looked round and saw the speaking eyes of Lucy, just clear of the grey coat of her father, behind which she instinctively shrank, the instant she caught my glance. “Yes,” I answered, “we did something of that sort, and were a little more fortunate than our enemies. But, you will recollect we were much favoured by the complaisance of poor Monsieur Le Compte, in leaving us a schooner to work our mischief in.” “I have always thought that part of your story, Miles, a little extraordinary,” observed Mr. Hardinge; “though I suppose this Frenchman's liberality was, in some measure, a matter of necessity, out there, in the middle of the Pacific.” “I hardly think you do Captain Le Compte justice, sir. He was a chivalrous fellow, and every way a gallant seaman. It is possible, he was rather more in a hurry than he might have been, but for his passengers--that is all--at least, I have always suspected that the wish to have Miss Merton all to himself, induced him to get rid of us as soon as possible. He evidently admired her, and could have been jealous of a dead-eye.” “Miss Merton!” exclaimed Grace. “Jealous!” “Miss Merton!” put in Rupert, leaning forward, curiously. “Miss Merton! And jealous of dead-eyes, and wishing to get rid of us!” said Mr. Hardinge, smiling. “Pray who is Miss Merton? and who are the _us_? and what are the dead-eyes?” Lucy was silent. “Why, sir, I thought I wrote you all about the Mertons. How we met them in London, and then found them prisoners to Monsieur Le Compte; and that I intended to carry them to Canton, in the Crisis!” “You told us some of this, certainly; but, though you may have written 'all about' a _Major_ Merton, you _forgot_ to tell us 'about _all_ the Mertons. This is the first syllable I have ever had about a _Miss_ Merton. How is it, girls--did Miles speak of any one but the Major, in his letter?” “Not a syllable to me, sir, of any young lady, I can assure you,” replied Grace, laughing. “How was it to you, Lucy?” “Of course he would not tell me that which he thought fit to conceal from his own sister,” said Lucy, in a low voice. “It is odd I should have forgotten to mention her,” I cried, endeavouring to laugh it off. “Young men do not often forget to write about young ladies.” “This Miss Merton is young, then, brother?” “About your own age, Grace.” “And handsome--and agreeable--and accomplished?” “Something like yourself, my dear.” “But handsome, I take it for granted, Miles,” observed Mr. Hardinge, “by the manner in which you have omitted to speak of her charms, in your letters!” “Why sir, I think most persons--that is the world in general--I mean such as are not over-fastidious, would consider Miss Merton particularly handsome--agreeable in person and features, I would be understood to say.” “Oh! you are sufficiently explicit; everybody can understand you,” added my laughing guardian, who had no more thought of getting me married to his own daughter, than to a German princess of a hundred and forty-five quarterings, if there are any such things; “some other time we will have the particulars of her eyes, hair, teeth, &c., &c.” “Oh! sir, you may save me the trouble, by looking at her yourself, to-morrow, since she and her father are both here.” “_Here! _” exclaimed all four in a breath; Lucy's extreme surprise extorting the monosyllable from her reserve, even a little louder than from the rest. “Certainly, here; father, daughter, and servants; I dare say I omitted to speak of the servants in my letters, too; but a poor fellow who has a great deal to do, cannot think of everything in a minute. Major Merton has a touch of the liver complaint; and it would not do to leave him in a warm climate. So, no other chance offering, he is proceeding to England, by the way of America.” “And how long had you these people on board your ship, Miles?” Grace asked, a little gravely. “Actually on board, with myself, about nine months, I should think; but including the time in London, at Canton, and on the island, I should call our acquaintance one of rather more than a year's standing.” “Long enough, certainly, to make a young lady sufficiently obvious to a young gentleman's memory, not to be forgotten in his letters.” After this pointed speech, there was a silence, which Mr. Hardinge broke by some questions about the passage home from Canton. As it was getting cool on the Battery, however, we all moved away, proceeding to Mrs. Bradfort's. This lady, as I afterwards discovered, was much attached to Lucy, and had insisted on giving her these opportunities of seeing the world. She was quite at her ease in her circumstances, and belonged to a circle a good deal superior to that into which Grace and myself could have claimed admission, in right of our own social position. Lucy had been well received as her relative, and as a clergyman's daughter; and Grace on her own account, as I afterwards learned. It would be attaching too much credit to Clawbonny, to say that either of the girls had not improved by this association; though it was scarcely possible to make Grace more feminine and lady-like than she had been made by nature. The effect on Lucy was simply to put a little reserve on her native frankness, and sturdy honesty; though candour compels me to say, that mingling with the world, and, especially the world to which they had been introduced by Mrs. Bradfort, had certainly increased the native charm of manner that each possessed. I began to think Emily Merton so far from possessing any advantage over the two girls, might now improve a little herself, by associating with them. At the house, I had to tell my whole story, and to answer a multitude of questions. Not a syllable more was said about Miss Merton; and even Lucy had smiles to bestow and remarks to make, as before. When we got to the lights, where the girls could remove their shawls and hats, I made each of them stand before me, in order to ascertain how much time had altered them. Grace was now nineteen; and Lucy was only six months her junior. The greatest change was in the latter. Her form had ripened into something as near as possible to girlish perfection. In this respect she had the advantage of Grace, who was a little too slight and delicate; whereas, Lucy, without any of the heaviness that so often accompanies a truly rounded person, and which was perhaps a slight defect in Emily Merton's figure, was without an angle of any sort, in her entire outline. Grace, always so handsome, and so intellectual in the expression of her countenance, had improved less in this respect, than Lucy, whose eyes had obtained a tenderness and feeling that rendered them, to me, even more attractive than those of my own dear sister. In a word, any man might have been proud, at finding two such admirable creatures interested in him, as interested, every look, smile, syllable, and gesture of these dear girls, denoted they were in me. All this time, Neb had been overlooked. He had followed us to the house, however, and was already engaged in a dark-coloured flirtation with a certain Miss Chloe Clawbonny, his own second-cousin, in the kitchen; a lady who had attracted a portion of his admiration, before we sailed, and who had accompanied her young mistress to town. As soon as it was ascertained the fellow was below, Lucy, who was quite at home in her kinswoman's house, insisted on his being introduced. I saw by the indulgent smile of Mrs. Bradfort, that Lucy was not exceeding her conceded privileges, and Neb was ordered up, forthwith. Never was there a happier fellow than this 'nigger' appeared to be, on that occasion. He kept rolling his tarpaulin between his fingers, shifting his weight from leg to leg, and otherwise betraying the confusion of one questioned by his betters; for, in that day, a _negro_ was ready enough to allow he had his betters, and did not feel he was injured in so doing. At the present time, I am well aware that the word is proscribed even in the State's Prisons; everybody being just as good as everybody else; though some have the misfortune to be sentenced to hard labour, while others are permitted to go at large. As a matter of course, the selections made through the ballot-boxes, only go to prove that “one man is as good as another.” Our party did not separate until quite late. Suppers were eaten in 1802; and I was invited to sit down with the rest of the family, and a gay set we were. It was then the fashion to drink toasts; gentlemen giving ladies, and ladies gentlemen. The usage was singular, but very general; more especially in the better sort of houses. We men drank our wine, as a matter of course; while the ladies sipped theirs, in that pretty manner in which females moisten their lips, on such occasions. After a time, Mrs. Bradfort, who was very particular in the observance of forms, gaily called on Mr. Hardinge for his toast. “My dear Mrs. Bradfort,” said the divine, good-humouredly, “if it were not in your own house, and contrary to all rule to give a person who is present, I certainly should drink to yourself. Bless me, bless me, whom shall I give? I suppose I shall not be permitted to give our new Bishop, Dr. Moore?” The cry of “No Bishop!” was even more unanimous than it is at this moment, among those who, having all their lives dissented from episcopal authority, fancy it an evidence of an increasing influence to join in a clamour made by their own voices; and this, moreover, on a subject that not one in a hundred among them has given himself the trouble even to skim. Our opposition--in which Mrs. Bradfort joined, by the way--was of a very different nature, however; proceeding from a desire to learn what lady Mr. Hardinge could possibly select, at such a moment. I never saw the old gentleman so confused before. He laughed, tried to dodge the appeal, fidgeted, and at last fairly blushed. All this proceeded, not from any preference for any particular individual of the sex, but from natural diffidence, the perfect simplicity and nature of his character, which caused him to be abashed at even appearing to select a female for a toast. It was a beautiful picture of masculine truth and purity! Still, we would not be put off; and the old gentleman, composing his countenance five or six times in vain efforts to reflect, then looking as grave as if about to proceed to prayer, raised his glass, and said-- “Peggy Perott!” A general laugh succeeded this announcement, Peggy Perott being an old maid who went about tending the sick for hire, in the vicinity of Clawbonny, and known to us all as the ugliest woman in the county. “Why do you first insist on my giving a toast, and then laugh at it when given?” cried Mr. Hardinge, half-amused, half-serious in his expostulations. “Peggy is an excellent woman, and one of the most useful I know.” “I wonder, my dear sir, you did not think of adding a sentiment!” cried I, a little pertly. “And if I had, it would have been such a one as no woman need be ashamed to hear attached to her name. But enough of this; I have given Peggy Perott, and you are bound to drink her”--that we had done already; “and now, cousin, as I have passed through the fiery furnace--” “Unscathed?” demanded Lucy, laughing ready to kill herself. “Yes, unscathed, miss: and now, cousin, I ask of you to honour us with a toast.” Mrs. Bradfort had been a widow many years, and was fortified with the panoply of her state. Accustomed to such appeals, which, when she was young and handsome, had been of much more frequent occurrence than of late, she held her glass for the wine with perfect self-possession, and gave her toast with the conscious dignity of one who had often been solicited in vain “to change her condition.” “I will give you,” she said, raising her person and her voice, as if to invite scrutiny, “my dear old friend, good Dr. Wilson.” It was incumbent on a single person to give another who was also single; and the widow had been true to the usage; but “good Dr. Wilson” was a half-superannuated clergyman, whom no one could suspect of inspiring anything beyond friendship. “Dear me--dear me!” cried Mr. Hardinge, earnestly; “how much more thoughtful, Mrs. Bradfort, you are than myself! Had I thought a moment, _I_ might have given the Doctor; for I studied with him, and honour him vastly.” This touch of simplicity produced another laugh--how easily we all laughed that night! --and it caused a little more confusion in the excellent divine. Mrs. Bradfort then called on me, as was her right; but I begged that Rupert might precede me, he knowing more persons, and being now a sort of man of the world. “I will give the charming Miss Winthrop,” said Rupert, without a moment's hesitation, tossing off his glass with an air that said, “how do you like _that? _” As Winthrop was a highly respectable name, it denoted the set in which Rupert moved; and as for the young lady I dare say she merited his eulogium, though I never happened to see her. It was something, however, in 1802, for a youngster to dare to toast a Winthrop, or a Morris, or a Livingston, or a de Lancey, or a Stuyvesant, or a Beekman, or a Van Renssellaer, or a Schuyler, or a Rutherford, or a Bayard, or a Watts, or a Van Cortlandt, or a Verplanck, or a Jones, or a Walton, or any of that set. They, and twenty similar families, composed the remnant of the colonial aristocracy, and still made head, within the limits of Manhattan, against the inroads of the Van--something elses. Alas! alas! how changed is all this, though I am obliged to believe it is all for the best. “Do _you_ know Miss Winthrop?” I asked of Grace, in a whisper. “Not at all; I am not much in that set,” she answered, quietly. “Rupert and Lucy have been noticed by many persons whom I do not know.” This was the first intimation I got, that my sister did not possess all the advantages in society that were enjoyed by her friend. As is always the case where it is believed to be our _loss_, I felt indignant at first; had it been the reverse, I dare say I should have fancied it all very right. Consequences grew out of these distinctions which I could not then foresee, but which will be related in their place. Rupert now called on Grace for her toast, a lady commonly succeeding a gentleman. My sister did not seem in the least disconcerted: but, after a moment's hesitation, she said-- “Mr. Edward Marston.” This was a strange name to me, but I afterwards ascertained it belonged to a respectable young man who visited Mrs. Bradfort's, and who stood very well with all his acquaintances. I looked at Rupert, to note the effect; but Rupert was as calm as Grace herself had been, when he gave Miss Winthrop. “I believe I have no one to call upon but you, Miles,” said Grace, smiling. “Me! Why, you all know I am not acquainted with a soul. Our Ulster county girls have almost all gone out of my recollection; besides, no one would know them here, should I mention twenty.” “You strangely forget, brother, that most of us are Ulster county folk. Try if you can recall no young lady--” “Oh! easily enough, for that matter; a young fellow can hardly have lived nine months in the same cabin with Emily, and not think of her, when hard pushed; I will give you, Miss Emily Merton.” The toast was drunk, and I thought Mr. Hardinge looked thoughtful, like one who had a guardian's cares, and that Grace was even grave. I did not dare look at Lucy, though I could have toasted her all night, had it been in rule to drink a person who was present. We began to chat again, and I had answered some eight or ten questions, when Mrs. Bradfort, much too precise to make any omissions, reminded us that we had not yet been honoured with Miss Lucy Hardinge's toast. Lucy had enjoyed plenty of time to reflect; and she bowed, paused a moment as if to summon resolution, and then mentioned-- “Mr. Andrew Drewett.” So, then, Lucy Hardinge toasted this Mr. Drewett--the very youth with whom she had been in such animated discourse, when I first met the party! Had I been more familiar with the world, I should have thought nothing of a thing that was so common; or, did I understand human nature better, I might have known that no sensitive and delicate woman would betray a secret that was dear to her, under so idle a form. But I was young, and ready myself to toast the girl I preferred before the universe; and I could not make suitable allowances for difference of sex and temperament. Lucy's toast made me very uncomfortable for the rest of the evening; and I was not sorry when Rupert reminded me that it was eleven, and that he would go with me to a tavern, in order to look for a room. The next morning was passed in transacting the business of the ship. I found myself much noticed among the merchants and ship-masters; and one of my owners took me on 'Change, that I might see and be seen. As the papers had spoken of the recapture of the Crisis, on the arrival of the Pretty Poll, and had now each an article on the arrival of the ship, I had every reason to be satisfied with my reception. There are men so strong in principle, as well as intellect, I do suppose, that they can be content with the approbation of their own consciences, and who can smile at the praises or censure of the world, alike; but I confess to a strong sympathy with the commendation of my fellow-creatures, and as strong a distaste for their disapprobation. I know this is not the way to make a very great man; for he who cannot judge, feel and act for himself, will always he in danger of making undue sacrifices to the wishes of others; but you can have no more of a cat than the skin; and I was sufficiently proud at finding myself a miniature hero, about the lower end of Wall-street, and in the columns of the newspapers. As for these last, no one can complain of their zeal in extolling everything national. To believe them, the country never was wrong, or defeated, or in a condition to be defeated, except when a political opponent could be made to suffer by an opposite theory; and then nothing was ever right. As to fame, I have since discovered they consider that of each individual to be public property, in which each American has a part and parcel--the editors, themselves, more than the man who has thrown the article into the common lot. But I was young in 1802, and even a paragraph in my praise in a newspaper had a certain charm for me, that I will not deny. Then I _had_ done well, as even my enemies, if I had any must have admitted.

22

None

“Ships are but boards, sailors but men: there be land-rats, and water-rats, water-thieves, and land-thieves; I mean pirates; and then, there is the peril of waters, winds and rocks: the man is, notwithstanding, sufficient;--three thousand ducats;--I think I may take his bond.” --_Shylock_. I saw Grace, and Lucy, and Rupert, and good Mr. Hardinge, every day; but I could not find time to call on the Mertons, until near the close of a week. I then paid them a visit, and found them glad to see me, but not at all in want of my attentions to make them comfortable. The Major had exhibited his claims to the British consul, who happened to be a native Manhattanese, and was well-connected, a circumstance that then gave him an influence in society, that his commission alone would not have conferred. Colonel Barclay, for so was this gentleman called, had taken the Mertons by the hand, as a matter of course; and his example being followed by others, I found that they were already in the best circle of the place. Emily mentioned to me the names of several of those with whom she had exchanged visits; and I knew at once, through Lucy's and Grace's conversation, and from my own general knowledge of the traditions of the colony and state, that they were among the leading people of the land, socially if not politically; a class altogether above any with whom I had myself ever associated. Now, I knew that the master of a merchantman, whatever might be his standing with his owner, or consignee, or the credit he had gained among his fellows, was not likely to get admission into this set; and there was the comfortable prospect before me, of having my own sister and the two other girls I admired most and loved best in the world--next to Grace, of course--visiting round in houses, of which the doors were shut against myself. This is always unpleasant, but in my case it turned out to be more. When I told Emily that Grace and Lucy were in town, and intended coming to see her that very morning, I thought she manifested less curiosity than would have been the case a month before. “Is Miss Hardinge a relative of Mr. Rupert Hardinge, the gentleman to whom I was introduced at dinner, yesterday,” she demanded, after expressing the pleasure it would give her to see the ladies. I knew that Rupert had dined out the day before, and, there being no one else of the same name, I answered in the affirmative. “He is the son of a respectable clergyman, and of very good connections, I hear.” “The Hardinges are so considered among us; both Rupert's father and grandfather were clergymen, and his great-grandfather was a seaman--I trust _you_ will think none the worse of him, for that.” “A sailor! I had supposed, from what some of those present said--that is, I did not know it.” “Perhaps they told you that his great-grandfather was a _British officer? _” Emily coloured, and then she laughed faintly; admitting, however, that I had guessed right. “Well, all this was true,” I added, “though he was a sailor. Old Captain Hardinge--or Commodore Hardinge, as he used to be called, for he once commanded a squadron--was in the English navy.” “Oh! that sort of a sailor!” --cried Emily, quickly--“I did not know that it was usual to call gentlemen in the navy, seamen.” “They would make a poor figure if they were not, Miss Merton--you might as well say that a judge is no lawyer.” This was enough, however, to satisfy me that Miss Merton no longer considered the master of the Crisis the first man in the world. A ring announced the arrival of the two girls. They were shown up, and I soon had the satisfaction of seeing these three charming young women together. Emily received her two guests very courteously, and was frank--nay warm--in the expression of her gratitude for all that I had done for herself and her father. She even went back so far as to speak of the occurrence in the Park, at London, and was gracious enough to declare that she and her parents owed their lives to my interference. All this gave her listeners great pleasure, for I believe neither ever tired of hearing my praises. After this opening, the conversation turned on New York, its gaieties, and the different persons known to them mutually. I saw that the two girls were struck with the set Miss Merton was in, which was a shade superior even to that of Mrs. Bradfort's, though the fusion which usually accompanies that sort of thing, brought portions of each circle within the knowledge of the other. As the persons named were utter strangers to me, I had nothing to say, and sat listening in silence. The opportunity was improved by comparing the girls with each other. In delicacy of appearance, Grace and Lucy each had the advantage of the English beauty. Their hands and feet were smaller, their waists finer, and their _tournures_, generally, I thought the most pleasing. Emily had the advantage in complexion, though her colour had less fineness and delicacy. Perhaps her teeth were the most brilliant; though Grace and Lucy, particularly the latter, had very fine teeth. The English girl's shoulders and bust, generally, would have been more admired than those of most American--particularly than most New York--girls; but it was not possible to surpass those of Lucy. As a whole, Emily's countenance had the most spirit, Lucy's the most finesse and feeling. I make no comparison with the expression of Grace's countenance, which was altogether too remarkable for its intellectual character, to be included in anything like a national classification. I remember I thought, as they sat there in a row conversing frankly and cheerfully together, Lucy the handsomest, in her pretty neat morning-dress; while I had my doubts whether Emily would not have extorted the most applause in a ball-room. This distinction is mentioned, because I believe it national. The visit lasted an hour; for I had expressed a wish to all parties that they would become acquainted, and the girls seemed mutually pleased. As they chatted, I listened to the tones of their voices, and fancied, on the whole, that Emily had slightly the advantage in intonation and accent; though it was scarcely perceptible, and it was an advantage that was attended by a slight sacrifice of the charm of natural utterance. She was a little more artificial in this respect than her companions, and insomuch less pleasing though, had the comparison been made with the Manhattan _style_ of the present day, the odds would have been immensely in her favour. In 1802, however, some attention was still paid to the utterance, tones of voice, and manner of speaking of young ladies. The want of it all, just now, is the besetting vice of the whole of our later instruction of the sex; it being almost as rare a thing now-a-days, to find a young American girl who speaks her own language gracefully, as it is to find one who is not of pleasing person. When the young ladies parted, it was with an understanding that they were soon to meet again. I shook hands with Emily, English fashion, and took my leave at the same time. “Well, Miles,” said Grace, as soon as we were in the street, “you have certainly been of service to a very charming young woman--I like her, excessively.” “And you, Lucy--I hope you agree with Grace, in thinking my friend, Emily Merton, a charming young woman.” Lucy did not speak as frankly, or as decidedly as Grace, so far as manner was concerned; though she coincided in words. “I am of the same opinion,” she said, in a tone that was far less cheerful than her usually very cheerful manner. “She is one of the loveliest creatures I ever saw--and it is no wonder--” “What is no wonder, dear?” asked Grace, observing that her friend hesitated to proceed. “Oh! I was about to say something silly, and had better not finish the speech. But, what a finished manner Miss Merton possesses;--do you not think so, Grace?” “I wish she had a little less of it, dear; that is precisely what I should find fault with in her deportment. It _is_ manner; and, though we all must have some, it strikes me it ought not to be seen. I think all the Europeans we saw in town, last winter, Lucy, had more or less of this manner.” “I dare say it would seem so to _us_; notwithstanding, it may be very agreeable to those who are used to it--a thing to miss, when one gets much accustomed to it.” As Lucy made this remark, I detected a furtive and timid glance at myself. I was mystified at the time, and was actually so silly as to think the dear girl was talking at me, and to feel a little resentment. I fancied she wished to say, “There, Master Miles, you have been in London, and on a desert island in the South Seas--the very extremes of human habits--and have got to be so sophisticated, so very un-Clawbonnyish, as to feel the necessity of a _manner_, in the young ladies with whom you associate.” The notion nettled me to a degree that induced me to pretend duty, and to hurry down to the ship. Whom should I meet, in Rector Street, but Mr. Hardinge, who had been across to the Hudson in search of me. “Come hither, Miles,” said the excellent old man, “I wish to converse with you seriously.” As Lucy was uppermost in my thoughts at the moment, I said to myself--“What can the dear old gentleman have to say, now?” “I hear from all quarters the best accounts of you, my dear boy,” Mr. Hardinge continued, “and I am told you make a very superior seaman. It is a feather in your cap, indeed, to have commanded an Indiaman a twelve-month before you are of age. I have been conversing with my old friend John Murray, of the house of John Murray and Sons, one of the very best merchants in America, and he says 'push the boy ahead, when you find the right stuff in him. Get him a ship of his own, and that will put him on the true track. Teach him early to have an eye to his own interests, and it will make a man of him, at once.' I have thought the matter over, have had a vessel in my eye, for the last month, and will purchase her at once, if you like the plan.” “But, have I money enough for such a thing, my dear sir--after having sailed in the John, and the Tigris, and the Crisis, I should not like to take up with any of your B's, No. 2.” “You have forgotten to mention the 'Pretty Poll,' Miles,” said the divine, smiling. “Be under no fear, however, for your dignity; the vessel I have in treaty, is all you could wish, they tell me, having made but one voyage, and is sold on account of the death of her owner. As for money, you will remember I have thirteen thousand dollars of your income invested in stocks, and stocks that cost but ten. The peace has brought everything up, and you are making money, right and left. How have your own pay and private venture turned out?” “Perfectly well, sir. I am near three thousand dollars in pocket, and shall have no need to call on you, for my personal wants. Then I have my prize-money to touch. Even Neb, wages and prize-money, brings me nine hundred dollars. With your permission, sir, I should like to give the fellow his freedom.” “Wait till you are of age, Miles, and then you can do as you please. I hold four thousand dollars of your invested money, which has been paid in, and I have placed it in stocks. Altogether, I find we can muster, in solid cash, more than twenty thousand dollars, while the price of the ship, as she stands, almost ready for sea, is only fifteen. Now, go and look at the vessel; if you like her, I will close the bargain at once.” “But, my dear Mr. Hardinge, do you think yourself exactly qualified to judge of the value of a ship?” “Poh! poh! don't imagine I am so conceited as to purchase on my own knowledge. I have taken some of the very best advice of the city. There is John Murray, to begin with--a great ship-holder, himself--and Archibald Gracie, and William Bayard--all capital judges, have taken an interest in the affair. Three others of my friends have walked round to look at the vessel, and all approve--not a dissenting voice.” “May I ask, sir, who have seen her, besides the gentlemen you have named? they, I admit, are, indeed, good judges.” “Why? --why--yes--do you happen to know anything of Dr. Benjamin Moore, now, Miles?” “Never heard of him, sir, in my life; but a physician can be no great judge of a ship.” “No more of a physician than yourself, boy--Dr. Benjamin Moore, the gentleman we elected Bishop, while you were absent--” “Oh! he you wished to toast, instead of Miss Peggy Perott--” cried I, smiling. “Well, what does the Bishop think of her--if he approve, she _must_ be orthodox.” “He says she is the handsomest vessel he ever laid eyes on, Miles; and let me tell you, the favourable opinion of so good a man as Dr. Moore, is of value, even though it be about a ship.” I could not avoid laughing, and I dare say most of the readers will also, at this touch of simplicity; and yet, why should not a Bishop know as much of ships, as a set of ignoramuses who never read a theological book in their lives, some of them not even the Bible, should know about Bishops? The circumstance was not a tittle more absurd than many that are occurring daily before our eyes, and to which, purely from habit, we submit, very much as a matter of course. “Well, sir,” I replied, as soon as I could, “I will look at the ship, get her character, and give you an answer at once. I like the idea, for it is pleasant to be one's own master.” In that day, $15,000 would buy a very excellent ship, as ships went. The vessel I was taken to see, was coppered and copper-fastened, butt-bolted, and she measured just five hundred tons. She had a great reputation as a sailer, and what was thought a good deal of in 1802, was Philadelphia built. She had been one voyage to China, and was little more than a year old, or the best possible age for a vessel. Her name was the “Dawn,” and she carried an “Aurora” for her figure-head. Whether she were, or were not inclined to Puseyism, I never could ascertain, although I can affirm she had the services of the Protestant Episcopal Catholic Church read on board her afterwards, on more than one occasion. The result of my examination and inquiries was favourable, and, by the end of the week, the Dawn was purchased. The owners of the Crisis were pleased to express their regrets, for they had intended that I should continue in the command of their vessel, but no one could object to a man's wishing to sail in his own employment. I made this important acquisition, at what was probably the most auspicious moment of American navigation. It is a proof of this, that, the very day I was put in possession of the ship, good freights were offered to no less than four different parts of the world. I had my choice between Holland, France, England, and China. After consulting with my guardian, I accepted that to France, which not only paid the best, but I was desirous of seeing more of the world than had yet fallen to my share. I could make a voyage to Bordeaux and back in five months, and by the end of that time I should be of age, and consequently my own master. As I intended to have great doings at Clawbonny on that occasion, I thought it might be well not to go too far from home. Accordingly, after shipping Talcott and the Philadelphian, whose name was Walton, for my mates, we began to take in cargo, as soon as possible. In the meantime, I bethought me of a visit to the paternal home. It was a season of the year, when most people, who were anybodies, left town, and the villas along the shores of the Hudson had long been occupied. Mr. Hardinge, too, pined for the country and his flock. The girls had had enough of town, which was getting to be very dull, and everybody, Rupert excepted, seemed anxious to go up the river. I had invited the Mertons to pass part of the summer at the farm, moreover, and it was time the invitation should be renewed, for the Major's physicians had advised him to choose some cooler residence than the streets of a hot close town could furnish, during the summer months. Emily had been so much engrossed with the set into which she had fallen, since her landing, and which it was easy for me to see was altogether superior to that in which she had lived at home, that I was surprised at the readiness with which she urged her father to redeem his promise. “Mr. Hardinge tells me, sir, that Clawbonny is really a pretty spot,” she said, “and the country around it is thought to be very healthy. You cannot get answers from home (she meant England) for several months, and I know Captain Wallingford will be happy to receive us. Besides, we are pledged to accept this additional favour from him.” I thought Major Merton felt some of my own surprise at Emily's earnestness and manner, but his resistance was very feeble. The old gentleman's health, indeed, was pretty thoroughly undermined, and I began to have serious doubts of his living even to return to Europe. He had some relatives in Boston, and had opened a correspondence with them, and I had thought, more than once, of the expediency of apprising them of his situation. At present however nothing better could be done than to get him into the country. Having made all the arrangements with the others, I went to persuade Rupert to be of the party, for I thought it would make both Grace and Lucy so much the happier. “Miles, my dear fellow,” said the young student, gaping, “Clawbonny is certainly a capitalish place, but, you will admit it is somewhat stupid after New York. My good kinswoman, Mrs. Bradfort, has taken such a fancy to us all, and has made me so comfortable--would you believe it, boy, she has actually given me six hundred a year, for the last two years, besides making Lucy presents fit for a queen. A sterling woman is she, this cousin Margaret of ours!” I heard this, truly, not without surprise; for, in settling with my owners, I found Rupert had drawn every cent to which he was entitled, under the orders I had left when I last went to sea. As Mrs. Bradfort was more than at her ease, however, had no nearer relative than Mr. Hardinge, and was much attached to the family, I had no difficulty in believing it true, so far as the lady's liberality was concerned. I heartily wished Rupert had possessed more self-respect; but he was, as he was! “I am sorry you cannot go with us,” I answered, “for I counted on you to help amuse the Mertons--” “The Mertons! --Why, surely, they are not going to pass the summer at Clawbonny!” “They quit town with us, to-morrow. Why should not the Mertons pass the summer at Clawbonny?” “Why, Miles, my dear boy, you know how it is with the world--how it is with these English, in particular. They think everything of rank, you know, and are devotees of style and appearance, and all that sort of thing, you know, as no one understands better than myself; for I pass most of my time in the English set, you know.” I did not _then_ understand what had come over Rupert, though it is all plain enough to me, _now_. He had, truly enough, got into what was then called the English set. Now, there is no question, that, so far as the natives, themselves, were concerned, this was as good a set as ever existed in his country; and, it is also beyond all cavil, that many respectable English persons, of both sexes, were occasionally found in it; but, it had this great defect:--_every_ Englishman who wore a good coat, and had any of the slang of society, made his way into the outskirts, at least, of this set; and Rupert, whose own position was not yet thoroughly confirmed, had fallen a great deal into the association of these accidental comers and goers. They talked large, drank deep, and had a lofty disdain for everything in the country, though it was very certain they were just then in much better company where they were, than they had ever been at home. Like most tyroes, Rupert fancied these blustering gentry persons to imitate; and, as they seldom conversed ten minutes without having something to say of my Lord A----or Sir John B----, persons they had _read_ of, or seen in the streets, he was weak enough to imagine they knew all about the dignitaries of the British Empire. As Rupert was really a gentleman, and had good manners naturally, it was a grievous thing to see him fashioning himself anew, as it might be, on such very questionable models, “Clawbonny is not a stylish place, I am ready to allow,” I answered, after a moment of hesitation; “still it is respectable. There is a good farm, a valuable mill, and a good, old, comfortable, straggling, stone house.” “Very true, Miles, my dear fellow, and all as dear to me, you know, as the apple of my eye--but _farmish_--young ladies like the good things that comes from farms, but do not admire the homeliness of the residence. I speak of young English ladies, in particular. Now, you see, Major Merton is a field-officer, and that is having good rank in a respectable profession, you know--I suppose you understand, Miles, that the king puts most of his sons into the army, or navy--all this makes a difference, you understand?” “I understand nothing about it; what is it to me where the king of England puts his sons?” “I wish, my dear Miles, if the truth must be said, that you and I had been a little less boyish, when we were boys, than happened to be the case. It would have been all the better for us both.” “Well, I wish no such thing. A boy should be a boy, and a man a man. I am content to have been a boy, while I was a boy. It is a fault in this country, that boys fancy themselves men too soon.” “Ah! my dear fellow, you _will_ not, or _do_ not understand me. What I mean is, that we were both precipitate in the choice of a profession--I retired in time, but you persevere; that is all.” “You did retire in season, my lad, if truth is what you are after; for, had you staid a hundred years on board ship, you never would have made a sailor.” When I said this, I fancied I had uttered a pretty severe thing. Rupert took it so coolly, however, as to satisfy me at once, that he thought differently on the subject. “Clearly, it is not my vocation. Nature intended me for something better, I trust, and I mistook a boyish inclination for a taste. A little experience taught me better, and I am now where I feel I ought to be. I wish, Miles, you had come to the study of the law, at the time you went to sea. You would have been, by this time, at the bar, and would have had a definite position in society.” “I am very glad I did not. What the deuce should I have done as a lawyer--or what advantage would it have been to me, to be admitted to the bar?” “Advantage! --Why, my dear fellow, every advantage in the world. You know how it is, in this country, I suppose, in the way of society, my dear Miles?” “Not I--and, by the little I glean from the manner you sheer about in your discourse, I wish to know nothing. Do young men study law merely to be genteel?” “Do not despise knowledge, my boy; it is of use, even in trifles. Now, in this country, you know, we have very few men of mere leisure--heirs of estates, to live on their incomes, as is done in Europe; but, nine-tenths of us must follow professions, of which there are only half-a-dozen suitable for a gentleman. The army and navy are nothing, you know; two or three regiments scattered about in the woods, and half-a-dozen vessels. After these, there remain the three learned professions, divinity, law and physic. In our family, divinity has run out, I fear. As for physic, 'throw physic to the dogs,' as Miss Merton says--” “Who?” I exclaimed, in surprise. “'Throw physic to the dogs'--why that is Shakspeare, man!” “I know it, and it is Miss Emily Merlon's, too. You have made us acquainted with a charming creature, at least, Miles, by this going to sea. Her notions on such subjects are as accurate as a sun-dial.” “And, has Miss Emily Merton ever conversed with you, on the subject of _my_ profession, Rupert?” “Indeed, she has; and regretted it, again and again. You know as well as I do, Miles, to be a sailor, other than in a navy, is not a _genteel_ profession!” I broke out into a fit of laughter, at this remark. It struck me as infinitely droll, and as somewhat silly. I knew my precise position in society, perfectly; had none of the silly swaggering about personal merit, and of “one man's being as good as another,” that has since got into such general use among us; and understood perfectly the useful and unavoidable classifications that take place in all civilized communities, and which, while they are attended by certain disadvantages as exceptions, produce great benefits as a whole, and was not disposed at all to exaggerate my claims, or to deny my deficiencies. But, the idea of attaching any considerations of _gentility_ to my noble, manly, daring profession, sounded so absurd, I could not avoid laughing. In a few moments, however, I became grave. “Harkee, Rupert,” said I: “I trust Miss Merton does not think I endeavoured to mislead her as to my true position, or to make her think I was a greater personage than I truly am?” “I'll not answer for that. When we were first acquainted, I found she had certain notions about Clawbonny, and your _estate_, and all that, which were rather English, you know. Now, in England an _estate_ gives a man a certain consideration, whereas land is so plenty with us, that we think nothing of the man who happens to own a little of it. _Stock_, in America, as it is so much nearer ready-money, is a better thing than land, you know.” How true was this, even ten years since; how false is it to-day! The proprietor of tens of thousands of acres, was, indeed, under the paper-money _regime_, a less important man than the owner of a handful of scrip, which has had all its value squeezed out of it, little by little. That was truly the age when the representative of property was of far more importance than the property itself; and all because the country existed in a fever, that set everything in motion. We shall see just such times, again, I fear. “But what had Emily Merton to do with all this?” “Miss Merton? Oh! she is English, you know, and felt as English persons always do, at the sound of acres. I set it all right, however, and you need be under no concern.” “The devil you did! And, pray, in what manner was this done? _How_ was the matter set right?” Rupert took the segar from his mouth, suffered the smoke to issue, by a small, deliberate jet, cocking his nose up at the same time as if observing the stars, and then deigned to give me an answer. Your smokers have such a disdainful, ultra-philosophical manner, sometimes! “Why, just in this way, my fine fellow. I told her Clawbonny was a _farm_, and not an _estate_, you know; that did a good deal, of itself. Then, I entered into an explanation of the consideration of farmers in this country, you know, and made it all as plain as A B C. She is a quick girl, is Emily, and takes a thing remarkably soon.” “Did Miss Merton say anything to induce you to suppose she thought the less of me, for these explanations.” “Of course not--she values you, amazingly--quite worships you, _as a sailor_--thinks you a sort of merchant-captain Nelson, or Blake, or Truxtun, and all that sort of thing. All young ladies, however, are exceedingly particular about professions, I suppose you know, Miles, as well as I do myself.” “What, Lucy, Rupert? --Do you imagine Lucy cares a straw about my not being a lawyer, for instance?” “Do I? --out of all question. Don't you remember how the girls wept--Grace as well as Lucy--when we went to sea, boy. It was all on account of the _un_gentility of the profession, if a fellow can use such a word.” I did not believe this, for I knew Grace better, to say the least; and thought I understood Lucy sufficiently, at that time, to know she wept because she was sorry to see me go away. Still, Lucy had grown from a very young girl, since I sailed in the Crisis, into a young woman, and might view things differently, now, from what she had done three years before. I had not time, however, for further discussion at that moment, and I cut the matter short. “Well, Rupert, what am I to expect?” I asked; “Clawbonny, or no Clawbonny?” “Why, now you say the Mertons are to be of the party I suppose I shall have to go; it would be inhospitable else. I do wish, Miles, you would manage to establish visiting relations with some of the families on the other side of the river. There are plenty of respectable people within a few hours' sail of Clawbonny.” “My father, and my grandfather, and my great-grand-father, managed, as you call it, to get along, for the last hundred years, well enough on the west side; and, although we are not quite as genteel as the _east_, we will do well enough. The Wallingford sails early in the morning, to save the tide; and I hope your lordship will turn out in season, and not keep us waiting. If you do, I shall be _ungenteel_ enough to leave you behind.” I left Rupert with a feeling in which disgust and anger were blended. I wish to be understood, more particularly as I know I am writing for a stiff-necked generation. I never was guilty of the weakness of decrying a thing because I did not happen to possess it myself. I knew my own place in the social scale perfectly; nor was I, as I have just said, in the least inclined to fancy that one man was as good as another. I knew very well that this was not true, either in nature or in the social relations; in political axioms, any more than in political truths. At the same time, I did not believe nature had created men unequal, in the order of primogeniture from male to male. Keeping in view all the facts, I was perfectly disposed to admit that habits, education, association, and sometimes chance and caprice, drew distinctions that produced great benefits, as a whole; in some small degree qualified, perhaps, by cases of individual injustice. This last exception, however, being applicable to all things human, it had no influence on my opinions, which were sound and healthful on all these points; practical, common-sense-like, and in conformity with the decisions of the world from the time of Moses down to our own, or, I dare say, of Adam himself, if the truth could be known; and, as I have said more than once in these rambling memoir's, I was not disposed to take a false view of my own social position. I belonged, at most, to the class of small proprietors, as they existed in the last century, and filled a very useful and respectable niche between the yeoman and gentleman, considering the last strictly in reference to the upper class of that day. Now, it struck me that Emily Merton, with her English notions, might very well draw the distinctions Rupert had mentioned; nor am I conscious of having cared much about it, though she did. If I were a less important person on _terra firma_, with all the usages and notions of ordinary society producing their influence, than I had been when in command of the Crisis, in the centre of the Pacific, so was Miss Merton a less important young lady, in the midst of the beauty of New York, than she had been in the isolation of Marble Land. This I could feel very distinctly. But Lucy's supposed defection did more than annoy me. I felt humbled, mortified, grieved. I had always known that Lucy was better connected than I was myself, and I had ever given Rupert and her the benefit of this advantage, as some offset to my own and Grace's larger means; but it had never struck me that either the brother or sister would be disposed to look down upon us in consequence. The world is everywhere--and America, on account of its social vicissitudes, more than most other countries--constantly exhibiting pictures of the struggles between fallen consequence and rising wealth. The last may, and does have the best of it, in the mere physical part of the strife; but in the more moral, if such a word can be used, the quiet ascendency of better manners and ancient recollections is very apt to overshadow the fussy pretensions of the vulgar aspirant, who places his claims altogether on the all-mighty dollar. It is vain to deny it; men ever have done it, and probably ever will defer to the past, in matters of this sort--it being much with us, in this particular, as it is with our own lives, which have had all their greatest enjoyments in bygone days. I knew all this--felt all this--and was greatly afraid that Lucy, through Mrs. Bradfort's influence, and her town associations, might have learned to regard me as Captain Wallingford, of the merchant-service, and the son of another Captain Wallingford of the same line in life. I determined, therefore, to watch her with jealous attention, during the few days I was to remain at Clawbonny. With such generous intentions, the reader is not to be surprised if I found some of that for which I so earnestly sought--people being very apt to find precisely the thing for which they look, when it is not lost money. The next morning we were all punctual, and sailed at the proper hour. The Mertons seemed pleased with the river, and, having a fresh southerly wind in our favour, with a strong flood-tide, we actually landed at the mill the same afternoon. Everything is apt to be agreeable when the traveller gets on famously; and I thought I never saw Emily in better spirits than she was when we first reached the top of the ascent that lies above the landing. I had given her my arm, as due to hospitality, while the others got up as they could; for I observed that Rupert assisted no one. As for Lucy, I was still too much vexed with her, and had been so all day, to be as civil as I ought. We were soon at a point that commanded a view of the house, meadows, orchards and fields. “This, then, is Clawbonny!” exclaimed Emily, as soon as I pointed out the place to her. “Upon my word, a very pretty farm, Captain Wallingford. Even prettier than you represented it to be, Mr. Rupert Hardinge.” “Oh! I always do justice to everything of Wallingford's, you know. We were children together, and became so much attached in early life, that it's no wonder we remain so in these our later days.” Rupert was probably nearer the truth than he imagined, when he made this speech; my regard for him, by this time, being pretty much reduced to habit; and certainly it had no increase from any fresh supplies of respect. I began to hope he might not marry Grace, though I had formerly looked forward to the connection as a settled thing. “Let him get Miss Merton, if he can,” I said to myself: “it will be no great acquisition, I fancy, to either side.” How different was it with his father, and, I may add, with Lucy! The old gentleman turned to me, with tears in his eyes; pointed to the dear old house, with a look of delight; and then took my arm, without reference to the wants of Miss Merton, and led me on, conversing earnestly of my affairs, and of his own stewardship. Lucy had her father's arm, on the other side; and the good divine was too much accustomed to her, to mind the presence of his daughter. Away we three went, therefore, leading the way, while Rupert took charge of Emily and Grace. Major Merton followed, leaning on his own man. “It is a lovely--it is a lovely spot, Miles,” said Mr. Hardinge; “and I do most sincerely hope you will never think of tearing down that respectable-looking, comfortable, substantial, good old-fashioned house, to build a new one.” “Why should I, dear sir? The house, with an occasional addition, all built in the same style, has served us a century, and may very well serve another. Why should I wish for more, or a better house?” “Why, sure enough? But, now you are a sort of a merchant, you may grow rich, and wish to be the proprietor of a _seat_.” The time had been, when such thoughts often crossed my mind; but I cared less for them, then. To own a _seat_, was the great object of my ambition in boyhood; but the thought had weakened by time and reflection. “What does Lucy think of the matter? Do I want, or indeed deserve, a better house?” “I shall not answer either question,” replied the dear girl, a little saucily, I thought. “I do not understand your wants, and do not choose to speak of your deservings. But I fancy the question will be settled by a certain Mrs. Wallingford, one of these days. Clever women generally determine these things for their husbands.” I endeavoured to catch Lucy's eye, when this was said, by leaning a little forward myself; but the girl turned her head in such a manner as prevented my seeing her face. The remark was not lost on Mr. Hardinge, however, who took it up with warmth, and all the interest of a most pure and disinterested affection. “I suppose you _will_ think of marrying one of these days, Miles,” he said; “but, on no account, marry a woman who will desert Clawbonny, or who would wish materially to alter it. No good-hearted woman, indeed--no _true_-hearted woman--would ever dream of either. Dear me! dear me! the happy days and the sorrowful days--the gracious mercies of Providence, and the chastening afflictions--that I myself have seen, and felt, and witnessed, under these same roofs!” This was followed by a sort of enumeration of the events of the last forty years, including passages in the lives of all who had dwelt at the farm; the whole concluding with the divine's solemnly repeating--“No, no! Miles; do not think, even, of marrying a woman who would wish you to desert, or materially alter, Clawbonny.”

23

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“If thou be'st rated by thy estimation, Thou dost deserve enough; and yet enough May not extend so far as to the lady.” _Merchant of Venice_. Next morning, I was early afoot, and I found Grace as much alive to the charms of home, as I was myself. She put on a gypsy, and accompanied me into the garden, where to my surprise, I found Lucy. It looked like old times to be in that spot, again, with those two dear girls. Rupert alone was wanting to complete the picture; but, I had an intimate conviction that Rupert, as he had been at least, could never come within the setting of the family group again. I was rejoiced, however, to see Lucy, and more so, just where I found her, and I believe told her as much with my eyes. The charming girl looked happier than she had appeared the day before, or for many previous days indeed, and I felt less apprehension than of late, concerning her having met with any agreeable youth of a more _genteel_ profession than that of a merchant-captain. “I did not expect to find you here, Miss Lucy,” cried Grace, “eating half-ripe currants, too, or my eyes deceive me, at this early hour in the morning. It is not twenty minutes since you were in your own room, quite unadorned.” “The green fruit of dear Clawbonny is better than the ripe fruit of those vile New York markets!” exclaimed Lucy, with a fervour so natural as to forbid any suspicion of acting. “I should prefer a Clawbonny potatoe, to a New York peach!” Grace smiled, and, as soon as Lucy's animation had a little subsided, _she_ blushed. “How much better would it be, Miles,” my sister resumed, “could you be induced to think and feel with us, and quit the seas, to come and live for the rest of your days on the spot where your fathers have so long lived before you. Would it not, Lucy?” “Miles will never do _that_,” Lucy answered, with emphasis. “Men are not like us females who love everything we love at all, with our whole hearts. Men prefer wandering about, and being shipwrecked, and left on desert islands, to remaining quietly at home, on their own farms. No, no; you'll never persuade Miles to do _that_.” “I am not astonished my brother thinks desert islands such pleasant abodes, when he can find companions like Miss Merton on them.” “You will remember, sister of mine, in the first place, that Marble Land is very far from being a desert island at all; and, in the next, that I first found Miss Merton in Hyde Park, London; almost in the canal, for that matter.” “I think it a little odd that Miles never told us all about this, in his letters, at the time, Lucy. When young gentlemen drag young ladies out of canals, their friends at home have a right to know something of the matter.” How much unnecessary misery is inflicted by unmeaning expressions like this. Grace spoke lightly, and probably without a second thought about the matter; but the little she said, not only made me thoughtful and uneasy, but it drove everything like a smile from the usually radiant countenance of her friend. The conversation dragged; and soon after, we returned together to the house. I was much occupied that morning, in riding about the place with Mr. Hardinge, and in listening to his account of his stewardship, With the main results I was already acquainted--nay, possessed them in the Dawn,--but the details had all to be gone over, with the most minute accuracy. A more simple-minded being there was not on earth than Mr. Hardinge; and, that my affairs turned out so well was the result of the prosperous condition of the country at that day, the system my father had adopted in his life-time, and the good qualities of the different agents he had chosen, every one of whom remained in the situation in which he was at the sad moment of the fatal accident at the mill. Had matters really depended on the knowledge and management of the most excellent divine, they would soon have been at sixes and sevens. “I am no believer in miracles, my dear Miles,” observed my guardian, with amusing self-complacency; “but I do think a change has been wrought in me, to meet the emergencies of a situation, in which the interests of two orphans have been so suddenly intrusted to my guidance and care. God be thanked! everything prospers; your affairs, as well as those of my dear Grace. It is wonderful, boy, how a man of my habits has been directed in his purchases of wheat, for instance; I, who never bought a bushel until the whole responsibility of your mills fell upon my shoulders I take no credit to myself for it--no credit to myself!” “I hope the miller has not been backward, my dear sir, in giving you all the assistance in his power.” “Morgan? --yes; he is always ready, and you know I never forget to send him into the market to both buy and sell. Really, his advice has been so excellent, that to me it has the appearance of being almost miraculous--prophetic, I should say, were it not improper. We should avoid all exaggeration in our gratitude, boy.” “Very truly, sir. And in what manner have you managed to get along so well with the crops, on the place, itself?” “Favoured by the same great adviser, Miles. It is really wonderful, the crops we have had; and the judgment that has been so providentially shown in the management of the fields, as well as of the mills!” “Of course, sir, old Hiram (Neb's uncle) has always been ready to give you his aid? --Hiram has a great deal of judgment, in his way.” “No doubt--no doubt--Hiram and I have done it all, led by a Providential counsel. Well, my boy, you ought to be satisfied with your earthly lot; for every thing seems to prosper that belongs to you. Of course, you will marry, one of these days, and transmit this place to your son, as it has been received from your fathers?” “I keep that hope in perspective, sir; or, as we sailors say, for a sheet-anchor.” “Your hope of salvation, boy, is your sheet-anchor, I trust. Nevertheless, we are not to be too hard on young men, and must let them have a little romance in their compositions. Yes, yes; I trust you will not become so much wedded to your ship, as not to think of taking a wife, one of these days. It will be a happy hour to me, when I can see another Mrs. Miles Wallingford at Clawbonny. She will be the third; for I can remember your grandmother.” “Can you recommend to me a proper person to fill that honourable station, sir?” said I, smiling to myself, and exceedingly curious to hear the answer. “What do you think of this Miss Merton, boy? She is handsome, and that pleases young men; clever, and that pleases old ones; well-educated, and that will last, when the beauty is gone; and, so far as I can judge, amiable; and that is as necessary to a wife, as fidelity. _Marry no woman, Miles, that is not amiable! _” “May I ask _what_ you call amiable, sir? --And, when that question is answered, I may venture to go so far as to inquire _whom_ you call amiable?” “Very sensible distinctions, and such as are entitled to fair answers; at least the first. I do not call levity, amiability; nor mere constitutional gaiety. Some of the seemingly most light-hearted women I have ever known, have been anything but amiable. There must be an unusual absence of selfishness,--a person must live less for herself, than others--or rather, must find her own happiness in the happiness of those she loves, to make a truly amiable woman. Heart and principle are at the bottom of what is truly amiable; though temperament and disposition undoubtedly contribute. As for the whom, your own sister Grace is a truly amiable young woman. I never knew her do anything to hurt another's feelings in my life.” “I suppose you will admit, sir, I cannot very well marry Grace?” “I wish you could, with all my heart--yes, with all my heart! Were not you and Grace brother and sister, I should consider myself well quit of the responsibility of my guardianship, in seeing you man and wife.” “As that is out of the question, I am not without hopes you can mention another who will do just as well, so far as I am concerned.” “Well, there is this Miss Merton--though I do not know her well enough to venture absolutely on a recommendation. Now, I told Lucy, no later than yesterday, while we were on the river, and as you were pointing out to Miss Merton the forts in the Highlands, that I thought you would make one of the handsomest couples in the state--and, moreover, I told her--bless me, how this corn grows! The plants will be in tassel in a few days, and the crop must turn out most beneficent--truly, truly--there is a providence in all things; for, at first, I was for putting the corn on yonder hill-side, and the potatoes here; but old Hiram was led by some invisible agency to insist on this field for the corn, and the hill-side for the potatoes--and, now, look, and see what crops are in promise! Think of a nigger's blundering on such a thing?” In 1802, even well-educated and well-intentioned clergymen had no scruples in saying “nigger.” “But, sir, you have quite forgotten to add what else you told Lucy?” “True--true--it is very natural that you should prefer hearing me talk about Miss Merton, to hearing me talk about potatoes--I'll tell _that_ to Lucy, too, you may depend on it.” “I sincerely hope you will do no such thing, my dear sir,” I cried, in no little alarm. “Ah! that betrays guilt--consciousness, I should say; for what guilt can there be in a virtuous love? --and rely on it, both the girls shall know all about it. Lucy and I often talk over your matters, Miles; for she loves you as well as your own sister. Ah! my fine fellow, you blush at it, like a girl of sixteen! But, there is nothing to be ashamed of, and there is no occasion for blushes.” “Well, sir, letting my blushes--the blushes of a shipmaster! --but setting aside my blushes, for mercy's sake _what more_ did you tell Lucy?” “What more? Why I told her how you had been on a desert island, quite alone as one might say, with Miss Merton, and how you had been at sea, living in the same cabin as it were, for nine months; and it would be wonderful--wonderful, indeed, if two so handsome young persons should not feel an attachment for each other. Country might make some difference, to be sure--” “And station, sir? --What do you think would be the influence of the difference of station, also?” “Station! --Bless me, Miles; what difference in station is there between you and Miss Merton; that it should cause any obstacle to your union?” “You know what it is, sir, as well as I do myself. She is the daughter of an officer in the British army, and I am the master of a ship. You will admit, I presume, Mr. Hardinge, that there is such, a thing as a difference in station?” “Beyond all question. It is exceedingly useful to remember it; and I greatly fear the loose appointments of magistrates and other functionaries, that are making round the country, will bring all our notions on such subjects into great confusion. I can understand that one man is as good as another in _rights_, Miles; but I cannot understand he is any _better_, because he happens to be uneducated, ignorant, or a blackguard.” Mr. Hardinge was a sensible man in all such distinctions, though so simple in connection with other matters. “You can have no difficulty, however, in understanding that, in New York, for instance, I should not be considered the equal of Major Merton--I mean socially, altogether, and not in personal merit, or the claims which years give--and of course, not the equal of his daughter?” “Why--yes--I know what you mean, now. There may be some little inequality in that sense, perhaps; but Clawbonny, and the ship, and the money at use, would be very apt to strike a balance.” “I am afraid not, sir. I should have studied law, sir, had I wished to make myself a gentleman.” “There are lots of vulgar fellows getting into the law, Miles--men who have not half your claims to be considered gentlemen. I hope you do not think I wished you and Rupert to study law in order to make gentlemen of you?” “No, sir; it was unnecessary to take that step as regards Rupert, who was fully born in the station. Clergymen have a decided position all over the world, I believe; and then you are extremely well connected otherwise, Mr. Hardinge. Rupert has no occasion for such an assistance--with me it was a little different.” “Miles--Miles--this is a strange fancy to come over a young man in your situation--and who, I am afraid, has been the subject of envy, only too often, to Rupert!” “If the truth were known, Mr. Hardinge, I dare say both Rupert and Lucy, in their secret hearts, think they possess advantages, in the way of social station, that do not belong to Grace and myself.” Mr. Hardinge looked hurt, and I was soon sorry that I had made this speech. Nor would I have the reader imagine that what I had said, proceeded in the least from that narrow selfish feeling, which, under the blustering pretension of equality, presumes to deny the existence of a very potent social fact; but simply from the sensitiveness of feelings, which, on this subject, were somewhat in danger of becoming morbid, through the agency of the most powerful passion of the human heart--or, that which has well been called the master-passion. Nevertheless, Mr. Hardinge was much too honest a man to deny a truth, and much too sincere to wish even to prevaricate about it, however unpleasant it might be to acknowledge it, in all its unpleasant bearings. “I now understand you, Miles; and it would be idle to pretend that there is not some justice in what you say, though I attach very little importance to it, myself. Rupert is not exactly what I could wish him to be in all things, and possibly _he_ may be coxcomb enough, at times, to fancy he has this slight advantage over you,--but, as for Lucy, I'll engage she never thinks of you but as a second brother--and that she loves you exactly as she loves Rupert.” Mr. Hardinge's simplicity was of proof, and it was idle to think of making any impression on it. I changed the subject, therefore, and this was easily enough done, by beginning again to talk about the potatoes. I was far from being easy, nevertheless; for I could not avoid seeing that the good divine's restlessness might readily widen the little breach which had opened between his daughter and myself. That day, at dinner, I discovered that Grace's winter in town had led to a sensible melioration of the domestic economy; most especially as related to the table. My father and mother had introduced some changes, which rendered the Clawbonny household affairs a little different from those of most other of the Ulster county families near our own class; but their innovations, or improvements, or whatever they might be called, were far from being as decided as those introduced by their daughter. Nothing, perhaps, sooner denotes the condition of people, than the habits connected with the table. If eating and drinking be not done in a certain way, and a way founded in reason, too, as indeed are nearly all the customs of polished life, whatever may be the cant of the ultras of reason--but, if eating and drinking be not done in a certain way, your people of the world perceive it sooner than almost anything else. There is, also, more of common sense and innate fitness, in the usages of the table, so long as they are not dependent on mere caprice, than in almost any other part of our deportment; for everybody must eat, and most persons choose to eat decently. I had been a little nervous on the subject of the Mertons, in connection with the Clawbonny table, I will confess; and great was my delight when I found the breakfast going off so well. As for the Major, himself by no means familiar with the higher classes of his own country, he had that great stamp of a gentleman, simplicity; and he was altogether above the cockney distinctions of eating and drinking; those about cheese and malt liquors, and such vulgar niceties; nor was he a man to care about the silver-forkisms; but he understood that portion of the finesse of the table which depended on reason and taste, and was accustomed to observe it. This I knew from near a twelve month's intercourse, and I had feared we might turn out to be a little too rustic. Grace had made provisions against all this, with a tact and judgment for which I could have worshipped her. I knew the viands, the vegetables, and the wines would all be good of their kind, for in these we seldom failed; nor did I distrust the cookery, the _English_-descended families of the Middle States, of my class, understanding that to perfection; but I feared we should fail in those little incidents of style and arrangement, and in the order of the service, that denote a well-regulated table. This is just what Grace had seen to; and I found that a great revolution had been quietly effected in this branch of our domestic economy during my absence; thanks to Grace's observations while at Mrs. Bradfort's. Emily seemed pleased at dinner, and Lucy could again laugh and smile. After the cloth was removed, the Major and Mr. Hardinge discussed a bottle of Madeira, and that too of a quality of which I had no reason to be ashamed; while we young people withdrew together to a little piazza, that was in the shade at that hour, and took seats, for a chat. Rupert was permitted to smoke, on condition that he would not approach within fifteen feet of the party. No sooner was this little group thus arranged, the three girls in a crescent, than I disappeared. “Grace, I have not yet spoken to you of a necklace of pearls possessed by your humble servant,” I cried, as my foot again touched the piazza. --“I would not say a word about it--” “Yet, Lucy and I heard all about it--” answered Grace with provoking calmness, “but would not ask to see it, lest you should accuse us of girlish curiosity. We waited your high pleasure, in the matter.” “You and Lucy heard I had such a necklace!” “Most unquestionably; I, Grace Wallingford, and she, Lucy Hardinge. I hope it is no infringement on the rights of Mr. Miles Clawbonny”--so the girls often called me, when they affected to think I was on my high-ropes--“I hope it is no infringement on the rights of Mr. Miles Clawbonny to say as much.” “And pray how _could_ you and Lucy know anything about it?” “That is altogether another question; perhaps we may accord an answer, after we have seen the necklace.” “Miss Merton told us, Miles,” said Lucy, looking at me with gentleness, for she saw I really wished an answer; and what could Lucy Hardinge ever refuse me, that was right in itself when she saw my feelings were really interested? “Miss Merton? Then I have been betrayed, and the surprise I anticipated is lost.” I was vexed, and my manner must have shown it in a slight degree. Emily coloured, bit her lip, and said nothing; but Grace made her excuses with more spirit than it was usual for _her_ to show. “You are rightly punished, Master Miles,” she cried; “for you had no business to anticipate surprises. They are vulgar things at best, and they are worse than that when they come from a distance of fifteen thousand miles--from a brother to a sister. Besides, you have surprised us sufficiently once, already, in connection with Miss Merton.” “I!” I exclaimed. “Me!” added Emily. “Yes, I and me; did you tell us one word about her, in your letters? and have you not now both surprised and delighted us, by making us acquainted with so charming a person? I can pardon such a surprise, on account of its consequences; but nothing so vulgar as a surprise about pearls.” Emily blushed now; and in her it was possible to tell the difference between a blush and the suffusion that arose from a different feeling; but she looked immensely superior to anything like explanations. “Captain Wallingford”--how I disliked that _Captain_--“Captain Wallingford can have but little knowledge of young ladies,” she said, coldly, “if he supposes such pearls as he possesses would not form the subject of their conversation.” I was coxcomb enough to fancy Emily was vexed that I had neglected to be more particular about her being on the island, and her connection with the ship. This might have been a mistake; however. “Let us see the pearls, Miles; and that will plead your apology,” said Lucy. “There, then--your charming eyes, young ladies, never looked on pearls like those, before.” Female nature could not suppress the exclamations of belight that succeeded. Even Rupert, who had a besetting weakness on the subject of all personal ornaments, laid aside his segar, and came within the prescribed distance, the better to admire. It was admitted all round, New York had nothing to compare with them. I then mentioned that they had been fished up by myself from the depths of the sea. “How much that adds to their value!” said Lucy, in a low voice, but in her warm, sincere manner. “That was getting them _cheap_, was it not, Miss Wallingford?” inquired Emily, with an emphasis I disliked. “Very; though I agree with Lucy, it makes them so much the more valuable.” “If Miss Merton will forget my charge of treason, and condescend to put on the necklace, you will all see it to much greater advantage than at present. If a fine necklace embellishes a fine woman, the advantage is quite reciprocal. I have seen my pearls once already on her neck, and know the effect.” A wish of Grace's aided my application, and Emily placed the ornaments around her throat. The dazzling whiteness of her skin gave a lustre to the pearls that they certainly did not previously possess. One scarcely knew which to admire the most--the ornaments, or their setting. “How very, very beautiful they are _now! _” cried Lucy, in generous admiration. “Oh! Miss Merton, pearls should ever be your ornaments.” “_Those_ pearls, you mean, Lucy,” put in Rupert, who was always extremely liberal with other people's means; “the necklace ought never to be removed.” “Miss Merton knows their destination,” I said, gallantly, “and the terms of ownership.” Emily slowly undid the clasp, placed the string before her eyes, and looked at it long and silently. “And what is this destination, Miles? What these terms of ownership?” my sister asked. “Of course he means them for you, dear,” Lucy remarked in haste. “For whom else can he intend such an ornament?” “You are mistaken, Miss Hardinge. Grace must excuse me for being a little selfish this time, at least. I do not intend those pearls for Miss Wallingford, but for Mrs. Wallingford, should there ever be such a person.” “Upon my word, such a double temptation, my boy, I Wonder Miss Merton ever had the fortitude to remove them from the enviable position they so lately occupied,” cried Rupert, glancing meaningly towards Emily, who returned the look with a slight smile. “Of course, Miss Merton understood that my remark was ventured in pleasantry,” I said stiffly, “and not in presumption. It was decided, however, when in the Pacific, that these pearls ought to have that destination. It is true, Clawbonny is not the Pacific, and one may be pardoned for seeing things a little differently _here_, from what they appeared _there_. I have a few more pearls, however, very inferior in quality I confess, to those of the necklace; but, such as they are, I should esteem it a favour, ladies, if you would consent to divide them equally among you. They would make three very pretty rings, and as many breast-pins.” I put into Grace's hands a little box containing all the pearls that had not been placed on the string. There were many fine ones among them, and some of very respectable size, though most were of the sort called seed. In the whole, there were several hundreds. “We will not balk his generosity,” said Grace, smiling--“so, Miss Merton, we will separate the pearls into three parcels, and draw lots for them. Here are handsome ornaments among them!” “They will have one value with you, at least, Grace, and quite likely with Lucy, while they might possibly possess another with Miss Merton. I fished up every one of those pearls with my own hands.” “Certainly, that will give them value with both Lucy and me, dearest Miles, as would the simple fact that they are your gift--but what is to give them their especial value with Miss Merton?” “They may serve to remind Miss Merton of some of her hair-breadth escapes, of the weeks passed on the island, and of scenes that, a few years hence, will probably possess the colours of a dream, in her recollection.” “_One_ pearl I will take, with this particular object”--said Emily, with more feeling than I had seen her manifest since she had got back into the world, “if Miss Wallingford will do me the favour to select it.” “Let it be enough for a ring, at least,” Grace returned, in her own sweetest manner. “Half a dozen of the finest of these pearls, of which one shall be on Miles' account, and five on mine.” “On those conditions, let it then be six. I have no occasion for pearls to remind me how much my father and my self owe to Captain Wallingford.” “Come, Rupert,” added Grace; “you have a taste in these things, let us have your aid in the selection.” Rupert was by no means backward in complying, for he loved to be meddling in such matters. “In the first place,” he said, “I shall at once direct that the number be increased to seven; this fine one in the centre, and three on each side, gradually diminishing in size. We must look to quality, and not to weight, for the six puisne judges, as we should call them in the courts. The Chief Justice will be a noble-looking fellow, and the associates ought to be of good quality to keep his honour's company.” “Why do you not call your judges 'my lords,' as we do in England, Mr. Hardinge?” inquired Emily, in her prettiest manner. “_Why,_ sure enough! I wish with all my heart we did, and then a man would have something worth living for.” “Rupert!” exclaimed Lucy, colouring--“you know it is because our government is republican, and that we have no nobles among us. Nor do you say exactly what you think; you would not be 'my lord,' if you could.” “As I never shall be a 'my lord,' and I am afraid never a 'your honour'--There, Miss Merton--there are numbers two and three--observe how beautifully they are graduated as to size.” “Well, 'your honour,'” added Grace, who began to be a little uneasy at the manner Rupert and Emily exhibited towards each other--“well, 'your honour,' what is to come next?” “Numbers four and five, of course--and here they are, Miss Merton; as accurately diminished, as if done by hand. A beautiful ring it will make--I envy those who will be recalled to mind, by so charming an object.” “You will now be one of those yourself, Mr. Hardinge”--observed Emily, with great tact--“for you are fully entitled to it, by the trouble you are giving yourself, and the taste and judgment you possess.” Lucy looked petrified. She had so long accustomed herself to think of Grace as her future sister, that the open admiration expressed in Rupert's countenance, which was too manifest to escape any of us, first threw a glimmering of light on suspicions of the most painful nature. I had long seen that Lucy understood her brother's character better than any of us--much better, indeed, than his simple-minded father; and, as for myself, I was prepared to expect anything but consistency and principle in his conduct. Dearly as I prized Lucy, and by this time the slight competition that Emily Merton had presented to my fancy, had entirely given way to the dear creature's heart, and nature,--but, dearly as I prized Lucy, I would greatly have preferred that my sister should not marry her brother; and, so far from feeling resentment on account of his want of fidelity, I was rather disposed to rejoice at it. I could appreciate his want of merit, and his unfitness to be the husband of such a woman as Grace, even at my early age; but, alas! I could not appreciate the effects of his inconstancy on a heart like that of my sister. Could I have felt as easy on the subject of Mr. Andrew Drewett, and of my own precise position in society, I should have cared very little, just then, about Rupert, and his caprices. The pearls for the ring were soon selected by Rupert, and approved of by Grace, after which I assumed the office of dividing the remainder myself. I drew a chair, took the box from Rupert, and set about the task. “I shall make a faithful umpire, girls,” I observed, as pearl after pearl was laid, first on one spot, then on another--“for I feel no preference between you--Grace is as Lucy; Lucy is as Grace, with me.” “That may be fortunate, Miss Hardinge, since it indicates no preference of a particular sort, that might require repressing,” said Emily, smiling significantly at Lucy. “When gentlemen treat young ladies as sisters, it is a subject of rejoicing. These sailors need severe lessons, to keep them within the rules of the land.” Why this was said, I did not understand; but Rupert laughed at it, as if it were a capital thing. To mend the matter, he added, a little boisterously for him-- “You see, Miles, you had better have taken to the law--the ladies cannot appreciate the merits of you tars.” “So it would seem,” I returned, a little drily, “after all Miss Merton has experienced and seen of the trade.” Emily made no reply, but she regarded her pearls with a steadiness that showed she was thinking more of their effect than that of either her own speech or mine. I continued to divide the pearls, and soon had the work complete. “What am I to do, now?” --I asked--“Will you draw lots, girls, or will you trust to my impartiality?” “We will certainly confide in the last,” answered Grace. “The division is so very equitable that I do not well see how you can defraud either.” “That being the case, this parcel is for you, Lucy; and, Grace, that is your's.” Grace rose, put her arms affectionately around my neck, and gave me one of the hundred kisses that I had received, first and last, for presents of one sort and another. The deep attachment that beamed in her saint-like eyes, would of itself have repaid me for fifty such gifts. At the moment, I was almost on the point of throwing her the necklace in the bargain; but some faint fancies about Mrs. Miles Wallingford prevented me from so doing. As for Lucy, not a little to my surprise, she received the pearls, muttered a few unintelligible words, but did not even rise from her chair. Emily seemed to tire of this, so she caught up her gypsy, said the evening was getting to be delightful, and proposed a walk. Rupert and Grace cheerfully acquiesced, and the three soon left the place, Lucy preparing to follow, as soon as a maid could bring her hat, and I excusing myself on the score of business in my own room. “Miles”--said Lucy, as I was about to enter the house, she herself standing on the edge of the piazza on the point of following the party, but holding towards me the little paper box in which I had placed her portion of the pearls. “Do you wish me to put them away for you, Lucy?” “No, Miles--not for _me_--but for _yourself_--for Grace--for _Mrs. Miles Wallingford_, if you prefer that.” This was said without the slightest appearance of any other feeling than a gentle request. I was surprised, and scarce knew what to make of it; at first, I refused to take the box. “I hope I have done nothing to merit this, Lucy?” I said, half-affronted, half-grieved. “Remember, Miles,” the dear girl answered--“we are no longer children, but have reached an age when it is incumbent on us to respect appearances a little. These pearls must be worth a good deal of money, and I feel certain my father, when he came to think of it, would scarce approve of my receiving them.” “And this from _you_, dear Lucy!” “This from me, dear Miles,” returned the precious girl, tears glistening in her eyes, though she endeavoured to smile. “Now, take the box, and we will be just as good friends as ever.” “Will you answer me one question, as frankly and as honestly as you used to answer all my questions?” Lucy turned pale and she stood reflecting an instant before she spoke. “I can answer no question before it is asked,” was at length her answer. “Have you thought so little of my presents as to have thrown away the locket I gave you, before I sailed for the North-West coast?” “No, Miles; I have kept the locket, and shall keep it as long as I live. It was a memorial of our childish regard for each other; and, in that sense, is very dear to me. You will let me keep the locket, I am sure!” “If it were not you, Lucy Hardinge, whom I know to be truth itself, I might be disposed to doubt you, so many strange things exist, and so much caprice, especially in attachments, is manifested here, ashore!” “You need doubt nothing I tell you, Miles--on no account would I deceive you.” “That I believe--nay, I see, it is your present object to _undeceive_ me. I do not doubt anything you tell me, Lucy. I wish I could see that locket, however; show it to me, if you have it on your person.” Lucy made an eager movement, as if about to produce the locket; then she arrested the impetuous indication, while her cheeks fairly burned with the blushes that suffused them. “I see how it is, Lucy--the thing is not to be found. It is mislaid, the Lord knows where, and you do not like to avow it.” The locket, at that moment, lay as near the blessed creature's heart as it could be placed; and her confusion proceeded from the shame of letting that fact be known. This I could not see, and consequently did not know. A very small and further indication of feeling on my part, might have betrayed the circumstance; but pride prevented it, and I took the still extended box, I dare say in a somewhat dramatic manner. Lucy looked at me earnestly; I saw it was with difficulty that she kept from bursting into tears. “You are not hurt, Miles?” she said. “I should not be frank if I denied it. Even Emily Merton, you saw, consented to accept enough pearls for a ring.” “I did perceive it; and yet, you remember, she felt the impropriety of receiving such large gifts from gentlemen. Miss Merton has gone through so much, so much in your company, Miles, that no wonder she is willing to retain some little memorial of it all, until--” She hesitated; but Lucy chose not to finish the sentence. She had been pale; but her cheeks were now like the rose, again. “When Rupert and I first went to sea, Lucy, you gave me your little treasure in gold--every farthing you had on earth, I fancy.” “I am glad I did, Miles; for we were very young, then, and you had been so kind to me, I rejoice I had a little gratitude. But, we are now in situations,” she added, smiling so sweetly, as to render it difficult for me to refrain from catching her in my arms, and folding her to my heart; “that place both of us above the necessity of receiving aid of this sort.” “I am glad to hear this--though _I_ shall never part with the dear recollection of the half-joes.” “Or I with that of the locket. We will retain these, then, as keepsakes. My dear Mrs. Bradfort, too, is very particular about Rupert or myself receiving favours of this sort, from any but herself. She has adopted us, in a manner; and I owe to her liberality, the means of making the figure I do. Apart from that, Miles, we are all as poor as we have ever been.” I wished Rupert had half his sister's self-respect and pride of character. But he had not; for in spite of his kinswoman's prohibitions, he had not scrupled to spend nearly three years of the wages that accrued to me as third-mate of the Crisis. For the money I cared not a stiver; it was a very different thing as to the feeling. As for Lucy, she hastened away, as soon as she had induced me to accept the box; and I had no choice but to place all the pearls together, and put them in Grace's room, as my sister had desired me to do with her own property before proceeding on her walk. I determined I would converse confidentially with Grace, that very evening, about the state of affairs in general, and if possible, learn the worst concerning Mr. Andrew Drewett's pretensions. Shall I frankly own the truth? I was sorry that Mrs. Bradfort had made Lucy so independent; as it seemed to increase the chasm that I fancied was opening between us.

24

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“Your name abruptly mentioned, casual words Of comment on your deeds, praise from your uncle, News from the armies, talk of your return, A word let fall touching your youthful passion Suffused her cheek, called to her drooping eye A momentary lustre.” I had no difficulty in putting my project of a private interview with Grace, in execution in my own house. There was one room at Clawbonny, that, from time immemorial, had been appropriated exclusively to the use of the heads of the establishment; It was called the “family room,” as one would say “family-pictures” or “family--plate.” In my father's time, I could recollect that I never dreamed of entering it, unless asked or ordered; and even then, I always did so with some such feeling as I entered a church. What gave it a particular and additional sanctity in out eyes, also, was the fact that the Wallingford dead were always placed in their coffins, in this room, and thence they were borne to their graves. It was a very small triangular room, with the fire-place in one corner, and possessing but a single window, that opened on a thicket of rose-bushes, ceringos, and lilacs. There was also a light external fence around this shrubbery, as if purposely to keep listeners at a distance. The apartment had been furnished when the house was built, being in the oldest part of the structures, and still retained its ancient inmates. The chairs, tables, and, most of the other articles, had actually been brought from England, by Miles the First, as we used to call the emigrant; though, he was thus only in reference to the Clawbonny dynasty, having been something like Miles the Twentieth, in the old country. My mother had introduced a small settee, or some such seat as the French would call a _causeuse;_ a most appropriate article, in such a place. In preparation for the interview I had slipped into Grace's hand a piece of paper, on which was written “meet me in the family-room, precisely at six!” This was sufficient; at the hour named, I proceeded to the room, myself. The house of Clawbonny, in one sense, was large for an American residence; that is to say, it covered a great deal of ground, every one of the three owners who preceded me, having built; the two last leaving entire the labours of the first. My turn had not yet come, of course; but the reader knows already that I, most irreverently, had once contemplated abandoning the place, for a “seat” nearer the Hudson. In such a _suite_ of constructions, sundry passages became necessary, and we had several more than was usual at Clawbonny, besides having as many pairs of stairs. In consequence of this ample provision of stairs, the chambers of the family were totally separated from those of all the rest of the house. I began to reflect seriously, on _what_ I had to say, and _how_ it was to be said, as I walked through the long passage which led to the “family-room,” or the “triangle,” as my own father had nicknamed the spot. Grace and I had never yet held what might be termed a family consultation; I was too young to think of such a thing, when last at home, and no former occasion had offered since my return. I was still quite young, and had more diffidence than might have been expected in a sailor. To me, it was far more embarrassing to open verbal communications of a delicate nature, than it would have been to work a ship in action. But for this _mauvaise honte_, I do think I should have been explicit with Lucy, and not have parted from her on the piazza, as I did, leaving everything in just as much doubt as it had been before a word passed between us. Then I entertained a profound respect for Grace; something more than the tenderness of a brother for a sister; for, mingled with my strong affection for her, was a deference, a species of awe of her angel-like character and purity, that made me far more disposed to receive advice from her, than to bestow it. In the frame of mind which was natural to all these blended feelings, I laid my hand on the old-fashioned brass latch, by which the door of the “triangle” was closed. On entering the room, I found my sister seated on the “causeuses,” the window open to admit air, the room looking snug but cheerful, and its occupant's sweet countenance expressive of care, not altogether free from curiosity. The last time I had been in that room, it was to look on the pallid features of my mother's corpse, previously to closing the coffin. All the recollections of that scene rushed upon our minds at the same instant; and taking a place by the side of Grace, I put an arm around her waist, drew her to me, and, receiving her head on my bosom, she wept like a child. My tears could not be altogether restrained, and several minutes passed in profound silence. No explanations were needed; I knew what my sister thought and felt, and she was equally at home as respects my sensations. At length we regained our self-command, and Grace lifted her head. “You have not been in this room since, brother?” she observed, half inquiringly. “I have not, sister. It is now many years--many for those who are as young as ourselves.” “Miles, you will think better about that 'seat,' and never abandon Clawbonny--never destroy this blessed room!” “I begin to think and feel differently on the subject, from what I once did. If this house were good enough for our forefathers, why is it not good enough for me. It is respectable and comfortable, and what more do I want? “And so warm in winter, and so cool in summer; with good thick stone walls; while everything they build now is a shingle palace! Besides, you can add your portion, and each addition has already been a good deal modernized. It is so pleasant to have a house that partakes of the usages of different periods!” “I hardly think I shall ever abandon Clawbonny, my dear; for I find it growing more and more precious as other ties and expectations fail me.” Grace drew herself entirely from my arms, and looked intently, and, as I fancied, anxiously at me, from the other corner of the settee. Then she affectionately took one of my hands, in both her own, and pressed it gently. “You are young to speak of such things, my dear brother,” she said with a tone and air of sadness, I had never yet remarked in her voice and manner; “much too young for a man; though I fear we women are born to know sorrow!” I could not speak if I would, for I fancied Grace was about to make some communications concerning Rupert. Notwithstanding the strong affection that existed between my sister and myself, not a syllable had ever been uttered by either, that bore directly on our respective relations with Rupert and Lucy Hardinge. I had long been certain that Rupert, who was never backward in professions, had years before spoken explicitly to Grace, and I made no doubt they were engaged, though probably subject to some such conditions as the approval of his father and myself; approvals, that neither had any reason for supposing would be withheld. Still, Grace had never intimated anything of the sort, and my conclusions were drawn from conjectures founded as I imagined on sufficient observation. On the other hand, I had never spoken to Grace, of my love for Lucy. Until within the last month, indeed, when jealousy and distrust came to quicken the sentiment, I was unconscious myself with how much passion I did actually love the dear girl; for, previously to that, my affection had seemed so much a matter of course, was united with so much that was fraternal, in appearance at least, that I had never been induced to enter into an inquiry as to the nature of this regard. We were both, therefore, touching on hallowed spots in our hearts, and each felt averse to laying bare the weakness. “Oh! you know how it is with life, Grace,” I answered, with affected carelessness, after a moment's silence; “now all sun-shine, and now all clouds--I shall probably never marry, my dear sister, and you, or your children, will inherit Clawbonny; then you can do as you please with the house. As a memorial of myself, however, I will leave orders for stone to be got out this fall, and, next year, I will put up the south wing, of which we have so much talked, and add three or four rooms in which one will not be ashamed to see his friends.” “I hope your are ashamed of nothing that is at Clawbonny, now, Miles--as for your marrying, my dear brother, that remains to be seen; young men do not often know their own minds on such a subject, at your age.” This was said, not altogether without pleasantry, though there was a shade of sadness in the countenance of the beloved speaker, that from the bottom of my heart I wished were not there. I believe Grace understood my concern, and that she shrunk with virgin sensitiveness from touching further on the subject, for she soon added-- “Enough of this desponding talk. Why have you particularly desired to see me, here, Miles?” “Why? Oh! you know I am to sail next week, and we have never been here--and, now we are both of an age to communicate our thoughts to each other--I supposed--that is--there must be a beginning of all things, and it is as well to commence now, as any other time. You do not seem more than half a sister, in the company of strangers like the Mertons, and Hardinges!” “Strangers, Miles! How long have you regarded the last as strangers?” “Certainly not strangers in the way of acquaintance, but strangers to our blood. There is not the least connection between us and them.” “No, but much love; and love that has lasted from childhood. I cannot remember the time when I have not loved Lucy Hardinge.” “Quite true--nor I. Lucy is an excellent girl, and one is almost certain of always retaining a strong regard for _her_. How singularly the prospects of the Hardinges are changed by this sudden liking of Mrs. Bradfort!” “It is not sudden, Miles. You have been absent years, and forget how much time there has been to become intimate and attached. Mr. Hardinge and Mrs. Bradfort are sister's children; and the fortune of the last, which, I am told, exceeds six thousand a-year, in improving real estate in town, besides the excellent and valuable house in which she lives, came from their common grandfather, who cut off Mrs. Hardinge with a small legacy, because she married a clergyman. Mr. Hardinge is Mrs. Bradfort's heir-at-law, and it is by no means unnatural that she should think of leaving the property to those who, in one sense, have as good a right to it as she has herself.” “And is it supposed she will leave Rupert her heir?” “I believe it is--at least--I think--I am afraid--Rupert himself imagines it; though doubtless Lucy will come in for a fair share. The affection of Mrs. Bradfort for Lucy is very strong--so strong, indeed, that she offered, last winter, openly to adopt her, and to keep her with her constantly. You know how true and warm-hearted a girl Lucy is, and how easy it is to love her.” “This is all new to me--why was not the offer accepted?” “Neither Mr. Hardinge nor Lucy would listen to it. I was present at the interview in which it was discussed, and our excellent guardian thanked his cousin for her kind intentions; but, in his simple way, he declared, as long as life was spared him, he felt it a duty to keep his girl; or, at least, until he committed her to the custody of a husband, or death should part them.” “And Lucy?” “She is much attached to Mrs. Bradfort, who is a good woman in the main, though she has her weaknesses about the world, and society, and such things. Lucy wept in her cousin's arms, but declared she never could leave her father. I suppose you do not expect,” added Grace, smiling, “that _she_ had anything to say about a husband.” “And how did Mrs. Bradfort receive this joint declaration of resistance to her pleasure, backed, as the last was, by dollars?” “Perfectly well. The affair terminated by Mr. Hardinge's consenting to Lucy's passing each winter in town, until she marry. Rupert, you know, lives there as a student at law, at present, and will become established there, when admitted to the bar.” “And I suppose the knowledge that Lucy is likely to inherit some of the old Bleecker estate, has not in the least diminished her chance of finding a husband to remove her from the paternal custody of her father?” “No husband could ever make Lucy anything but Mr. Hardinge's daughter; but you are right, Miles, in supposing that she has been sought. I am not in her secrets, for Lucy is a girl of too much principle to make a parade of her conquests, even under the pretence of communicating them to her dearest friend--and in that light, beyond all question, does she regard me; but I feel as morally certain as one can be, without actually knowing the facts, that Lucy refused _one_ gentleman, winter before last, and three last winter.” “Was Mr. Andrew Drewett of the number?” I asked, with a precipitation of which I was immediately ashamed. Grace started a little at the vivacity of my manner, and then she smiled, though I still thought sadly. “Of course not,” she answered, after a moment's thought, “or he would not still be in attendance. Lucy is too frank to leave an admirer in doubt an instant after his declaration is made, and her own mind made up; and not one of all those who, I am persuaded, have offered, has ever ventured to continue more than a distant acquaintance. As Mr. Drewett never has been more assiduous than down to the last moment of our remaining in town, it is impossible he should have been rejected. I suppose you know Mr. Hardinge has invited him here?” “Here? Andrew Drewett? And why is he coming here?” “I heard him ask Mr. Hardinge's permission to visit us here; and you know how it is with our dear, good guardian--the milk of human kindness himself, and so perfectly guileless that he never sees more than is said in such matters, it was impossible he could refuse. Besides, he likes Drewett, who, apart from some fashionable follies, is both clever and respectable. Mr. Drewett has a sister married into one of the best families on the other side of the river, and is in the habit of coming into the neighbourhood every summer; doubtless he will cross from his sisters house to Clawbonny.” I felt indignant for just one minute, and then reason resumed its sway. Mr. Hardinge, in the first place, had the written authority, or request, of my mother that he would invite whom he pleased, during my minority, to the house; and, on that score, I felt no disapprobation. But it seemed so much like braving my own passion, to ask an open admirer of Lucy's to my own house, that I was very near saying something silly. Luckily I did not, and Grace never knew what I suffered at this discovery. Lucy had refused several offers--that was something; and I was dying to know what sort of offers they were. I thought I might at least venture to ask that question. “Did you know the four gentlemen that you suppose Lucy to have refused?” said I, with as indifferent an air as I could assume, affecting to destroy a cobweb with my rattan, and even carrying my acting so far as to make an attempt at a low whistle. “Certainly; how else should I know anything about it? Lucy has never said a word to me on the subject; and, though Mrs. Bradfort and I have had our pleasantries on the subject, neither of us is in Lucy's secrets.” “Ay, your pleasantries on the subject! That I dare say. There is no better fun to a woman than to see a man make a fool of himself in this way; little does _she_ care how much a poor fellow suffers!” Grace turned pale, and I could see that her sweet countenance became thoughtful and repentant. “Perhaps there is truth in your remark, and justice n your reproach, Miles. None of us treat this subject with as much, seriousness as it deserves, though I cannot suppose any woman can reject a man whom she believes to be seriously attached to her, without feeling for him. Still, attachments of this nature affect your sex less than ours, and I believe few men die of love. Lucy, moreover, never has, and I believe never would encourage any man whom she did not like; this principle must have prevented any of that intimate connection, without which the heart never can get much interested. The passion that is produced without any exchange of sentiment or feeling, Miles, cannot be much more than imagination or caprice.” “I suppose those four chaps are all famously cured, by this time, then?” said I, pretending again to whistle. “I cannot answer for that--it is so easy to love Lucy, and to love her warmly. I only know they visit her no longer, and, when they meet her in society, behave just as I think a rejected admirer would behave, when he has not lost his respect for his late flame. Mrs. Bradfort's fortune and position may have had their influence on two; but the others I think were quite sincere.” “Mrs. Bradfort is quite in a high set, Grace--altogether above what we have been accustomed to?” My sister coloured a little, and I could see she was not at her ease. Still, Grace had too much self-respect, and too much character, ever to feel an oppressive inferiority, where it did not exist in essentials; and she had never been made to suffer, as the more frivolous and vain often suffer, by communications with a class superior to their own; especially when that class, as always happens, contains those who, having nothing else to be proud of, take care to make others feel their inferiority. “This is true, Miles,” she answered; “or I might better say, both are true. Certainly I never have seen as many well-bred persons as I meet in her circle--indeed, we have little around us at Clawbonny to teach us any distinctions in such tastes. Mr. Hardinge, simple as he is, is so truly a gentleman, that he has not left us altogether in the dark as to what was expected of us; and I fancy the higher people truly are in the world, the less they lay stress on anything but what is substantial, in these matters.” “And Lucy's admirers--and Lucy herself--” “How, Lucy herself?” “Was she well received--courted--admired? Met as an equal, and treated as an equal? And you, too?” “Had you lived more in the world, Miles, you would not have asked the question. But Lucy has been always received as Mrs. Bradfort's daughter would have been received; and as for myself, I have never supposed it was not known exactly who I am.” “_Captain_ Miles Wallingford's daughter, and _Captain_ Miles Wallingford's sister,” said I, with a little bitterness on each emphasis. “Precisely; and a girl proud of her connections with both,” rejoined Grace, with strong affection. “I wish I knew one thing, Grace; and I think I _ought_ to know it, too.” “If you can make the last appear, Miles, you may rest assured you shall know it, if it depend on me.” “Did any of these gentry--these soft-handed fellows--ever think of offering to _you_?” Grace laughed, and she coloured so deeply--oh! how heavenly was her beauty, with that roseate tint on her cheek! --but she coloured so deeply, that I felt satisfied that she, too, had refused her suitors. The thought appeased some of my bitter feelings, and I had a sort of semi-savage pleasure in believing that a daughter of Clawbonny was not to be had for the asking, by one of that set. The only answers I got were these disclosures by blushes. “What are the fortune and position of this Mr. Drewett, since you are resolved to tell me nothing of your own affairs?” “Both are good, and such as no young lady can object to. He is even said to be rich.” “Thank God! _He_ then is not seeking Lucy in the hope of getting some of Mrs. Bradfort's money?” “Not in the least. It is so easy to love Lucy, for Lucy's sake, that even a fortune-hunter would be in danger of being caught in his own trap. But Mr. Drewett is above the necessity of practising so vile a scheme for making money.” Here, that the present generation may not be misled, and imagine fortune-hunting has come in altogether within the last twenty years, I will add that it was not exactly a trade, in this country--a regular occupation--in 1802, as it has become, in 1844. There were such things then, certainly, as men, or women, who were ready to marry anybody who would make them rich; but I do not think theirs was a calling to which either sex served regular apprenticeships, as is practised to-day. Still, the business was carried on, to speak in the vernacular, and sometimes with marked success. “You have not told me, Grace,” I resumed, “whether you think Lucy is pleased, or not, with the attentions of this gentleman.” My sister looked at me intently, for a moment, as if to ascertain how far I could, or could not, ask such a question with indifference. It will be remembered that no verbal explanations had ever taken place between us, on the subject of our feelings towards the companions of our childhood, and that all that was known to either was obtained purely by inference. Between myself and Lucy nothing had ever passed, indeed, which might not have been honestly referred to our long and early association, so far as the rules of intercourse were concerned, though I sometimes fancied I could recall a hundred occasions, on which Lucy had formerly manifested deep attachment for myself; nor did I doubt her being able to show similar proofs, by reversing the picture. This, however, was, or I had thought it to be, merely the language of the heart; the tongue having never spoken. Of course, Grace had nothing but conjecture on this subject, and alas! she had begun to see how possible it was for those who lived near each other to change their views on such subjects; no wonder, then, if she fancied it still easier, for those who had been separated for years. “I have not told you, Miles,” Grace answered, after a brief delay, “because it would not be proper to communicate the secrets of my friend to a young man, even to you, were it in my power, as it is not, since Lucy never has made to me the slightest confidential communication, of any sort or nature, touching love.” “Never!” I exclaimed--reading my fancied doom in the startling fact; for I conceived it impossible, had she ever really loved me, that the matter should not have come up in conversation between two so closely united--“Never! What, no girlish--no childish preference--have you never had no mutual preferences to reveal?” “Never”--answered Grace, firmly, though her very temples seemed illuminated--“Never. We have been satisfied with each other's affection, and have had no occasion to enter into any unfeminine and improper secrets, if any such existed.” A long, and I doubt not a mutually painful pause succeeded. “Grace,” said I, at length--“I am not envious of this probable accession of fortune to the Hardinges, but I think we should all have been much more united--much happier--without it.” My sister's colour left her face, she trembled all over, and she became pale as death. “You may be right, in some respects, Miles,” she answered, after a time. “And, yet, it is hardly generous to think so. Why should we wish to see our oldest friends; those who are so very dear to us, our excellent guardian's children, less well off than we are ourselves? No doubt, no doubt, it may seem better to _us_, that Clawbonny should be the castle and we its possessors; but others have their rights and interests as well as ourselves. Give the Hardinges money, and they will enjoy every advantage known in this country--more than money can possibly give us--why, then, ought we to be so selfish as to wish them deprived of this advantage? Place Lucy where you will, she will always be Lucy; and, as for Rupert, so brilliant a young man needs only an opportunity, to rise to anything the country possesses!” Grace was so earnest, spoke with so much feeling, appeared so disinterested, so holy I had almost said, that I could not find, in my heart, the courage to try her any farther. That she began to distrust Rupert, I plainly saw, though it was merely with the glimmerings of doubt. A nature as pure as her's, and a heart so true, admitted with great reluctance, the proofs of the unworthiness of one so long loved. It was evident, moreover, that she shrunk from revealing her own great secret, while she had only conjectures to offer in regard to Lucy; and even these she withheld, as due to her sex, and the obligations of friendship. I forgot that I had not been ingenuous myself, and that I made no communication to justify any confidence on the part of my sister. That which would have been treachery in her to say, under this state of the case, might have been uttered with greater frankness on my own part. After a pause, to allow my sister to recover from her agitation, I turned the discourse to our own more immediate family interests, and soon got off the painful subject altogether. “I shall be of age, Grace.” I said, in the course of my explanations, “before you see me again. We sailors are always exposed to more chances and hazards than people ashore; and, I now tell you, should anything happen to me, my will may be found in my secretary; signed and sealed, the day I attain my majority. I have given orders to have it drawn up by a lawyer of eminence, and shall take it to sea with me, for that very purpose.” “From which I am to infer that I must not covet Clawbonny,” answered Grace, with a smile that denoted how little she cared for the fact--“You give it to our cousin, Jack Wallingford, as a male heir, worthy of enjoying the honour.” “No, dearest, I give it to _you_. It is true, the law would do this for me; but I choose to let it be known that I wish it to be so. I am aware my father made that disposition of the place, should I die childless, before I became of age; but, once of age, the place is all mine; and that which is all mine, shall be all thine, after I am no more.” “This is melancholy conversation, and, I trust, useless. Under the circumstances you mention, Miles, I never should have expected Clawbonny, nor do I know I ought to possess it. It comes as much from Jack Wallingford's ancestors, as from our own; and it is better it should remain with the name. I will not promise you, therefore, I will not give it to him, the instant I can.” This Jack Wallingford, of whom I have not yet spoken, was a man of five-and-forty, and a bachelor. He was a cousin-german of my father's, being the son of a younger brother of my grandfather's, and somewhat of a favourite. He had gone into what was called the new countries, in that day, or a few miles west of Cayuga Bridge, which put him into Western New York. I had never seen him but once and that was on a visit he paid us on his return from selling quantities of pot and pearl ashes in town; articles made oh his new lands. He was said to be a prosperous man, and to stand little in need of the old paternal property. After a little more conversation on the subject of my will, Grace and I separated, each more closely bound to the other, I firmly believed, for this dialogue in the “family room.” Never had my sister seemed more worthy of all my love; and, certain I am, never did she possess more of it. Of Clawbonny she was as sure, as my power over it could make her. The remainder of the week passed as weeks are apt to pass in the country, and in summer. Feeling myself so often uncomfortable in the society of the girls, I was much in the fields; always possessing the good excuse of beginning to look after my own affairs. Mr. Hardinge took charge of the Major, an intimacy beginning to spring up between these two respectable old men. There were, indeed, so many points of common feeling, that such a result was not at all surprising. They both loved the church--I beg pardon, the Holy Catholic Protestant Episcopal Church. They both disliked Bonaparte--the Major hated him, but my guardian hated nobody--both venerated Billy Pitt, and both fancied the French Revolution was merely the fulfilment of prophecy, through the agency of the devils. As we are now touching upon times likely to produce important results, let me not be misunderstood. As an old man, aiming, in a new sphere, to keep enlightened the generation that is coming into active life, it may be necessary to explain. An attempt has been made to induce the country to think that Episcopalian and tory were something like synonymous terms, in the “times that tried men's souls.” This is sufficiently impudent, _per se_, in a country that possessed Washington, Jay, Hamilton, the Lees, the Morrises, the late Bishop White, and so many other distinguished patriots of the Southern and Middle States; but men are not particularly scrupulous when there is an object to be obtained, even though it be pretended that Heaven is an incident of that object. I shall, therefore, confine my explanations to what I have said about Billy Pitt and the French. The youth of this day may deem it suspicious that an Episcopal divine--_Protestant_ Episcopal, I mean; but it is so hard to get the use of new terms as applied to old thoughts, in the decline of life! --may deem it suspicious that a Protestant Episcopal divine should care anything about Billy Pitt, or execrate Infidel France; I will, therefore, just intimate that, in 1802, no portion of the country dipped more deeply into similar sentiments than the descendants of those who first put foot on the rock of Plymouth, and whose progenitors had just before paid a visit to Geneva, where, it is “said or sung,” they had found a “church without a bishop, and a state without a king.” In a word, admiration of Mr. Pitt, and execration of Bonaparte, were by no means such novelties in America, in that day, as to excite wonder. For myself, however, I can truly say, that, like most Americans who went abroad in those stirring times, I was ready to say with Mercutio, “a plague on both your houses;” for neither was even moderately honest, or even decently respectful to ourselves. Party feeling, however, the most inexorable, and the most unprincipled, of all tyrants, and the bane of American liberty, notwithstanding all our boasting, decreed otherwise; and, while one half the American republic was shouting hosannas to the Great Corsican, the other half was ready to hail Pitt as the “Heaven-born Minister.” The remainder of the nation felt and acted as Americans should. It was my own private opinion, that France and England would have been far better off, had neither of these worthies ever had a being. Nevertheless, the union of opinion between the divine and the Major, was a great bond of union, in friendship. I saw they were getting on well together, and let things take their course. As for Emily, I cared very little about her, except as she might prove to be connected with Rupert, and through Rupert, with the happiness of my sister. As for Rupert, himself, I could not get entirely weaned from one whom I had so much loved in boyhood; and who, moreover, possessed the rare advantage of being Lucy's brother, and Mr. Hardinge's son. “Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother,” gave him a value in my eyes, that he had long ceased to possess on his own account. “You see, Neb,” I said, towards the end of the week, as the black and I were walking up from the mill in company, “Mr. Rupert has altogether forgotten that he ever knew the name of a rope in a ship. His hands are as white as a young lady's!” “Nebber mind dat, Masser Mile. Masser Rupert nebber feel a saterfaction to be wracked away, or to be prisoner to Injin! Golly! No gentleum to be envy, sir, 'em doesn't enjoy _dat! _” “You have a queer taste. Neb, from all which I conclude you expect to return to town with me, in the Wallingford, this evening, and to go out in the Dawn?” “Sartain, Masser Mile! How you t'ink of goin' to sea and leave nigger at home?” Here Neb raised such a laugh that he might have been heard a hundred rods, seeming to fancy the idea he had suggested was so preposterous as to merit nothing but ridicule. “Well, Neb, I consent to your wishes; but this will be the last voyage in which you will have to consult me on the subject, as I shall make out your freedom papers, the moment I am of age.” “What dem?” demanded the black, quick as lightning. “Why, papers to make you your own master--a free man--you surely know what that means. Did you never hear of free niggers?” “Sartin--awful poor debble, dey be, too. You catch Neb, one day, at being a free nigger, gib you leave to tell him of it, Masser Mile!” Here was another burst of laughter, that sounded like a chorus in merriment. “This is a little extraordinary, Neb! I thought, boy, all slaves pined for freedom?” “P'rhaps so; p'rhaps not. What good he do, Masser Mile, when heart and body well satisfy as it is. Now, how long a Wallingford family lib, here, in dis berry spot?” --Neb always talked more like a “nigger,” when within hearing of the household gods, than he did at sea. “How long? About a hundred years, Neb--just one hundred and seven, I believe; to be accurate.” “And how long a Clawbonny family, at 'e same time, Masser Mile?” “Upon my word, Neb, your pedigree is a little confused, and I cannot answer quite as certainly. Eighty or ninety, though, I should think, at least; and, possibly a hundred, too. Let me see--you called old Pompey your grand-father; did you not, Neb?” “Sart'in--berry good grandfader, too, Masser Mile. Ole Pomp a won'erful black!” “Oh! I say nothing touching the quality--I dare say he was as good as another. Well, I think that I have heard old Pompey's grandfather was an imported Guinea, and that he was purchased by my great-grandfather about the year 1700.” “Dat just as good as gospel! Who want to make up lie about poor debble of nigger? Well, den, Masser Mile, in all dem 1700 year, did he ebber hear of a Clawbonny that want to be a free nigger? Tell me dat, once, an' I hab an answer.” “You have asked me more than I can answer, boy; for, I am not in the secret of your own wishes, much less in those of all your ancestors.” Neb pulled off his tarpaulin, scratched his wool, rolled his black eyes at me, as if he enjoyed the manner in which he had puzzled me; after which he set off on a tumbling excursion, in the road, going like a wheel on his hands and feet, showing his teeth like rows of pearls, and concluding the whole with roar the third, that sounded as if the hills and valleys were laughing, in the very fatness of their fertility. The physical _tour de force,_ was one of those feats of agility in which Neb had been my instructor, ten years before. “S'pose I free, who do sich matter for you, Masser Mile?” cried Neb, like one laying down an unanswerable proposition. “No, no, sir,--I belong to you, you belong to me, and we belong to one anodder.” This settled the matter for the present, and I said no more. Neb was ordered to be in readiness for the next day; and at the appointed hour, I met the assembled party to take my leave, on this, my third departure from the roof of my fathers. It had been settled the Major and Emily were to remain at the farm until July, when they were to proceed to the Springs, for the benefit of the water, after living so long in a hot climate. I had passed an hour with my guardian alone, and he had no more to say, than to wish me well, and to bestow his blessing. I did not venture an offer to embrace Lucy. It was the first time we had parted without this token of affection; but I was shy, and I fancied she was cold. She offered me her hand, as frankly as ever, however, and I pressed it fervently, as I wished her adieu. As for Grace, she wept in my arms, just as she had always done, and the Major and Emily shook hands cordially with me, it being understood I should find them in New York, at my return. Rupert accompanied me down to the sloop. “If you should find an occasion, Miles, let us hear from you,” said my old friend. “I have a lively curiosity to learn something of the Frenchmen; nor am I entirely without the hope of soon gratifying the desire, in person.” “You! --If you have any intention to visit France, what better opportunity, than to go in my cabin? Is it business, that will take you there?” “Not at all; pure pleasure. Our excellent cousin thinks a gentleman of a certain class ought to travel; and I believe she has an idea of getting me attached to the legation, in some form or other.” This sounded so odd to me! Rupert Hardinge, who had not one penny to rub against another, so lately, was now talking of his European tour, and of legations! I ought to have been glad of his good fortune, and I fancied I was. I said nothing, this time, concerning his taking up any portion of my earnings, having the sufficient excuse of not being on pay myself. Rupert did not stay long in the sloop, and we were soon under way. I looked eagerly along the high banks of the creek, fringed as it was with bushes, in hopes of seeing Grace, at least; nor was I disappointed. She and Lucy had taken a direct path to the point where the two waters united, and were standing there, as the sloop dropped past. They both waved their handkerchiefs, in a way to show the interest they felt in me; and I returned the parting salutations by kissing my hand again and again. At this instant, a sail-boat passed our bows, and I saw a gentleman standing up in it, waving his handkerchief, quite as industriously as I was kissing my hand. A look told me it was Andrew Drewett, who directed his boat to the point, and was soon making his bows to the girls in person. His boat ascended the creek, no doubt with his luggage; while the last I saw of the party it was walking off in company, taking the direction of the house.

25

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“Or feeling--, as the storm increases, The love of terror nerve thy breast, Didst venture to the coast: To see the mighty war-ship leap From wave to wave upon the deep, Like chamois goat from steep to steep, Till low in valley lost.” ALLSTON. Roger Talcott had not been idle during my absence. Clawbonny was so dear to me, that I had staid longer than was proposed in the original plan; and I now found the hatches on the Dawn, a crew shipped, and nothing remaining but to clear out. I mean the literal thing, and not the slang phrase, one of those of which so many have crept into the American language, through the shop, and which even find their way into print; such as “charter coaches,” “on a boat,” “on board a stage,” and other similar elegancies. “_On_ a boat” always makes me--, even at my present time of life. The Dawn was cleared the day I reached town. Several of the crew of the Crisis had shipped with us anew, the poor fellows having already made away with all their wages and prize-money, in the short space of a month! This denoted the usual improvidence of sailors, and was thought nothing out of the common way. The country being at peace, a difficulty with Tripoli excepted, it was no longer necessary for ships to go armed. The sudden excitement produced by the brush with the French had already subsided, and the navy was reduced to a few vessels that had been regularly built for the service; while the lists of officers had been curtailed of two-thirds of their names. We were no longer a warlike, but were fast getting to be a strictly commercial, body of seamen. I had a single six-pounder, and half a dozen muskets, in the Dawn, besides a pair or two of pistols, with just ammunition enough to quell a mutiny, fire a few signal-guns, or to kill a few ducks. We sailed on the 3rd of July. I have elsewhere intimated that the Manhattanese hold exaggerated notions of the comparative beauty of the scenery of their port, sometimes presuming to compare it even with Naples; to the bay of which it bears some such resemblance as a Dutch canal bears to a river flowing through rich meadows, in the freedom and grace of nature. Nevertheless, there _are_ times and seasons when the bay of New York offers a landscape worthy of any pencil. It was at one of these felicitous moments that the Dawn cast off from the wharf, and commenced her voyage to Bordeaux. There was barely air enough from the southward to enable us to handle the ship, and we profited by a morning ebb to drop down to the Narrows, in the midst of a fleet of some forty sail; most of the latter, however, being coasters. Still, we were a dozen ships and brigs, bound to almost as many different countries. The little air there was, seemed scarcely to touch the surface of the water; and the broad expanse of bay was as placid as an inland lake, of a summer's morning. Yes, yes--there are moments when the haven of New York does present pictures on which the artist would seize with avidity; but, the instant nature attempts any of her grander models, on this, a spot that seems never to rise much above the level of commercial excellencies, it is found that the accessaries are deficient in sublimity, or even beauty. I have never seen our home waters so lovely as on this morning. The movements of the vessels gave just enough of life and variety to the scene to destroy the appearance of sameness; while the craft were too far from the land to prevent one of the most unpleasant effects of the ordinary landscape scenery of the place--that produced by the disproportion between the tallness of their spars, and the low character of the adjacent shores. As we drew near the Narrows, the wind increased; and forty sail, working through the pass in close conjunction, terminated the piece with something like the effect produced by a _finale_ in an overture. The brightness of the morning, the placid charms of the scenery, and the propitious circumstances under which I commenced the voyage, in a commercial point of view, had all contributed to make me momentarily forget my private griefs, and to enter cheerfully into the enjoyment of the hour. I greatly disliked passengers. They appealed to me to lessen the dignity of my position, and to reduce me to the level of an inn-keeper, or one who received boarders. I wished to command a ship, not to take in lodgers; persons whom you are bound to treat with a certain degree of consideration, and, in one sense, as your superiors. Still, it had too much of an appearance of surliness, and a want of hospitality, to refuse a respectable man a passage across the ocean, when he might not get another chance in a month, and that, too, when it was important to himself to proceed immediately. In this particular instance, I became the dupe of a mistaken kindness on the part of my former owners. These gentlemen brought to me a Mr. Brigham--Wallace Mortimer Brigham was his whole name, to be particular--as a person who was desirous of getting to France with his wife and wife's sister, in order to proceed to Italy for the health of the married lady, who was believed to be verging on a decline. These people were from the eastward, and had fallen into the old error of Americans, that the south of France and Italy had residences far more favourable for such a disease, than our own country. This was one of the provincial notions of the day, that were entailed on us by means of colonial dependency. I suppose the colonial existence is as necessary to a people, as childhood and adolescence are to the man; but, as my Lady Mary Wortley Montagu told her friend, Lady Rich--“Nay; but look you, my dear madam, I grant it a very fine thing to continue always fifteen; _that_, everybody must approve of--it is quite fair: but, indeed, indeed, one need not be five years old.” I was prevailed on to take these passengers, and I got a specimen of their characters even as we dropped down the bay, in the midst of the agreeable scene to which I have just alluded. They were _gossips_; and that, too, of the lowest, or personal cast. Nothing made them so happy as to be talking of the private concerns of their fellow-creatures; and, as ever must happen where this propensity exists, nine-tenths of what they said rested on no better foundation than surmises, inferences drawn from premises of questionable accuracy, and judgments that were entered up without the authority, or even the inclination, to examine witnesses. They had also a peculiarity that I have often remarked in persons of the same propensity; most of their gossiping arose from a desire to make apparent their own intimacy with the private affairs of people of mark--overlooking the circumstance that, in thus making the concerns of others the subjects of their own comments, they were impliedly admitting a consciousness of their own inferiority; men seldom condescending thus to busy themselves with the affairs of any but those of whom they feel it to be a sort of distinction to converse. I am much afraid good-breeding has more to do with the suppression of this vice, than good principles, as the world goes. I have remarked that persons of a high degree of self-respect, and a good tone of manners, are quite free from this defect of character; while I regret to be compelled to say that I have been acquainted with divers very saintly _professors_, including one or two parsons, who have represented the very _beau ideal_ of scandal. My passengers gave me a taste of their quality, as I have said, before we had got a mile below Governor's Island. The ladies were named Sarah and Jane; and, between them and Wallace Mortimer, what an insight did I obtain into the private affairs of sundry personages of Salem, in Massachusetts, together with certain glimpses in at Boston folk; all, however, referring to qualities and facts that might be classed among the real or supposed. I can, at this distant day, recall Scene 1st, Act 1st, of the drama that continued while we were crossing the ocean, with the slight interruption of a few days, produced by sea-sickness. “Wallace,” said Sarah, “did you say, yesterday, that John Viner had refused to lend his daughter's husband twenty thousand dollars, to get him out of his difficulties, and that he failed in consequence?” “To be sure. It was the common talk through Wall Street yesterday, and everybody believes it”--there was no more truth in the story, than in one of the forty reports that have killed General Jackson so often, in the last twenty years. “Yes, no one doubts it--but all the Viners are just so! All of us, in our part of the world, know what to think of the Viners.” “Yes, I suppose so,” drawled Jane. “I've heard it said this John Viner's father ran all the way from the Commons in Boston, to the foot of State Street, to get rid of a dun against this very son, who had his own misfortunes when he was young.” “The story is quite likely true in part,” rejoined Wallace, “though it can't be _quite_ accurate, as the old gentleman had but one leg, and _running_ was altogether out of the question with _him_. It was probably old Tim Viner, who ran like a deer when a young man, as I've heard people say.” “Well, then, I suppose he ran his horse,” added Jane, in the same quiet, drawling tone. “_Something_ must have run, or they never would have got up the story.” I wondered if Miss Jane Hitchcox had ever taken the trouble to ascertain who _they_ were! I happened to know both the Viners, and to be quite certain there was not a word of truth in the report of the twenty thousand dollars, having heard all the particulars of the late failure from one of my former owners, who was an assignee, and a considerable creditor. Under the circumstances, I thought I would hint as much. “Are you quite sure that the failure of Viner & Co. was owing to the circumstance you mention, Mr. Brigham?” I inquired. “Pretty certain. I am '_measurably acquainted_' with their affairs, and think I am tolerably safe in saying so.” Now, “measurably acquainted” meant that he lived within twenty or thirty miles of those who _did_ know something of the concerns of the house in question, and was in the way of catching scraps of the gossip that fell from disappointed creditors. How much of this is there in this good country of ours! Men who live just near enough to one another to feel the influence of all that rivalry, envy, personal strifes and personal malignancies, can generate, fancy they are acquainted, from this circumstance, with those to whom they have never even spoken. One-half the idle tales that circulate up and-down the land, come from authority not one tittle better than this. How much would men learn, could they only acquire the healthful lesson of understanding that _nothing_, which is much out of the ordinary way, and which, circulates as received truths illustrative of character, is true in _all_ its material parts, and very little in _any_. But, to return to my passengers, and that portion of their conversation which most affected myself. They continued commenting on persons and families by name, seemingly more to keep their hands in, than for any other discoverable reason, as each appeared to be perfectly conversant with all the gossip that was started; when Sarah casually mentioned the name of Mrs. Bradfort, with some of whose _supposed_ friends, it now came out, they had all a general visiting acquaintance. “Dr. Hosack is of opinion she cannot live long, I hear,” said Jane, with a species of fierce delight in killing a fellow-creature, provided it only led to a gossip concerning her private affairs. “Her case has been decided to be a cancer, now, for more than a week, and she made her will last Tuesday.” “Only last Tuesday!” exclaimed Sarah, in surprise. “Well, I heard she had made her will a twelvemonth since, and that she left all her property to young Rupert Hardinge; in the expectation, some persons thought, that he might marry her.” “How could that be, my dear?” asked the husband; “in what would she be better off for leaving her own property to her husband?” “Why, by law, would she not? I don't exactly know how it would happen, for I do not particularly understand these things; but it seems natural that a woman would be a gainer if she made the man she was about to marry her heir. She would have her thirds in his estate, would she not?” “But, Mrs. Brigham,” said I, smiling, “is it quite certain Mrs. Bradfort wishes to marry Rupert Hardinge, at all?” “I know so little of the parties, that I cannot speak with certainty in the matter, I admit, Captain Wallingford.” “Well, but Sarah, dear,” interposed the more exacting Jane, “you are making yourself unnecessarily ignorant. You very well know how intimate we are with the Greenes, and they know the Winters perfectly well, who are next-door neighbours to Mrs. Bradfort. I don't see how you can say we haven't good means of being 'measurably' well-informed.” Now, I happened to know through Grace and Lucy, that a disagreeable old person, of the name of Greene did live next door to Mrs. Bradfort; but, that the latter refused to visit her, firstly, because she did not happen to like her, and secondly, because the two ladies belonged to very different social circles; a sufficient excuse for not visiting in town, even though the parties inhabited the same house. But, the Brighams, being Salem people, did not understand that families might reside next door to each other, in a large town, for a long series of months, or even years, and not know each other's names. It would not be easy to teach this truth, one of every-day occurrence, to the inhabitant of one of our provincial towns, who was in the habit of fancying he had as close an insight into the private affairs of all his neighbours, as they enjoyed themselves. “No doubt we are all as well off as most strangers in New York,” observed the wife; “still, it ought to be admitted that we may be mistaken. I have heard it said there is an old Mr. Hardinge, a clergyman, who would make a far better match for the lady, than his son. However, it is of no great moment, now; for, when our neighbour Mrs. John Foote, saw Dr. Hosack about her own child, she got all the particulars out of him about Mrs. Bradfort's case, from the highest quarter, and I had it from Mrs. Foote, herself.” “I could not have believed that a physician of Dr. Hosack's eminence and character would speak openly of the diseases of his patients,” I observed, a little tartly, I am afraid. “Oh! he didn't,” said Sarah, eagerly--“he was as cunning as a fox, Mrs. Foote owned herself, and played her off finely; but Mrs. Foote was cunninger than any half-dozen foxes, and got it all out of him by negations.” “Negations!” I exclaimed, wondering what was meant by the term, though I had understood I was to expect a little more philosophy and metaphysics, not to say algebra, in my passengers, than usually accompanied petticoats in our part of the world. “Certainly, _negations_” answered the matron, with a smile as complacent as that which usually denotes the consciousness of intellectual superiority. “One who is a little practised, can ascertain a fact as well by means of negatives as affirmatives. It only requires judgment and use.” “Then Mrs. Bradfort's disease is only ascertained by the negative process?” “So I suppose--but what does one want more,” put in the husband;--“and that she made her will last week, I feel quite sure, as it was generally spoken of among our friends.” Here were people who had been in New York only a month, looking out for a ship, mere passengers as it might be, who knew more about a family with which I had myself such an intimate connection, than its own members. I thought it no wonder that such a race was capable of enlightening mankind, on matters and things in general. But the game did not end here. “I suppose Miss Lucy Hardinge will get something by Mrs. Bradfort's death,” observed Miss Jane, “and that she and Mr. Andrew Drewett will marry as soon as it shall become proper.” Here was a speculation, for a man in my state of mind! The names were all right; some of the incidents, even, were probable, if not correct; yet, how could the facts be known to these comparative strangers? Did the art of gossiping, with all its meannesses, lies, devices, inventions, and cruelties, really possess so much advantage over the intercourse of the confiding and honest, as to enable those who practise it to discover facts hidden from eye-witnesses, and eye-witnesses, too, that had every inducement of the strongest interest in the issue, not to be deceived? I felt satisfied, the moment Mrs. Greene's name was mentioned, that my passengers were not in the true New York set; and, justly enough, inferred they were not very good authority for one half they said; and, yet, how could they know anything of Drewett's attachment to Lucy, unless their information were tolerably accurate? I shall not attempt to repeat all that passed while the ship dropped down the bay; but enough escaped the gossips to render me still more unhappy than I had yet been, on the subject of Lucy. I could and did despise these people; that was easy enough; but it was not so easy to forget all that they said and surmised. This is one of the causes attendant on the habit of loose talking; one never knowing what to credit, and what not. In spite of all my disgust, and a firm determination not to contribute in any manner to the stock in trade of these people, I found great difficulty in evading their endless questions. How much they got out of me, by means of the process of negations, I never knew; but they got no great matter through direct affirmatives. Something, however, persons so indefatigable, to whom gossiping was the great aim of life, must obtain, and they ascertained that Mr. Hardinge was my guardian, that Rupert and I had passed our boyhoods in each other's company, and that Lucy was even an inmate of my own house the day we sailed. This little knowledge only excited a desire for more, and, by the end of a week, I was obliged to submit to devices and expedients to pump me, than which even the thumbscrew was scarcely more efficient. I practised on the negative system, myself, with a good deal of dexterity, however, and threw my inquisitors off, very handsomely, more than once, until I discovered that Wallace Mortimer, determined not to be baffled, actually opened communications with Neb, in order to get a clearer insight into my private affairs. After this, I presume my readers will not care to hear any more about these gentry, whose only connection with my life grew out of the misgivings they contributed largely to create in my mind, touching the state of Lucy's affections. This much they did effect, and I was compelled to submit to their power. We are all of us, more or less, the dupes of knaves and fools. All this, however, was the fruits of several weeks' intercourse, and I have anticipated events a little, in order to make the statements in connection. Meeting a breeze, as has been said already, the Dawn got over the bar, about two o'clock, and stood off the land, on an easy bowline, in company with the little fleet of square-rigged vessels that went out at the same time. By sunset, Navesink again dipped, and I was once more fairly at sea. This was at the period when the commerce of America was at its height. The spirit shown by the young Republic in the French affair had commanded a little respect, though the supposed tendencies of the new administration was causing anything but a cordial feeling towards the country to exist in England. That powerful nation, however, had made a hollow peace with France the previous March, and the highway of nations was temporarily open to all ships alike; a state of things that existed for some ten months after we sailed. Nothing to be apprehended, consequently, lay before me, beyond the ordinary dangers of the ocean. For these last, I was now prepared by the experience of several years passed almost entirely on board ship, during which time I had encircled the earth itself in my peregrinations. Our run off the coast was favourable, and the sixth day out, we were in the longitude of the tail of the Grand Bank. I was delighted with my ship, which turned out to be even more than I had dared to hope for. She behaved well under all circumstances, sailing even better than she worked. The first ten days of our passage were prosperous, and we were mid-ocean by the 10th of the month. During this time I had nothing to annoy me but the ceaseless _cancans_ of my passengers. I had heard the name of every individual of note in Salem; with certain passages in his or her life, and began to fancy I had lived a twelvemonth in the place. At length, I began to speculate on the reason why this morbid propensity should exist so much stronger in that part of the world than in any other I had visited. There was nothing new in the disposition of the people of small places to gossip, and it was often done in large towns; more especially those that did not possess the tone of a capital. Lady Mary Wortley Montagu and Horace Walpole wrote gossip, but it was spiced with wit, as is usual with the scandal of such places as London and Paris; whereas this, to which I was doomed to listen, was nothing more than downright impertinent, vulgar, meddling with the private affairs of all those whom the gossips thought of sufficient importance to talk about. At Clawbonny, we had our gossip too, but it was innocent, seldom infringed much on the truth, and usually respected the right of every person to possess certain secrets that might remain inviolate to the world. No such rules prevailed with my passengers. Like a certain editor of a newspaper of my acquaintance, who acts as if he fancied all things in heaven and earth were created expressly to furnish materials for “paragraphs,” they appeared to think that everybody of their acquaintance existed for no other purpose than to furnish them food for conversation. There must have been some unusual cause for so much personal _espionnage_, and, at length, I came to the following conclusion on the subject. I had heard that church government, among the puritans, descended into all the details of life; that it was a part of their religious duty to watch over each other, jog the memories of the delinquents, and serve God by ferreting out vice. This is a terrible inducement to fill the mind with the motes of a neighbourhood, and the mind thus stowed, as we sailors say, will be certain to deliver cargo. Then come the institutions, with their never-ending elections, and the construction that has been put on the right of the elector to inquire into all things; the whole consummated by the journals, who assume a power to penetrate the closet, ay, even the heart,--and lay bare its secrets. Is it any wonder, if we should become, in time, a nation of mere gossips? As for my passengers, even Neb got to consider them as so many nuisances. From some cause or other, whether it was having these loose-tongued people on board or not, is more than I can say, but certain it is, about the time Salem was handsomely cleaned out, and a heavy inroad had been made upon Boston, that the weather changed. It began to blow in gusts, sometimes from one point of the compass, sometimes from another, until the ship was brought to very short canvass, from a dread of being caught unprepared. At length, these fantasies of the winds terminated in a tremendous gale, such as I had seldom then witnessed; and such, indeed, as I have seldom witnessed since. It is a great mistake to suppose that the heaviest weather occurs in the autumnal, spring, or winter months. Much the strongest blows I have ever known, have taken place in the middle of the warm weather. This is the season of the hurricanes; and, out of the tropics, I think it is also the season of _the_ gales. It is true; these gales do not return annually, a long succession of years frequently occurring without one; but, when they do come, they may be expected, in our own seas, in July, August, or September. The wind commenced at south-west, on this occasion, and it blew fresh for several hours, sending us ahead on our course, at the rate of eleven knots. As the sea got up, and sail was reduced, our speed was a little diminished perhaps; but we must have made more than a hundred miles in the first ten hours. The day was bright, cloudless, genial, and even bland; there being nothing unpleasant in the feeling of the swift currents of the air, that whirled past us. At sunset I did not quite like the appearance of the horizon; and we let the ship wade through it, under her three top-sails, single-reefed, her fore-course, and fore-top-mast staysail. This was short canvass, for a vessel that had the wind nearly over her taffrail. At nine o'clock, second reefs were taken in, and at ten, the mizen-top-sail was furled. I then turned in, deeming the ship quite snug, leaving orders with the mates to reduce the sail, did they find the ship straining, or the spars in danger, and to call me should anything serious occur. I was not called until daylight, when Talcott laid his hand on my shoulder, and said, “You had better turn out, Captain Wallingford; we have a peeler, and I want a little advice.” It was a peeler, indeed, when I reached the deck. The ship was under a fore-course and a close-reefed main-top-sail, canvass that can be carried a long time, while running off; but which, I at once saw, was quite too much for us. An order was given immediately, to take in the top-sail. Notwithstanding the diminutive surface that was exposed, the surges given by this bit of canvass, as soon as the clews were eased off sufficiently to allow the cloth to jerk, shook the vessel's hull. It was a miracle that we saved the mast, or that we got the cloth rolled up at all. At one time, I thought it would be necessary to cut it from the yard. Fortunately the gale was steady, this day proving bright and clear, like that which had preceded. The men aloft made several attempts to hail the deck, but the wind blew too heavily to suffer them to be heard. Talcott had gone on the yard himself, and I saw him gesticulating, in a way to indicate there was something ahead. The seas were running so high that it was not easy to obtain much of a look at the horizon; but, by getting into the mizen-rigging, I had a glimpse of a vessel's spars, to the eastward of us, and directly on our course. It was a ship under bare poles, running as nearly before us as she could, but making most fearful yaws; sometimes sheering away off to starboard, in a way to threaten her with broaching-to; then taking a yaw to port, in which I could see all three of her masts, with their yards pointed nearly at us. I got but one glimpse of her hull, as it rose on a sea, at the same instant with the Dawn, and it actually appeared as if about to be blown away, though I took the stranger to be a vessel at least as large as we were ourselves. We were evidently approaching her fast, though both vessels were going the same way. The Dawn steered beautifully, one of the greatest virtues in a ship, under the circumstances in which we were then placed. A single man was all that we had at the wheel, and he controlled it with ease. I could see it was very different with the ship ahead, and fancied they had made a mistake on board her, by taking in all their canvass. Talcott and the gang aloft, had not got out of the top, however, before we had a hint that it would be well to imitate the stranger's prudence. Though our vessel steered so much better than another, no ship can keep on a direct line, while running before the wind, in a heavy sea. The waves occasionally fly past a vessel, like the scud glancing through the air; then, they seem to pause, altogether, as if to permit the ship to overtake them. When a vessel is lifted aft by one of these torrents of rushing waters, the helm loses a portion of its power; and the part of the vast machine that first receives the impulse, seems intent on exchanging places with the bows, vessels often driving sideways before the surges, for spaces of time that are exceedingly embarrassing to the mariner. This happens to the best-steering ships, and is always one source of danger in very heavy weather, to those that are running off. The merit of the Dawn was in coming under command again, quickly, and in not losing so much of the influence of her helm, as is frequently the case with wild-steering craft. I understand there is a sloop-of-war now in the navy, that is difficult to get through a narrow passage, in a blow, in consequence of her having this propensity to turn her head first one way, then another, like a gay horse that breaks his bridle. The hint given, just as Talcott was quitting the top, and to which there has been allusion, was given under the impulsion of one of these driving seas. The Dawn still carried her fore-topmast stay-sail, a small triangular piece of stout canvass, and which was particularly useful, as leading from the end of the bowsprit towards the head of the fore-top-mast, in preventing her from broaching-to, or pressing up with her bows so near the wind, as to produce the danger of seas breaking over the mass of the hull, and sweeping the decks. The landsman will understand this is the gravest of the dangers that occur at sea, in very heavy weather. When the ship is thrown broadside to the sea, or comes up so as to bring the wind abeam, or even forward of the beam, as in lying-to, there is always risk from this source. Another clanger, which is called pooping, is of a character that one who is ignorant of the might of the ocean when aroused, would not be apt to foresee. It proceeds from the impetuous velocity of the waves, which, rushing ahead so much faster than the vessel that is even driving before the gale, breaks against the quarter, or stern, and throws its masses of water along the deck, in a line with its keel. I suppose the President steamer to have been lost by the first of these two dangers, as will appear in the following little theory. There is no doubt that well-constructed steamers are safer craft, the danger from fire excepted, than the ordinary ship, except in very heavy weather. With an ordinary gale, they can contend with sufficient power; but, it is an unfortunate consequence of their construction, that exactly as the danger increases, their power of meeting it diminishes. In a very heavy swell, one cannot venture to resort to a strong head of steam, since one wheel may be nearly out of water, while the other is submerged, and thus endanger the machinery. Now, the great length of these vessels renders it difficult to keep them up to the wind, or head to sea, the safest of all positions for a vessel in heavy weather, while it exposes them to the additional risk of having the water break aboard them near the waist, in running dead before it. In a word, I suppose a steamer difficult to be kept out of the trough, in very heavy weather; and no vessel can be safe in the trough of the seas, under such circumstances; one of great length less so than others. This is true, however, only in reference to those steamers which carry the old-fashioned wheel; Erricson's screw, and Hunter's submerged wheels, rendering steam-ships, in my poor judgment, the safest craft in the world. The Dawn was overtaken by the seas, from time to time; and, then, like everything else that floats, she yawed, or rather, had her stern urged impetuously round, as if it were in a hurry to get ahead of the bows. On these occasions, the noise made by the fore-top-mast stay-sail, as it collapsed and filled, resembled the report of a small gun. We had similar reports from the fore-sail, which, for moments at a time, was actually becalmed, as the ship settled into the trough; and then became distended with a noise like that of the shaking of a thousand carpets, all filled with Sancho Panzas, at the same instant. As yet, the cloth and gear had stood these violent shocks admirably; but, just as Talcott was leading his party down, the ship made one of her side-long movements; the stay-sail filled with a tremendous report, and away it flew to leeward, taken out--of the bolt-rope as if it had been cut by shears, and then used by the furies of the tempest. Talcott smiled, as he gazed at the driving canvass, which went a quarter of a mile before it struck the water, whirling like a kite that has broken its string, and then he shook his head. I disliked, too, the tremendous surges of the fore-sail, when it occasionally collapsed and as suddenly filled, menacing to start every bolt, and to part every rope connected with block or spar. “We must get in that fore-course, Mr. Talcott,” I said, “or we shall lose something. I see the ship ahead is under bare-poles, and it were better we were as snug. If I did not dislike losing such a wind, it would be wiser to heave-to the ship; man the buntlines and clew-garnets, at once, and wait for a favourable moment.” We had held on to our canvass too long; the fault of youth. As I had determined to shorten sail, however, we now set about it in earnest, and with all the precautions exacted by the circumstances. Everybody that could be mustered, was placed at the clew-lines and buntlines, with strict orders to do his best at the proper moments. The first-mate went to the tack, and the second to the sheet. I was to take in the sail myself. I waited for a collapse; and then, while the ship was buried between two mounds of water, when it was impossible to see a hundred yards from her in any direction, and the canvass was actually dropping against the mast I gave the usual orders. Every man hauled, as if for life, and we had got the clews pretty well up, when the vessel came out of the cavern into the tempest, receiving the whole power of the gale, with a sudden surge, into the bellying canvass. Away went everything, as if the gear were cobwebs. At the next instant, the sail was in ribands. I was deeply mortified, as well as rendered uneasy, by this accident, as the ship ahead unquestionably was in full view of all that happened. It was soon apparent, however, that professional pride must give place to concern for the safety of the vessel. The wind had been steadily increasing in power, and had now reached a pass when it became necessary to look things steadily in the face. The strips of canvass that remained attached to the yard, with the blocks and gear attached, threshed about in a way to threaten the lives of all that approached. This was only at the intervals when the ship settled into the troughs; for, while under the full influence of the gale, pennants never streamed more directly from a mast, than did these heavy fragments from the fore-yard. It was necessary to get rid of them; and Talcott had just volunteered to go on the yard with this end, when Neb sprang into the rigging without an order, and was soon beyond the reach of the voice. This daring black had several narrow escapes, more especially from the fore-sheet blocks; but he succeeded in cutting everything adrift, and in leaving nothing attached to the spar, but the bolt-rope of the head of the sail. It is true, little effected this object, when the knife could be applied, the threads of the stout canvass snapping at the touch. As soon as the ship was under bare poles, though at the sacrifice of two of her sails, I had leisure to look out for the other vessel. There she was, more than half a mile ahead of us, yawing wildly, and rolling her lower yard-arm, to the water's edge. As we drew nearer, I got better glimpses of this vessel, which was a ship, and as I fancied, an English West Indiaman, deep-loaded with the produce of the islands. Deep-loaded as I fancied, for it was only at instants that she could be seen at all, under circumstances to judge of this fact; sometimes her hull appearing to be nearly smothered in the brine, and then, again, her copper glistening in the sun, resembling a light vessel, kept under the care of some thrifty housewife. The Dawn did not fly, now all her canvass was gone, as fast as she had previously done. She went through the water at a greater rate than the vessel ahead; but it required an hour longer to bring the two ships within a cable's length of each other. Then, indeed, we got a near view of the manner in which the elements can play with such a mass of wood and iron as a ship, when in an angry mood. There were instants when I fancied I could nearly see the keel of the stranger for half its length, as he went foaming up on the crest of a wave, apparently ready to quit the water altogether; then again, he would settle away into the blue abyss, hiding everything beneath his tops. When both vessels sunk together, no sign of our neighbour was visible, though so near. We came up after one of these deep plunges into the valleys of the ocean, and, to our alarm, saw the English ship yawing directly athwart our course, and within fifty fathoms of us. This was about the distance at which I intended to pass, little dreaming of finding the other ship so completely in our way. The Englishman must have intended to come a little nearer, and got one of those desperate sheers that so often ran away with him. There he was, however; and a breathless minute followed, when he was first seen. Two vehicles dashing along a highway, with frightened and run-away teams, would not present a sight one-half as terrific as that which lay directly before our eyes. The Dawn was plunging onward with a momentum to dash in splinters, did she strike any resisting object, and yawing herself sufficiently to render the passage hazardous. But the stranger made the matter ten-fold worse. When I first saw him, in this fearful proximity, his broadside was nearly offered to the seas, and away he was flying, on the summit of a mountain of foam, fairly crossing our fore-foot. At the next moment, he fell off before the wind, again, and I could just see his tops directly ahead. His sheer had been to-port, our intention having been to pass him on his starboard side; but, perceiving him to steer so wild, I thought it might be well to go in the other direction. Quick as the words could be uttered, therefore, I called out to port the helm. This was done, of course; and just as the Dawn felt the new influence, the other vessel took the same sheer, and away we both went to starboard, at precisely the same instant. I shouted to right our helm to “hard a-starboard,” and it was well I did; a minute more would have brought us down headlong on the Englishman. Even now we could only see his hull, at instants; but the awful proximity of his spars denoted the full extent of the danger. Luckily, we hit on opposite directions, or our common destruction would have been certain. But, it was one thing, in that cauldron of a sea, to determine on a course, and another to follow it. As we rose on the last wave that alone separated us from the stranger, he was nearly ahead; and as we glanced onward, I saw that we should barely clear his larboard quarter. Our helm being already a starboard, no more could be done. Should he take another sheer to port, we must infallibly cut him in twain. As I have said, he had jammed his helm to-port, and slowly, and with a species of reluctance, he inclined a little aside. Then we came up, both ships rolling off, or our yards must have interlocked, and passing his quarter with our bows, we each felt the sheer at the same instant, and away we went asunder, the sterns of the ships looking at each other, and certainly not a hundred feet apart. A shout from Talcott drew me to our taffrail, and standing on that of our neighbour, what or whom should I see waving his hat, but the red countenance of honest Moses Marble!

26

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“At the piping of all hands, When the judgment signal's spread-- When the islands and the lands, And the seas give up the dead, And the south and the north shall come; When the sinner is dismay'd, And the just man is afraid, Then heaven be thy aid, Poor _Tom_.'” BRAINARD. The two ships, in the haste of their respective crews to get clear of each other, were now running in the troughs; and the same idea would seem to have suggested itself to me and the other master, at the same instant. Instead of endeavouring to keep away again, one kept his helm hard a-port, the other as hard a-starboard, until we both came by the wind, though on opposite tacks. The Englishman set his mizen-stay-sail, and though he made bad weather of it, he evidently ran much less risk than in scudding. The seas came on board him constantly; but not in a way to do any material damage. As for the Dawn, she lay-to, like a duck, under bare poles. I had a spare stay-sail, stopped up in her mizen-rigging, from the top down, and after that the ship was both easy and dry. Once in a while, it is true, her bows would meet some fellow heavier than common, and then we got a few hogsheads of water forward; but it went out to leeward as fast as it came in to windward. At the turn of the day, however, the gale broke, and the weather moderated sensibly; both sea and wind beginning to go down. Had we been alone, I should not have hesitated about bearing up, getting some sail on the ship, and running off on my course, again; but, the desire to speak the stranger, and have some communication with Marble, was so strong, that I could not make up my mind to do so. Including myself, Talcott, Neb, the cabin-steward, and six of the people forward, there were ten of us on board, who knew the ex-mate; and, of the whole ten, there was not a dissenting voice concerning his identity. I determined, therefore, to stick by the Englishman, and at least have some communication with my old friend. As for myself, I own I loved Marble, uncouth and peculiar as he sometimes was. I owed him more than any other man living, Mr. Hardinge excepted; for he had made me a seaman, having been of use to me professionally, in a hundred ways. Then we had seen so much in company, that I regarded him as a portion of my experience, and as, in some measure, identified with my own nautical career. I was afraid at one moment, that the Englishman intended to remain as he was, all night; but, about an hour before sunset, I had the gratification to see him set his fore-sail, and keep off. I had wore round, two hours before, to get the Dawn's head on the same tack with him, and followed under bare poles. As the stranger soon set his main-top-sail close reefed, and then his fore, it enabled us to make a little sail also, in order to keep up with him. This we did all that night; and, in the morning, both ships were under everything that would draw, with a moderate breeze from the northward, and no great matter of sea going. The English vessel was about a league to leeward of us, and a little ahead. Under such circumstances, it was easy to close. Accordingly, just as the two ships' companies were about to go to breakfast, the Dawn ranged up under the lee-quarter of the stranger. “What ship's that?” I hailed, in the usual manner. “The Dundee; Robert Ferguson, master--what ship's that?” “The Dawn; Miles Wallingford. Where are you from?” “From Rio de Janeiro, bound to London. Where are _you_ from?” “From New York, to Bordeaux. A heavy blow we have just had of it.” “Quite; the like of it, I've not seen in many a day. You've a pratty sea-boat, yon!” “She made capital weather, in the late gale, and I've every reason to be satisfied with her. Pray, haven't you an American on board, of the name of Marble? We fancied that we saw the face of an old shipmate on your taffrail, yesterday, and have kept you company in order to inquire after his news.” “Ay, ay,” answered the Scotch master, waving his hand. “The chiel will be visiting you prasently. He's below, stowing away his dunnage; and will be thanking you for a passage home, I'm thinking.” As these words were uttered, Marble appeared on deck, and waved his hat, again, in recognition. This was enough; as we understood each other, the two ships took sufficient room, and hove-to. We lowered our boat, and Talcott went alongside of the Dundee, in quest of our old shipmate. Newspapers and news were exchanged; and, in twenty minutes, I had the extreme gratification of grasping Marble once more by the hand. My old friend was too much affected to speak, for some little time. He shook hands with everybody, and seemed as much astonished as he was delighted at finding so many of us together again; but not a syllable did he utter for several minutes. I had his chest passed into the cabin, and then went and took my seat alongside of him on the hen-coops, intending to hear his story, as soon as he was disposed to give it. But, it was no easy matter to get out of ear-shot of my passengers. During the gale, they had been tongue-tied, and I had a little peace; but, no sooner did the wind and sea go down, than they broke out in the old spot, and began to do Boston, in the way they had commenced. Now, Marble had come on board, in a manner so unusual, and it was evident a secret history was to be revealed, that all three took post in the companion-way, in a manner to render it impossible anything material could escape them. I knew the folly of attempting a change of position on deck; we should certainly be followed up; and, people of this class, so long as they can make the excuse of saying they heard any part of a secret, never scruple about inventing the portions that happen to escape their ears. Consequently, I desired Marble and Talcott to follow me; and, incontinently, I led the way into the main-top. I was obeyed, the second-mate having the watch, and all three of us were soon seated with our legs over the top-rim, as comfortable as so many gossips, who had just finished their last cups, have stirred the fire, and drawn their heads together to open a fresh-budget. Neither Sarah nor Jane could follow us, thank God! “There, d--n 'em” said I, a little pointedly; for it was enough to make a much more, scrupulous person swear, “we've got the length of the main-rigging between us, and I do not think they'll venture into the top, this fine morning, in order to overhear what shall be said. It would puzzle even Wallace Mortimer to do that, Talcott.” “If they do,” observed Talcott, laughing, “we can retreat to the cross-trees, and thence to the royal-yard.” Marble looked inquisitive, but, at the same time, he looked knowing. “I understand,” he said, with a nod; “three people with six sets of ears--is it not so, Miles?” “Precisely; though you only do them credit by halves, for you should have added to this inventory forty tongues.” “Well, that is a large supply. The man, or woman, who is so well provided, should carry plenty of ballast. However, as you say, they're out of hail now, and must guess at all they repeat, if repeating it can be called.” “Quite as much as nine-tenths of what they give as coming from others,” observed Talcott. “People never can tell so much of other person's affairs, without bailing out most of their ideas from their own scuttle-butts.” “Well, let them go to--Bordeaux--” said I, “since they are bound there. And now, my dear Marble, here we are, and dying to know all that has happened to you. You have firm friends in Talcott and myself; either of us, ready to give you his berth for the asking.” “Thank'ee, my dear boys--thank'ee, with all my heart and soul,” returned the honest fellow, dashing the moisture from his eyes, with the back of his hand. “I believe you would, boys; I do believe you would, one or both. I am glad, Miles, you came up into this bloody top, for I wouldn't like to let your reg'lar 'long-shore harpies see a man of my time of life, and one that has been to sea, now, man and boy, close on to forty years, with as much blubber about him, as one of your right whales. Well--and now for the log; for I suppose you'll insist on overhauling it, lads?” “That we shall; and see you miss no leaf of it. Be as particular as if it were overhauled in an insurance case.” “Ay; they're bloody knaves, sometimes, them underwriters; und a fellow need be careful to get his dues out of them--that is to say, _some_; others, ag'in, are gentlemen, down to their shoe-buckles, and no sooner see a poor shipwrecked devil, than they open their tills, and begin to count out, before he has opened his mouth.” “Well, but your own adventures, my old friend; you forget we are dying with curiosity.” “Ay--your cur'osity's a troublesome inmate, and will never be quiet as long as one tries to keep it under hatches; especially female cur'osity. Well, I must gratify you; and so I'll make no more bones about it, though its giving an account of my own obstinacy and folly. I reckon, now, my boys, you missed me the day the ship sailed from the island?” “That we did, and supposed you had got tired of your experiment before it began,” I answered, “so were off, before we were ourselves.” “You had reason for so thinking; though you were out in your reckoning, too. No; it happened in this fashion. After you left me, I began to generalize over my sitiation, and I says to myself, says I, 'Moses Marble, them lads will never consent to sail and leave you here, on this island, alone like a bloody hermit,' says I. 'If you want to hold on,' says I, 'and try your hand at a hermitage,' says I, 'or to play Robinson Crusoe,' says I, 'you must be out, of the way when the Crisis, sails'--boys, what's become of the old ship? Not a word have I heard about her, yet!” “She was loading for London, when we sailed, her owners intending to send her the same voyage over again.” “And they refused to let you have her, Miles, on account of your youth, notwithstanding all you did for them?” “Not so; they pressed me to keep her, but I preferred a ship of my own. The Dawn is my property, Master Moses!” “Thank God! then there is one honest chap among the owners. And how did she behave? Had you any trouble with the pirates?” Perceiving the utter uselessness of attempting to hear his own story before I rendered an account of the Crisis, and her exploits, I gave Marble a history of our voyage, from the time we parted down to the day we reached New York. “And that scaramouch of a schooner that the Frenchman gave us, in his charity?” “The Pretty Poll! She got home safe, was sold, and is now in the West-India trade. There is a handsome balance, amounting to some fourteen hundred dollars, in the owners' hands, coming to you from prize-money and wages.” It is not in nature, for any man to be sorry he has money. I saw by Marble's eyes, that this sum, so unusually large for him to possess, formed a new tie to the world, and that he fancied himself a much happier man in possessing it. He looked at me earnestly, for quite a minute, and then remarked, I make no doubt with sincere regret-- “Miles, if I had a mother living, now, that money might make her old age comfortable! It seems that they who have no mothers, have money, and they who have no money, have mothers.” I waited a moment for Marble to recover his self-command, and then urged him to continue his story. “I was telling you how I generalized over my sitiation,” resumed the ex-mate, “as soon as I found myself alone in the hut. I came to the conclusion that I should be carried off by force, if I remained till next day; and so I got into the launch, carried her out of the lagoon, taking care to give the ship a berth, went through the reef, and kept turning to windward, until day-break. By that time, the island was quite out of sight, though I saw the upper sails of the ship, as soon as you got her under way. I kept the top-gallant-sails in sight, until I made the island, again; and as you went off, I ran in, and took possession of my dominions, with no one to dispute my will, or to try to reason me out of my consait.” “I am glad to hear you term that notion a conceit, for, certainly, it was not reason. You soon discovered your mistake, my old mess-mate, and began to think of home.” “I soon discovered, Miles, that if I had neither father, nor mother, brother nor sister, that I had a country and friends. The bit of marble on which I was found in the stone-cutter's yard, then seemed as dear to me as a gold cradle is to a king's son; and I thought of you, and all the rest of you--nay, I yearned after you, as a mother would yearn for her children.” “Poor fellow, you were solitary enough, I dare say--had you no amusement with your pigs and poultry?” “For a day or two, they kept me pretty busy. But, by the end of a week, I discovered that pigs and poultry were not made to keep company with man. I had consaited that I could pass the rest of my days in the bosom of my own family, like any other man who had made, his fortune and retired; but, I found my household too small for such a life as that. My great mistake was in supposing that the Marble family could be happy in its own circle.” This was said bitterly, though it was said drolly, and, while it made Talcott and myself laugh, it also made us sorry. “I fell into another mistake, however, boys,” Marble continued, “and it might as well be owned. I took it into my head that I should be all alone on the island, but I found to my cost, that the devil insisted on having his share. I'll tell you how it is, Miles; a man must either look ahead, or look astarn; there is no such thing as satisfying himself with the present moorings. Now, this was my misfortune; for, ahead I had nothing to look forward to; and astarn, what comfort had I in overhauling past sins!” “I think I can understand your difficulties, my friend; how did you manage to get rid of them?” “I left the island. You had put the Frenchman's launch in capital condition, and all I had to do was to fill up the breakers with fresh water, kill a hog and salt him away, put on board a quantity of biscuit, and be off. As for eatables, you know there was no scarcity on the island, and I took my choice. I make no doubt there are twenty hogsheads of undamaged sugars, at this very moment, in the hold of that wreck, and on the beach of the island. I fed my poultry on it, the whole time I staid.” “And so you abandoned Marble Land to the pig's and the fowls?” “I did, indeed, Miles; and I hope the poor creaturs will have a comfortable time of it. I gave 'em what the lawyers call a quit-claim, and sailed two months to a day after you went off in the Crisis.” “I should think, old shipmate, that your voyage must have been as solitary and desperate as your life ashore.” “I'm amazed to hear, you say that. I'm never solitary at sea, one has so much to do in taking care of his craft; and then he can always look forward to the day he'll get in. But this generalizing, night and day, without any port ahead, and little comfort in looking astarn, will soon fit a man for Bedlam. I just: weathered Cape Crazy, I can tell you, lads; and that, too, in the white water! As for my v'y'ge being desperate, what was there to make it so, I should like to know?” “You must have been twelve or fifteen hundred miles from any island where you could look forward to anything like safety; and that is a distance one would rather not travel all alone on the high seas.” “Pshaw! all consait. You're getting notional, Miles, now you're a master and owner. What's a run of a thousand or fifteen hundred miles, in a tight boat, and with plenty of grub and water? It was the easiest matter in the world; and if it warn't for that bloody Cape Horn, I should have made as straight a wake for Coenties' Slip, as the trending of the land would have allowed. As it was, I turned to windward, for I knew the savages to leeward weren't to be trusted. You see, it was as easy as working out a day's work. I kept the boat on a wind all day, and long bits of the night, too, until I wanted sleep; and then I hove her to, under a reefed mainsail, and slept as sound as a lord. I hadn't an uncomfortable moment, after I got outside of the reef again; and the happiest hour of my life was that in which I saw the tree-tops of the island dip.” “And how long were you navigating in this manner, and what land did you first make?” “Seven weeks, though I made half a dozen islands, every one of them just such a looking object as that I had left. You weren't about to catch me ashore again in any of them miserable places! I gave the old boat a slap, and promised to stick by her as long as she would stick by me, and I kept my word. I saw savages, moreover, on one or two of the islands, and gave them a berth, having no fancy for being barbacued.” “And where did you finally make your land-fall?” “Nowhere, so; far as the launch was concerned. I fell in with a Manilla ship, bound to Valparaiso, and got on board her; and sorry enough was I for the change, when I came to find out how they lived. The captain took me in, however, and I worked my passage into port. Finding no ship likely to sail soon, I entered with a native who was about to cross the Andes, bound over on this side, for the east coast. Don't you remember, Miles, monsters of mountains that we could see, a bit inland, and covered with snow, all along the west side of South America? You must remember the chaps I mean?” “Certainly--they are much too plain, and objects much too striking, ever to be forgotten, when once seen.” “Well them's the Andes; and rough customers they be, let me tell you, boys. You know there is little amusement in a sailor's walking on the levellest 'arth and handsomest highways, on account of the bloody ups and downs a fellow meets with; and so you may get some idee of the time we had of it, when I tell you, had all the seas we saw in the last blow been piled on top of each other, they would have made but a large pancake, compared to them 'ere Andes. Natur' must have outdone herself in making 'em; and when they were thrown together, what good comes of it all? Such mountains might be of some use in keeping the French and English apart; but you leave nothing but bloody Spaniards on one side of them Andes, and find bloody Spaniards and Portugeese on the other. However, we found our way over them, and brought up at a place called Buenos Ayres, from which I worked my passage round to Rio in a coaster. At Rio, you know, I felt quite at home, having stopped in there often, in going backward and forward.” “And thence you took passage in the Dundee for London, intending to get a passage home by the first opportunity?” “It needs no witch to tell that. I had to scull about Rio for several months, doing odd jobs as a rigger, and the like of that, until, finding no Yankee came in, I got a passage in a Scotchman. I'll not complain of Sawney, who was kind enough to me as a shipwrecked mariner; for that was the character I sailed under, hermits being no way fashionable among us Protestants, though it's very different among them Catholic chaps, I can tell you. I happened to mention to a landlady on the road, that I was a sort of a hermit on his travels; when I thought the poor woman would have gone down on her knees and worshipped me.” Here then was the history of Moses Marble, and the end of the colony of Marble Land, pigs and poultry excepted. It was now my turn to be examined. I had to answer fifty curious inquiries, some of which I found sufficiently embarrassing. When, in answer to his interrogatories, Marble learned that the Major and Miss Merton had actually been left at Clawbonny, I saw the ex-mate wink at Talcott, who smiled in reply. Then, where was Rupert, and how came on the law? The farm and mills were not forgotten; and, as for Neb, he was actually ordered up into the top, in order that there might be another shake of the hand, and that he might answer for himself. In a word, nothing could be more apparent than the delight of Marble at finding himself among us once more. I believed even then, that the man really loved me; and the reader will remember how long we had sailed together, and how much we had seen in company. More than once did my old shipmate dash the tears from his eyes, as he spoke of his satisfaction. “I say, Miles--I say, Roger,” he cried--“this is like being at home, and none of your bloody hermitages! Blast me, if I think, now, I should dare pass through a wood all alone. I'm never satisfied unless I see a fellow-creatur', for fear of being left. I did pretty well with the Scotchman, who _has_ a heart, though it's stowed away in oatmeal, but _this_ is _home. _ I must ship as your steward, Miles, for hang on to you I will.” “If we ever part, again, until one or both go into dock, it will be your fault, my old friend. If I have thought of you once, since we parted, I have dreamed of you fifty times! Talcott and I were talking of you in the late gale, and wondering what sail you would advise us to put the ship under.” “The old lessons have not all been forgotten, boys; it was easy enough to see that. I said to myself, as you stood down upon us, 'that chap has a real sea-dog aboard, as is plain by the manner in which he has everything snug, while he walks ahead like an owner in a hurry to be first in the market.'” It was then agreed Marble should keep a watch; whenever it suited him, and that he should do just as he pleased aboard. At some future day, some other arrangement might be made, though he declared his intention to stick by the ship, and also announced a determination to be my first-mate for life, as soon as Talcott got a vessel, as doubtless he would, through the influence of his friends, as soon as he returned home. I laughed at all this, though I bade him heartily welcome, and then I nick-named him commodore, adding that he should sail with me in that capacity, doing just as much, and just as little duty as he pleased. As for money, there was a bag of dollars in the cabin, and he had only to put his hand in, and take what he wanted. The key of the locker was in my pocket, and could be had for asking. Nobody was more delighted with this arrangement than Neb, who had even taken a fancy to Marble, from the moment when the latter led him up from the steerage of the John, by the ear. “I say, Miles, what sort of bloody animals are them passengers of your's?” Marble next demanded, looking over the rim of the top, down at the trio on deck, with a good deal of curiosity expressed in his countenance. “This is the first time I ever knew a ship-master driven aloft by his passengers, in order to talk secrets!” “That is because you never sailed with the Brigham family, my friend. They'll pump you till you suck, in the first twenty-four hours, rely on it. They'll get every fact about your birth, the island where you first saw me, what you have been about, and what you mean to do; in a word, the past, present, and future.” “Leave me to overlay their cur'osity,” answered the ex-mate, or new commodore--“I got my hand in, by boarding six weeks with a Connecticut old maid, once, and I'll defy the keenest questioner of them all.” We had a little more discourse, when we all went below, and I introduced Marble to my passengers, as one who was to join our mess. After this, things went on in their usual train. In the course of the day, however, I overheard the following brief dialogue between Brigham and Marble, the ladies being much too delicate to question so rough a mariner. “You came on board us, somewhat unexpectedly, I rather conclude, Captain Marble?” commenced the gentleman. “Not in the least; I have been expecting to meet the Dawn, just about this spot, more than a month, now.” “Well, that is odd! I do not comprehend how such a thing could well be foreseen?” “Do you understand spherical trigonometry, sir?” “I cannot say I am at all expert--I've looked into mathematics, but have no great turn for the study.” “It would be hopeless, then, to attempt to explain the matter. If you had your hand in at the spherical, I could make it all as plain as the capstan.” “You and Captain Wallingford must be somewhat old acquaintances, I conclude?” “Somewhat,” answered Marble, very drily. “Have you ever been at the place that he calls Clawbonny? A queer name, I rather think, Captain!” “Not at all, sir. I know a place, down in the Eastern States, that was called Scratch and Claw, and a very pretty spot it was.” “It's not usual for us to the eastward, to give names to farms and places. It is done a little by the Boston folk, but they are notional, as everybody knows.” “Exactly; I suppose it was for want of use, the chap I mean made out no better in naming his place.” Mr. Brigham was no fool; he was merely a gossip. He took the hint, and asked no more questions of Marble. He tried Neb, notwithstanding; but the black having his orders, obeyed them so literally, that I really believe we parted in Bordeaux, a fortnight later, without any of the family's making the least discovery. Glad enough was I to get rid of them; yet, brief as had been our intercourse, they produced a sensible influence on my future happiness. Such is the evil of this habit of loose talking, men giving credit to words conceived in ignorance and uttered in the indulgence of one of the most contemptible of all our propensities. To return to my ship. We reached Bordeaux without any further accident, or delay. I discharged in the usual way, and began to look about me, for another freight. It had been my intention to return to New York, and to keep the festivities of attaining my majority, at Clawbonny; but, I confess the discourse of these eternal gossips, the Brighams, had greatly lessened the desire to see home again, so soon. A freight for New York was offered me, but I postponed an answer, until it was given to another ship. At length an offer was made me to go to Cronstadt, in Russia, with a cargo of wines and brandies, and I accepted it. The great and better informed merchants, as it would seem, distrusted the continuance of the hollow peace that then existed, and a company of them thought it might be well to transfer their liquors to the capital of the czar, in readiness for contingencies. An American ship was preferred, on account of her greater speed, as well as on account of her probable neutral character, in the event of troubles occurring at any unlooked-for moment. The Dawn took in her wines and brandies accordingly, and sailed for the Baltic about the last of August. She had a long, but a safe passage, delivering the freight according to the charter-party, in good condition. While at Cronstadt, the American consul, and the consignees of an American ship that had lost her master and chief-mate by the smallpox, applied to me to let Marble carry the vessel home. I pressed the offer on my old friend, but he obstinately refused to have anything to do with the vessel. I then recommended Talcott, and after some negotiation, the latter took charge of the Hyperion. I was sorry to part with my mate, to whom I had become strongly attached; but the preferment was so clearly to his advantage, that I could take no other course. The vessel being ready, she sailed the day after Talcott joined her; and, sorry am I to be compelled to add, that she was never heard of, after clearing the Cattegat. The equinox of that season was tremendously severe, and it caused the loss of many vessels; that of the Hyperion doubtless among the rest. Marble insisted on taking Talcott's place, and he now became my chief-mate, as I had once been his. After a little delay, I took in freight on Russian government account, and sailed for Odessa. It was thought the Sublime Porte would let an American through; but, after reaching the Dardanelles, I was ordered back, and was obliged to leave my cargo in Malta, which it was expected would be in possession of its own knights by that time, agreeably to the terms of the late treaty. From Malta I sailed for Leghorn, in quest of another freight. I pass over the details of these voyages, as really nothing worthy of being recorded occurred. They consumed a good deal of time; the delay at the Dardanelles alone exceeding six weeks, during which negotiations were going on up at Constantinople, but all in vain. In consequence of all these detentions, and the length of the passages, I did not reach Leghorn until near the close of March, I wrote to Grace and Mr. Hardinge, whenever a favourable occasion offered, but I did not get a letter from home, during the whole period. It was not in the power of my sister or guardian--_late_ guardian would be the most accurate expression, as I had been of age since the previous October--to write, it being impossible for me to let them know when, or where, a letter would find me. It followed, that while my friends at home were kept tolerably apprised of my movements, I was absolutely in the dark as respected them. That this ignorance gave me great concern, it would be idle to deny; yet, I had a species of desperate satisfaction in keeping aloof, and in leaving the course clear to Mr. Andrew Drewett. As respects substantials, I had sent a proper power of attorney to Mr. Hardinge, who, I doubted not, would take the same care of my temporal interests he had never ceased to do since the day of my beloved mother's death. Freights were not offering freely at Leghorn, when the Dawn arrived. After waiting a fortnight, however, I began to take in for America, and on American account. In the meantime, the cargo coming to hand slowly, I left Marble to receive it, and proceeded on a little excursion in Tuscany, or Etruria, as that part of the world was then called. I visited Pisa, Lucca, Florence, and several other intermediate towns. At Florence, I passed a week looking at sights, and amusing myself the best way I could. The gallery and the churches kept me pretty busy, and the reader will judge of my surprise one day, at hearing my own name uttered on a pretty high key, by a female voice, in the Duomo, or Cathedral of the place. On turning, I found myself in the presence of the Brighams! I was overwhelmed with questions in a minute. Where had I been? Where was Talcott? Where was the ship? When did I sail, and whither did I sail? After this came the communications. _They_ had been to Paris; had seen the French Consul, and had dined with Mr. R. N. Livingston, then negotiating the treaty of Louisiana; had seen the Louvre; had been to Geneva; had seen the Lake; had seen Mont Blanc; had crossed Mont Cenis; had been at Milan; Rome; had seen the Pope; Naples; had seen Vesuvius; had been at Paestum; had come back to Florence, and _nous voici! _ Glad enough was I, when I got them fairly within the gates of the City of the Lily. Next came America; from which part of the world they received such delightful letters! One from Mrs. Jonathan Little, a Salem lady then residing in New York, had just reached them. It contained four sheets, and was full of _news. _ Then commenced the details; and I was compelled to listen to a string of gossip that connected nearly all the people of mark, my informants had ever heard of in the great _Commercial_ Emporium that was to be. How suitable is this name! Emporium would not have been sufficiently distinctive for a town in which “the merchants” are all in all; in which they must have the post-office; in which they support the nation by paying all the revenue; in which the sun must shine and the dew fall to suit their wants; and in which the winds, themselves, may be recreant to their duty, when they happen to be foul! Like the Holy Catholic Protestant Episcopal Church, Trading Commercial Trafficking Emporium should have been the style of such a place; and I hope, ere long, some of the “Manor Born” genii of that great town, will see the matter rectified. “By the way, Captain Wallingford,” cut in Jane, at one of Sarah's breathing intervals, that reminded me strongly of the colloquial Frenchman's “_s'il crache il est perdu,_” “You know something of poor Mrs. Bradfort, I believe?” I assented by a bow. “It was just as we told you,” cried Sarah, taking her revenge. “The poor woman is dead! and, no doubt, of that cancer. What a frightful disease! and how accurate has our information been, in all that affair!” “I think her will the most extraordinary of all,” added Mr. Brigham, who, as a man, kept an eye more to the main chance. “I suppose you have heard all about her will, Captain Wallingford?” I reminded the gentleman that this was the first I had ever heard of the lady's death. “She has left every dollar to young Mr. Hardinge, her cousin's son;” added Jane, “cutting off that handsome, genteel, young lady his sister, as well as her father, without a cent”--in 1803, they just began to speak of _cents_, instead of farthings--“and everybody says it was so cruel!” “That is not the worst of it,” put in Sarah. “They _do_ say, Miss Merton, the English lady that made so much noise in New York--let me see, Mr. Brigham, what Earl's grand-daughter did we hear she was? --” This was a most injudicious question, as it gave the husband an opportunity to take the word out of her mouth. “Lord Cumberland's, I believe, or some such person---but, no matter whose. It is quite certain, General Merton, her father, consents to let her marry young Mr. Hardinge, now Mrs. Bradfort's will is known; and, as for the sister, he declares he will never give her a dollar.” “He will have sixteen thousand dollars a year,” said Jane, with emphasis. “Six, my dear, six”--returned the brother, who had reasonably accurate notions touching dollars and cents, or he never would have been travelling in Italy; “six thousand dollars a year, was just Mrs. Bradfort's income, as my old school-fellow Upham told me, and there isn't another man in York, who can tell fortunes as true as himself. He makes a business of it, and don't fail one time in twenty.” “And is it quite certain that Mr. Rupert Hardinge gets all the fortune of Mrs. Bradfort?” I asked, with a strong effort to seem composed. “Not the least doubt of it, in the world. Everybody is talking about it; and there cannot well be a mistake, you know, as it was thought the sister would be an heiress, and people generally take care to be pretty certain about that class. But, of course, a young man with that fortune will be snapped up, as a swallow catches a fly. I've bet Sarah a pair of gloves we hear of his marriage in three months.” The Brighams talked an hour longer, and made me promise to visit them at their hotel, a place I could not succeed in finding. That evening, I left Florence for Leghorn, writing a note of apology, in order not to be rude. Of course, I did not believe half these people had told me; but a part, I made no doubt, was true. Mrs. Bradfort was dead, out of all question; and I thought it possible she might not so far have learned to distinguish between the merit of Lucy, and that of Rupert, to leave her entire fortune to the last. As for the declaration of the brother that he would give his sister nothing, that seemed to me to be rather strong for even Rupert. I knew the dear girl too well, and was certain she would not repine; and I was burning with the desire to be in the field, now she was again penniless. What a change was this! Here were the Hardinges, those whom I had known as poor almost as dependants on my own family, suddenly enriched. I knew Mrs. Bradfort had a large six thousand a year, besides her own dwelling-house, which stood in Wall Street, a part of the commercial emporium that was just beginning to be the focus of banking, and all other monied operations, and which even then promised to become a fortune of itself. It is true, that old Daniel M'Cormick still held his levees on his venerable stoop, where all the heavy men in town used to congregate, and joke, and buy and sell, and abuse Boney; and that the Winthrops, the Wilkeses, the Jaunceys, the Verplancks, the Whites, the Ludlows, and other families of mark, then had their town residences in this well-known street; but coming events were beginning “to cast their shadows before,” and it was easy to foresee that this single dwelling might at least double Rupert's income, under the rapid increase of the country and the town. Though Lucy was still poor, Rupert was now rich. If family connection, that all-important and magical influence, could make so broad a distinction between us, while I was comparatively wealthy, and Lucy had nothing, what, to regard the worst side of the picture, might I not expect from it, when the golden scale preponderated on her side. That Andrew Drewett would still marry her, I began to fear again. Well, why not? I had never mentioned love to the sweet girl, fondly, ardently as I was attached to her; and what reason had I for supposing that one in her situation could reserve her affections for a truant sailor? I am afraid I was unjust enough to regret that this piece of good fortune should have befallen Rupert. He must do something for his sister, and every dollar seemed to raise a new barrier between us. From that hour, I was all impatience to get home. Had not the freight been engaged, I think I should have sailed in ballast. By urging the merchants, however, we got to sea May 15th, with a full cargo, a portion of which I had purchased on my own account, with the money earned by the ship, within the last ten months. Nothing occurred worthy of notice, until the Dawn neared the Straits of Gibraltar. Here we were boarded by an English frigate, and first learned the declaration of a new war between France and England; a contest that, in the end, involved in it all the rest of christendom. Hostilities had already commenced, the First Consul having thrown aside the mask, just three days after we left port. The frigate treated us well, it being too soon for the abuses that followed, and we got through the pass without further molestation. As soon as in the Atlantic, I took care to avoid everything we saw, and nothing got near us, until we had actually made the Highlands of Navesink. An English sloop-of-war, however, had stood into the angles of the coast, formed by Long Island and the Jersey shore, giving us a race for the Hook. I did not know whether I ought to be afraid of this cruiser, or not, but my mind was made up, not to be boarded if it could be helped. We succeeded in passing ahead, and entered the Hook, while he was still a mile outside of the bar. I got a pilot on the bar, as was then very usual, and stood up towards the town with studding-sails set, it being just a twelvemoth, almost to an hour, from the day when I passed up the bay in the Crisis. The pilot took the ship in near Coenties slip, Marble's favourite berth, and we had her secured, and her sails unbent before the sun set.

27

None

“With look like patient Job's, eschewing evil; With motions graceful as a bird's in air; Thou art, in sober truth, the veriest devil That ere clinched fingers in a captive's hair.” HALLECK. There was about an hour of daylight, when I left the compting-house of the consignees, and pursued my way up Wall Street to Broadway. I was on my way to the City Hotel, then, as now, one of the best inns of the town. On Trinity Church walk, just as I quitted the Wall Street crossing, whom should I come plump upon in turning, but Rupert Hardinge? He was walking down the street in some little haste, and was evidently much surprised, perhaps I might say startled, at seeing me. Nevertheless, Rupert was not easily disconcerted, and his manner at once became warm, if not entirely free from embarrassment. He was in deep mourning; though otherwise dressed in the height of the fashion. “Wallingford!” he exclaimed--it was the first time he did not call me “Miles,”--“Wallingford! my fine fellow, what cloud did you drop from? --We have had so many reports concerning you, that your appearance is as much a matter of surprise, as would be that of Bonaparte, himself. Of course, your ship is in?” “Of course,” I answered, taking his offered hand; “you know I am wedded to her, for better, for worse, until death or shipwreck doth us part.” “Ay, so I've always told the ladies--'there is no other matrimony in Wallingford,' I've said often, 'than that which will make him a ship's husband.' But you look confoundedly well--the sea agrees with you, famously.” “I make no complaint of my health--but tell me of that of our friends and families? Your father--” “Is up at Clawbonny, just now--you know how it is with him. No change of circumstances will ever make him regard his little smoke-house looking church, as anything but a cathedral, and his parish as a diocese. Since the great change in our circumstances, all this is useless, and I often _think_--you know one wouldn't like to _say_ as much to _him_--but I often _think_, he might just as well give up preaching, altogether.” “Well, this is good, so far--now for the rest of you, all. You meet my impatience too coldly.” “Yes, you _were_ always an impatient fellow. Why, I suppose you need hardly be told that I have been admitted to the bar.” “That I can very well imagine--you must have found your sea-training of great service on the examination.” “Ah! my dear Wallingford--what a simpleton I was! But one is so apt to take up strange conceits in boyhood, that he is compelled to look back at them in wonder, in after life. But, which way are you walking?” --slipping an arm in mine--“if up, I'll take a short turn with you. There's scarce a soul in town, at this season; but you'll see prodigiously fine girls in Broadway, at this hour, notwithstanding--those that belong to the other sets, you know; those that belong to families that can't get into the country among the leaves. Yes, as I was saying, one scarce knows himself, after twenty. Now, I can hardly recall a taste, or an inclination, that I cherished in my teens, that has not flown to the winds. Nothing is permanent in boyhood--we grow in our persons, and our minds, sentiments, affections, views, hopes, wishes, and ambition; all take new directions.” “This is not very flattering, Rupert, to one whose acquaintance with you may be said to be altogether boyish.” “Oh! of course I don't mean _that. _ Habit keeps all right in such matters; and I dare say I shall always be as much attached to you, as I was in childhood. Still, we are on diverging lines, now, and cannot for ever remain boys.” “You have told me nothing of the rest,” I said, half choked, in my eagerness to hear of the girls, and yet unaccountably afraid to ask. I believe I dreaded to hear that Lucy was married. “How, and where is Grace?” “Oh! Grace! --yes, I forgot her, to my shame, as you would naturally wish to inquire. Why, my dear _Captain,_ to be as frank as one ought with so old an acquaintance, your sister is not in a good way, I'm much afraid; though I've not seen her in an age. She was down among us in the autumn, but left town for the holidays, for them she insisted on keeping at Clawbonny, where she said the family had always kept them, and away she went. Since then, she has not returned, but I fear she is far from well. You know what a fragile creature Grace ever has been--so American! --Ah! Wallingford! our females have no constitutions--charming as angels, delicate as fairies, and all that; but not to be compared to the English women in constitutions.” I felt a torrent of fire rushing through my blood, and it was with difficulty I refrained from hurling the heartless scoundrel who leaned on my arm, into the ditch. A moment of reflection, however, warned me of the precipice on which I stood. He was Mr. Hardinge's son, Lucy's brother; and I had no proofs that he had ever induced Grace to think he loved her. It was so easy for those who had been educated as we four had been, to be deceived on such a point, that I felt it unsafe to do anything precipitately. Friendship, _habit_, as Rupert expressed it, might so easily be mistaken for the fruits of passion, that one might well be deceived. Then it was all-important to Grace's self-respect, to her feelings, in some measure to her character, to be careful, that I suppressed my wrath, though it nearly choked me. “I am sorry to hear this,” I answered, after a long pause, the deep regret I felt at having such an account of my sister's health contributing to make my manner seem natural; “very, _very_ sorry to hear it. Grace is one that requires the tenderest care and watching; and I have been making passage after passage in pursuit of money, when I am afraid I should have been at Clawbonny, discharging the duties of a brother. I can never forgive myself!” “Money is a very good thing, Captain,” answered Rupert, with a smile that appeared to mean more than the tongue expressed--“a surprisingly good thing is money! But you must not exaggerate Grace's illness, which I dare say is merely constitutional, and will lead to nothing. I hope your many voyages have produced their fruits?” “And Lucy?” I resumed, disregarding his question concerning my own success as an owner. “Where and how is she?” “Miss Hardinge is in town--in her own--that is, in _our_ house--in Wall Street, though she goes to _the place_ in the morning. No one who can, likes to remain among these hot bricks, that has a pleasant country-house to fly to, and open to receive him. But I forgot--I have supposed you to know what it is very likely you have never heard?” “I learned the death of Mrs. Bradfort while in Italy, and, seeing you in black, at once supposed it was for her.” “Yes, that's just it. An excellent woman has been taken from us, and, had she been my own mother, I could not have received greater kindnesses from her. Her end, my dear Wallingford, was admitted by all the clergy to be one of the most edifying known in the place for years.” “And Mrs. Bradfort has left you her heir? It is now time to congratulate you on your good fortune. As I un-understand her estate came through females to her, and from a common ancestor of hers and yours, there is not the slightest reason why you should not be gratified by the bequest. But Lucy--I hope she was not _altogether_ forgotten?” Rupert fidgeted, and I could see that he was on tenter-hooks. As I afterwards discovered, he wished to conceal the real facts from the world; and yet he could not but foresee that I would probably learn them from his father. Under all the circumstances, therefore, he fancied it best to make me a confidant. We were strolling between Trinity and Paul's church walks, then the most fashionable promenade in town; and, before he would lay open his secret, my companion led me over by the Oswego Market, and down Maiden Lane, lest he might betray himself to the more fashionable stocks and stones. He did not open his lips until clear of the market, when he laid bare his budget of griefs in something that more resembled his old confidential manner, than he had seen fit to exhibit in the earlier part of our interview. “You must know, Miles,” he commenced, “that Mrs. Bradfort was a very peculiar woman--a very peculiar sort of a person, indeed. An, excellent lady, I am ready to allow, and one that made a remarkably edifying and; but one whose peculiarities, I have understood, she inherited with her fortune. Women _do_ get the oddest conceits into their heads, you know, and American women before all others; a republic being anything but favourable to the continuation of property in the same line. Miss Merton, who is a girl of excellent sense, as you well know yourself, Miles, says, now, in England I should have succeeded, quite as a matter of course, to _all_ Mrs. Bradfort's real estate.” “You, as a lawyer--a common law lawyer-can scarcely require the opinion of an Englishwoman to tell you what the English laws would do in a question of descent.” “Oh! they've a plaguey sight of statutes in that country, as well as ourselves. Between the two, the common law is getting to be a very uncommon sort of a law. But, to cut the matter short, Mrs. Bradfort made a _will_.” “Dividing her property equally between you and Lucy, I dare say, to Miss Merton's great dissatisfaction.” “Why, not just so, Miles--not exactly so; a very capricious, peculiar woman was Mrs. Bradfort--” I have often remarked, when a person has succeeded in throwing dust into another's eyes, but is discarded on being found out, that the rejected of principle is very apt to accuse his former dupe of being _capricious_; when, in fact, he has only been _deceived_. As I said nothing, however, leaving Rupert to flounder on in the best manner he could, the latter, after a pause, proceeded-- “But her end was very admirable” he said, “and to the last degree edifying. You must know, she made a will, and in that will she left everything, even to the town and country houses, to--my sister.” I was thunder-struck! Here were all my hopes blown again to the winds. After a long pause, I resumed the discourse. “And whom did she leave as executor?” I asked, instantly foreseeing the consequences should that office be devolved on Rupert, himself. “My father. The old gentleman has had his hands full, between your father and mother, and Mrs. Bradfort. Fortunately, the estate of the last is in a good condition, and is easily managed. Almost entirely in stores and houses in the best part of the town, well insured, a few thousands in stocks, and as much in bonds and mortgages, the savings from the income, and something like a year's rents in bank. A good seven thousand a year, with enough surplus to pay for repairs, collection and other charges.” “And all this, then, is Lucy's!” I exclaimed, feeling something like the bitterness of knowing that such an heiress was not for me. “Temporarily; though, of course, I consider Lucy as only my trustee for half of it. You know how it is with the women; they fancy all us young men spendthrifts, and, so, between the two, they have reasoned in this way--'Rupert is a good fellow at bottom; but Rupert is young, and he will make the money fly--now, I'll give it all to you, Lucy, in my will, but, of course, you'll take care of your brother, and let him have half, or perhaps two-thirds, being a male, at the proper time, which will be, as soon as you come of age, and _can_ convey. You understand Lucy is but nineteen, and _cannot_ convey these two years.” “And Lucy admits this to be true? --You have proof of all this?” “Proof! I'd take my own affidavit of it. You see it is reasonable, and what I had a right to expect. Everything tends to confirm it. Between ourselves, I had quite $2000 of debt; and yet, you see, the good lady did not leave me a dollar to pay even my honest creditors; a circumstance that so pious a woman, and one who made so edifying an end, would never think of doing, without ulterior views. Considering Lucy as my trustee, explains the whole thing.” “I thought Mrs. Bradfort made you an allowance, Rupert; some $600 a year, besides keeping you in her own house?” “A thousand-but, what is $1000 a year to a fashionable man, in a town like this. First and last, the excellent old lady, gave me about $5000, all of which confirms the idea, that, at the bottom, she intended me for her heir. What woman in her senses, would think of giving $5000 to a relative to whom she did not contemplate giving _more_? The thing is clear on its face, and I should certainly go into chancery, with anybody but Lucy.” “And Lucy? --what says she to your views on the subject of Mrs. Bradfort's intentions?” “Why, you have some acquaintance with Lucy--used to be intimate with her, as one might say, when children, and know something of her character”--This to me, who fairly worshipped the earth on which the dear girl trod! --“She never indulges in professions, and likes to take people by surprise, when she contemplates doing them a service--” this was just as far from Lucy's natural and honest mode of dealing, as it was possible to be--“and, so, she has been as mum as one who has lost the faculty of speech. However, she never speaks of her affairs to others; _that_ is a good sign, and indicates an intention to consider herself as my trustee; and, what is better still, and more plainly denotes what her conscience dictates in the premises, she has empowered her father to pay all my debts; the current income and loose cash, being at her disposal, at once. It would have been better had she given me the money, to satisfy these creditors with it, for I knew which had waited the longest, and were best entitled to receive the dollars at once; but, it's something to have all their receipts in my pocket, and to start fair again. Thank Heaven, that much is already done. To do Lucy justice, moreover, she allows me $1500 a year, _ad interim_. Now, Miles, I've conversed with you, as with an old friend, and because I knew my father would tell you the whole, when you get up to Clawbonny; but you will take it all in strict confidence. It gives a fashionable young fellow so silly an air, to be thought dependent on a sister; and she three years younger than himself! So I have hinted the actual state of the case, round among my friends; but, it is generally believed that I am in possession already, and that Lucy is dependent on me, instead of my being dependent on her. The idea, moreover, is capital for keeping off fortune-hunters, as you will see at a glance.” “And will the report satisfy a certain Mr. Andrew Drewett?” I asked, struggling to assume a composure I was far from feeling. “He was all attention when I sailed, and I almost expected to hear there was no longer a Lucy Hardinge.” “To tell you the truth, Miles, I thought so, too, until the death of Mrs. Bradfort. The mourning, however, most opportunely came to put a stop to anything of the sort, were it even contemplated. It would be so awkward, you will understand, to have a brother-in-law before everything is settled, and the trust is accounted for. _Au reste_--I am very well satisfied with Andrew, and let him know I am his friend; he is well connected; fashionable; has a pretty little fortune; and, as I sometimes tell Lucy, that he is intended for her, as Mrs. Bradfort, no doubt, foresaw, inasmuch as his estate, added to just one-third of that of our dear departed cousin, would just make up the present income. On my honour, now, I do not think the difference would be $500 per annum.” “And how does your sister receive your hints?” “Oh! famously--just as all girls do, you know. She blushes, and sometimes she looks vexed; then she smiles, and puts up her lip, and says 'Nonsense!' and 'What folly!' 'Rupert, I'm surprised at you!' and all that sort of stuff, which deceives nobody, you'll understand, not even her poor, simple, silly brother. But, Miles, I must quit you now, for I have an engagement to accompany a party to the theatre, and was on my way to join them when we met. Cooper plays, and you know what a lion _he_ is; one would not wish to lose a syllable of his Othello.” “Stop, Rupert--one word more before we part. From your conversation, I gather that the Mertons are still here?” “The Mertons! Why, certainly; established in the land, and among its tip-top people. The Colonel finds his health benefited by the climate, and he has managed to get some appointment which keeps him among us. He has Boston relatives, moreover, and I believe is fishing up some claims to property in that quarter. The Mertons here, indeed! what would New York be without the Mertons!” “And my old friend the Major is promoted, too--you called him Colonel, I think?” “Did I? I believe he is oftener called _General_ Merton, than anything else. You must be mistaken about his being only a Major, Miles; everybody here calls him either Colonel, or General.” “Never mind; I hope it is as you say. Good-bye, Rupert; I'll not betray you, and--” “Well-you were about to say--” “Why, mention me to Lucy; you know we were acquainted when children. Tell her I wish her all happiness in her new position, to which I do not doubt she will do full credit; and that I shall endeavour to see her before I sail again.” “You'll not be at the theatre this evening? Cooper is well worth seeing--a most famous fellow in Othello!” “I think not. Do not forget to mention me to your sister; and so, once more, adieu!” We parted--Rupert to go towards Broadway, at a great pace, and I to lounge along, uncertain whither to proceed. I had sent Neb to inquire if the Wallingford were down, and understood she would leave the basin at sunrise. It was now my intention to go up in her; for, though I attached no great importance to any of Rupert's facts, his report concerning my sister's health rendered me exceedingly uneasy. Insensibly I continued my course down Maiden Lane, and soon found myself near the ship. I went on board, had an explanation with Marble, gave some orders to Neb, and went ashore again, all in the course of the next half-hour. By a sort of secret attraction, I was led towards the Park, and soon found myself at the door of the theatre. Mrs. Bradfort had now been dead long enough to put Lucy in second mourning, and I fancied I might get a view of her in the party that Rupert was to accompany. Buying a ticket, I entered and made my way up into the Shakspeare box. Had I been better acquainted with the place, with the object in view I should have gone into the pit. Notwithstanding the lateness of the season, it was a very full house. Cooper's, in that day, was a name that filled every mouth, and he seldom failed to fill every theatre in which he appeared. With many first-rate qualifications for his art, and a very respectable conception of his characters, he threw everything like competition behind him; though there were a few, as there ever will be among the superlatively intellectual, who affected to see excellencies in Fennel, and others, to which this great actor could not aspire. The public decided against these select few, and, as is invariably the case when the appeal is made to human feelings, the public decided right. Puffery will force into notice and sustain a false judgment, in such matters, for a brief space; but nature soon asserts her sway, and it is by natural decisions that such points are ever the most justly determined. Whatever appeals to human sympathies, will be answered by human sympathies. Popularity too often gains its ascendency behind the hypocrite's mask in religion; it is usually a magnificent mystification in politics; it frequently becomes the patriot's stalking-horse, on which he rides to power; in social life, it is the reward of empty smiles, unmeaning bows, and hollow squeezes of the hand; but with the player, the poet, and all whose pursuits bring them directly in contact with the passions, the imagination and the heart, it is the unerring test of merit, with certain qualifications connected with the mind and the higher finish of pure art. It may be questioned if Cooper were not the greatest actor of his day, in a certain range of his own characters. I have said that the house was full. I got a good place, however; though it was not in the front row. Of course I could only see the side boxes beneath, and not even quite all of them. My eyes ran eagerly over them, and I soon caught a glimpse of the fine, curling hair of Rupert. He sat by the side of Emily Merton, the Major--I knew he was a colonel or general, only by means of a regular Manhattan promotion, which is so apt to make hundreds of counts, copper captains, and travelling prodigies of those who are very small folk at home--the Major sat next, and, at his side, I saw a lady, whom I at once supposed to be Lucy. Every nerve in my system thrilled, as I caught even this indistinct view of the dear creature. I could just see the upper part of her face, as it was occasionally turned towards the Major; and once I caught that honest smile of hers, which I knew had never intentionally deceived. The front seat of the box had two vacant places. The bench would hold six, while it had yet only four. The audience, however, was still assembling, and, presently, a stir in Lucy's box denoted the arrival of company. The whole party moved, and Andrew Drewett handed an elderly lady in, his mother, as I afterwards ascertained, and took the other place himself. I watched the salutations that were exchanged, and understood that the new comers had been expected. The places had been reserved for them, and old Mrs. Drewett was doubtless the _chaperone;_ though, one having a brother and the other a father with her, the two young ladies had not hesitated about preceding the elderly lady. They had come from different quarters of the town, and had agreed to meet at the theatre. Old Mrs. Drewett was very particular in shaking hands with Lucy, though I had not the misery of seeing her son go through the same ceremony. Still he was sufficiently pointed in his salutations; and, during the movements, I perceived he managed to get next to Lucy, leaving the Major to entertain his mother. All this was natural, and what might have been expected; yet, it gave me a pang that I cannot describe. I sat, for half an hour, perfectly inattentive to the play, meditating on the nature of my real position towards Lucy. I recalled the days of childhood and early youth; the night of my first departure from home; my return, and the incidents accompanying my second departure; the affair of the locket, and all I had truly felt myself, and all that I had supposed Lucy herself to feel, on those several occasions. Could it be possible I had so much deceived myself, and that the interest the dear girl had certainly manifested in me had been nothing but the fruits of her naturally warm and honest heart--her strong disposition to frankness-habit, as Rupert had so gently hinted in reference to ourselves? Then I could not conceal from myself the bitter fact that I was, now, no equal match for Lucy, in the eyes of the world. While she was poor, and I comparatively rich, the inequality in social station might have been overlooked; it existed, certainly, but was not so very marked that it might not, even in that day, be readily forgotten; but now, Lucy was an heiress, had much more than double my own fortune--had a fortune indeed; while I was barely in easy circumstances, as persons of the higher classes regarded wealth. The whole matter seemed reversed. It was clear that a sailor like myself, with no peculiar advantages, those of a tolerable education excepted, and who was necessarily so much absent, had not the same chances of preferring his suit, as one of your town idlers; a nominal lawyer, for instance, who dropped in at his office for an hour or two, just after breakfast, and promenaded Broadway the rest of the time, until dinner; or a man of entire leisure, like Andrew Drewett, who belonged to the City Library set, and had no other connection with business than to see that his rents were collected and his dividends paid. The more I reflected, the more humble I became, he less my chances seemed and I determined to quit the theatre, at once. The reader will remember that I was New York born and bred, a state of society in which few natives acted on the principle that “there was nothing too high to be aspired to, nothing too low to be done.” I admitted I had superiors, and was willing to defer to the facts and opinions of the world as I knew it. In the lobby of the building, I experienced a pang at the idea of quitting the place without getting one look at the face of Lucy. I was in an humble mood, it is true, but that did not necessarily infer a total self-denial. I determined, therefore, to pass into the pit, with my box-check, feast my eyes by one long gaze at the dear creature's ingenuous countenance, and carry away the impression, as a lasting memorial of her whom I so well loved, and whom I felt persuaded I should ever continue to love. After this indulgence, I would studiously avoid her, in order to release my thoughts as much as possible from the perfect thraldom in which they had existed, ever since I had heard of Mrs. Bradfort's death. Previously to that time, I am afraid I had counted a little more than was becoming on the ease of my own circumstances, and Lucy's comparative poverty. Not that I had ever supposed her to be in the least mercenary--this I knew to be utterly, totally false--but because the good town of Manhattan, even in 1803, was _tant soit peu_ addicted to dollars, and Lucy's charms would not be likely to attract so many suitors, in the modest setting of a poor country clergyman's means, as in the golden frame by which they had been surrounded by Mrs. Bradfort's testamentary devise, even supposing Rupert to come in for quite one half. I had no difficulty in finding a convenient place in the pit; one, from which I got a front and near view of the whole six, as they sat ranged side by side. Of the Major and old Mrs. Drewett it is unnecessary to say much. The latter looked as all dowager-like widows of that day used to appear, respectable, staid, and richly attired. The good lady had come on the stage during the revolution, and had a slightly military air--a _parade_ in her graces, that was not altogether unknown to the _èlèves_ of that school. I dare say she could use such words as “martinets,” “mowhairs,” “brigadiers,” and other terms familiar to her class. Alas! how completely all these little traces of the past are disappearing from our habits and manners! As for the Major, he appeared much better in health, and altogether altered in mien. I could readily detect the influence of the world on him; He was evidently a so much greater man in New York than he had been whew I found him in London, that it is not wonderful he felt the difference. Between the acts, I remarked that all the principal persons in the front rows were desirous of exchanging nods with the “British officer,” a proof that he was circulating freely in the best set, and had reached a point, when “not to know him, argues yourself unknown.” {*] {Footnote *: The miserable moral dependence of this country on Great Britain, forty years since, cannot well be brought home to the present generation. It is still too great, but has not a tithe of its former force. The writer has himself known an Italian Prince, a man of family and of high personal merit, pass unnoticed before a society that was eager to make the acquaintance of most of the “agents” of the Birmingham button dealers; and this simply because one came from Italy and the other from England. The following anecdote, which is quite as true as any other fact in this work, furnishes a good example of what is meant. It is now a quarter of a century since the writer's first book appeared. Two or three months after the publication, he was walking down Broadway with a friend, when a man of much distinction in the New York circles was passing up, on the other side-walk. The gentleman in question caught the writer's eye, bowed, and _crossed the street_, to shake hands and inquire after the author's health. The difference in years made this attention marked. “You are in high favour,” observed the friend, as the two walked away, to “have ---- pay you such a compliment--your book must have done this.” “Now mark my words--I have been puffed in some English magazine, and ---- knows it.” The two were on their way to the author's publishers, and, on entering the door, honest Charles Wiley put a puff on the book in question into the writer's hand! What rendered the whole more striking, was the fact that the paragraph was as flagrant a puff as was ever written, and had probably been paid for, by the English publisher. The gentleman in question was a man of talents and merit, but he had been born half a century too soon, to enjoy entire mental independence in a country that had so recently been a colony.] Emily certainly looked well and happy. I could see that she was delighted with Rupert's flattery, and I confess I cared very little for his change of sentiment, or his success. That both Major and Emily Merton were different persons in the midst of the world and in the solitudes of the Pacific, was as evident as it was that I was a different personage in command of the Crisis, and in the pit of the Park theatre. I dare say, at that moment. Miss Merton had nearly forgotten that such a man as Miles Wallingford existed, though I think she sometimes recalled the string of magnificent pearls that were to ornament the neck of his wife, should he ever find any one to have him. But, Lucy, dear, upright, warm-hearted, truth-telling, beloved Lucy! all this time, I forget to speak of her. There she sat in maiden loveliness, her beauty still more developed, her eye as beaming, lustrous, feeling, as ever, her blush as sensitive, her smile as sweet, and her movements as natural and graceful. The simplicity of her half-mourning, too, added to her beauty, which was of a character to require no further aid from dress, than such as was dependent purely on taste. As I gazed at her, enthralled, I fancied nothing was wanting to complete the appearance, but my own necklace. Powerful, robust man as I was, with my frame hardened by exposure and trials, I could have sat down and wept, after gazing some time at the precious creature, under the feeling produced by the conviction that I was never to renew my intercourse with her, on terms of intimacy at least. The thought that from day to day we were to become more and more strangers, was almost too much to be borne. As it was, scalding tears forced themselves to my eyes, though I succeeded in concealing the weakness from those around me. At length the tragedy terminated, the curtain dropped, and the audience began to move about. The pit which had, just before, been crowded, was now nearly empty, and I was afraid of being seen. Still, I could not tear myself away, but remained after nine-tenths of those around me had gone into the lobbies. It was easy, now, to see the change which had come over Lucy's position, in the attentions she received. All the ladies in the principal boxes had nods and smiles for her and half the fashionable-looking young men in the house crowded round her box, or actually entered it to pay their compliments. I fancied Andrew Drewett had a self-satisfied air that seemed to say, “you are paying your homage indirectly to myself, in paying it to this young lady.” As for Lucy, my jealous watchfulness could not detect the smallest alteration in her deportment, so far as simplicity and nature were concerned. She appeared in a trifling degree more womanly, perhaps, than when I saw her last, being now in her twentieth year; but the attentions she received made no visible change in her manners. I had become lost in the scene, and was standing in a musing attitude, my side face towards the box, when I heard a suppressed exclamation, in Lucy's voice. I was too near her to be mistaken, and it caused the blood to rush to my heart in a torrent. Turning, I saw the dear girl, with her hand extended over the front of the box, her face suffused with blushes, and her eyes riveted on myself. I was recognised, and the surprise had produced a display of all that old friendship, certainly, that had once existed between us, in the simplicity and truth of childhood. “Miles Wallingford!” she said, as I advanced to shake the offered hand, and as soon as I was near enough to permit her to speak without attracting too much attention--“_you_ arrived, and _we_ knew nothing of it!” It was plain Rupert had said nothing of having seen me, or of our interview in the street. He seemed a little ashamed, and leaned forward to say-- “I declare I forgot to mention, Lucy, that I met Captain Wallingford as I was going to join the Colonel and Miss Merton. Oh! we have had a long talk together, and it will save you a history of past events.” “I may, nevertheless, say,” I rejoined, “how happy I am to see Miss Hardinge looking so well, and to be able to pay my compliments to my old passengers.” Of course I shook hands with the Major and Emily, bowed to Drewett, was named to his mother, and was invited to enter the box, as it was not quite in rule to be conversing between the pit and the front rows. I forgot my prudent resolutions, and was behind Lucy in three minutes. Andrew Drewett had the civility to offer me his place, though it was with an air that said plain enough “what do _I_ care for _him_--he is a ship-master, and I am a man of fashion and fortune, and can resume my seat at any moment, while the poor fellow can only catch his chances, as he occasionally _comes into port_.” At least, I fancied his manner said something like this. “Thank you, Mr. Drewett,” said Lucy, in her sweetest manner. “Mr. Wallingford and I are very, _very_ old friends,--you know he is Grace's brother, and you have been at Clawbonny”--Drewett bowed, civilly enough--“and I have a thousand things to say to him. So, Miles, take this seat, and let me hear all about your voyage.” As half the audience went away as soon as the tragedy ended, the second seat of the box was vacated, and the other gentlemen getting on it, to stretch their limbs, I had abundance of room to sit at Lucy's side, half facing her, at the same time. As she insisted on hearing my story, before we proceeded to anything else, I was obliged to gratify her. “By the way, Major Merton,” I cried, as the tale was closed, “an old friend of yours, Moses Marble by name, has come to life again, and is at this moment in New York.” I then related the manner in which I had fallen in with my old mate. This was a most unfortunate self-interruption for me, giving the Major a fair opportunity for cutting into the conversation. The orchestra, moreover, giving notice that the curtain would soon rise for the after-piece, the old gentleman soon got me into the lobby to hear the particulars. I was supremely vexed, and I thought Lucy appeared sorry; but there was no help for it, and then we could not converse while the piece was going on. “I suppose you care little for this silly farce,” observed the Major, looking in at one of the windows, after I had gone over Marble's affair in detail. “If not, we will continue our walk, and wait for the ladies to come out. Drewett and Hardinge will take good care of them.” I assented, and we continued to walk the lobby till the end of the act. Major Merton was always gentleman-like; and he even behaved to me, as if he remembered the many obligations he was under. He now communicated several little facts connected with his own circumstances, alluding to the probability of his remaining in America a few years. Our chat continued some time, my looks frequently turning towards the door of the box, when my companion suddenly observed-- “Your old acquaintances the Hardinges have had a lucky wind-fall--one, I fancy, they hardly expected, a few years Since.” “Probably not; though the estate has fallen into excellent hands,” I answered. “I am surprised, however, that Mrs. Bradfort did not leave the property to the old gentleman, as it once belonged to their common grandfather, and he properly stood next in succession.” “I fancy she thought the good parson would not know what to do with it. Now, Rupert Hardinge is clever, and spirited, and in a way to make a figure in the world; and it is probably in better hands, than if it had been left first to the old gentleman.” “The old gentleman has been a faithful steward to me, and I doubt not would have proved equally so to his own children. But, does Rupert get _all_ Mrs. Bradfort's property?” “I believe not; there is some sort of a trust, I have heard him say; and I rather fancy that his sister has some direct or reversionary interest. Perhaps she is named as the heir, if he die without issue. There _was_ a silly story, that Mrs. Bradfort had left everything to Lucy; but I have, it from the best authority, that _that_ is not true--” The idea of Rupert Hardinge's being the “best authority” for any thing; a fellow who never knew what unadulterated truth was, from the time he was in petticoats, or could talk! --“As I _know_ there is a trust, though one of no great moment; I presume Lucy has some contingent interest, subject, most probably, to her marrying with her brother's approbation, or some such provision. The old lady was sagacious, and no doubt did all that was necessary.” It is wonderful how people daily deceive themselves on the subject of property; those who care the most about it, appearing to make the greatest blunders. In the way of bequests, in particular, the lies that are told are marvellous. It is now many years since I learned to take no heed of rumours on such subjects, and least of all, rumours that come from the class of the money-gripers. Such people refer everything to dollars, and seldom converse a minute without using the word. Here, however, was Major Merton evidently Rupert's dupe; though with what probable consequences, it was not in my power to foresee. It was clearly not my business to undeceive him; and the conversation, getting to be embarrassing, I was not sorry to hear the movement which announced the end of the act. At the box door, to my great regret, we met Mrs. Drewett retiring, the ladies finding the farce dull, and not worth the time lost in listening to it. Rupert gave me an uneasy glance, and he even dragged me aside to whisper--“Miles, what I told you this evening, is strictly a family secret, and was entrusted to a friend.” “I have nothing to do with your private concerns, Rupert--” I answered,--“only, let me expect you to act honourably, especially when women are concerned.” “Everything will come right, depend on it; the truth will set everything right, and all will come out, just as I predicted.” I saw Lucy looking anxiously around, while Drewett had gone to order the carriages to advance, and I hoped it might be for me. In a moment I was by her side; at the next, Mr. Andrew Drewett offered his arm, saying, her carriage “stopped the way.” We moved into the outer lobby, in a body, and then it was found that Mrs. Drewett's carriage was up first, while Lucy's was in the rear. Yes, Lucy's carriage! --the dear girl having come into immediate possession of her relative's houses, furniture, horses, carriages, and everything else, without reserve, just as they had been left behind by the last incumbent, when she departed from the scene of life, to lie down in the grave. Mrs. Bradfort's arms were still on the chariot, I observed, its owner refusing all Rupert's solicitations to supplant them by those of Hardinge. The latter took his revenge, however, by telling everybody how generous he was in keeping a carriage for his sister. The Major handed Mrs. Drewett in, and her son was compelled to say good night, to see his mother home. This gave me one blessed minute with Lucy, by herself. She spoke of Grace; said they had now been separated months, longer than they ever had been before in their lives, and that all her own persuasions could not induce my sister to rejoin her in town, while her own wish to visit Clawbonny had been constantly disappointed, Rupert insisting that her presence was necessary, for so many arrangements about business. “Grace is not as humble as I was, in old times, Miles,” said the dear girl, looking me in the face, half sadly, half reproachfully, the light of the lamp falling full on her tearful, tender eyes, “and I hope you are not about to imitate her bad example. She wishes us to know she has Clawbonny for a home, but I never hesitated to admit how poor we were, while you alone were rich.” “God bless you, Lucy!” I whispered, squeezing her hand with fervour--“It cannot be _that_--have you heard anything of Grace's health?” “Oh! she is well, I know--Rupert tells me _that_, and her letters are cheerful and kind as ever, without a word of complaint. But I _must_ see her soon. Grace Wallingford and Lucy Hardinge were not born to live asunder. Here is the carriage; I shall see you in the morning, Miles--at breakfast, say--eight o'clock, precisely.” “It will be impossible--I sail for Clawbonny with the first of the flood, and that will make at four. I shall sleep in the sloop.” Major Merton put Lucy into the carriage; the good-nights were passed, and I was left standing on the lowest step of the building gazing after the carriage, Rupert walking swiftly away.

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“Hear me a little; For I have only been silent so long, And given way unto this course of fortune, By noting of the lady: I have mark'd A thousand blushing apparitions start Into her face; a thousand innocent shames In angel whiteness bear away those blushes--” SHAKESPEARE I reached the Wallingford before eleven, where I found Neb in attendance with my trunks and other effects. Being now on board my own craft, I gave orders to profit by a favourable turn in the wind, and to get under-way at once, instead of waiting for the flood. When I left the deck, the sloop was above the State Prison, a point towards which the town itself had made considerable progress since the time I first introduced it to the reader. Notwithstanding this early start, we did not enter the creek until about eight in the morning of the second day. No sooner was the vessel near enough, than my foot was on the wharf, and I began to ascend the hill. From the summit of the latter I saw my late guardian hurrying along the road, it afterwards appearing that a stray paper from town had announced the arrival of the Dawn, and that I was expected to come up in the sloop. I was received with extended hands, was kissed just as if I had still been a boy, and heard the guileless old man murmuring his blessings on me, and a prayer of thankfulness. Nothing ever changed good Mr. Hardinge, who, now that he could command the whole income of his daughter, was just as well satisfied to live on the three or four hundreds he got from his glebe and his parish, as he ever had been in his life. “Welcome back, my dear boy, welcome back!” added Mr. Hardinge, his voice and manner still retaining their fervour. “I said you _must_--you _would_ be on board, as soon as they reported the sloop in sight, for I judged your heart by my own. Ah! Miles, will the time ever come when Clawbonny will be good enough for you? You have already as much money as you can want, and more will scarce contribute to your happiness.” “Speaking of money, my dear sir,” I answered, “while I have to regret the loss of your respectable kinswoman, I may be permitted to congratulate you on the accession to an old family property--I understand you inherit, in your family, all of Mrs. Bradfort's estate-one valuable in amount, and highly acceptable, no doubt, as having belonged to your ancestors.” “No doubt--no doubt--it is just as you say; and I hope these unexpected riches will leave us all as devout servants of God, as I humbly trust they found us. The property, however, is not mine, but Lucy's; I need not have any reserve with you, though Rupert has hinted it might be prudent not to let the precise state of the case be known, since it might bring a swarm of interested fortune-hunters about the dear girl, and has proposed that we rather favour the notion the estate is to be divided among us. This I cannot do directly, you will perceive, as it would be deception; but one may be silent. With you, however, it is a different matter, and so I tell you the truth at once. I am made executor, and act, of course; and this makes me the more glad to see you, for I find so much business with pounds, shillings and pence draws my mind off from the duties of my holy office, and that I am in danger of becoming selfish and mercenary. A selfish priest, Miles, is as odious a thing as a mercenary woman!” “Little danger of your ever becoming anything so worldly, my dear sir. But Grace-you have not mentioned my beloved sister?” I saw Mr. Hardinge's countenance suddenly change. The expression of joy instantly deserted it, and it wore an air of uncertainty and sadness. A less observant man than the good divine, in all the ordinary concerns of life, did not exist; but it was apparent that he now saw something to trouble him. “Yes, Grace,” he answered, doubtingly; “the dear girl is here, and all alone, and not as blithe and amusing as formerly. I am glad of your return on her account, too, Miles. She is not well, I fear; I would have sent for a physician last week, or the moment I saw her; but she insists on it, there is no need of one. She is frightfully beautiful, Miles! You know how it is with Grace--her countenance always seemed more fitted for heaven than earth; and now it always reminds me of a seraph's that was grieving over the sins of men!” “I fear, sir, that Rupert's account, then, is true, and that Grace is seriously ill?” “I hope not, boy--I fervently pray not! She is not as usual--_that_ is true; but her mind, her thoughts, all her inclinations, and, if I may so express it, her energies, seem turned to heaven. There has been an awakening in the spirit of Grace, that is truly wonderful. She reads devout books, meditates, and, I make no doubt, prays, from morn till night. This is the secret of her withdrawal from the world, and her refusing of all Lucy's invitations. You know how the girls love each other--but Grace declines going to Lucy, though she knows that Lucy cannot come to her.” I now understood it all. A weight like that of a mountain fell upon my heart, and I walked on some distance without speaking. To me, the words of my excellent guardian sounded like the knell of a sister I almost worshipped. “And Grace--does she expect me, now?” I at length ventured to say, though the words were uttered in tones so tremulous, that even the usually unobservant divine perceived the change. “She does, and delighted she was to hear it. The only thing of a worldly nature that I have heard her express of late, was some anxious, sisterly wish for your speedy return. Grace loves you, Miles, next to her God!” Oh! how I wished this were true, but, alas! alas! I knew it was far otherwise! “I see you are disturbed, my dear boy, on account of what I have said,” resumed Mr. Hardinge; “probably from serious apprehensions about your sister's health. She is not well, I allow; but it is the effect of mental ailments. The precious creature has had too vivid views of her own sinful nature, and has suffered deeply, I fear. I trust, my conversation and prayers have not been without their effect, through the divine aid, and that she is now more cheerful--nay, she has assured me within half an hour, if it turned out that you were in the sloop, she should be happy!” For my life, I could not have conversed longer on the painful subject; I made no reply. As we had still a considerable distance to walk, I was glad to turn the conversation to other subjects, lest I should become unmanned, and sit down to weep in the middle of the road. “Does Lucy intend to visit Clawbonny, this summer?” I asked, though it seemed strange to me to suppose that the farm was not actually Lucy's home. I am afraid I felt a jealous dislike to the idea that the dear creature should have houses and lands of her own; or any that was not to be derived through me. “I hope so,” answered her father, “though her new duties do not leave Lucy as much her own mistress as I could wish. You saw her, and her brother, Miles, I take it for granted?” “I met Rupert in the street, sir, and had a short interview with the Mertons and Lucy at the theatre. Young Mr. and old Mrs. Drewett were of the party.” The good divine turned short round to me, and looked as conscious and knowing as one of his singleness of mind and simplicity of habits could look. Had a knife penetrated my flesh, I could not have winced more than I did; still, I affected a manner that was very foreign to my feelings. “What do you think of this young Mr. Drewett, boy?” asked Mr. Hardinge, with an air of confidential interest, and an earnestness of manner, that, with him, was inseparable from all that concerned his daughter. “Do you approve?” “I believe I understand you, sir;--you mean me to infer that Mr. Drewett is a suitor for Miss Hardinge's hand.” “It would be improper to say this much, even to you, Miles, did not Drewett take good care, himself, to let everybody know it.” “Possibly with a view to keep off other pretenders”--I rejoined, with a bitterness I could not control. Now, Mr. Hardinge was one of the last men in the world to suspect evil. He looked surprised, therefore, at my remark, and I was probably not much out of the way, in fancying that he looked displeased. “That is not right, my dear boy,” he said, gravely. “We should try to think the best and not the worst, of our fellow-creatures.” --Excellent old man, how faithfully didst thou practise on thy precept! --“It is a wise rule, and a safe one; more particularly in connection with our own weaknesses. Then, it is but natural that Drewett should wish to secure Lucy; and if he adopt no means less manly than the frank avowal of his own attachment, surely there is no ground of complaint.” I was rebuked; and what is more, I felt that the rebuke was merited. As some atonement for my error, I hastened to add-- “Very truly, sir; I admit the unfairness of my remark, and can only atone for it by adding it is quite apparent Mr. Drewett is not influenced by interested motives, since he certainly was attentive to Miss Hardinge previously to Mrs. Bradfort's death, and when he could not possibly have anticipated the nature of her will.” “Quite true, Miles, and very properly and justly remarked. Now, to you, who have known Lucy from childhood, and who regard her much as Rupert does, it may not seem so very natural that a young man can love her warmly and strongly, for herself, alone--such is apt to be the effect of brotherly feeling; but I can assure you, Lucy is really a charming, as we all know she is a most excellent, girl!” “To whom are you speaking thus, sir! I can assure you, nothing is easier than for me to conceive how possible it is for any man to love your daughter. As respects Grace, I confess there, is a difference--for I affirm she has always seemed to me too saintly, too much allied to Heaven already, to be subject herself, to the passions of earth.” “That is what I have just been telling you, and we must endeavour to overcome and humanize--if I may so express it--Grace's propensity. There is nothing more dangerous to a healthful frame of mind, in a religious point of view, Miles, than excitement--it is disease, and not faith, nor charity, nor hope, nor humility, nor anything that is commanded; but our native weaknesses taking a wrong direction, under a physical impulse, rather than the fruits of repentance, and the succour afforded by the spirit of God. We nowhere read of any excitement, and howlings and waitings among the apostles.” How could I enlighten the good old man on the subject of my sister's malady? That Grace, with her well-tempered mind, was the victim of religious exaggeration, I did not for a moment believe; but that she had had her heart blighted, her affections withered, her hopes deceived, by Rupert's levity and interestedness, his worldly-mindedness and vanity, I could foresee, and was prepared to learn; though these were facts not to be communicated to the father of the offender. I made no answer, but managed to turn the conversation towards the farm, and those interests about which I could affect an interest that I was very far from feeling, just at that moment. This induced the divine to inquire into the result of my late voyage, and enabled me to collect sufficient fortitude to meet Grace, with the semblance of firmness, at least. Mr. Hardinge made a preconcerted signal, as soon as he came in view of the house, that apprised its inmates of my arrival; and we knew, while still half a mile from the buildings, that the news had produced a great commotion. All the blacks met us on the little lawn--for the girls, since reaching womanhood, had made this change in the old door-yard--and I had to go through the process of shaking hands with every one of them. This was done amid hearty bursts of laughter, the mode in which the negroes of that day almost always betrayed their joy, and many a “welcome home, Masser Mile!” and “where a Neb got to, dis time, Masser Mile?” was asked by more than one; and great was the satisfaction, when I told his generation and race that the faithful fellow would be up with the cart that was to convey my luggage. But, Grace awaited me. I broke through the throng, and entered the house. In the door I was met by Chloe, a girl about my own sister's age, and a sort of cousin of Neb's by the half-blood, who had been preferred of late years to functions somewhat resembling those of a lady's maid. I say of the half-blood; for, to own the truth, few of the New York blacks, in that day, could have taken from their brothers and sisters, under the old _dictum_ of the common law, which declared that none but heirs of the whole blood should inherit. Chloe met me in the door-way, and greeted me with one of her sweetest smiles, as she curtsied, and really looked as pleased as all my slaves did, at seeing their _young_ master again. How they touched my heart, at times, by their manner of talking about “_ole_ Masser, and _ole_ Missus,” always subjects of regret among negroes who had been well treated by them. Metaphysicians may reason as subtly as they can about the races and colours, and on the aptitude of the black to acquire, but no one can ever persuade me out of the belief of their extraordinary aptitude to love. As between themselves and their masters, their own children and those of the race to which they were subject, I have often seen instances which have partaken of the attachment of the dog to the human family; and cases in which the children of their masters have been preferred to those of their own flesh and blood, were of constant occurrence. “I hope you been werry well, sah, Masser Mile,” said Chloe, who had some extra refinement, as the growth of her position. “Perfectly, my good girl, and I am glad to see you looking so well--you really are growing handsome, Chloe.” “Oh! Masser Mile---you so droll! --now you stay home, sah, long time?” “I am afraid not, Chloe, but one never knows. Where shall I find my sister?” “Miss Grace tell me come here, Masser Mile, and say she wish to see you in de family-room. She wait dere, now, some time.” “Thank you, Chloe; and do you see that no one interrupts us. I have not seen my sister for near a year.” “Sartain, sah; all as you say.” Then the girl, whose face shone like a black bottle that had just been dipped in water, showed her brilliant teeth, from ear to ear, laughed outright, looked foolish, after which she looked earnest, when the secret burst out of her heart, in the melodious voice of a young negress, that did not know whether to laugh or to cry--“Where Neb, Masser Mile? what he do now; de _fel_-ler!” “He will kiss you in ten minutes, Chloe; so put the best face on the matter you are able.” “_Dat_ he wont--de sauce-box---Miss Grace teach me better dan _dat_.” I waited to hear no more, but proceeded towards the triangular little room, with steps so hurried and yet so nervous, that I do not remember, ever before to have laid my hand on a lock in a manner so tremulous--I found myself obliged to pause, ere I could muster resolution to open the door, a hope coming over me that the impatience of Grace would save me the trouble, and that I should find her in my arms before I should be called on to exercise any more fortitude. All was still as death, however, within the room, and I opened the door, as if I expected to find one of the bodies I had formerly seen in its coffin, in this last abiding place above ground, of one dead. My sister was on the _causeuse_, literally unable to rise from debility and agitation. I shall not attempt to describe the shock her appearance gave me. I was prepared for a change, but not one that placed her, as my heart instantly announced, so near the grave! Grace extended both arms, and I threw myself at her side, drew her within my embrace, and folded her to my heart, with the tenderness with which one would have embraced an infant. In this situation we both wept violently, and I am not ashamed to say that I sobbed like a child. I dare say five minutes passed in this way, without either of us speaking a word. “A merciful and all gracious God be praised! You are restored to me in time, Miles!” murmured my sister, at length. “I was afraid it might be too late.” “Grace! --Grace! --What means this, love? --my precious, my only, my most dearly beloved sister, why do I find you thus?” “Is it necessary to speak, Miles? --cannot you see? --_do_ you not see, and understand it all?” The fervent pressure I gave my sister, announced how plainly I comprehended the whole history. That Grace could ever love, and forget, I did not believe; but, that her tenderness for Rupert--one whom I knew for so frivolous and selfish a being, should reduce her to this terrible state, I had not indeed foreseen as a thing possible. Little did I then understand how confidingly a woman loves, and how apt she is to endow the being of her choice with all the qualities se could wish him to possess. In the anguish of my soul I muttered, loud enough to be heard, “the heartless villain!” Grace instantly rose from my arms. At that moment, she looked more like a creature of heaven, than one that was still connected with this wicked world. Her beauty could scarcely be called impaired, though I dreaded that she would be snatched away from me in the course of the interview; so frail and weak did it appear was her hold of life. In some respects I never saw her more lovely than she seemed on this very occasion. This was when the hectic of disease imparted to the sweetest and most saint-like eyes that were ever set in the human countenance, a species of holy illumination. Her countenance, now, was pale and colourless; however, and her look sorrowful and filled with reproach. “Brother,” she said, solemnly, “this _must_ not be. It is not what God commands--it is not what I expected from you--what I have a right to expect from one whom I am assured loves me, though none other of earth can be said to do so.” “It is not easy, my sister, for a man to forget or forgive the wretch who has so long misled you--misled us all, and then turned to another, under the impulse of mere vanity.” “Miles, my kind and manly brother, listen to me,” Grace rejoined, fervently pressing one of my hands in both of hers, and scarcely able to command herself, through alarm. “All thoughts of anger, of resentment, of pride even, must be forgotten. You owe it to my sex, to the dreadful imputations that might otherwise rest on my name--had I anything to reproach myself with as a woman. I could submit to _any_ punishment; but surely, surely, it is not a sin so unpardonable to be unable to command the affections, that I deserve to have my name, after I shall be dead, mixed up with rumours connected with such a quarrel. You have lived as brothers, too--then there is good, excellent, truthful, pious Mr. Hardinge; who is yet _my_ guardian, you know; and Lucy, dear, true-hearted, faithful Lucy--” “Why is not dear, true-hearted, faithful Lucy, here, watching over you, Grace, at this very moment?” I demanded, huskily. “She knows nothing of my situation--it is a secret, as well as its cause, from all but God, myself, and you. Ah! I knew it would be impossible to deceive your love, Miles! which has ever been to me, all that a sister could desire.” “And Lucy! how has _her_ affection been deceived? --Has she too, eyes only for those she has recently learned to admire?” “You do her injustice, brother. Lucy has not seen me, since the great change that I can myself see has come over me. Another time, I will tell you all. At present I can only say, that as soon as I had certain explanations with Rupert, I left town, and have studiously concealed from dear Lucy the state of my declining health. I write to her weekly, and get answers; everything passing between us as cheerfully, and apparently, as happily as ever. No, do not blame Lucy; who, I am certain, would quit everything and everybody to come to me, had she the smallest notion of the truth. On the contrary, I believe she thinks I would rather not have her at Clawbonny, just at this moment, much as she knows I love her; for, one of Lucy's observation and opportunities cannot but suspect the truth. Let me lie on your breast, brother; it wearies me to talk so much.” I sat holding this beloved sister in my arms, fully an hour, neither of us speaking. I was afraid of injuring her, by further excitement, and she was glad to take refuge in silence, from the feelings of maiden shame that could not be otherwise than mingled with such a dialogue. As my cheek leaned on her silken hair, I could see large tears rolling down the pallid cheeks; but the occasional pressure of the hands, told me how much she was gladdened by my presence. After some ten or fifteen minutes, the exhausted girl dropped into feverish and disturbed slumbers, that I would have remained motionless throughout the night to maintain. I am persuaded it was quite an hour before this scene terminated. Grace then arose, and said, with one of her most angelic smiles-- “You see how it is with me, Miles--feeble as an infant, and almost as troublesome. You must bear with me, for you will be my nurse. One promise I must have, dearest, before we leave this room.” “It is yours, my sister, let it be what it may; I can now refuse you nothing,” said I, melted to feminine tenderness. “And yet, Grace, since _you_ exact a promise, _I_ have a mind to attach a condition.” “What condition, Miles, can you attach, that I will refuse? I consent to everything, without even knowing your wishes.” “Then I promise not to call Rupert to an account for his conduct---not to question him--nay, even not to reproach him,” I rejoined, enlarging my pledges, as I saw by Grace's eyes that she exacted still more. The last promise, however, appeared fully to satisfy her. She kissed my hand, and I felt hot tears falling on it. “Now name your conditions, dearest brother,” she said, after a little time taken to recover herself; “name them, and see how gladly I shall accept them all.” “I have but one--it is this. I must take the complete direction of the care of you--must have power to send for what physician I please, what friends I please, what advice or regimen I please!” “Oh! Miles, you _could_ not--_cannot_ think of sending for _him_!” “Certainly not; his presence would drive me from the house. With that one exception, then, my condition is allowed?” Grace made a sign of assent, and sunk on my bosom again, nearly exhausted with the scene through which she had just gone. I perceived it would not do to dwell any longer on the subject we had been alluding to, rather than discussing; and for another hour did I sit sustaining that beloved form, declining to speak, and commanding silence on her part. At the end of this second little sleep, Grace was more refreshed than she had been after her first troubled repose, and she declared herself able to walk to her room, where she wished to lie on her own bed until the hour of dinner. I summoned Chloe, and, together, we led the invalid to her chamber. As we threaded the long passages, my sister's head rested on my bosom, her eyes were turned affectionately upward to my face, and several times I felt the gentle pressure of her emaciated hands, given in the fervour of devoted sisterly love. I needed an hour to compose myself, after this interview. In the privacy of my own room, I wept like a child over the wreck of the being I had left so beautiful and perfect, though even then the canker of doubt had begun to take root. I had yet her explanations to hear, and resolved to command myself so far as to receive them in a manner not to increase the pain Grace must feel in making them. As soon as sufficiently calm, I sat down to write letters. One was to Marble. I desired him to let the second-mate see the ship discharged, and to come up to me by the return of the sloop. I wished to see him in person, as I did not think I could be able to go out in the vessel on her next voyage, and I intended him to sail in her as master. It was necessary we should consult together personally. I did not conceal the reason of this determination, though I said nothing of the cause of my sister's state. Marble had a list of physicians given him, and he was to bring up with him the one he could obtain, commencing with the first named, and following in the order given. I had earned ten thousand dollars, nett, by the labours of the past year, and I determined every dollar of it should be devoted to obtaining the best advice the country then afforded. I had sent for such men as Hosack, Post, Bayley, M'Knight, Moore, &c.; and even thought of endeavouring to procure Rush from Philadelphia, but was deterred from making the attempt by the distance, and the pressing nature of the emergency. In 1803, Philadelphia was about three days' journey from Clawbonny, even allowing for a favourable time on the river; with a moderately unfavourable, five or six; whereas the distance can now be passed, including the chances of meeting the departures and arrivals of the different lines, in from twelve to fifteen hours. Such is one of the prodigious effects of an improved civilization; and in all that relates to motion, and which falls short of luxury, or great personal comfort, this country takes a high place in the scale of nations. That it is as much in arrears in other great essentials, however, particularly in what relates to tavern comforts, no man who is familiar with the better civilization of Europe, can deny. It is a singular fact, that we have gone backward in this last particular, within the present century, and all owing to the increasingly gregarious habits of the population. But to return to my painful theme, from which, even at this distance of time, I am only too ready to escape. I was on the point of writing to Lucy, but hesitated. I hardly knew whether to summon her to Clawbonny or not. That she would come, and that instantly, the moment she was apprised of Grace's condition, I did not in the least doubt. I was not so mad as to do her character injustice, because I had my doubts about being loved as I had once hoped to be. That Lucy was attached to me, in one sense, I did not in the least doubt; this, her late reception of me sufficiently proved; and I could not question her continued affection for Grace, after all the latter had just told me. Even did Lucy prefer Andrew Drewett, it was no proof she was not just as kind-hearted, as ready to be of service, and as true in her friendship, as she ever had been. Still, she was Rupert's sister, must have penetration enough to understand the cause of Grace's illness, and might not enter as fully into her wrongs as one could wish in a person that was to watch the sick pillow. I resolved to learn more that day, before this portion of my duty was discharged. Neb was summoned, and sent to the wharf, with an order to get the Wallingford ready to sail for town at the first favourable moment. The sloop was merely to be in ballast, and was to return to Clawbonny with no unnecessary delay. There was an eminent, but retired physician of the name of Bard, who had a country residence on the other bank of the Hudson, and within a few hours' sail from Clawbonny. I knew his character, though I was not acquainted with him, personally. Few of us of the right bank, indeed, belonged to the circles of the left, in that day; the increasing wealth and population of the country has since brought the western side into more notice. I wrote also to Dr. Bard, inclosing a cheque for a suitable fee; made a strong appeal to his feelings--which would have been quite sufficient with, such a man--and ordered Neb to go out in the Grace and Lucy, immediately, to deliver the missive. Just as this arrangement was completed, Chloe came to summon me to my sister's room. I found Grace still lying on her bed, but stronger, and materially refreshed. For a moment, I began to think my fears had exaggerated the danger, and that I was not to lose my sister. A few minutes of close observation, however convinced me, that the first impression was the true one. I am not skilled in the theories of the science, if there be any great science about it, and can hardly explain, even now, the true physical condition of Grace. She had pent up her sufferings in her own bosom, for six cruel months, in the solitude of a country-house, living most of the time entirely alone; and this, they tell me, is what few, even of the most robust frames, can do with impunity. Frail as she had ever seemed, her lungs were sound, and she spoke easily and with almost all her original force, so that her wasting away was not the consequence of anything pulmonary. I rather think the physical effects were to be traced to the unhealthy action of the fluids, which were deranged through the stomach and spleen. The insensible perspiration was affected also, I believe; the pores of the skin failing to do their duty. I dare say there is not a graduate of the thousand and one medical colleges of the country, who is not prepared to laugh at this theory, while unable quite likely to produce a better,--so much easier is it to pull down than to build up; but my object is merely to give the reader a general idea of my poor sister's situation. In outward appearance, her countenance denoted that expression which the French so well describe, by their customary term of “_fatigué_,” rather than any other positive indication of disease--Grace's frame was so delicate by nature, that a little falling away was not as perceptible in her, as it would have been in most persons; though her beautiful little hands wanted that fulness which had rendered their taper fingers and roseate tint formerly so very faultless. There must have been a good deal of fever, as her colour was often higher than was formerly usual. It was this circumstance that continued to render her beauty even unearthly, without its being accompanied by the emaciation so common in the latter stages of pulmonary disease, though its tendency was strongly to undermine her strength. Grace, without rising from her pillow, now asked me for an outline of my late voyage. She heard me, I make no doubt, with real interest, for all that concerned me, in a measure concerned her. Her smile was sweetness itself, as she listened to my successes; and the interest she manifested in Marble, with whose previous history she was well acquainted, was not less than I had felt myself, in hearing his own account of his adventures. All this delighted me, as it went to prove that I had beguiled the sufferer from brooding over her own sorrows; and what might not be hoped for, could we lead her back to mingle in the ordinary concerns of life, and surround her with the few friends she so tenderly loved, and whose absence, perhaps, had largely contributed to reducing her to her present state? This thought recalled Lucy to my mind, and the wish I had to ascertain how far it might be agreeable to the latter, to be summoned to Clawbonny. I determined to lead the conversation to this subject. “You have told me, Grace,” I said, “that you send and receive letters weekly, to and from Lucy?” “Each time the Wallingford goes and comes; and that you know is weekly. I suppose the reason I got no letter to-day was owing to the fact that the sloop sailed before her time. The Lord High Admiral was on board; and, like wind and tide, _he_ waits for no man!” “Bless you--bless you, dearest sister--this gaiety removes a mountain from my heart!” Grace looked pleased at first; then, as she gazed wistfully into my face, I could see her own expression change to one of melancholy concern. Large tears started from her eyes, and three or four followed each other down her cheeks. All this said, plainer than words, that, though a fond brother might be momentarily deceived, she herself foresaw the end. I bowed my head to the pillow, stifled the groans that oppressed me, and kissed the tears from her cheeks. To put an end to these distressing scenes, I determined to be more business-like in future, and suppress all feeling, as much as possible. “The Lord High Admiral,” I resumed, “is a species of Turk, on board ship, as honest Moses Marble will tell you, when you see him, Grace. But, now for Lucy and her letters--I dare say the last are filled with tender secrets, touching such persons as Andrew Drewett, and others of her admirers, which render it improper to show any of them to me?” Grace looked at me, with earnestness, as if to ascertain whether I was really as unconcerned as I affected to be. Then she seemed to muse, picking the cotton of the spotless counterpane on which she was lying, like one at a loss what to say or think. “I see how it is,” I resumed, forcing a smile; “the hint has been indiscreet. A rough son of Neptune is not the proper confidant for the secrets of Miss Lucy Hardinge. Perhaps you are right; fidelity to each other being indispensable in your sex.” “It is not that, Miles. I doubt if Lucy ever wrote me a line, that you might not see--in proof of which, you shall have the package of her letters, with full permission to read every one of them. It will be like reading the correspondence of another _sister_!” I fancied Grace laid an emphasis on the last word she used; and I started at its unwelcome sound--unwelcome, as applied to Lucy Hardinge, to a degree that I cannot express. I had observed that Lucy never used any of these terms, as connected with me, and it was one of the reasons why I had indulged in the folly of supposing that she was conscious of a tenderer sentiment. But Lucy was so natural, so totally free from exaggeration, so just and true in all her feelings, that one could not expect from her most of the acts of girlish weakness. As for Grace, she called Chloe, gave her the keys of her secretary, and told her to bring me the package she described. “Go and look them over, Miles,” said my sister, as I received the letters; “there must be more than twenty of them, and you can read half before the dinner hour. I will meet you at table; and let me implore you not to alarm good Mr. Hardinge. He does not believe me seriously ill; and it cannot benefit him or me, to cause him pain.” I promised discretion, and hastened to my own room, with the precious bundle of Lucy's letters. Shall I own the truth? I kissed the papers, fervently, before they were loosened, and it seemed to me I possessed a treasure, in holding in my hand so many of the dear girl's epistles. I commenced in the order of the date, and began to read with eagerness. It was impossible for Lucy Hardinge to write to one she loved, and not exhibit the truth and nature of her feelings. These appeared in every paragraph in which it was proper to make any allusions of the sort. But the letters had other charms. It was apparent, throughout, that the writer was ignorant that she wrote to an invalid, though she could not but know that she wrote to a recluse. Her aim evidently was to amuse Grace, of whose mental sufferings she could not well be ignorant. Lucy was a keen observer, and her epistles were filled with amusing comments on the follies that were daily committed in New York, as well as in Paris, or London. I was delighted with the delicate pungency of her satire, which, however, was totally removed from vulgar scandal. There was nothing in these letters that might not have been uttered in a drawing-room, to any but the persons concerned; and yet they were filled with a humour that rose often to wit, relieved by a tact and taste that a man never could have attained. Throughout, it was apparent to me, Lucy, in order to amuse Grace, was giving a full scope to a natural talent--one that far surpassed the same capacity in her brother, being as true as his was meritricious and jesuitical--which she had hitherto concealed from us all, merely because she had not seen an occasion fit for its use. Allusions in the letters, themselves, proved that Grace had commented on this unexpected display of observant humour, and had expressed her surprise at its existence. It was then as novel to my sister as it was to myself. I was struck also with the fact, that Rupert's name did not appear once in all these letters. They embraced just twenty-seven weeks, between the earliest and the latest date; and there were nine-and-twenty letters, two having been sent by private conveyances; her father's, most probably, he occasionally making the journey by land; yet no one of them contained the slightest allusion to her brother, or to either of the Mertons. This was enough to let me know how well Lucy understood the reason of Grace's withdrawal to Clawbonny. “And how was it with Miles Wallingford's name?” some of my fair readers may be ready to ask. I went carefully through the package in the course of the evening, and I set aside two, as the only exceptions in which my name did not appear. On examining these two with jealous care, I found each had a postscript, one of which was to the following effect: “I see by the papers that Miles has sailed for Malta having at last left those stubborn Turks. I am glad of this, as one would not wish to have the excellent fellow shut up in the Seven Towers, however honourable it may have been.” The other postscript contained this: “Dear Miles has got to Leghorn, my father tells me, and may be expected home this summer. How great happiness this will bring you, dearest Grace, I can well understand; and I need scarcely say that no one will rejoice more to see him again than his late guardian and myself.” That the papers were often looked over to catch reports of my movements in Europe, by means of ships arriving from different parts of the world, was apparent enough; but I scarce knew what to make of the natural and simply affectionate manner in which my name was introduced. It might proceed from a wish to gratify Grace, and a desire to let the sister know all that she herself possessed touching the brother's movements. Then Andrew Drewett's name occurred very frequently, though it was generally in connection with that of his mother, who had evidently constituted herself a sort of regular _chaperone_ for Lucy, more especially during the time she was kept out of the gay world by her mourning. I read several of these passages with the most scrupulous attention, in order to detect the feeling with which they had been written; but the most practised art could not have more successfully concealed any secret of this sort, than Lucy's nature. This often proves to be the case; the just-minded and true among men daily becoming the profoundest mysteries to a vicious, cunning, deceptive and selfish world. An honest man, indeed, is ever a parodox to all but those who see things with his own eyes. This is the reason that improper motives are so often imputed to the simplest and seemingly most honest deeds. The result was, to write, entreating Lucy to come to Clawbonny; first taking care to secure her father's assent, to aid my request. This was done in a way not to awaken any alarm, and yet with sufficient strength to render it tolerably certain she would come. On deliberate reflection, and after seeing my sister at table, where she ate nothing but a light vegetable diet, and passing the evening with her, I thought I could not do less in justice to the invalid or her friend. I took the course with great regret on several accounts; and, among others, from a reluctance to appear to draw Lucy away from the society of my rival, into my own. Yet what right had I to call myself the rival or competitor of a man who had openly professed an attachment, where I had never breathed a syllable myself that might not readily be mistaken for the language of that friendship, which time, and habit, and a respect for each other's qualities, so easily awaken among the young of different sexes? I had been educated almost as Lucy's brother; and why should she not feel towards me as one? Neb went out in the boat as soon as he got his orders and the Wallingford sailed again in ballast that very night. She did not remain at the wharf an hour after her wheat was out. I felt easier when these duties were discharged, and was better prepared to pass the night in peace. Grace's manner and appearance, too, contributed to this calm; for she seemed to revive, and to experience some degree of earthly happiness, in having her brother near her. When Mr. Hardinge read prayers that night, she came to the chair where I stood, took my hand in hers, and knelt at my side. I was touched to tears by this act of affection, which spoke as much of the tenderness of the sainted and departed spirit, lingering around those it had loved on earth, as of the affection of the world. I folded the dear girl to my bosom, as I left her at the door of her own room that night, and went to my own pillow, with a heavy heart. Seamen pray little; less than they ought, amid the rude scenes of their hazardous lives. Still, I had not quite forgotten the lessons of childhood, and sometimes practised on them. That night I prayed fervently, beseeching God to spare my sister, if in his wisdom it were meet; and I humbly invoked his blessings on the excellent divine, and on Lucy, by name. I am not ashamed to own it, let who may deride the act.

29

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“Wherever sorrow is, relief would be; If you do sorrow at my grief in love, By giving love, your sorrow and my grief Were both extermin'd.” _As You Like It. _ I saw but little of Grace, during the early part of the succeeding day. She had uniformly breakfasted in her own room, of late, and, in the short visit I paid her there, I found her composed, with an appearance of renewed strength that encouraged me greatly, as to the future. Mr. Hardinge insisted on rendering an account of his stewardship, that morning, and I let the good divine have his own way; though, had he asked me for a receipt in full, I would cheerfully have given it to him, without examining a single item. There was a singular peculiarity about Mr. Hardinge. No one could live less for the world generally; no one was less qualified to superintend extensive worldly interests, that required care, or thought; and no one would have been a more unsafe executor in matters that were intricate or involved: still, in the mere business of accounts, he was as methodical and exact, as the most faithful banker. Rigidly honest, and with a strict regard for the rights of others, living moreover on a mere pittance, for the greater part of his life, this conscientious divine never contracted a debt he could not pay. What rendered this caution more worthy of remark, was the fact that he had a spendthrift son; but, even Rupert could never lure him into any weakness of this sort. I question if his actual cash receipts, independently of the profits of his little glebe, exceeded $300 in any one year; yet, he and his children were ever well-dressed, and I knew from observation that his table was always sufficiently supplied. He got a few presents occasionally, from his parishioners, it is true; but they did not amount to any sum of moment. It was method, and a determination not to anticipate his income, that placed him so much above the world, while he had a family to support; whereas, now that Mrs. Bradfort's fortune was in the possession of his children, he assured me he felt himself quite rich, though he scrupulously refused to appropriate one dollar of the handsome income that passed through his hands as executor, to his own uses. It was all Lucy's, who was entitled to receive this income even in her minority, and to her he paid every cent, quarterly; the sister providing for Rupert's ample wants. Of course, I found everything exact to a farthing; the necessary papers were signed, the power of attorney was cancelled, and I entered fully into the possession of my own. An unexpected rise in the value of flour had raised my shore receipts that year to the handsome sum of nine thousand dollars. This was not properly income, however, but profits, principally obtained through the labour of the mill. By putting all my loose cash together, I found I could command fully $30,000, in addition to the price of the ship. This sum was making me a man quite at my ease, and, properly managed, it opened a way to wealth. How gladly would I have given every cent of it, to see Grace as healthy and happy as she was when I left her at Mrs. Bradfort's, to sail in the Crisis! After settling the figures, Mr. Hardinge and I mounted our horses, and rode over the property to take a look at the state of the farm. Our road took us near the little rectory and the glebe; and, here, the simple-minded divine broke out into ecstasies on the subject of the beauties of his own residence, and the delight with which he should now return to his ancient abode. He loved Clawbonny no less than formerly, but he loved the rectory more. “I was born in that humble, snug, quiet old stone cottage, Miles,” he said, “and there I lived for years a happy husband and father, and I hope I may say a faithful shepherd of my little flock. St. Michael's, Clawbonny, is not Trinity, New York, but it may prove, on a small scale as to numbers, as fitting a nursery of saints. What humble and devout Christians have I known to kneel at its little altar, Miles, among whom your mother, and your venerable old grandmother, were two of the best. I hope the day is not distant when I shall meet there another Mrs. Miles Wallingford. Marry young, my boy; early marriages prove happier than late, where there are the means of subsistence.” “You would not have me marry, until I can find a woman whom I shall truly love, dear sir?” “Heaven forbid! I would rather see you a bachelor to my dying day. But America has enough females that a youth, like you, could, and indeed ought to love. I could direct you to fifty, myself.” “Well, sir, _your_ recommendations would have great weight with me. I wish you would begin.” “That I will, that I will, if you wish it, my dear boy. Well, there is a Miss Hervey, Miss Kate Hervey, in town; a girl of excellent qualities, and who would just suit you, could you agree.” “I recollect the young lady; the greatest objection I should raise to her, is a want of personal attractions. Of all Mrs. Bradfort's acquaintances, I think she was among the very plainest.” “What is beauty, Miles? In marriage, very different recommendations are to be looked for by the husband.” “Yet, I have understood you practised on another theory; Mrs. Hardinge, even as I recollect her, was very handsome.” “Yes, that is true,” answered the good divine, simply; “she was so; but beauty is not to be considered as an _objection_. If you do not relish the idea of Kate Hervey, what do you say to Jane Harwood--there is a pretty girl for you.” “A pretty girl, sir, but not for me. But, in naming so many young ladies, why do you overlook your own daughter?” I said this with a sort of desperate resolution, tempted by the opportunity, and the direction the discourse had taken. When it was uttered, I repented of my temerity, and almost trembled to hear the answer. “Lucy!” exclaimed Mr. Hardinge, turning suddenly to towards me, and looking so intently and earnestly in my face, that I saw the possibility of such a thing then struck him, for the first time. “Sure enough, why should you not marry Lucy? There is not a particle of relationship between you, after all, though I have so long considered you as brother and sister. I wish we had thought of this earlier, Miles; it would be a most capital connection--though I should insist on your quitting the sea. Lucy has too affectionate a heart, to be always in distress for an absent husband. I wonder the possibility of this thing did not strike me, before it was too late; in a man so much accustomed to see what is going on around me, to overlook this!” The words “too late,” sounded to me like the doom of fate; and had my simple-minded companion but the tithe of the observation which he so much vaunted, he must have seen my agitation. I had advanced so far, however, that I determined to learn the worst, whatever pain it might cost me. “I suppose, sir the very circumstance that we were brought up together has prevented us all from regarding the thing as possible. But, why 'too late,' my excellent guardian, if we who are the most interested in the thing should happen to think otherwise?” “Certainly not too late, if you include Lucy, herself, in your conditions; but I am afraid, Miles, it is 'too late' for Lucy.” “Am I to understand, then, that Miss Hardinge is engaged to Mr. Drewett? Are her affections enlisted in his behalf?” “You may be certain of one thing, boy, and that is, if Lucy be engaged, her affections are enlisted--so conscientious a young woman would never marry without giving her heart with her hand. As for the fact, however, I know nothing, except by inference. I do suppose a mutual attachment to exist between her and Andrew Drewett.” “Of course with good reason, sir. Lucy is not a coquette, or a girl to encourage when she does not mean to accept.” “That's all I know of the matter. Drewett continues to visit; is as attentive as a young man well can be, where a young woman is as scrupulous as is Lucy about the proper forms, and I infer they understand each other. I have thought of speaking to Lucy on the subject, but I do not wish to influence her judgment, in a case where there exists no objection. Drewett is every way a suitable match, and I wish things to take their own course. There is one little circumstance, however, that I can mention to you as a sort of son, Miles, and which I consider conclusive as to the girl's inclinations--I have remarked that she refuses all expedients to get her to be alone with Drewett--refuses to make excursions in which she must be driven in his curricle, or to go anywhere with him, even to the next door. So particular is she, that she contrives never to be alone with him, even in his many visits to the house.” “And do you consider that as a proof of attachment? --of her being engaged? Does your own experience, sir, confirm such a notion?” “What else can it be, if it be not a consciousness of a passion--of an attachment that she is afraid every one will see? You do not understand the sex, I perceive, Miles, or the finesse of their natures would be more apparent to you. As for my experience, no conclusion can be drawn from that, as I and my dear wife were thrown together very young, all alone, in her mother's country house; and the old lady being bed-ridden, there was no opportunity for the bashful maiden to betray this consciousness. But, if I understand human nature, such is the secret of Lucy's feelings towards Andrew Drewett. It is of no great moment to you, Miles, notwithstanding, as there are plenty more young women to be had in the world.” “True, sir; but there is only one Lucy Hardinge!” I rejoined with a fervour and strength of utterance that betrayed more than I intended. My late guardian actually stopped his horse this time, to look at me, and I could perceive deep concern gathering around his usually serene and placid brow. He began to penetrate my feelings, and I believe they caused him real grief. “I never could have dreamed of this!” Mr. Hardinge at length exclaimed: “Do you really love Lucy, my dear Miles?” “Better than I do my own life, sir--I almost worship the earth she treads on--Love her with my whole heart, and have loved, I believe, if the truth were known, ever since I was sixteen--perhaps I had better say, twelve years old!” The truth escaped me, as the torrent of the Mississippi breaks through the levee, and a passage once open for its exit, it cleared a way for itself, until the current of my feelings left no doubt of its direction. I believe I was a little ashamed of my own weakness, for I caused my horse to walk forward, Mr. Hardinge accompanying the movement, for a considerable distance, in a profound, and, I doubt not, a painful silence. “This has taken me altogether by surprise, Miles,” my late guardian resumed; “altogether by surprise. What would I not give could this have been known a year or two since! My dear boy, I feel for you, from the bottom of my heart, for I can understand what it must be to love a girl like Lucy, without hope. Why did you not let this be known sooner--or, why did you insist on going to sea, having so strong a motive for remaining at home?” “I was too young, at that time, sir, to act on, or even to understand my own feelings. On my return, in the Crisis, I found Lucy in a set superior to, that in which I was born and educated, and it would have been a poor proof of my attachment to wish to bring her down nearer to my own level.” “I understand you, Miles, and can appreciate the generosity of your conduct; though I am afraid it would have been too late on your return in the Crisis. That was only a twelvemonth since, and, then, I rather think, Andrew Drewett had offered. There is good sense in your feeling on the subject of marriages in unequal conditions in life, for they certainly lead to many heart-burnings, and greatly lessen the chances of happiness. One thing is certain; in all such cases, if the inferior cannot rise to the height of the superior, the superior must sink to the level of the inferior. Man and wife cannot continue to occupy different social positions; and, as for the nonsense that is uttered on such subjects, by visionaries, under the claim of its being common sense, it is only fit for pretending theories, and can have nothing to do with the great rules of practice. You were right in principle, then, Miles, though you have greatly exaggerated the facts of your own particular case.” “I have always known, sir, and have ever been ready to admit, that the Hardinges have belonged to a different class of society, from that filled by the Wallingfords.” “This is true, but in part only; and by no means true to a degree that need have drawn any impassable line between you and Lucy. You forget how poor we then were, and bow substantial a benefit the care of Clawbonny might have been to my dear girl. Besides, you are of reputable descent and position, if not precisely of the gentry; and this is not a country, or an age, to carry notions of such a nature beyond the strict bounds of reason. You and Lucy were educated on the same level; and, after all, that is the great essential for the marriage connection.” There was great good sense in what Mr. Hardinge said; and I began to see that pride, and not humility, might have interfered with my happiness. As I firmly believed it was now too late, however, I began to wish the subject changed; for I felt it grating on some of my most sacred feelings. With a view to divert the conversation to another channel, therefore, I remarked with some emphasis, affecting an indifference I did not feel-- “What cannot be cured, must be endured, sir; and I shall endeavour to find a sailor's happiness hereafter, in loving my ship. Besides, were Andrew Drewett entirely out of the question, it is now 'too late,' in another sense, since it would never do for the man who, himself at his ease in the way of money, hesitated about offering when his mistress was poor, to prove his love, by proposing to Mrs. Bradfort's heiress. Still, I own to so much weakness as to wish to know, before we close the subject for ever, why Mr. Drewett and your daughter do not marry, if they are engaged? Perhaps it is owing only to Lucy's mourning?” “I have myself imputed it to another cause. Rupert is entirely dependent on his sister, and I know Lucy so well as to feel certain--some extraordinary cause not interposing--that she wishes to bestow half her cousin's fortune on her brother. This cannot be done until she is of age, and she wants near two years of attaining her majority.” I made no answer; for I felt how likely this was to be true. Lucy was not a girl of professions, and she would be very apt to keep a resolution of this nature, a secret in her own breast, until ready to carry it into execution. No more passed between Mr. Hardinge and myself, on the subject of our recent conversation; though I could see my avowal had made him sad, and that it induced him to treat me with more affection, even, than had been his practice. Once or twice, in the course of the next day or two, I overheard him soliloquizing--a habit to which he was a good deal addicted--during which he would murmur, “What a pity!” --“How much to be regretted!”' --“I would rather have him for a son than any man on earth!” and other similar expressions. Of course, these involuntary disclosures did not weaken my regard for my late guardian. About noon, the Grace & Lucy came in, and Neb reported that Dr. Bard was not at home. He had left my letter, however, and it would be delivered as soon as possible. He told me also that the wind had been favourable on the river, and that the Wallingford must reach town that day. Nothing further occurred, worthy of notice. I passed the afternoon with Grace, in the little room; and we conversed much of the past, of our parents in particular, without adverting, however, to her situation, any further than to apprise her of what I had done. I thought she was not sorry to learn I had sent for Lucy, now that I was with her, and it was no longer possible her illness could be concealed. As for the physicians, when they were mentioned, I could see a look of tender concern in Grace's eyes, as if she regretted that I still clung to the delusion of hoping to see her health restored. Notwithstanding these little drawbacks, we passed a sweet eventide together. For more than an hour, Grace lay on my bosom, occasionally patting her hand on my cheeks, as the child caresses its mother. This was an old habit of hers, and it was one I was equally delighted and pained to have her resume, now we were of the age and stature of man and woman. The next day was Sunday, and Grace insisted on my driving her to church. This was done, accordingly, in a very old-fashioned, but very easy Boston chaise, that had belonged to my mother, and with very careful driving. The congregation, like the church-edifice of St. Michael's, was very small, being confined, with some twenty or thirty exceptions, to the family and dependants of Clawbonny. Mr. Hardinge's little flock was hedged in by other denominations on every side, and it was not an easy matter to break through the barriers that surrounded it. Then he was not possessed with the spirit of proselytism, contenting himself with aiding in the spiritual advancement of those whom Providence had consigned to his care. On the present occasion, however, the little building was full, and that was as much as could have happened had it been as large as St. Peter's itself. The prayers were devoutly and fervently read, and the sermon was plain and filled with piety. My sister professed herself in no manner wearied with the exertion. We dined with Mr. Hardinge, at the Rectory, which was quite near the church; and the irreverent, business-like, make-weight sort of look, of going in to one service almost as soon as the other was ended, as if to score off so much preaching and praying as available at the least trouble, being avoided, by having the evening service commence late, she was enabled to remain until the close of the day. Mr. Hardinge rarely preached but once of a Sunday. He considered the worship of God, and the offices of the church, as the proper duties of the day, and regarded his own wisdom as a matter of secondary importance. But one sermon cost him as much labour, and study, and anxiety, as most clergymen's two. His preaching, also, had the high qualification of being addressed to the affections of his flock, and not to its fears and interests. He constantly reminded us of God's _love_, and of the _beauty_ of holiness; while I do not remember to have heard him allude half a dozen times in his life to the terrors of judgment and punishment, except as they were connected with that disappointed love. I suppose there are spirits that require these allusions, and the temptations of future happiness, to incite their feelings; but I like the preacher who is a Christian because he feels himself _drawn_ to holiness, by a power that is of itself holy; and not those who appeal to their people, as if heaven and hell were a mere matter of preference and avoidance, on the ground of expediency. I cannot better characterize Mr. Hardinge's preaching, than by saying, that I do not remember ever to have left his church with a sense of fear towards the Creator; though I have often been impressed with a love that was as profound as the adoration that had been awakened. Another calm and comparatively happy evening was passed, during which I conversed freely with Grace of my own intentions, endeavouring to revive in her an interest in life, by renewing old impressions, and making her participate in my feelings. Had I been with her from the hour spring opened, with its renewal of vegetation, and all the joys it confers on the innocent and happy, I have often thought since, I might have succeeded. As it was, she listened with attention, and apparently with pleasure, for she saw it served to relieve my mind. We did not separate until I insisted Grace should retire, and Chloe had made more than one remonstrance about her young mistress's exceeding the usual time. On leaving my sister's chamber, the negress followed me with a light, lest I should fall, among the intricate turnings, and the ups and downs of the old building. “Well, Chloe,” I said, as we proceeded together, “how do you find Neb? Does he improve by this running about on the ocean--especially do you think he is tanned?” “De _fel_-ler!” “Yes, he is a fellow, sure enough, and let me tell you, Chloe, a very capital fellow, too. If it can be of any advantage to him in your favour to know the truth, I will just say a more useful seaman does not sail the ocean than Neb, and that I consider him as of much importance as the main-mast?” “What be _dat_, Masser Mile?” “I see nothing, Chloe--there are no spooks at Clawbonny, you know.” “No, sah! What b'e t'ing Neb like, _fel_-ler?” “Oh! I ask your pardon--the main-mast, you mean. It is the most important spar in the ship, and I meant that Neb was as useful as that mast. In battle, too, Neb is as brave as a lion.” Here Chloe could stand it no longer; she fairly laughed outright, in pure, natural admiration of her suitor's qualities. When this was performed, she ejaculated once more “De _feller_!” --dropped a curtsey, said “Good night, Masser Mile,” and left me at my own door. Alas! alas! --Among the improvements of this age, we have entirely lost the breed of the careless, good-natured, affectionate, faithful, hard-working, and yet happy blacks, of whom more or less were to be found in every respectable and long-established family of the State, forty years ago. The next day was one of great anxiety to me. I rose early, and the first thing was to ascertain the direction of the wind. In midsummer this was apt to be southerly, and so it proved on that occasion. Neb was sent to the point, as a look-out; he returned about ten, and reported a fleet of sloops, in sight. These vessels were still a long distance down the river, but they were advancing at a tolerable rate. Whether the Wallingford were among them, or not, was more than could yet be told. I sent him back to his station, as soon as he had eaten; and unable to remain quiet in the house, myself, I mounted my horse, and rode out into the fields. Here, as usual, I experienced the happiness of looking at objects my ancestors loved to regard, and which always have had a strong and near interest with me. Perhaps no country that ever yet existed has been so little understood, or so much misrepresented, as this America of ours. It is as little understood, I was on the point of saying, at home as it is abroad, and almost as much misrepresented. Certainly its possessors are a good deal addicted to valuing themselves on distinctive advantages that, in reality, they do not enjoy, while their enemies declaim about vices and evils from which they are comparatively free. Facts are made to suit theories, and thus it is that we see well-intentioned, and otherwise respectable writers, constantly running into extravagances, in order to adapt the circumstances to the supposed logical or moral inference. This reasoning backwards, has caused Alison, with all his knowledge and fair-mindedness, to fall into several egregious errors, as I have discovered while recently reading his great work on Europe. He says we are a migratory race, and that we do not love the sticks and stones that surround us, but quit the paternal roof without regret, and consider the play-grounds of infancy as only so much land for the market. He also hazards the assertion, that there is not such a thing as a literal farmer,--that is a tenant, who _farms_ his land from a landlord--in all America. Now, as a rule, and comparing the habits of America with those of older countries, in which land is not so abundant, this may be true; but as literal fact, nothing can be less so. Four-fifths of the inhabited portion of the American territory, has a civilized existence of half a century's duration; and there has not been time to create the long-lived attachments named, more especially in the regions that are undergoing the moral fusion that is always an attendant of a new settlement. That thousands of heartless speculators exist among us, who do regard everything, even to the graves of their fathers, as only so much improvable property, is as undeniable as the fact that they are odious to all men of any moral feeling; but thousands and tens of thousands are to be found in the country, who _do_ reverence their family possessions from a sentiment that is creditable to human nature. I will not mention Clawbonny, and its history, lest I might be suspected of being partial; but it would be easy for me to point out a hundred families, embracing all classes, from the great proprietor to the plain yeoman, who own and reside on the estates of those who first received them from the hand of nature, and this after one or two centuries of possession. What will Mr. Alison say, for instance, of the Manor of Rensselear? A manor, in the legal sense it is no longer, certainly, the new institutions destroying all the feudal tenures; but, as mere property, the late Patroon transmitted it as regularly to his posterity, as any estate was ever transmitted in Europe. This extensive manor lies in the heart of New York, a state about as large and about as populous as Scotland, and it embraces no less than three cities in its bosom, though their sites are not included in its ownership, having been exempted by earlier grants. It is of more than two centuries' existence, and it extends eight-and-forty miles east and west, and half that distance, north and south. Nearly all this vast property is held, at this hour, of the Van Rensselears, as landlords, and is farmed by their tenants, there being several thousands of the latter. The same is true, on a smaller scale, of the Livingston, the Van Cortlandt, the Philipse, the Nicoll, and various other old New York estates, though several were lost by attainder in the revolution. I explain these things, lest any European who may happen to read this book, should regard it as fiction; for, allowing for trifling differences, a hundred Clawbonnys are to be found on the two banks of the Hudson, at this very hour. {*] {Footnote *: Even the American may learn the following facts with some surprise. It is now about five-and-twenty years since the writer, as tenant by the courtesy, came into possession of two farms, lying within twenty-three miles of New York, in each of which there had been three generations of tenants, and as many of landlords, _without a scrap of a pen having passed between the parties_, so far as the writer could ever discover, receipts for rent excepted! He also stands in nearly the same relation to another farm, in the same county, on which a lease for ninety years is at this moment running, one of the covenants of which prescribes that the tenant shall “frequent divine service _according to the Church of England_, when opportunity offers.” What an evidence of the nature of the tyranny from which our ancestors escaped, more especially when it is seen that the tenant was obliged to submit to this severe exaction, in consideration of a rent that is merely nominal!] But, to return to the narrative. My curiosity increased so much, as the day advanced, that I rode towards the point to look for the sloop. There she was, sure enough; and there was Neb, too, galloping a young horse, bare-back, to the house, with the news. I met him with an order to proceed to the wharf with the chaise, while I dashed on, in the same direction myself, almost devoured with an impatience to learn the success of my different mission's as I galloped along. I could see the upper part of the Wallingford's sails, gliding through the leaves that fringed the bank, and it was apparent that she and I would reach the wharf almost at the same instant. Notwithstanding all my anxiety, it was impossible to get a glimpse of the vessel's deck. I did not quit the saddle until the planks of the wharf were under the horse's hoofs. Then I got a view of the sloop's decks, for the first time. A respectable-looking, tall, slender, middle-aged man, with a bright dark eye, was on the quarter-deck, and I bowed to him, inferring at once that he was one of the medical gentlemen to whom I had sent the message. In effect, it was Post, the second named on my list, the first not being able to come. He returned my bow, but, before I could alight and go on board to receive him, Marble's head rose from the cabin, and my mate sprang ashore, and shook me cordially by the hand. “Here I am, Miles, my boy,” cried Marble, whom, off duty, I had earnestly begged to treat me with his old freedom, and who took me at my word--“Here I am, Miles, my boy, and farther from salt-water than I have been in five-and-twenty years. So this is the famous Clawbonny! I cannot say much for the port, which is somewhat crowded while it contains but one craft; though the river outside is pretty well, as rivers go. D'ye know, lad, that I've been in a fever, all the way up, lest we should get ashore, on one side or the other? your having land on both tacks at once is too much of a good thing. This coming up to Clawbonny has put me in mind of running them straits, though we _have_ had rather better weather this passage, and a clearer horizon. What d'ye call that affair up against the hill-side, yonder, with the jig-a-merree, that is turning in the water?” “That's a mill, my friend, and the jig-a-merree is the very wheel on which you have heard me say my father was crushed.” Marble looked sorrowfully at the wheel, squeezed my hand, as if to express sorrow for having reminded me of so painful an event, and then I heard him murmuring to himself--“Well, _I_ never had a father to lose. No bloody mill _could_ do me _that_ injury.” “That gentleman on the quarter-deck,” I remarked, “is a physician for whom I sent to town, I suppose.” “Ay, ay--he's some such matter, I do suppose; though I've been generalizing so much about this here river, and the manner of sailing a craft of that rig, I've had little to say to him. I'm always a better friend to the cook than to the surgeon. But, Miles, my lad, there's a rare 'un, in the ship's after-cabin, I can tell you!” “That must be Lucy!” --and I did not stop to pay my compliments to the strange gentleman, but almost leaped into the vessel's cabin. There was Lucy, sure enough, attended by a respectable-looking elderly black female, one of the half-dozen slaves that had become her's by the death of Mrs. Bradfort. Neither spoke, but we shook hands with frankness; and I understood by the anxious expression of my companion's eye, all she wished to know. “I really think she seems better, and certainly she is far more cheerful, within his last day or two,” I answered to the appeal. “Yesterday she was twice at church, and this morning, for a novelty, she breakfasted with me.” “God be praised!” Lucy exclaimed, with fervour. Then she sat down and relieved her feelings in tears. I told her to expect me again, in a few minutes, and joined the physician, who, by this time, was apprised of my presence. The calm, considerate manner of Post, gave me a confidence I had not felt for some days; and I really began to hope it might still be within the power of his art to save the sister I so dearly loved. Our dispositions for quitting the sloop were soon made, and we ascended the hill together, Lucy leaning on my arm. On its summit was the chaise, into which the Doctor and Marble were persuaded to enter, Lucy preferring to walk. The negress was to proceed in the vehicle that had been sent for the luggage, and Lucy and I set out, arm and arm, to walk rather more than a mile in company, and that too without the presence of a third person. Such an occurrence, under any other circumstances than those in which we were both placed, would have made me one of the happiest men on earth; but, in the actual situation in which I found myself, it rendered me silent and uncomfortable. Not so with Lucy; ever natural, and keeping truth incessantly before her eyes, the dear girl took my arm without the least embarrassment, and showed no sign of impatience, or of doubt. She was sad, but full of a gentle confidence in her own sincerity and motives. “This is dear Clawbonny, again!” she exclaimed, after we had walked in silence a short distance. “How beautiful are the fields, how fresh the woods, how sweet the flowers! Oh! Miles, a day in such a spot as this, is worth a year in town!” “Why, then, do you, who have now so much at your command, pass more than half your time between the heated bricks of Wall Street, when you know how happy we should all be to see you, here, among us, again?” “I have not been certain of this; that has been the sole reason, of my absence. Had I known I should be welcome, nothing would have induced me to suffer Grace to pass the last six sad, sad, months by herself.” “Known that you should be welcome! Surely you have not supposed, Lucy, that _I_ can ever regard you as anything but welcome, here?” “I had no allusion to _you_--thought not of you, Miles, at all”--answered Lucy, with the quiet manner of one who felt she was thinking, acting, and speaking no more than what was perfectly right--“My mind was dwelling altogether on Grace.” “Is it possible you could doubt of Grace's willingness to see you, at all times and in all places, Lucy!” “I have doubted it--have thought I was acting prudently and well, in staying away, just at this time, though I now begin to fear the decision has been hasty and unwise.” “May I ask _why_ Lucy Hardinge has come to so singular and violent an opinion, as connected with her bosom friend, and almost sister, Grace Wallingford?” “That _almost sister_! Oh! Miles, what is there I possess which I would not give, that there might be perfect confidence, again, between you and me, on this subject; such confidence as existed when we were boy and girl-children, I might say.” “And what prevents it? Certain I am the alienation does not, cannot come from me. You have only to speak, Lucy, to have an attentive listener; to ask, to receive the truest answers. What can, then, prevent the confidence you wish?” “There is _one_ obstacle--surely, Miles, you can readily imagine what I mean?” 'Can it be possible Lucy is alluding to Andrew Drewett!' --I thought to myself. 'Has she discovered my attachment, and does she, will she, can she regret her own engagement?' A lover who thought thus, would not be apt to leave the question long in doubt. “Deal plainly with me, I implore of you, Lucy,” I said solemnly. “One word uttered with your old sincerity and frankness may close a chasm that has now been widening between us for the last year or two. What is the obstacle you mean?” “I have seen and felt the alienation to which you allude quite as sensibly as you can have done so yourself, Miles,” the dear girl answered in her natural, simple manner, “and I will trust all to your generosity. Need I say more, to explain what I mean, than mention the name of Rupert?” “What of him, Lucy! --be explicit; vague allusions may be worse than nothing.” Lucy's little hand was on my arm, and she had drawn its glove on account of the heat. I felt it press me, almost convulsively, as she added--“I do, I _must_ think you have too much affection and gratitude for my dear father, too much regard for me, ever to forget that you and Rupert once lived together as brothers?” “Grace has my promise already, on that subject. I shall never take the world's course with Rupert, in this affair.” I heard Lucy's involuntary sob, as if she gasped for breath; and, turning, I saw her sweet eyes bent on my face with an expression of thankfulness that could not be mistaken. “I would have given the same pledge to you, Lucy, and purely on your own account. It would be too much to cause you to mourn for your brother's--” I did not name the offence, lest my feelings should tempt me to use too strong a term. “This is all I ask--all I desire, Miles; bless you--bless you! for having so freely given me this assurance. Now my heart is relieved from this burthen, I am ready to speak frankly to you; still, had I seen Grace--” “Have no scruples on account of your regard for womanly feeling--I know everything, and shall not attempt to conceal from you, that disappointed love for Rupert has brought my sister to the state she is in. This might not have happened, had either of us been with her; but, buried as she has been alone in this place, her wounded sensibilities have proved too strong for a frame that is so delicate.” There was a pause of a minute, after I ended. “I have long feared that some such calamity would befall us,” Lucy answered, in a low, measured tone. “I think you do not understand Grace as well as I do, Miles. Her mind and feelings have a stronger influence than common over her body; and I fear no society of ours, or of others, could have saved her this trial. Still, we must not despair, It is a trial--that is just the word; and by means of tenderness, the most sedulous care, good advice, and all that we two can do to aid, there must yet be hope. Now there is a skilful physician here, he must be dealt fairly by, and should know the whole.” “I intended to consult you on this subject--one has such a reluctance to expose Grace's most sacred feelings!” “Surely it need not go quite as far as that,” returned Lucy, with sensitive quickness, “something--_much_--must be left to conjecture; but Dr. Post must know that the mind is at the bottom of the evil; though I fear that young ladies can seldom admit the existence of such a complaint, without having it attributed to a weakness of this nature.” “That proceeds from the certainty that your sex has so much heart, Lucy; your very existence being bound up in others.” “Grace is one of peculiar strength of affections--but, Miles, we will talk no further of this at present. I scarce know how to speak of my brother's affairs, and you must give me time to reflect. Now we are at Clawbonny again, we cannot long continue strangers to each other.” This was said so sweetly, I could have knelt and kissed her shoe-ties; and yet so simply, as not to induce misinterpretation. It served to change the discourse, however, and the remainder of the way we talked of the past. Lucy spoke of her cousin's death, relating various little incidents to show how much Mrs. Bradfort was attached to her, and how good a woman she was; but not a syllable was said of the will. I was required, in my turn, to finish the narrative of my last voyage, which had not been completed at the theatre. When Lucy learned that the rough seaman who had come in the sloop was Marble, she manifested great interest in him, declaring, had she known it during the passage, that she would have introduced herself. All this time, Rupert's name was not mentioned between us; and I reached the house, feeling that something like the interest I had formerly possessed there, had been awakened in the bosom of my companion. She was, at least, firmly and confidingly my friend. Chloe met Lucy at the door with a message--Miss Grace wanted to see Miss Lucy, alone. I dreaded this interview, and looked forward to being present at it; but Lucy begged me to confide in her, and I felt bound to comply. While the dear girl was gone to my sister's room, I sought the physician, with whom I had a brief but explicit conference. I told this gentleman how much Grace had been alone, permitting sorrow to wear upon her frame, and gave him to understand that the seat of my sister's malady was mental suffering. Post was a cool, discriminating man, and he ventured no remark until he had seen his patient; though I could perceive, by the keen manner in which his piercing eye was fixed on mine, that all I said was fully noted. It was more than an hour before Lucy reappeared. It was obvious at a glance that she had been dreadfully agitated, and cruelly surprised at the condition in which she had found Grace. It was not that disease, in any of its known forms, was so very apparent; but that my sister resembled already a being of another world, in the beaming of her countenance--in the bright, unearthly expression of her eyes--and in the slightness and delicacy of the hold she seemed, generally, to have on life. Grace had always something of this about her--_much_, I might better have said; but it now appeared to be left nearly alone, as her thoughts and strength gradually receded from the means of existence. The physician returned with Lucy to my sister's room, where he passed more than an hour; as long a time, indeed, he afterwards told me himself, as he thought could be done without fatiguing his patient. The advice he gave me was cautious and discreet. Certain tonics were prescribed; we were told to endeavour to divert the mind of our precious charge from her sources of uneasiness, by gentle means and prudent expedients. Change of scene was advised also, could it be done without producing too much fatigue. I suggested the Wallingford, as soon as this project was mentioned. She was a small sloop, it is true, but had two very comfortable cabins; my father having had one of them constructed especially in reference to my mother's occasional visits to town. The vessel did little, at that season of the year, besides transporting flour to market, and bringing back wheat. In the autumn, she carried wood, and the products of the neighbourhood. A holiday might be granted her, and no harm come of it. Dr. Post approved the idea, saying frankly there was no objection but the expense; if I could bear that, a better plan could not possibly be adopted. That night we discussed the matter in the family circle, Mr. Hardinge having come from the Rectory to join us. Everybody approved of the scheme, it was so much better than leaving: Grace to pine away by herself in the solitude of Clawbonny. “I have a patient at the Springs,” said Dr. Post, “who is very anxious to see me; and, to own the truth, I am a little desirous of drinking the waters myself, for a week. Carry me to Albany, and land me; after which you can descend the river, and continue your voyage to as many places, and for as long a time, as the strength of Miss Wallingford, and your own inclinations, shall dictate.” This project seemed excellent in all our eyes; even Grace heard it with a smile, placing herself entirely in our hands. It was decided to put it in practice.

30

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“And she sits and gazes at me, With those deep and tender eyes,... Like the stars, so still and saint-like, Looking downward from the skies.” --LONGFELLOW The next morning I set about the measures necessary for carrying out our plan. Marble was invited to be of the party, the arrangements concerning the ship, allowing of his absence for a few days; Once engaged, he was of infinite service, entering into the plan as my mate. The regular skipper was glad to have a furlough; and I retained on board no one of the proper crew but the river-pilot; a man who could not be dispensed with; By this arrangement, we cleared the cabin from company that was not desirable for the circumstances. Neb, and three of the Clawbonny blacks, were delighted to go on such an excursion, and all were more or less familiar with the little duty that would be required of them. Indeed, Marble, Neb and myself, were every way able to take care of the vessel. But we chose to have plenty of physical force; and a cook was indispensable. Clawbonny supplied the latter, in the person of old Dido of that ilk. By noon, the whole party were ready to embark. Grace was driven to the wharf, and she walked on board the sloop, supported by Lucy and myself; more, however, from solicitude than from absolute necessity. Every precaution, however, was taken by order of the physician to prevent anything like excitement; the blacks, in particular, who would have followed “Miss Grace” to the water's edge, being ordered to remain at home. Chloe, to her manifest satisfaction, was permitted to accompany her “young mistress,” and great was her delight. How often that day, did the exclamation of “de feller,” escape her, as she witnessed Neb's exploits in different parts of the sloop. It was some little time before I could account for the black's superfluous activity, imputing it to zeal in my sister's service; but, in the end, I discovered Grace had to share the glory with Chloe. No sooner was everybody on board than we cast off. The jib was soon up; and under this short sail, we moved slowly out of the creek, with a pleasant southerly breeze. As we passed the point, there stood the whole household arrayed in a line, from the tottering grey-headed and muddy-looking negro of seventy, down to the glistening, jet-black toddling things of two and three. The distance was so small, it was easy to trace even the expressions of the different countenances, which varied according to the experience, forebodings, and characters of the different individuals. Notwithstanding the sort of reverential attachment all felt for “Miss Grace,” and the uncertainty some among these unsophisticated creatures must have experienced on the subject of her health, it was not in nature for such a cluster of “niggers” to exhibit unhappiness, at a moment when there were so many grounds of excitement. The people of this race know nothing of the _word,_ perhaps; but they delight in the _thing_, quite as much as if they did nothing but electioneer all their lives. Most pliant instruments would their untutored feelings make in the hands of your demagogue; and, possibly, it may have some little influence on the white American to understand, how strong is his resemblance to the “nigger,” when he gives himself up to the mastery of this much approved mental power. The day was glorious; a brighter sun never shining in Italy, or on the Grecian islands; the air balmy; the vessel was gay to the eye, having been painted about a month before, and every one seemed bent on a holiday; circumstances sufficient in themselves, to make this light-hearted race smiling and happy. As the sloop went slowly past, the whole line doffed their hats, or curtsied, showing at the same time a row of ivory that shone like so many gay windows in their sable faces. I could see that Grace was touched by this manifestation of interest; such a field-day in the Clawbonny corps not having occurred since the first time my mother went to town, after the death of my father. Fortunately, everything else was soothing to my sister's spirits; and, so long as she could sit on the deck, holding Lucy's hand, and enjoy the changing landscape, with her brother within call, it was not possible she should be altogether without happiness. Rounding the point, as we entered the river, the Wallingford eased-off sheet, set a studding-sail and flying-top-sail, and began to breast the Hudson, on her way towards its sources. In 1803, the celebrated river we were navigating, though it had all the natural features it possesses to-day, was by no means the same picture of moving life. The steam-boat did not appear on its surface until four years later; and the journeys up and down its waters, were frequently a week in length. In that day, the passenger did not hurry on board, just as a bell was disturbing the neighbourhood, hustling his way through a rude throng of porters, cart-men, orange-women, and news-boys, to save his distance by just a minute and a half, but his luggage was often sent to the vessel the day before; he passed his morning in saying adieu, and when he repaired to the vessel, it was with gentleman-like leisure, often to pass hours on board previously to sailing, and not unfrequently to hear the unwelcome tidings that this event was deferred until the next day. How different, too, was the passage, from one in a steam-boat! There was no jostling of each other, no scrambling for places at table, no bolting of food, no impertinence manifested, no swearing about missing the eastern or southern boats, or Schenectady, or Saratoga, or Boston trains, on account of a screw being loose, nor--any other unseemly manifestation that anybody was in a hurry. On the contrary, wine and fruit were provided, as if the travellers intended to enjoy themselves; and a journey in that day was a _festa_. No more embarked than could be accommodated; and the company being selected, the cabin was taken to the exclusion of all unwelcome intruders. Now, the man who should order a bottle of wine to be placed at the side of his plate, would be stared at as a fool; and not without reason altogether, for, did it escape the claws of his _convives_ and the waiters, he would probably reach the end of his journey before he could drink it. In 1803, not only did the dinner pass in peace, and with gentleman-like deliberation; not only were the cooler and the fruit taken on deck, and the one sipped and the other eaten at leisure, in the course of an afternoon, but in the course of many afternoons. Passages were certainly made in twenty-four hours in the sloops; but these were the exceptions, a week being much more likely to be the time passed in the enjoyment of the beautiful scenery of the river. The vessel usually got aground, once at least, and frequently several times in a trip; and often a day, or two, were thus delightfully lost, giving the stranger an opportunity of visiting the surrounding country. The necessity of anchoring, with a foul wind, on every opposing tide, too, increased these occasions, thus lending to the excursion something of the character of an exploring expedition. No--no--a man would learn more in one passage, up or down the Hudson, forty years since, than can be obtained by a dozen at the present time. I have a true seaman's dislike for a steam-boat, and sometimes wish they were struck out of existence; though I know it is contrary to all the principles of political economy, and opposed to what is called the march of improvement. Of one thing, however, I feel quite certain; that these inventions, coupled with the gregarious manner of living that has sprung up in the large taverns, is, as one of our writers expresses it, “doing _wonders_ for the manners of the people;” though, in my view of the matter, the wonder is, that they have any left. There might have been thirty sail in sight, when the Wallingford got fairly into the river, some turning down on a young ebb, making their fifteen or twenty miles in six hours, and others like ourselves, stealing along against it, at about the same rate. Half a dozen of these craft were quite near us, and the decks of most of those which were steering north, had parties including ladies, evidently proceeding to the “Springs.” I desired Marble to sheer as close to these different vessels as was convenient, having no other object in view than amusement, and fancying it might aid in diverting the thoughts of my sister from her own sorrows, to the faces and concerns of others. The reader will have no difficulty in understanding, that the Wallingford, constructed under the orders of an old sailor, and for his own uses, was a fast vessel. In this particular she had but one or two competitors on the river; packets belonging to Hudson, Poughkeepsie and Sing-Sing. She was now only in fair ballast-trim, and being admirably provided with sails, in the light wind we had, she actually went four feet to most-of-the-other-vessels-in-sight's three. My request to Marble--or, order, as he chose to call it--was easily enough complied with, and we were soon coming up close on the quarter of a sloop that had its decks crowded with passengers who evidently belonged to the better class; while, on its forecastle were several horses, and a carriage; customary accompaniments to such a scene in that day. I had not been so happy in a long time, as I felt at that moment. Grace was better, as I fancied at least, and it was certain she was more composed and less nervous than I had seen her since my return; and this of itself was removing the weight of a mountain from my heart. There was Lucy, too, her rounded cheek rosy with the pleasure of the moment, full of health, and with eyes that never turned on me that they did not beam with confidence and kindness--the sincerest friendship, if not love--while every look, movement, syllable or gesture that was directed towards Grace, betrayed how strongly the hearts of these two precious creatures were still knit together in sisterly affection. My guardian too seemed happier than he had been since our conversation on the state of my own feelings towards his daughter. He had made a condition, that we should all--the doctor excepted--return to Clawbonny in time for service on the ensuing Sunday, and he was then actually engaged in looking over an old sermon for the occasion, though not a minute passed in which he did not drop the manuscript to gaze about him, in deep enjoyment of the landscape. The scene, moreover, was so full of repose, that even the movements of the different vessels scarce changed its Sabbath-like character. I repeat, that I had not felt so perfectly happy since I held my last conversation with the Salem Witches, in The Duomo of Firenze. Marble was excessively delighted with the behaviour of the Wallingford. The latter was a sloop somewhat smaller than common, though her accommodations were particularly commodious, while she was sparred on the scale of a flyer. Her greatest advantage in the way of sailing, however, would have been no great recommendation to her on a wind; for she was nearly start light, and might not have been able to carry full sail in hard November weather, even on the Hudson--a river on which serious accidents have been known to occur. There was little danger in mid-summer, however; and we went gliding up on the quarter of the Gull of Troy, without feeling concern of any sort. “What sloop is that?” demanded the skipper of the Gull, as our boom-end came within a fathom of his rail, our name being out of his view. “The Wallingford of Clawbonny, just out of port, bound up on a party of pleasure.” Now, Clawbonny was not then, nor is it now, what might be called a legal term. There was no such place known in law, beyond the right which usage gives; and I heard a low laugh among the passengers of the Gull, as they heard the homely appellation. This came from the equivocal position my family occupied, midway between the gentry and yeomanry of the State, as they both existed in 1803. Had I said the sloop came from near Coldenham, it would have been all right; for everybody who was then anybody in New York, knew who the Coldens were; or Morrisania, the Morrises being people of mark; or twenty other places on the river: but the Wallingfords were as little known as Clawbonny, when you got fifteen or twenty miles from the spot where they had so long lived. This is just the difference between obscurity and notoriety. When the latter extends to an entire nation, it gives an individual, or a family, the note that frees them entirely from the imputation of existing under the first condition; and this note, favourably diffused through Christendom, forms a reputation--transmitted to posterity, it becomes fame. Unfortunately, neither we nor our place had even reached the first simple step in this scale of renown; and poor Clawbonny was laughed at, on account of something Dutch that was probably supposed to exist in the sound--the Anglo-Saxon race having a singular aptitude to turn up their nose's at everything but their own possessions, and everybody but themselves. I looked at Lucy, with sensitive quickness, to see how she received this sneer on my birth-place; but, with her, it was so much a matter of course to think well of everything connected with the spot, its name as well as its more essential things, that I do not believe she perceived this little sign of derision. While the passengers of the Gull felt this disposition to smile, it was very different with her skipper; his Dutch pilot, whose name was Abrahamus Van Valtenberg, but who was more familiarly known as 'Brom Folleck, for so the children of New Netherlands twisted their cognomens in converting them into English;{*] the black cook, the mulatto steward, and the “all hands,” who were one man and a boy. There had been generations of sloops which bore the name of Watlingford, as Well as generations of men, at Clawbonny; and this every river-man knew. In point of fact, we counted four generations of men, and six of sloops. Now, none of these vessels was worthy of being mentioned, but this which my father had caused to be built; but she had a reputation that extended to everybody on the river. The effect of all this was to induce the skipper of the Gull to raise his hat, and to say-- “That, then, I suppose is Mr. Wallingford himself--you are welcome back on the river; I remember the time well, when your respected father would make that boat do anything but talk. Nothing but the new paint, which is different from the last, prevented me from knowing the sloop. Had I taken a look at her bows, this couldn't have happened.” {Footnote *: A story is told of a Scotchman of the name of Farquharson,--who settled among the High Dutch on the Mohawk, sometime previously to the Revolution; where, unable to pronounce his name, the worthy formers called him Feuerstein (pronounced Firestyne). The son lived and died under this appellation; but the grandson, removing to a part of the country where English alone was spoken, chose to anglisise his name; and, by giving it a free translation, became Mr. Flint!] This speech evidently gave me and my vessel an estimation with the passengers of the Gull that neither had enjoyed the moment before. There was some private conversation on the quarter-deck of the other vessel, and, then, a highly respectable and gentleman-like looking old man, came to the rail, bowed, and commenced a discourse. “I have the pleasure of seeing Captain Wallingford, I believe,” he remarked, “with whom my friends, the Mertons, came passengers from China. They have often expressed their sense of your civilities,” he continued, as I bowed in acquiescence, “and declare they should ever wish to sail with you, were they again compelled to go to sea.” Now, this was viewing my relation to the Mertons in any point of view but that in which I wished it to be viewed, or indeed was just. Still it was natural; and the gentleman who spoke, a man of standing and character, no doubt fancied he was, saying that which must prove particularly acceptable to me; another proof how dangerous it is to attempt to decide on other men's feelings or affairs. I could not decline the discourse; and, while the Wallingford went slowly past the Gull, I was compelled to endure the torment of hearing the Mertons mentioned, again and again, in the hearing of Lucy and Grace; on the nerves of the latter of whom I knew it must be a severe trial. At length we got rid of this troublesome neighbour, though not until Lucy and her father were recognised and spoken to by several of the ladies in the other party. While my late guardian and his daughter were thus engaged, I stole a glance at my sister. She was pale as death, and seemed anxious to go below, whither I led her, most happily, I have every reason to think, as things turned out. When the Wallingford had left the Gull some little distance astern, I returned to the deck, and Lucy went to take my place by the side of Grace's berth. She reappeared, however; in a very few minutes, saying that my sister felt an inclination to rest herself, and might fall asleep. Feeble, almost, as an infant, these frequent slumbers had become necessary, in a measure, to the patient's powers. Chloe coming up soon after with a report that her young mistress seemed to be in a doze, we all remained on deck, in order not to disturb her. In this manner, half an hour passed, and we had drawn quite near to another sloop that was going in the same direction with ourselves. At this moment, Mr. Hardinge was deeply immersed in his sermon, and I perceived that Lucy looked at him, from time to time, as if she expected to catch his eye. I fancied something distressed her, and yet it was not easy to imagine exactly what it could be. “Do you not intend to go nearer the other sloop?” Lucy at length inquired, alluding to the vessel that was almost in a line with us; but to which I had ordered Neb to give a respectable berth. “I thought the gossip of the last quite sufficient; but, if you like these interviews, certainly.” Lucy seemed embarrassed; she coloured to her temples, paused a moment, and then added, affecting to laugh--and it was so seldom Lucy affected anything, but this time she _did_ affect to laugh--as she said-- “I _do_ wish to go near that sloop; though it is not exactly for the reason you suppose.” I could see she was distressed, though it was not yet easy to imagine the cause. Lucy's requests were laws to me, and Neb was ordered to sheer down on the quarter of this second sloop, as we had done on that of the first. As we drew near, her stern told us that she was called the “Orpheus of Sing-Sing,” a combination of names that proved some wag had been connected with the christening. Her decks had also a party of both sexes on them, though neither carriage nor horses. All this time, Lucy stood quite near me, as if reluctant to move, and when we were sufficiently near the sloop, she pressed still nearer to my side, in the way in which her sex are apt to appeal to those of the other who possess their confidence, when most feeling the necessity of support. “Now, Miles,” she said, in an under tone, “_you_ must 'speak that sloop,' as you call it; I can never hold a loud conversation of this sort, in the presence of so many strangers.” “Very willingly, Lucy; though you will have the goodness to let me know exactly what I am to say.” “Certainly--begin then, in your sailor fashion, and when that is done, I will tell you what to add.” “Enough--Orpheus, there?” I called out, just raising my voice sufficiently to be heard. “Ay, ay,--what's wanted?” answered the skipper, taking a pipe from his mouth, as he leaned with his back against his own tiller, in a way that was just in accordance with the sleepy character of the scene. I looked at Lucy, as much as to say, “what next?” “Ask him if Mrs. Drewett is on board his sloop--_Mrs._ Andrew Drewett, not _Mr._--The old lady, I mean,” added the dear girl, blushing to the eyes. I was so confounded--I might almost add appalled, that it was with great difficulty I suppressed an exclamation. Command myself, I did, however, and observing that the skipper was curiously awaiting my next question, I put it. “Is _Mrs_. Andrew Drewett among your passengers, sir?” I inquired with a cold distinctness. My neighbour nodded his head, and spoke to some of his passengers, most of whom were on the main-deck, seated on chairs, and concealed from us, as yet, by the Wallingford's main-sail, her boom being guyed out on the side next the Orpheus, with its end just clear of her quarter. “She is, and wishes to know who makes the inquiry?” returned the Sing-Sing skipper, in the singsong manner in which ordinary folk repeat what is dictated. “Say that Miss Hardinge has a message to Mrs. Drewett from Mrs. Ogilvie, who is on board that other sloop,” added Lucy, in a low, and, as I thought, tremulous tone. I was nearly choked; but made out to communicate the fact, as directed. In an instant I heard the foot of one who leaped on the Orpheus's quarter-deck, and then Andrew Drewett appeared, hat in hand, a face all smiles, eyes that told his tale as plain as any tongue could have uttered it, and such salutations as denoted the most perfect intimacy. Lucy took my arm involuntarily, and I could feel that she trembled. The two vessels were now so near, and everything around us was so tranquil, that by Lucy's advancing to the Wallingford's quarter-deck, and Drewett's coming to the taffrail of the Orpheus, it was easy to converse without any unseemly raising of the voice. All that had been said between me and the skipper, indeed, had been said on a key but little higher than common. By the change in Lucy's position, I could no longer see her face; but I knew it was suffused, and that she was far from being as composed and collected as was usual with her demeanour. All this was death to my recent happiness, though I could not abstain from watching what now passed, with the vigilance of jealousy. “Good-morning,” Lucy commenced, and the words were uttered in a tone that I thought bespoke great familiarity, if not confidence; “will you have the goodness to tell your mother that Mrs. Ogilvie begs she will not leave Albany until after her arrival. The other sloop, Mrs. Ogilvie thinks, cannot be more than an hour or two after you, and she is very desirous of making a common party to--ah! there comes Mrs. Drewett,” said Lucy, hastily interrupting herself, “and I can deliver my message, myself.” Mrs. Drewett coming aft at this instant, Lucy certainly did turn to her, and communicated a message, which it seems the lady in the Gull had earnestly requested her to deliver in passing. “And now,” returned Mrs. Drewett, when Lucy had ceased, first civilly saluting me, “and now, my dear Lucy, we have something for you. So sudden was your departure, on the receipt of that naughty letter,” my letter, summoning the dear girl to the bed-side of her friend, was meant, “that you left your work-box behind you, and, as I knew it contained many notes besides bank-notes, I would not allow it to be separated from me, until we met. Here it is; in what manner shall we contrive to get it into your hands?” Lucy started, and I could see that she both felt and looked anxious. As I afterwards learned, she had been passing a day at Mrs. Drewett's villa, which joined her own, both standing on the rocks quite near to that spot which a mawkish set among us is trying to twist from plain homely, up-and-down, old fashioned Hell Gate, into the exquisite and lackadaisical corruption of _Hurl_ Gate--Heaven save the mark! What puny piece of folly and affectation will they attempt next? --but Lucy was paying this visit when she received my letter, and it appears such was her haste to get to Grace, that she quitted the house immediately, leaving behind her a small work-box, _unlocked_, and in it various papers that she did not wish read. Of course, one of Lucy's sentiments and tone, could hardly suspect a lady, and Mrs. Drewett was strictly that, of rummaging her box or of reading her notes and letters; but one is never easy when such things can be supposed to be in the way of impertinent eyes. There are maids as well as mistresses, and I could see, in a moment, that she wished the box was again in her own possession. Under the circumstances, therefore, I felt it was time to interfere. “If your sloop will round-to, Mr. Drewett,” I remarked, receiving a cold salutation from the gentleman, in return for my own bow, the first sign of recognition that had passed between us, “I will round-to, myself, and send a boat for the box.” This proposal drew all eyes towards the skipper, who was still leaning against his tiller, smoking for life or death. I was not favourably received, extorting a grunt in reply, that any one could understand denoted dissent. The pipe was slowly removed, and the private opinion of this personage was pretty openly expressed, in his Dutchified dialect. “If a body coult get a wint for der askin', dis might do very well,” he said; “but nobody rounts-to mit a fair wind.” I have always remarked that they who have used a dialect different from the common forms of speech in their youth, and come afterwards to correct it, by intercourse with the world, usually fall back into their early infirmities in moments of trial, perplexity, or anger. This is easily explained. Habit has become a sort of nature, in their childhood, and it is when most tried that we are the most natural. Then, this skipper, an Albany--or Al_bon_ny man, as he would probably have styled himself, had got down the river as far as Sing-Sing, and had acquired a tolerable English; but, being now disturbed, he fell back upon his original mode of speaking, the certain proof that he would never give in. I saw at once the hopelessness of attempting to persuade one of his school, and had begun to devise some other scheme for getting the box on board, when to my surprise, and not a little to my concern, I saw Andrew Drewett, first taking the box from his mother, step upon the end of our main-boom, and move along the spar with the evident intention to walk as far as our deck and deliver Lucy her property with his own hands. The whole thing occurred so suddenly, that there was no time for remonstrance. Young gentlemen who are thoroughly in love, are not often discreet in matters connected with their devotion to their mistresses. I presume Drewett saw the boom placed so favourably as to tempt him, and he fancied it would be a thing to mention to carry a lady her work-box across a bridge that was of so precarious a footing. Had the spar lain on the ground, it would certainly have been no exploit at all to for any young man to walk its length, carrying his arms full of work-boxes; but it was a very different matter when the same feat had to be performed on a sloop's boom in its place, suspended over the water, with the sail set, and the vessel in motion. This Drewett soon discovered, for, advancing a step or two, he grasped the topping-lift, which luckily for him happened to be taut, for a support. All this occurred before there was time for remonstrance, or even for thought. At the same instant Neb, in obedience to a sign previously given by me, had put the helm down a little, and the boom-end was already twenty feet from the quarter-deck of the Orpheus. Of course, all the women screamed, or exclaimed, on some key or other. Poor Mrs. Drewett hid her face, and began to moan her son as lost. I did not dare look at Lucy, who remained quiet as to voice, after the first involuntary exclamation, and as immovable as a statue. Luckily her face was from me. As Drewett was evidently discomposed, I thought it best, however, to devise something not only for his relief, but for that of Lucy's box, which was in quite as much jeopardy as the young man, himself; more so, indeed, if the latter could swim. I was on the point of calling out to Drewett to hold on, and I would cause the boom-end to reach over the Orpheus's main-deck, after which he might easily drop down among his friends, when Neb, finding some one to take the helm, suddenly stood at my side. “He drop dat box, sartain, Masser Mile,” half-whispered the negro; “he leg begin to shake already, and he won'erful skear'd!” “I would not have that happen for a good deal--can you save it, Neb?” “Sartain, sir. Only hab to run out on 'e boom and bring it in, and gib it Miss Lucy; she mighty partic'lar about dat werry box, Masser Mile, as I see a hundrer time, and more too.” “Well, lay out, boy, and bring it in,--and look to your footing, Neb.” This was all Neb wanted. The fellow had feet shaped a good deal like any other aquatic bird, with the essential difference, however, that no small part of his foundation had been laid abaft the perpendicular of the tendon Achilles, and, being without shoes, he could nearly encircle a small spar in his grasp. Often and often had I seen Neb run out on a top-sail-yard, the ship pitching heavily, catching at the lift; and it was a mere trifle after that, to run out on a spar as large as the Wallingford's main-boom. A tolerably distinctive scream from Chloe, first apprised me that the negro was in motion. Looking in that direction, I saw him walking steadily along the boom, notwithstanding Drewett's loud remonstrances, and declarations that he wanted no assistance, until he reached the spot where the young gentleman stood grasping the lift, with his legs submitting to more tremour than was convenient. Neb now grinned, looked as amiable as possible, held out his hand, and revealed the object of his visit. “Masser Mile t'ink 'e gentleum better gib _me_ Miss Lucy box”--said Neb, as politely as he knew how. I believe in my soul that Drewett could have kissed Neb, so glad was he to obtain this little relief. The box was yielded without the slightest objection, Neb receiving it with a bow; after which the negro turned round as coolly as if he were on the deck, and walked deliberately and steadily in to the mast. He stopped an instant just at the small of the spar, to look back at Drewett, who was saying something to pacify his mother; and I observed that, as he stood with his heels in a line, the toes nearly met underneath the boom, which his feet grasped something in the manner of talons. A deep sigh reached my ear, as Neb bounded lightly on deck, and I knew whence it came by the exclamation of-- “De _fel_-ler!” As for Neb, he advanced with his prize, which he offered to Lucy with one of his best bows, but in a way to show he was not conscious of having performed any unusual exploit. Lucy handed the box to Chloe, without averting her eyes from Drewett, in whose situation she manifested a good deal more concern than I liked, or fancied he deserved. “Thank you, Mr. Drewett,” she said, affecting to think the box had been recovered altogether by his address; “it is now safe, and there is no longer any necessity for your coming here. Let Mr. Wallingford do what he says”--I had mentioned in a low voice, the practicability of my own scheme--“and return to your own sloop.” But, two things now interposed to the execution of this very simple expedient. The first was Drewett's pride, blended with a little obstinacy, and the other was the “Al_bon_ny” skipper's pride, blended with a good deal of obstinacy. The first did not like to retreat, after Neb had so clearly demonstrated it was no great matter to walk on the boom; and the latter, soured by the manner in which we had outsailed him, and fancying Andrew had deserted to get on board a faster vessel, resented the whole by sheering away from us to the distance of a hundred yards. I saw that there remained but a single expedient, and set about adopting it without further delay. “Take good hold of the lift, Mr. Drewett, and steady yourself with both hands; ease away the peak halyards to tauten that lift a little more, forward. Now, one of you stand by to ease off the guy handsomely, and the rest come aft to the main-sheet. Look out for yourself, Mr. Drewett; we are about to haul in the boom, when it will be a small matter to get you in, upon the taffrail. Stand by to luff handsomely, so as to keep the boom as steady as possible.” But Drewett clamorously protested against our doing anything of the sort. He was getting used to his situation, and intended to come in Neb-fashion, in a minute more. All he asked was not to be hurried. “No--no--no--touch nothing I entreat of you, _Captain_ Wallingford”--he said, earnestly. “If that black can do it, surely I ought to do it, too.” “But the black has claws, and you have none, sir; then he is a sailor, and used to such things, and you are none, sir. Moreover, he was barefooted, while you have got on stiff, and I dare say slippery boots.” “Yes, the boots _are_ an encumbrance. If I could only throw them off, I should do well enough. As it is, however, I hope to have the honour of shaking you by the hand, Miss Hardinge, without the disgrace of being helped.” Mr. Hardinge here expostulated, but all in vain; for I saw plainly enough Drewett was highly excited, and that he was preparing for a start. These signs were now so apparent that all of us united our voices in remonstrances; and Lucy said imploringly to me--“_Do_ not let him move, Miles--I have heard him say he cannot swim.” It was too late. Pride, mortified vanity, obstinacy, love, or what you will, rendered the young man deaf, and away he went, abandoning the lift, his sole protection. I saw, the moment he quitted his grasp, that he would never reach the mast, and made my arrangements accordingly. I called to Marble to stand by to luff; and, just as the words passed my lips, a souse into the water told the whole story. The first glance at poor Drewett's frantic manner of struggling told me that Lucy was really aware of his habits, and that he could not swim. I was in light duck, jacket and trowsers, with seaman's pumps; and placing a foot on the rail, I alighted alongside of the drowning young man, just as he went under. Well assured he would reappear, I waited for that, and presently I got a view of his hair, within reach of my arm, and I grasped it, in a way to turn him on his back, and bring his face uppermost. At this moment the sloop was gliding away from us, Marble having instantly put the helm hard down, in order to round-to. As I afterwards learned, the state of the case was no sooner understood in the other sloop, than the Al_bon_-ny men gave in, and imitated the Wallingford. There was no time for reflection. As soon as Drewett's hair was in my grasp, I raised his head from the water, by an effort that forced me under it, to let him catch his breath; and then relaxed the power by which it had been done, to come up myself. I had done this to give him a moment to recover his recollection, in the hope he would act reasonably; and I now desired him to lay his two hands on my shoulders, permit his body to sink as low as possible and breathe, and trust the rest to me. If the person in danger can be made to do this, an ordinarily good swimmer could tow him a mile, without any unusual effort. But the breathing spell afforded to Drewett had the effect just to give him strength to struggle madly for existence, without aiding his reason. On the land, he would have been nothing in my hands; but, in the water, the merest boy may become formidable. God forgive me, if I do him injustice! but I have sometimes thought, since, that Drewett was perfectly conscious who I was, and that he gave some vent to his jealous distrust of Lucy's feelings towards me. This may be all imagination; but I certainly heard the words “Lucy” “Wallingford,” “Clawbonny,” “hateful,” muttered by the man, even as he struggled there for life. The advantage given him, by turning to allow him to put his hands on my shoulders, liked to have cost me dear. Instead of doing as I directed, he grasped my neck with both arms, and seemed to wish to mount on my head, forcing his own shoulders quite out of water, and mine, by that much weight, beneath it. It was while we were thus placed, his mouth within an inch or two of my very ear, that I heard the words muttered which have been mentioned. It is possible, however, that he was unconscious of that which terror and despair extorted from him. I saw no time was to be lost, and my efforts became desperate. I first endeavoured to swim with this great encumbrance; but it was useless. The strength of Hercules could not long have buoyed up the under body of such a load, sufficiently to raise the nostrils for breath; and the convulsive twitches of Drewett's arms were near strangling me. I must throw him off, or drown. Abandoning the attempt to swim, I seized his hands with mine, and endeavoured to loosen his grasp of my neck. Of course we both sank while I was thus engaged; for it was impossible to keep my head above water, by means of my feet alone, with a man of some size riding, from his shoulders up, above the level of my chin. I can scarcely describe what followed. I confess I thought ho longer of saving Drewett's life, but only of saving my own. We struggled there in the water like the fiercest enemies, each aiming for the mastery, as, if one were to live, the other must die. We sank, and rose to the surface for air, solely by my efforts, no less than three times; Drewett getting the largest benefits by the latter, thus renewing his strength; while mine, great as it was by nature, began gradually to fail. A struggle so terrific could not last long. We sank a fourth time, and I felt it was not to rise again, when relief came from an unexpected quarter. From boyhood, my father had taught me the important lesson of keeping my eyes open under water. By means of this practice, I not only _felt_, but _saw_ the nature of the tremendous struggle that was going on. It also gave me a slight advantage over Drewett, who closed his eyes, by enabling me to see how to direct my own exertions. While sinking, as I believed, for the last time, I saw a large object approaching me in the water, which, in the confusion of the moment, I took for a shark, though sharks never ascended the Hudson so high, and were even rare at New York. There it was, however, swimming towards us, and even descending lower as if to pass beneath, in readiness for the fatal snap. Beneath it did pass, and I felt it pressing upward, raising Drewett and myself to the surface. As I got a glimpse of the light, and a delicious draught of air, Drewett was drawn from my neck by Marble, whose encouraging voice sounded like music in my ears. At the next instant my shark emerged, puffing like a porpoise; and then I heard-- “Hole on, Masser Mile--here he nigger close by!” I was dragged into the boat, I scarce knew how, and lay down completely exhausted; while my late companion seemed to me to be a lifeless corpse. In a moment, Neb, dripping like a black river god, and glistening like a wet bottle, placed himself in the bottom of the boat, took my head into his lap, and began to squeeze the water from my hair, and to dry my face with some one's handkerchief--I trust it was not his own. “Pull away, lads, for the sloop,” said Marble, as soon as everybody was out of the river. “This gentleman seems to have put on the hatches for the last time--as for Miles, _he_'ll never drown in fresh water.”

1

TOM'S CHOICE

"I can be of no use here, Carry. What am I good for? Why, I could not earn money enough to pay for my own food, even if we knew anyone who would help me to get a clerkship. I am too young for it yet. I would rather go before the mast than take a place in a shop. I am too young even to enlist. I know just about as much as other boys at school, and I certainly have no talent anyway, as far as I can see at present. I can sail a boat, and I won the swimming prize a month ago, and the sergeant who gives us lessons in single-stick and boxing says that he considers me his best pupil with the gloves, but all these things put together would not bring me in sixpence a week. I don't want to go away, and nothing would induce me to do so if I could be of the slightest use to you here. But can I be of any use? What is there for me to look forward to if I stay? I am sure that you would be always worrying over me if I did get some sort of situation that you would know father and mother would not have liked to see me in, and would seem to offer no chance for the future, whereas if I went out there it would not matter what I did, and anything I earned I could send home to you." The speaker was a lad of sixteen. He and his sister, who was two years his senior, were both dressed in deep mourning, and were sitting on a bench near Southsea Castle looking across to Spithead, and the Isle of Wight stretching away behind. They had three days before followed their mother to the grave, and laid her beside their father, a lieutenant of the navy, who had died two years before. This was the first time they had left the house, where remained their four sisters--Janet, who came between Carry and Tom; Blanche, who was fourteen; Lucie, twelve; and Harriet, eight. Tom had proposed the walk. "Come out for some fresh air, Carry," he had said. "You have been shut up for a month. Let us two go together;" and Carry had understood that he wanted a talk alone with her. There was need, indeed, that they should look the future in the face. Since Lieutenant Wade's death their means had been very straitened. Their mother had received a small pension as his widow, and on this, eked out by drafts reluctantly drawn upon the thousand pounds she had brought him on her marriage, which had been left untouched during his lifetime, they had lived since his death. Two hundred pounds had been drawn from their little capital, and the balance was all that now remained. It had long been arranged that Carry and Janet should go out as governesses as soon as they each reached the age of eighteen, but it was now clear that Carry must remain at home in charge of the young ones. That morning the two girls had had a talk together, and had settled that, as Janet was too young to take even the humblest place as a governess, they would endeavour to open a little school, and so, for the present at any rate, keep the home together. Carry could give music lessons, for she was already an excellent pianist, having been well taught by her mother, who was an accomplished performer, and Janet was sufficiently advanced to teach young girls. She had communicated their decision to Tom, who had heartily agreed with it. "The rent is only twenty pounds a year," he said, "and, as you say, the eight hundred pounds bring in thirty-two pounds a year, which will pay the rent and leave something over. If you don't get many pupils at first it will help, and you can draw a little from the capital till the school gets big enough to pay all your expenses. It is horrible to me that I don't seem to be able to help, but at any rate I don't intend to remain a drag upon you. If mother had only allowed me to go to sea after father's death I should be off your hands now, and I might even have been able to help a little. As it is, what is there for me to do here?" And then he pointed out how hopeless the prospect seemed at Portsmouth. Carry was silent for a minute or two when he ceased speaking, and sat looking out over the sea. "Certainly, we should not wish you to go into a shop, Tom, and what you say about going into an office is also right enough. We have no sort of interest, and the sort of clerkship you would be likely to get here would not lead to anything. I know what you are thinking about--that letter of Uncle Harry's; but you know that mother could not bear the thought of it, and it would be dreadful for us if you were to go away." "I would not think of going, Carry, if I could see any chance of helping you here, and I don't want to go as I did when the letter first came. It seems such a cowardly thing to run away and leave all the burden upon your shoulders, yours and Janet's, though I know it will be principally on yours; but what else is there to do? It was not for my own sake that I wanted before to go, but I did not see what there was for me to do here even when I grew up. Still, as mother said it would break her heart if I went away, of course there was an end of it for the time, though I have always thought it would be something to fall back upon if, when I got to eighteen or nineteen, nothing else turned up, which seemed to me very likely would be the case. Certainly, if it came to a choice between that and enlisting, I should choose that: and now it seems to me the only thing to be done." "It is such a long way off, Tom," the girl said in a tone of deep pain; "and you know when people get away so far they seem to forget those at home and give up writing. We had not heard from uncle for ten years when that letter came." "There would be no fear of my forgetting you, Carry. I would write to you whenever I got a chance." "But even going out there does not seem to lead to anything, Tom. Uncle has been away twenty-five years, and he does not seem to have made any money at all." "Oh, but then he owned in his letter, Carry, that it was principally his own fault. He said he had made a good sum several times at mining, and chucked it away; but that next time he strikes a good thing he was determined to keep what he made and to come home to live upon it. I sha'n't chuck it away if I make it, but shall send every penny home that I can spare." "But uncle will not expect you, Tom, mother refused so positively to let you go. Perhaps he has gone away from the part of the country he wrote from, and you may not be able to find him." "I shall be able to find him," Tom said confidently. "When that letter went, I sent one of my own to him, and said that though mother would not hear of my going now, I might come out to him when I got older if I could get nothing to do here, and asked him to send me a few words directed to the post-office telling me how I might find him. He wrote back saying that if I called at the Empire Saloon at a small town called Denver, in Colorado, I should be likely to hear whereabouts he was, and that he would sometimes send a line there with instructions if he should be long away." "I see you have set your mind on going, Tom," Carry said sadly. "No, I have not set my mind on it, Carry. I am perfectly ready to stop here if you can see any way for me to earn money, but I cannot stop here idle, eating and drinking, while you girls are working for us all." "If you were but three or four years older, Tom, I should not so much mind, and though it would be a terrible blow to part with you, I do not see that you could do anything better; but you are only sixteen." "Yes, but I am strong and big for my age; I am quite as strong as a good many men. Of course I don't mean the boatmen and the dockyard maties, but men who don't do hard work. Anyhow, there are lots of men who go out to America who are no stronger than I am, and of course I shall get stronger every month. I can walk thirty miles a day easy, and I have never had a day's illness." "It is not your strength, Tom; I shall have no fears about your breaking down; on the contrary, I should say that a life such as uncle wrote about, must be wonderfully healthy. But you seem so young to make such a long journey, and you may have to travel about in such rough places and among such rough men before you can find Uncle Harry." "I expect that I shall get on a great deal easier than a man would," Tom said confidently. "Fellows might play tricks with a grown-up fellow who they see is a stranger and not up to things, and might get into quarrels with him, but no one is likely to interfere with a boy. No, I don't think that there is anything in that, Carry,--the only real difficulty is in going away so far from you, and perhaps being away for a long time." "Well, Tom," the girl said after another pause, "it seems very terrible, but I own that I can see nothing better for you. There is no way that you can earn money here, and I am sure we would rather think of you as mining and hunting with uncle, than as sitting as a sort of boy-clerk in some dark little office in London or Portsmouth. It is no worse than going to sea anyhow, and after all you may, as uncle says, hit on a rich mine and come back with a fortune. Let us be going home. I can hardly bear to think of it now, but I will tell Janet, and will talk about it again this evening after the little ones have gone to bed." Tom had the good sense to avoid any expression of satisfaction. He gave Carry's hand a silent squeeze, and as they walked across the common talked over their plans for setting to work to get pupils, and said no word that would give her a hint of the excitement he felt at the thought of the life of adventure in a wild country that lay before him. He had in his blood a large share of the restless spirit of enterprise that has been the main factor in making the Anglo-Saxons the dominant race of the world. His father and his grandfather had both been officers in the royal navy, and a great-uncle had commanded a merchantman that traded in the Eastern seas, and had never come back from one of its voyages; there had been little doubt that all on board had been massacred and the ship burned by Malay pirates. His Uncle Harry had gone away when little more than a boy to seek a fortune in America, and had, a few years after his landing there, crossed the plains with one of the first parties that started out at news of the discovery of gold in California. Tom himself had longed above all things to be a sailor. His father had not sufficient interest to get him into the royal navy, but had intended to obtain for him a berth as apprentice in the merchant service; but his sudden death had cut that project short, and his mother, who had always been opposed to it, would not hear of his going to sea. But the life that now seemed open to him was in the boy's eyes even preferable to that he had longed for. The excitement of voyages to India or China and back was as nothing to that of a gold-seeker and hunter in the West, where there were bears and Indians and all sorts of adventures to be encountered. He soon calmed down, however, on reaching home. The empty chair, the black dresses and pale faces of the girls, brought back in its full force the sense of loss. In a short time he went up to his room, and sat there thinking it all over again, and asking himself whether it was fair of him to leave his sisters, and whether he was not acting selfishly in thus choosing his own life. He had gone over this ground again and again in the last few days, and he now came to the same conclusion, namely, that he could do no better for the girls by stopping at home, and that he had not decided upon accepting his uncle's invitation because the life was just what he would have chosen, but because he could see nothing that offered equal chances of his being able permanently to aid them at home. When he came downstairs again Carry said: "The others have gone out, Tom; you had better go round and see some of your school-fellows. You look fagged and worn out. You cannot help me here, and I shall go about my work more cheerfully if I know that you are out and about." Tom nodded, put on his cap and went out; but he felt far too restless to follow her advice and call on some of his friends, so he walked across the common and lay down on the beach and went all over it again, until at last he went off to sleep, and did not wake up until, glancing at his watch, he found that it was time to return to tea. He felt fresher and better for his rest, for indeed he had slept but little for the past fortnight, and Carry nodded approvingly as she saw that his eyes were brighter, and the lines of fatigue and sleeplessness less strongly marked on his face. Two hours later, when the younger girls had gone to bed, Carry said: "Now we will have a family council. I have told Janet about our talk, Tom, and she is altogether on your side, and only regrets that she is not a boy and able to go out with you. We need not go over the ground again, we are quite agreed with you that there seems no prospect here of your obtaining work such as we should like to see you at, or that would lead to anything. There are only two things open to you, the one is to go to sea, the other to go out to Uncle Harry. You are old to go as an apprentice, but not too old, and that plan could be carried out; still, we both think that the other is better. You would be almost as much separated from us if you went to sea as you would be if you went out to America. But before you quite decide I will read uncle's letter, which I have found this afternoon among some other papers." She took out the letter and opened it. " 'My dear Jack,--I am afraid it is a very long time since I wrote last; I don't like to think how long. I have been intending to do so a score of times, but you know I always hated writing, and I have been waiting to tell you that I had hit upon something good at last. Even now I can only tell you that I have been knocking about and getting older, but so far I cannot say I have been getting richer. As I told you when I wrote last I have several times made good hauls and struck it rich, but somehow the money has always slipped through my fingers. Sometimes I have put it into things that looked well enough but turned out worthless; sometimes I have chucked it away in the fool's manner men do here. I have just come back from a prospecting tour in the country of the Utes, where I found two or three things that seemed good; one of them first-rate, the best thing, I think, I have seen since I came out here. " 'Unfortunately I cannot do anything with them at present, for the Utes are getting troublesome, and it would be as much as one's life is worth to go back there with a small party; so that matter must rest for a bit, and I must look out in another quarter until the Utes settle down again. I am going to join a hunting party that starts for the mountains next week. I have done pretty nearly as much hunting as mining since I came out, and though there is no big pile to be made at it, it is a pretty certain living. How are you all getting on? I hope some day to drop in on your quiet quarters at Southsea with some big bags of gold-dust, and to end my days in a nook by your fireside; which I know you will give me, old fellow, with or without the gold bags. '" [Illustration: CARRY READS UNCLE HARRY'S LETTER.] " 'I suppose your boy is thirteen or fourteen years old by this time. That is too young for him to come out here, but if in two or three years you don't see any opening for him at home, send him out to me, and I will make a man of him; and even if he does not make a fortune in gold-seeking, there are plenty of things a young fellow can turn his hand to in this country with a good certainty of making his way, if he is but steady. You may think that my example is not likely to be of much benefit to him, but I should do for an object lesson, and seriously, would do my very best to set him in a straight path. Anyhow, three or four years' knocking about with me would enable him to cut his eye-teeth, and hold his own in the world. At the end of that time he could look round and see what line he would take up, and I need not say that I would help him to the utmost of my power, and though I have not done any good for myself I might do good for him. " 'In the first place, I know pretty well every one in Colorado, Montana, and Idaho; in the next place, in my wanderings I have come across a score of bits of land in out-of-the-way places where a young fellow could set up a ranche and breed cattle and horses and make a good thing of it; or if he has a turn for mechanics, I could show him places where he could set up saw-mills for lumber, with water-power all the year round, and with markets not far away. Of course, he is too young yet, but unless he is going to walk in your steps and turn sailor he might do worse than come out to me in three or four years' time. Rough as the life is, it is a man's life, and a week of it is worth more than a year's quill-driving in an office. It is a pity your family have run to girls, for if one boy had made up his mind for the sea you might have spared me another.' "That is all. You know mother sent an answer saying that dear father had gone, and that she should never be able to let you go so far away and take up such a rough and dangerous life. However, Tom, as you wrote to uncle, her refusal would not matter, and by his sending you instructions how to find him, it is evident that he will not be surprised at your turning up. In the first place, are you sure that you would prefer this to the sea?" "Quite sure, Carry; I should like it much better. But the principal thing is that I may soon be able to help you from there, while it would be years before I should get pay enough at sea to enable me to do so." "Then that is settled, Tom. And now, I suppose," and her voice quivered a little, "you will want to be off as soon as you can?" "I think so," Tom replied. "If I am to go, it seems to me the sooner I go the better; there is nothing that I can do here, and we shall all be restless and unsettled until I am off." Carry nodded. "I think you are right, Tom; we shall never be able to settle to our work here when we are thinking of your going away. The first thing to do will be to draw some money from the bank. There will be your outfit to get and your passage to pay to America, and a supply of money to take you out West, and keep you until you join uncle." "That is what I hate," Tom said gloomily. "It seems beastly that when I want to help you I must begin by taking some of your money." "That can't be helped," Carry said cheerfully. "One must not grudge a sprat to catch a whale, and besides it would cost ever so much more if we had to apprentice you to the sea, and get your outfit. You will not want many clothes now. You have enough for the voyage and journey, and I should think it would be much better for you to get what you want out there, when you will have uncle to advise what is necessary. I should really think some flannel shirts and a rough suit for the voyage will be the principal things." "I should think so, certainly," Tom agreed. "The less baggage one travels with the better, for when I leave the railway I shall only want what I can carry with me or pack on horses. Anything else would only be a nuisance. As to a rough suit for the voyage, the clothes I had before I put these on" (and he glanced at his black suit) "will do capitally. Of course I shall go steerage. I can get out for four or five pounds that way, and I shall be quite as well off as I should be as an apprentice. I know I must have some money, but I won't take more than is absolutely necessary. I am all right as far as I can see for everything, except three or four flannel shirts. I don't see that another thing will be required except a small trunk to hold them and the clothes I have on, which I don't suppose I shall ever wear again, and a few other things. You know I would only allow you to have this one black suit made. I was thinking of this, and it would have been throwing away money to have got more. Of course, I don't know what I shall want out there. I know it is a long way to travel by rail, and I may have to keep myself for a month before I find uncle. I should think five-and-twenty pounds when I land would be enough for everything." "I shall draw fifty pounds," Carry said positively. "As you say, your outfit will really cost nothing; ten pounds will pay for your journey to Liverpool and your passage; that will leave you forty pounds in your pocket when you land. That is the very least you could do with, for you may find you will have to buy a horse, and though I believe they are very cheap out there, I suppose you could not get one under ten pounds; and then there would be the saddle and bridle and food for the journey, and all sorts of things. I don't think forty pounds will be enough." "I won't have a penny more, anyhow," Tom said. "If I find a horse too expensive I can tramp on foot." "And you must be sure not to get robbed," Janet said, breaking in for the first time. "Just fancy your finding yourself without money in such a place as that. I will make you a belt to wear under your things, with pockets for the money." "I hope I should not be such a fool as that, Janet, but anyhow I will be as careful as I can. I shall be very glad of the belt. One does not know what the fellows might be up to, and I would certainly rather not have my money loose in my pocket; but even if I were robbed I don't think it would be as desperate as you think. I expect a boy could always find something to do to earn his living, and I should try and work my way along somehow, but as that would not be pleasant at all I shall take good care of my money, you may be sure." For an hour they sat talking, and before the council broke up it was agreed that they should look in the newspaper in the morning for a list of vessels sailing for America, and should at once write and take a passage. There was no time lost. Carry felt that it would be best for them all that the parting should be got over as soon as possible. Letters were written the next morning to two steamship companies and to the owners of two sailing vessels asking the prices of steerage passages, agreeing that if there was not much difference it would be better to save perhaps a fortnight by taking the passage in a steamship. The replies showed that the difference was indeed trifling, and a week after their receipt Tom Wade started from Portsmouth to Liverpool. Even at the last moment he was half-inclined to change his plans, it seemed so hard to leave his sisters alone; but Carry and Janet had both convinced themselves that his scheme was the best, and would not hear of his wavering now. They kept up a show of good spirits until the last, talked confidently of the success of their own plans, and how they should set about carrying them out as soon as they were free to act. The younger girls, although implored by the elders not to give way to their grief at the departure of their brother, were in a state of constant tearfulness, and were in consequence frequently got rid of by being sent on errands. Tom, too, took them out for hours every day, and by telling them stories of the wild animals he should hunt, and the Indians he should see, and of the stores of gold he should find hidden, generally brought them home in a more cheerful state of mind. At last the parting was over, and after making heroic efforts to be cheerful to the end, Tom waved a last adieu with his handkerchief to the five weeping figures on the platform, and then threw himself back in his seat and gave free vent to his own feelings. Two girls sitting beside him sniggered at the sight of the strong-built young fellow giving way to tears, but a motherly-looking woman opposite presently put her hand on his knee. "Don't be ashamed of crying, my lad," she said. "I have got a son years older than you, and we always have a good cry together every time he starts on a long voyage. Are you going far? I suppose those are your sisters? I see you are all in black. Lost someone dear to you, no doubt? It comes to us all, my boy, sooner or later." "I am going to America," Tom replied, "and may not be back for years. Yes, those are my sisters, and what upsets me most is that I have to leave them all alone, for we have lost both our parents." "Dear, dear, that is sad indeed! No wonder you are all upset. Well, well, America is not so very far away--only a ten days' voyage by steamer, they tell me, and my boy is away in a sailing ship. He is in China, I reckon, now; he sailed five months ago, and did not expect to be home under a year. I worry about him sometimes, but I know it is of no use doing that. The last thing he said when I bade good-bye to him was, 'Keep up your spirits, mother'; and I try to do so." The old lady went on talking about her son, and Tom, listening to her kindly attempts to draw him out of his own troubles, grew interested, and by the time they reached Winchester, where she left the train, he had shaken off his first depression. It was a long journey with several changes, and he did not arrive in Liverpool until six o'clock in the evening, having been nearly twelve hours on the road. Carry's last injunction had been, "Take a cab when you get to Liverpool, Tom, and drive straight down to the docks. Liverpool is a large place, and you might get directed wrong. I shall be more comfortable if I know that, at any rate, you will go straight on board." Tom had thought it an unnecessary expense, but as he saw that Carry would be more comfortable about him if he followed her advice, he promised to do so, and was not sorry for it as he drove through the streets; for, in spite of cutting down everything that seemed unnecessary for the voyage and subsequent journey, the portmanteau was too heavy to carry far with comfort, and although prepared to rough it to any extent when he had once left England, he felt that he should not like to make his way along the crowded streets with his trunk on his shoulder. The cabman had no difficulty in finding the _Parthia_, which was still in the basin. Tom was, however, only just in time to get on board, for the men were already throwing off the warps, and ten minutes later she passed out through the dock-gates, and soon anchored in the middle of the river. Tom had been on board too many ships at Portsmouth to feel any of that bewilderment common to emigrants starting on their first voyage. He saw that at present everyone was too busy to attend to him, and so he put his portmanteau down by the bulwark forward, and leaning on the rail watched the process of warping the ship out of the docks. There were a good many steerage passengers forward, but at present the after-part of the ship was entirely deserted, as the cabin passengers would not come on board until either late at night or early next morning. When the anchor had been let drop he took up his trunk and asked a sailor where he ought to go to. "Show me your ticket. Ah! single man's quarters, right forward." There he met a steward, who, after looking at his ticket, said: "You will see the bunks down there, and can take any one that is unoccupied. I should advise you to put your trunk into it, and keep the lid shut. People come and go in the morning, and you might find that your things had gone too. It would be just as well for you to keep it locked through the voyage. I see that you have got a cord round it. Keep it corded; the more things there are to unfasten to get at the contents the less chance there is of anyone attempting it." The place was crowded with berths, mere shallow trays, each containing a straw mattress and pillow and two coloured blankets. They were in three tiers, one above the other, and were arranged in lines three deep, with a narrow passage between. He saw by the number into which bags and packets had been thrown that the upper berths were the favourites, but he concluded that the lower tiers were preferable. "It will be frightfully hot and stuffy here," he said to himself, "and I should say the lower berths will be cooler than the upper." He therefore placed his trunk in one of those next to the central passage and near the door, and then went up on deck. The _Parthia_ was a Cunarder, and although not equal in size to the great ships of the present day, was a very fine vessel. The fare had been somewhat higher than that for which he could have had a passage in a sailing ship, but in addition to his saving time, there was the advantage that on board the steamers, passengers were not obliged to provide their own bedding, as they had to do in sailing vessels, and also the food was cooked for them in the ship's galleys. The first meal was served soon after the anchor dropped, and consisted of a bowl of cocoa and a large piece of bread. Half an hour later a tender came alongside with the last batch of steerage passengers, and Tom was interested in watching the various groups as they came on board--men, women, and children. "Well," he said to himself, "I do think I am better fitted to make my way out there than most of these people are, for they look as helpless and confused as a flock of sheep. I pity those women with children. It will be pretty crowded in our quarters, but there is a chance of getting a fair night's sleep, while in a place crowded with babies and children it would be awful." Being a kind-hearted lad he at once set to work to help as far as he could, volunteering to carry children down below, and to help with boxes and bundles. In many cases his assistance was thankfully accepted, but in some it was sharply refused, the people's manner clearly showing their suspicions of his motive. He was not surprised at this after all the warnings Carry had given him against putting any confidence in strangers, but was satisfied, after an hour's hard work, that he had rendered things somewhat easier for many a worried and anxious woman. It was getting dusk even on deck by the time he had finished. "Thank you, lad," a man, who went up the companion ladder with him, said as they stepped on to the deck. "You have done my missis a good turn by taking care of those three young ones while we straightened up a bit, and I saw you helping others too. You are the right sort, I can see. There ain't many young chaps as puts themselves out of the way to do a bit of kindness like that. My name is Bill Brown; what is yours?" "Tom Wade. I had nothing to do, and was glad to be of a little help. People who have never been on board ship before naturally feel confused in such a crowd." "Have you been to sea?" "Not on a voyage, but I have lived at Portsmouth and have often been on board troopships and men-of-war, so it does not seem so strange to me." "Are you by yourself, or have you friends with you?" "I am alone," Tom replied. "I am going out to join an uncle in the States." "I have been across before," the man said. "I am a carpenter, and have worked out there six months, and came home six weeks back to fetch the others over. I have got a place, where I was working before, to go to as soon as I land. It makes a lot of difference to a man." "It does indeed," Tom agreed. "I know if I were going out without any fixed object beyond taking the first work that came to hand, I should not feel so easy and comfortable about it as I do now." "I have got two or three of my mates on board who are going out on my report of the place, and three families from my wife's village. She and the youngsters have been staying with her old folk while I was away. So we are a biggish party, and if you want anything done on the voyage you have only got to say the word to me."

2

FINDING FRIENDS

The weather was fine, and Tom Wade found the voyage more pleasant than he had expected. The port-holes were kept open all the way, and the crowded quarters were less uncomfortable than would have been the case had they encountered rough weather. There were some very rough spirits among the party forward, but the great majority were quiet men, and after the first night all talking and larking were sternly repressed after the lights were out. The food was abundant, and although some grumbled at the meat there was no real cause of complaint. A rope across the deck divided the steerage passengers from those aft, and as there were not much more than one-half the emigrants aboard that the _Parthia_ could carry, there was plenty of room on deck. But few of the passengers suffered from sea-sickness, and the women sat and chatted and sewed in little groups while the children played about, and the men walked up and down or gathered forward and smoked, while a few who had provided themselves with newspapers or books sat in quiet corners and read. Tom was one of these, for he had picked up a few books on the United States at second-hand bookstalls at Portsmouth, and this prevented him from finding the voyage monotonous. When indisposed to read he chatted with Brown the carpenter and his mates, and sometimes getting a party of children round him and telling them stories gathered from the books now standing on the shelves in his room at Southsea. He was glad, however, when the voyage was over; not because he was tired of it, but because he was longing to be on his way west. Before leaving the ship he took a very hearty farewell of his companions on the voyage, and on landing was detained but a few minutes at the custom-house, and then entering an omnibus that was in waiting at the gate, was driven straight to the station of one of the western lines of railway. From the information he had got up before sailing he had learnt that there were several of these, but that there was very little difference either in their speed or rates of fare, and that their through-rates to Denver were practically the same. He had therefore fixed on the Chicago and Little Rock line, not because its advantages were greater, but in order to be able to go straight from the steamer to the station without having to make up his mind between the competing lines. He found on arrival that the emigrant trains ran to Omaha, where all the lines met, and that beyond that he must proceed by the regular trains. An emigrant train was to leave that evening at six o'clock. "The train will be made up about four," a good-natured official said to him, "and you had best be here by that time so as to get a corner seat, for I can tell you that makes all the difference on a journey like this. If you like to take your ticket at once you can register that trunk of yours straight on to Denver, and then you won't have any more trouble about it." "Of course we stop to take our meals on the way?" "Yes; but if you take my advice you will do as most of them do, get a big basket and lay in a stock of bread and cooked meat, cheese, and anything you fancy, then you will only have to go out and get a cup of tea at the stopping-places. It comes a good bit cheaper, and you get done before those who take their meals, and can slip back into the cars again quick and keep your corner seat. There ain't much ceremony in emigrant trains, and it is first come first served." "How long shall we be in getting to Denver?" "It will be fully a week, but there ain't any saying to a day. The emigrant trains just jog along as they can between the freight trains and the fast ones, and get shunted off a bit to let the expresses pass them." Thanking the official for his advice, Tom took his ticket, registered his trunk, and then went out and strolled about the streets of New York until three o'clock. He took the advice as to provisions, and getting a small hamper laid in a stock of food sufficient for three or four days. The platform from which the train was to start was already occupied by a considerable number of emigrants, but when the train came up he was able to secure a corner seat. The cars were all packed with their full complement of passengers. They were open from end to end, with a passage down the middle. Other cars were added as the train filled up, but not until all the places were already occupied. The majority of the passengers were men, but there were a considerable number of women, and still more children; and Tom congratulated himself on learning from the conversation of those around him that a good many were not going beyond Chicago, and that almost all would leave the train at stations between that place and Omaha. The journey to Chicago was the most unpleasant experience Tom had ever gone through. The heat, the dust, and the close confinement seemed to tell on the tempers of everyone. The children fidgeted perpetually, the little ones and the babies cried, the women scolded, and the men grumbled and occasionally quarrelled. It was even worse at night than during the day; the children indeed were quieter, for they lay on the floor of the passage and slept in comparative comfort, but for the men and women there was no change of position, no possibility of rest. The backs of the seats were low, and except for the fortunate ones by the windows there was no rest for the head; but all took uneasy naps with their chins leaning forward on their chest, or sometimes with their heads resting on their neighbour's shoulder. Tom did not retain his corner seat, but resigned it a few hours after starting to a weary woman with a baby in her arms who sat next to him. He himself, strong as he was, felt utterly worn out by the fatigue and sleeplessness. Beyond Chicago there was somewhat more room, and it was possible to make a change of position. Beyond Omaha it was much better; the train was considerably faster and the number of passengers comparatively few. He now generally got a seat to himself and could put his feet up. The people were also, for the most part, acquainted with the country, and he was able to learn a good deal from their conversation. There were but few women or children among them, for except near the stations of the railway, settlements were very rare; and the men were for the most part either miners, ranchemen, or mechanics, going to the rising town of Denver, or bound on the long journey across the plains to Utah or California. It was on the eighth day after starting that Denver was reached. Before leaving the ship Tom had put on his working clothes and a flannel shirt, and had disposed of his black suit, for a small sum, to a fellow-passenger who intended to remain at New York. This had somewhat lightened his portmanteau, but he was glad when he found that there were vehicles at the station to convey passengers up the hill to Denver, which was some three miles away, and many hundred feet above it. He was too tired to set about finding the Empire Saloon, but put up at the hotel at which the omnibus stopped, took a bath and a hearty meal, and then went straight to bed. After breakfast the next morning he at once set out. He had no difficulty in finding the whereabouts of the Empire Saloon, which he learned from the clerk of the hotel was a small place frequented almost entirely by miners. Its appearance was not prepossessing. It had been built in the earliest days of Denver, and was a rough erection. The saloon was low, its bare rafters were darkly coloured by smoke, a number of small tables stood on the sanded floor, and across the farther end of the room ran a bar. On shelves behind this stood a number of black bottles, and a man in his shirt sleeves was engaged in washing up glasses. Two or three rough-looking men in coloured flannel shirts, with the bottoms of their trousers tucked into high boots, were seated at the tables smoking and drinking. "I am expecting a letter for me here," Tom said to the man behind the bar. "My name is Wade." "The boss is out now," the man said. "He will be here in an hour or so. If there is anything for you he will know about it." "Thank you. I will come again in an hour," Tom replied. The man nodded shortly, and went on with his work. When Tom returned, the bar-tender said to a man who was sitting at one of the tables talking to the miners, "This is the chap I told you of as was here about the letter." "Sit right down," the man said to Tom, "I will talk with you presently;" and he continued his conversation in a low tone with the miners. It was nearly half an hour before he concluded it. Then he rose, walked across the room to Tom, and held out his hand. "Shake, young fellow," he said; "that is, if you are the chap Straight Harry told me might turn up here some day." "I expect I am the fellow," Tom said with a smile. "My uncle's name is Harry Wade." "Yes, that is his name; although he is always called Straight Harry. Yes, I have got a letter for you. Come along with me." He led the way into a small room behind the saloon, that served at once as his bed-room and office, and motioned to Tom to sit down on the only chair; then going to a cupboard he took out a tin canister, and opening it shook out half a dozen letters on to the table. "That is yourn," he said, picking one out. It was directed to Tom, and contained but a few lines. " _If you come I have gone west. Pete Hoskings will tell you all he knows about me and put you on the line. Your affectionate uncle. _" "Are you Mr. Hoskings?" he asked the landlord. "I am Pete Hoskings," the man said. "There ain't been no Mister to my name as ever I can remember." "My uncle tells me that you will be able to direct me to him, and will put me on the line." "It would take a darn sight cuter fellow than I am to direct you to him at present," the man said with a laugh. "Straight Harry went away from here three months ago, and he might be just anywhere now. He may be grubbing away in a mine, he may be hunting and trapping, or he may have been wiped out by the Indians. I know where he intended to go, at least in a general sort of way. He did tell me he meant to stay about there, and it may be he has done so. He said if he moved away and got a chance he would send me word; but as there ain't nairy a post-office within about five hundred miles of where he is, his only chance of sending a letter would be by a hunter who chanced to be going down to the settlements, and who, like enough, would put it into his hunting-shirt and never give it another thought. So whether he has stayed there or not is more nor I can say." "And where is _there? _" Tom asked. "It is among the hills to the west of the Colorado River, which ain't much, seeing as the Colorado is about two thousand miles long. However, I can put you closer than that, for he showed me on a map the bit of country he intended to work. He said he would be back here in six months from the time he started; and that if you turned up here I was either to tell you the best way of getting there, or to keep you here until he came back. Well, I may say at once that there ain't no best way; there is only one way, and that is to get on a pony and ride there, and a mighty bad way it is. The only thing for you to do is to keep on west along the caravan tract. You have to cross the Green River,--that is the name of the Colorado on its upper course. Fort Bridger is the place for you to start from, but you have got to wait there until you sight some one or other bound south; for as to going by yourself, it would be a sight better to save yourself all trouble by putting that Colt hanging there to your head, and pulling the trigger. It is a bad country, and it is full of bad Indians, and there ain't many, even of the oldest hands, who care to risk their lives by going where Straight Harry has gone. "I did all I could to keep him from it; but he is just as obstinate as a mule when he has made up his mind to a thing. I know him well, for we worked as mates for over a year down on the Yuba in California. We made a good pile, and as I had got a wife and wanted to settle I came back east. This place had a couple of dozen houses then; but I saw it was likely to boom, so I settled down and set up this saloon and sent for my wife to come west to me. If she had lived I should have been in a sight bigger place by this time; but she died six months after she got here, and then I did not care a continental one way or the other; and I like better to stop here, where I meet my old mates and can do as I like, than to run a big hotel. It ain't much to look at, but it suits me, and I am content to know that I could buy up the biggest place here if I had a fancy to. I don't take much money now, but I did when the place was young; and I bought a few lots of land, and you may bet they have turned out worth having. Well, don't you act rashly in this business. Another three months your uncle will turn up, if he is alive; and if he don't turn up at all I dare say I can put you into a soft thing. If you go on it is about ten to one you get scalped before you find him. Where are you staying?" "At the Grand. The omnibus stopped there last night." "Well, you stay there for a week and think it over. You have got to learn about the country west of the Colorado. You had best come here to do that. You might stay a month at the Grand and not find a soul who could tell you anything worth knowing, but there ain't a day when you couldn't meet men here who have either been there themselves or have heard tell of it from men who have." "Are the natives friendly now?" Tom asked. "In a letter he wrote two years ago to us, my uncle said that he should put off going to a part of the country he wanted to prospect until the Indians were quiet." "The darned critters are never either friendly or quiet. A red-skin is pizen, take him when you will. The only difference is, that sometimes they go on the war-path and sometimes they don't; but you may bet that they are always ready to take a white man's scalp if they get a chance." "Well, I am very much obliged to you for your advice, which I will certainly take; that is, I will not decide for a few days, and will come in here and talk to the miners and learn what I can about it." "You can hear at once," the landlord said. He stepped back into the saloon, and said to the two men with whom he had been talking: "Boys, this young chap is a Britisher, and he has come out all the way to join Straight Harry, who is an uncle of his. Straight Harry is with Ben Gulston and Sam Hicks, and they are prospecting somewhere west of the Colorado. He wants to join them. Now, what do you reckon his chances would be of finding them out and dropping in on their campfire?" The men looked at Tom with open eyes. "Waal," one of them drawled, "I should reckon you would have just about the same chance of getting to the North Pole if you started off on foot, as you would of getting to Straight Harry with your hair on." Tom laughed. "That is not cheering," he said. "It ain't. I don't say as an old hand on the plains might not manage it. He would know the sort of place Harry and his mates would be likely to be prospecting, he would know the ways of the red-skins and how to travel among them without ever leaving a trail or making a smoke, but even for him it would be risky work, and not many fellows would care to take the chances even if they knew the country well. But for a tenderfoot to start out on such a job would be downright foolishness. There are about six points wanted in a man for such a journey. He has got to be as hard and tough as leather, to be able to go for days without food or drink, to know the country well, to sleep when he does sleep with his ears open, to be up to every red skin trick, to be able to shoot straight enough to hit a man plumb centre at three hundred yards at least, and to hit a dollar at twenty yards sartin with his six-shooter. If you feel as you have got all them qualifications you can start off as soon as you like, and the chances aren't more'n twenty to one agin your finding him." "I haven't anyone of them," Tom said. "Waal, it is something if you know that, young chap. It is not every tenderfoot who would own up as much. You stick to it that you don't know anything, and at the same time do your best to learn something, and you will do in time. You look a clean-built young chap, and you could not have a better teacher than Straight Harry. What he don't know, whether it is about prospecting for gold or hunting for beasts, ain't worth knowing, you bet. What is your name, mate?" "Tom Wade." "Waal, let us drink. It ain't like you, Pete, to keep a stranger dry as long as you have been doing." "He ain't up to our customs yet," the landlord said, as he moved off towards the bar. "It is a custom everywhere," the miner said reprovingly, "for folks to stand drink to a stranger; and good Bourbon hurts no man." The landlord placed a bottle and four glasses on the counter. Each of the miners filled his glass for himself, and the bottle was then handed to Tom, who followed their example, as did Hoskings. "Here is luck to you," the miner said, as he lifted his glass. Three glasses were set down empty, but Tom had to stop half-way with his to cough violently. "It is strong stuff," he said apologetically, "and I never drank spirits without water before. I had a glass of grog-and-water on board a ship sometimes, but it has always been at least two parts of water to one of spirits." "We mostly drink our liquor straight out here," the miner said. "But I am not saying it is the best way, especially for one who ain't used to it, but you have got to learn to do it if you are going to live long in this country." "Standing drinks round is a custom here," Pete Hoskings explained, seeing that Tom looked a little puzzled, "and there ain't no worse insult than to refuse to drink with a man. There have been scores of men shot, ay, and hundreds, for doing so. I don't say that you may not put water in, but if you refuse to drink you had best do it with your hand on the butt of your gun, for you will want to get it out quick, I can tell you." "There is one advantage in such a custom anyhow," Tom said, "it will keep anyone who does not want to drink from entering a saloon at all." "That is so, lad," Pete Hoskings said heartily. "I keep a saloon, and have made money by it, but for all that I say to every young fellow who hopes to make his way some time, keep out of them altogether. In country places you must go to a saloon to get a square meal, but everyone drinks tea or coffee with their food, and there is no call to stay in the place a minute after you have finished. Calling for drinks round has been the ruin of many a good man; one calls first, then another calls, and no one likes to stand out of it, and though you may only have gone in for one glass, you may find you will have to drink a dozen before you get out." "Why, you are a downright temperance preacher, Pete," one of the miners laughed. "I don't preach to a seasoned old hoss like you, Jerry. I keep my preaching for those who may benefit by it, such as the youngster here; but I say to him and to those like him, you keep out of saloons. If you don't do that, you will find yourself no forwarder when you are fifty than you are now, while there are plenty of openings all over the country for any bright young fellow who will keep away from liquor." "Thank you," Tom said warmly; "I will follow your advice, which will be easy enough. Beyond a glass of beer with my dinner and a tot of grog, perhaps once in three months when I have gone on board a ship, and did not like to say no, I have never touched it, and have no wish to do so." "Stick to that, lad; stick to that. You will find many temptations, but you set your face hard against them, and except when you come upon a hard man bent on kicking up a muss, you will find folks will think none the worse of you when you say to them straight, 'I am much obliged to you all the same, but I never touch liquor.'" Tom remained four days at the hotel, spending a good deal of his time at the saloon, where he met many miners, all of whom endorsed what the first he had spoken to had said respecting the country, and the impossibility of anyone but an old hand among the mountains making his way there. On the fourth evening he said to Pete Hoskings: "I see that your advice was good, and that it would be madness for me to attempt to go by myself, but I don't see why I should not ride to Fort Bridger; not of course by myself, but with one of the caravans going west. It would be a great deal better for me to do that and to learn something of the plains and camping than to stay here for perhaps three months. At Fort Bridger I shall be able to learn more about the country, and might join some hunting party and gain experience that way. I might find other prospectors going up among the hills, and even if it were not near where my uncle is to be found, I should gain by learning something, and should not be quite a greenhorn when I join him." "Well, that is sensible enough," Pete Hoskings said, "and I don't know as I can say anything against it. You certainly would not be doing any good for yourself here, and I don't say that either an hotel or a saloon is the best place for you. I will think it over, and will let you know when you come round in the morning; maybe I can put you a little in the way of carrying it out." The next morning when Tom went to the saloon, Jerry Curtis, one of the miners he had first met there, was sitting chatting with Pete Hoskings. "I had Jerry in my thoughts when I spoke to you last night, Tom," the latter said. "I knew he was just starting west again, and thought I would put the matter to him. He says he has no objection to your travelling with him as far as Fort Bridger, where maybe he will make a stay himself. There ain't no one as knows the plains much better than he does, and he can put you up to more in the course of a month than you would learn in a year just travelling with a caravan with farmers bound west." "I should be very much obliged indeed," Tom said delightedly. "It would be awfully good of you, Jerry, and I won't be more trouble than I can help." "I don't reckon you will be any trouble at all," the miner said. "I was never set much on travelling alone as some men are. I ain't much of a talker, but I ain't fond of going two or three months without opening my mouth except to put food and drink into it. So if you think you will like it I shall be glad enough to take you. I know Straight Harry well, and I can see you are teachable, and not set upon your own opinions as many young fellows I have met out here are, but ready to allow that there are some things as men who have been at them all their lives may know a little more about than they do. So you may take it that it is a bargain. Now, what have you got in the way of outfit?" "I have not got anything beyond flannel shirts, and rough clothes like these." "They are good enough as far as they go. Two flannel shirts, one on and one off, is enough for any man. Two or three pairs of thick stockings. Them as is very particular can carry an extra pair of breeches in case of getting caught in a storm, though for myself I think it is just as well to let your things dry on you. You want a pair of high boots, a buffalo robe, and a couple of blankets, one with a hole cut in the middle to put your head through; that does as a cloak, and is like what the Mexicans call a poncho. You don't want a coat or waistcoat; there ain't no good in them. All you want to carry you can put in your saddle-bag. Get a pair of the best blankets you can find. I will go with you and choose them for you. You want a thing that will keep you warm when you sleep, and shoot off the rain in bad weather. Common blankets are no better than a sponge. "Then, of course, you must have a six-shooter and a rifle. No man in his senses would start across the plains without them. It is true there ain't much fear of red-skins between here and Bridger, but there is never any saying when the varmint may be about. Can you shoot?" "No; I never fired off a rifle or a pistol in my life." "Well, you had better take a good stock of powder and ball, and you can practise a bit as you go along. A man ain't any use out on these plains if he cannot shoot. I have got a pony; but you must buy one, and a saddle, and fixings. We will buy another between us to carry our swag. But you need not trouble about the things, I will get all that fixed." "Thank you very much. How much do you suppose it will all come to?" "Never you mind what it comes to," Pete Hoskings said roughly. "I told your uncle that if you turned up I would see you through. What you have got to get I shall pay for, and when Straight Harry turns up we shall square it. If he don't turn up at all, there is no harm done. This is my business, and you have got nothing to do with it." Tom saw that he should offend Hoskings if he made any demur, and the kind offer was really a relief to him. He had thirty pounds still in his belt, but he had made a mental calculation of the cost of the things Jerry had considered essential, and found that the cost of a horse and saddle, of half another horse, of the rifle, six-shooter ammunition, blankets, boots, and provisions for the journey, must certainly amount up to more than that sum, and would leave him without any funds to live on till he met his uncle. He was so anxious to proceed that he would have made no excuse, although he saw that he might find himself in a very difficult position. Pete's insistence, therefore, on taking all expenses upon himself, was a considerable relief to him; for although determined to go, he had had an uneasy consciousness that it was a foolish step. He therefore expressed his warm thanks. "There, that is enough said about it," the latter growled out. "The money is nothing to me one way or the other, and it would be hard if I couldn't do this little thing for my old mate's nephew. When are you thinking of making a start, Jerry?" "The sooner the better. I have been four months here already and have not struck a vein, that is, not one really worth working, and the sooner I make a fresh start the better. To-day is Wednesday. There will be plenty of time to get all the things to-day and to-morrow, and we will start at daylight on Friday. You may as well come with me, Tom, and learn something about the prices of things. There are some Indians camped three miles away. We will walk over there first and pick up a couple of ponies. I know they have got a troop of them, that is what they come here to sell. They only arrived yesterday, so we shall have the pick of them." Before starting there was a short conversation between Jerry and the landlord, and then the former put on his broad-brimmed hat. "Have you seen any red-skins yet?" "I saw a few at some of the stations the train stopped at between this and Omaha." "Those fellows are mostly Indians who have been turned out of their tribes for theft or drunkenness, and they hang about the stations to sell moccasins and other things their squaws make, to fresh arrivals. "The fellows you are going to see are Navahoes, though not good specimens of the tribe, or they would not be down here to sell ponies. Still, they are a very different sort from those you have seen." An hour's walking took them to a valley, in which the Indians were encamped. There were eight wigwams. Some women paused in their work and looked round at the newcomers. Their dogs ran up barking furiously, but were driven back by a volley of stones thrown by three or four boys, with so good an aim that they went off with sharp yelps. Jerry strolled along without paying any attention to the dogs or boys towards a party of men seated round a fire. One of them rose as they approached. "My white brothers are welcome," he said courteously. "There is room by the fire for them," and he motioned to them to sit down by his side. A pipe, composed of a long flat wooden stem studded with brass nails, with a bowl cut out of red pipe-stone, was now handed round, each taking a short puff. "Does my brother speak the language of the Navahoes?" the chief asked in that tongue. "I can get along with it," Jerry said, "as I can with most of your Indian dialects." "It is good," the chief said. "My brother is wise; he must have wandered much." "I have been a goodish bit among your hills, chief. Have you come from far?" "The moon was full when we left our village." "Ah, then you have been a fortnight on the road. Well, chief, I have come here to trade. I want to buy a couple of ponies." The chief said a word or two to a boy standing near, and he with four or five others at once started up the valley, and in a few minutes returned with a drove of Indian ponies. "They are not a bad lot," Jerry said to Tom. "They don't look much, Jerry." "Indian ponies never look much, but one of those ponies would gallop an eastern-bred horse to a stand-still." Jerry got up and inspected some of the horses closely, and presently picked out two of them; at a word from the chief two of the lads jumped on their backs and rode off on them at full speed, and then wheeling round returned to the spot from where they started. "My white brother is a judge of horses," the chief said; "he has picked out the best of the lot." "There are three or four others quite as good," Jerry said carelessly. "Now, chief, how many blankets, how much powder and lead, and what else do you want for those two horses?" The chief stated his demands, to which Jerry replied: "You said just now, chief, that I was a wise man; but it seems that you must regard me as a fool." For half an hour an animated argument went on. Two or three times Jerry got up, and they started as if to quit the village, but each time the chief called them back. So animated were their gestures and talk that Tom had serious fears that they were coming to blows, but their voices soon fell and the talk became amicable again. At last Jerry turned to Tom. "The bargain is struck," he said; "but he has got the best of me, and has charged an outrageous sum for them," Then, in his own language, he said to the chief: "At noon to-morrow you will send the ponies down to the town. I will meet them at the big rock, half a mile this side of it, with the trade goods." "They shall be there," the chief said, "though I am almost giving them to you." As they walked away, Tom said: "So you have paid more than you expected, Jerry?" "No, I have got them a bargain; only it would never have done to let the chief know I thought so, or the horses would not have turned up to-morrow. I expect they have all been stolen from some other tribe. The two I have got are first-rate animals, and the goods will come to about fourteen pounds. I shall ride one of them myself, and put our swag on my own pony. That has been a very good stroke of business; they would never have sold them at that price if they had been honestly come by."

3

ON THE PLAINS

The purchase of a buffalo robe, blankets, boots, and a Colt's revolver occupied but a short time, but the rifle was a much more difficult matter. "You can always rely upon a Colt," the miner said, "but rifles are different things; and as your life may often depend upon your shooting-iron carrying straight, you have got to be mighty careful about it. A gun that has got the name of being a good weapon will fetch four times as much as a new one." Denver was but a small place; there was no regular gunsmith's shop, but rifles and pistols were sold at almost every store in the town. In this quest Jerry was assisted by Pete Hoskings, who knew of several men who would be ready to dispose of their rifles. Some of these weapons were taken out into the country and tried at marks by the two men. They made what seemed to Tom wonderful shooting, but did not satisfy Hoskings. "I should like the youngster to have a first-rate piece," he said, "and I mean to get him one if I can. There are two of these would do if we can't get a better, but if there is a first-rate one to be had in this township I will have it." Suddenly he exclaimed, "I must have gone off my head, and be going downright foolish! Why, I know the very weapon. You remember Billy the scout?" "In course I do, everyone knew him. I heard he had gone down just before I got back here." "That is so, Jerry. You know he had a bit of a place up in the hills, four or five miles from here, where he lived with that Indian wife of his when he was not away. I went out to see him a day or two afore he died. I asked him if there was anything I could do for him. He said no, his squaw would get on well enough there. She had been alone most of her time, and would wrestle on just as well when he had gone under. He had a big garden-patch which she cultivated, and brought the things down into the town here. They always fetch a good price. Why more people don't grow them I can't make out; it would pay better than gold-seeking, you bet. He had a few hundred dollars laid by, and he said they might come in handy to her if she fell sick, or if things went hard in winter. Well, you remember his gun?" "In course--his gun was nigh as well known as Billy himself. He used to call it Plumb-centre. You don't mean to say she hasn't sold it?" "She hasn't; at least I should have been sure to hear if she had. I know several of the boys who went to the funeral wanted to buy it, and offered her long prices for it too; but she wouldn't trade. I will ride over there this evening and see what I can do about it. She will sell to me if she sells to anyone, for she knows I was a great chum of Billy's, and I have done her a few good turns. She broke her leg some years back when he was away, and luckily enough I chanced to ride over there the next day. Being alone and without anyone to help, she would have got on badly. I sent a surgeon up to her, and got a redskin woman to go up to nurse her. I don't wonder she did not like to sell Billy's piece, seeing he was so famous with it, and I feel sure money would not do it; but perhaps I can talk her into it." The next morning the articles agreed upon as the price of the horses were packed on Jerry's pony, and they went out to the meeting-place. "It is twenty minutes early," Jerry said, as Tom consulted his watch, "and the red-skins won't be here till it is just twelve o'clock. A red-skin is never five minutes before or five minutes after the time he has named for a meeting. It may have been set six months before, and at a place a thousand miles away, but just at the hour, neither before nor after, he will be there. A white man will keep the appointment; but like enough he will be there the night before, will make his camp, sleep, and cook a meal or two, but he does not look for the red-skin till exactly the hour named, whether it is sunrise or sunset or noon. Red-skins ain't got many virtues,--least there ain't many of them has, though I have known some you could trust all round as ready as any white man,--but for keeping an appintment they licks creation." A few minutes before twelve o'clock three Indians were seen coming down the valley on horseback. They were riding at a leisurely pace, and it was exactly the hour when they drew rein in front of Tom and his companion. Jerry had already unloaded his pony and had laid out the contents of the pack. First he proceeded to examine the two ponies, to make sure that they were the same he had chosen. "That is all right," he said; "they would hardly have tried to cheat us over that--they would know that it would not pay with me. There, chief, is your exchange. You will see that the blankets are of good quality. There is the keg of powder, the bar of lead, ten plugs of tobacco, the cloth for the squaws, and all the other things agreed on." The chief examined them carefully, and nodded his satisfaction. "If all the pale-faces dealt as fairly with the red man as you have done there would not be so much trouble between them," he said. "That is right enough, chief; it can't be gainsaid that a great many, ay, I might say the most part, of the traders are rogues. But they would cheat us just the same as they would you, and often do take us in. I have had worthless goods passed off on me many a time; and I don't blame you a bit if you put a bullet into the skull of a rogue who has cheated you, for I should be mightily inclined to do the same myself." No more words were wasted; the lads who had ridden the ponies down made up the goods in great bundles and went up the valley with their chief, while Jerry and Tom took the plaited leather lariats which were round the ponies' necks and returned to Denver. A saddle of Mexican pattern, with high peak and cantle, massive wooden framework, huge straps and heavy stirrups, was next bought. Jerry folded a horse-rug and tried it in different positions on the horse's back until the saddle fitted well upon it. "That is the thing that you have got to be most particular about, Tom. If the saddle does not sit right the horse gets galled, and when a horse once gets galled he ain't of much use till he is well again, though the Indians ride them when they are in a terrible state; but then they have got so many horses that, unless they are specially good, they don't hold them of any account. You see the saddle is so high that there is good space between it and the backbone, and the pressure comes fair on the ribs, so the ponies don't get galled if the blankets are folded properly. The Indians do not use saddles, but ride either on a pad or just a folded blanket, and their ponies are always getting galled." "The saddle is tremendously heavy." "It is heavy, but a few pounds don't make much difference to the horse one way or the other, so that he is carrying it comfortably. The saddles would be no good if they were not made strong, for a horse may put his foot in a hole and come down head over heels, or may tumble down a precipice, and the saddle would be smashed up if it were not pretty near as strong as cast-iron. Out on the plains a man thinks as much of his saddle as he does of his horse, and more. If his horse dies he will put the saddle on his head and carry it for days rather than part with it, for he knows he won't be long before he gets a horse again. He can buy one for a few charges of powder and ball from the first friendly Indians he comes across, or he may get one given to him if he has nothing to exchange for it, or if he comes across a herd of wild horses he can crease one." "What is creasing a horse?" Tom asked. "Well, it is a thing that wants a steady hand, for you have got to hit him just on the right spot--an inch higher, you will miss him; half an inch lower, you will kill him. You have got to put a bullet through his neck two or three inches behind the ears and just above the spine. Of course if you hit the spine you kill him, and he is no good except to give you a meal or two if you are hard-up for food; but if the ball goes through the muscles of the neck, just above the spine, the shock knocks him over as surely as if you had hit him in the heart. It stuns him, and you have only got to run up and put your lariat round his neck, and be ready to mount him as soon as he rises, which he will do in two or three minutes, and he will be none the worse for the shock; in fact you will be able to break him in more easily than if you had caught him by the rope." Jerry then adjusted his own saddle to the other Indian horse. "Can you ride?" he asked. "No, I have never had any chance of learning at home." "Well, you had better have a lesson at once. This is a good way for a beginner;" and he took a blanket, and having rolled it up tightly, strapped it over the peak of the saddle and down the flaps. "There," he said. "You get your knees against that, and what with the high peak and the high cantle you can hardly be chucked out anyhow, that is, if the horse does not buck; but I will try him as to that before you mount. We will lead them out beyond the town, we don't want to make a circus of ourselves in the streets; besides, if you get chucked, you will fall softer there than you would on the road. But first of all we will give them a feed of corn. You see they are skeary of us at present. Indian horses are always afraid of white men at first, just as white men's horses are afraid of Indians. A feed of corn will go a long way towards making us good friends, for you may be sure they have never had a feed in their lives beyond what they could pick up for themselves." The horses snuffed the corn with some apprehension when it was held out towards them, backing away from the sieves with their ears laid back; but seeing that no harm came to them they presently investigated the food more closely, and at last took a mouthful, after which they proceeded to eat greedily, their new masters patting their necks and talking to them while they did so. Then their saddles and bridles were put on, and they were led out of the stable and along the streets. At first they were very fidgety and wild at the unaccustomed sights and sounds, but their fear gradually subsided, and by the time they were well in the country they went along quietly enough. "Now you hold my horse, Tom, and I will try yours." Jerry mounted and galloped away; in ten minutes he returned. "He will do," he said as he dismounted. "He is fresh yet and wants training. I don't suppose he has been ridden half a dozen times, but with patience and training he will turn out a first-rate beast. I could see they were both fast when those boys rode them. I don't wonder the chief asked what, for an Indian pony, was a mighty long price, though it was cheap enough for such good animals. He must have two or three uncommon good ones at home or he would never have parted with them, for when an Indian gets hold of an extra good pony no price will tempt him to sell it, for a man's life on the plains often depends on the speed and stay of his horse. Now, I will take a gallop on my own, and when I come back you can mount and we will ride on quietly together. "There is not much difference between them," he said on his return. "Yours is a bit faster. Pete told me to get you the best horse I could find, and I fixed upon yours, directly my eye fell upon him, as being the pick of the drove. But this is a good one too, and will suit me as well as yours, for he is rather heavier, and will carry me better than yours would do on a long journey. Now climb up into your saddle." Jerry laughed at the difficulty Tom had in lifting his leg over the high cantle. "You will have to practise presently putting your hands on the saddle and vaulting into it. Half a minute in mounting may make all the difference between getting away and being rubbed out. When you see the red-skins coming yelling down on you fifty yards away, and your horse is jumping about as scared as you are, it is not an easy matter to get on to its back if you have got to put your foot in the stirrup first. You have got to learn to chuck yourself straight into your seat whether you are standing still or both on the run. There, how do you feel now?" "I feel regularly wedged into the saddle." "That is right. I will take up the stirrups a hole, then you will get your knees firmer against the blanket. It is better to learn to ride without it, even if you do get chucked off a few times, but as we start to-morrow you have no time for that. In a few days, when you get at home in the saddle, we will take off the blanket, and you have got to learn to hold on by your knees and by the balance of your body. Now we will be moving on." As soon as the reins were slackened the horses started together at an easy canter. "That is their pace," Jerry said. "Except on a very long journey, when he has got squaws and baggage with him, a red-skin never goes at a walk, and the horses will keep on at this lope for hours. That is right. Don't sit so stiffly; you want your legs to be stiff and keeping a steady grip, but from your hips you want to be as slack as possible, just giving to the horse's action, the same way you give on board ship when vessels are rolling. That is better. Ah! here comes Pete. I took this way because I knew it was the line he would come back by--and, by gosh, he has got the rifle, sure enough!" Pete had seen them, and was waving the gun over his head. "I've got it," he said as he reined up his horse when he met them. "It was a stiff job, for she did not like to part with it. I had to talk to her a long time. I put it to her that when she died the gun would have to go to someone, and I wanted it for a nephew of Straight Harry, whom she knew well enough; that it was for a young fellow who was safe to turn out a great hunter and Indian fighter like her husband, and that he would be sure to do credit to Plumb-centre, and make the gun as famous in his hands as it had been in her husband's. That fetched her. She said I had been kind to her, and though she could not have parted with the gun for money, she would do it, partly to please me, and partly because she knew that Straight Harry had been a friend of her husband's, and had fought by his side, and that the young brave I spoke of, would be likely to do credit to Plumb-centre. Her husband, she said, would be glad to know that it was in such good hands. So she handed it over to me. She would not hear of taking money for it; indeed, I did not press it, knowing that she would feel that it was almost a part of her husband; but I will make it up to her in other ways. There, Tom; there is as good a shooting-iron as there is in all the territories." "Thank you very much indeed, Pete. I shall value it immensely, and I only hope that some day I shall be able to do credit to it, as the poor woman said." There was nothing particular in the appearance of the rifle. It was a plainly-finished piece, with a small bore and heavy metal. "It don't look much," Jerry said, "but it is a daisy, you bet." "We will try a shot with it, Jerry. She gave me the bag of bullets and a box of patches and his powder-horn with it. We will see what it will do in our hands, we are both pretty good shots." He loaded the rifle carefully. "You see that bit of black rock cropping out of the hill-side. I guess it is about two hundred and fifty yards away, and is about the size a red-skin's head would be if he were crawling through the grass towards us. Will you shoot first or shall I?" "Fire away, Pete." Hoskings took a steady aim and fired. "You have hit it," Jerry exclaimed. "Just grazed it at the top." They walked across to the rock; there was a chip just on the top. "It was a good shot, Pete; especially considering how you are out of practice. If it had been a red-skin it would have stunned him sure, for I doubt whether it is not too high by a quarter of an inch or so, to have finished him altogether." [Illustration: JERRY GIVES TOM A LESSON IN SHOOTING.] "It would have cut his top-knot off, Jerry, and that is all. I doubt whether it would have even touched his skin." They returned to the spot where Pete had fired, and Jerry threw himself down on the grass and levelled his rifle. "That is not fair, Jerry," Pete protested. "It would not be fair if I was shooting against you, but we are only trying the rifle, and if that rock were a red-skin you may be sure that I should be lying down." He fired: and on going to the stone again they found that the bullet had struck it fair, within an inch of its central point. "That is something like a rifle," Jerry said delighted. "Now, Tom, you shall have a shot." As they walked to the shooting-point, Jerry showed the lad how to hold the rifle, instructed him as to the backsight, and showed him how to get the foresight exactly on the nick of the backsight. "You must just see the bead as if it were resting in the nick, and the object you aim at must just show above the top point of the bead." He showed him how to load, and then told him to lie down, as he had done, on his chest, and to steady the rifle with the left arm, the elbow being on the ground. "You must be quite comfortable," he said; "it is of no use trying to shoot if you are in a cramped position. Now, take a steady aim, and the moment you have got the two sights in a line on the rock, press the trigger steadily. Press pretty hard; it is only a pull of about two pounds, but it is wonderful how stiff a trigger feels the first time you pull at it. You need not be at all afraid of the kick. If you press the butt tightly against your shoulder you will hardly feel it, for there is plenty of weight in the barr'l, and it carries but a small charge of powder. You won't want to shoot at anything much beyond this range, but sometimes you may have to try at four or five hundred yards when you are in want of a dinner. In that case you can put in a charge and a half of powder. Now, are you comfortable? You need not grip so hard with your left hand, the gun only wants to rest between your thumb and fingers. That is better. Now take a steady aim, and the moment you have got it press the trigger. Well done! that is a good shot for a first. You hit the dust an inch or two to the right of the stone. If it had been a red-skin you would have hit him in the shoulder. You will do, lad, and by the time we get to Fort Bridger I guess you will bring down a stag as clean as nine out of ten hunters." "Don't get into the way of waiting too long before you fire, Tom," Pete Hoskings said. "Better to try to shoot too quick to begin with than to be too long about it. When you have made up your mind that you are going to shoot, get your bead on your mark and fire at once. You may want to hit a red-skin's head as he looks out from behind a tree, and to do that you must fire the instant you see him or he will be in again. One of the best shots I ever saw never used to raise his gun to his shoulder at all. He just dropped his piece into the hollow of his left hand, and would fire as he touched it. He did not seem to take any aim at all, but his bullet was sartin to hit the thing he wanted to, even if it were no bigger than an orange. He could not tell himself how he did it. 'I seen the thing and I fired, Pete,' he would say; 'the gun seems to point right of its own accord, I have not anything to say to it.' You see, shooting is a matter of eye. Some men may shoot all their lives, and they will never be more than just respectable, while others shoot well the first time that a gun is put in their hands. Want of nerve is what spoils half men's shooting; that and taking too long an aim. Well, it is time for us to be mounting and getting back. I have got to see that the dinner is all ready. I never can trust that black scoundrel, Sam, to do things right while I am away." The preparations for the journey were completed by the evening. "Now mind, Tom," Pete Hoskings said the last thing before going to bed, "if you don't find your uncle, or if you hear that he has got wiped out, be sure you come right back here. Whether you are cut out for a hunter or not, it will do you a world of good to stick to the life until you get four or five years older and settle as to how you like to fix yourself, for there ain't no better training than a few years out on the plains, no matter what you do afterwards. I will find a good chum for you, and see you through it, both for the sake of my old mate, Straight Harry, and because I have taken a liking to you myself." "Why do you call my uncle Straight Harry?" Tom asked, after thanking Pete for his promise. "Is he so very upright?" "No, lad, no; it ain't nothing to do with that. There are plenty more erect men than him about. He is about the size of Jerry, though, maybe a bit taller. No; he got to be called Straight Harry because he was a square man, a chap everyone could trust. If he said he would do a thing he would do it; there weren't no occasion for any papers to bind him. When he said a thing you could bet on it. You could buy a mine on his word: if he said it was good you need not bother to take a journey to look at it, you knew it was right there, and weren't a put-up job. Once when we were working down on the Yuba we got to a place where there were a fault in the rock, and the lode had slipped right away from us. Everyone in camp knew that we had been doing well, and we had only got to pile up a few pieces of rock at the bottom, and no one who would have seen it would have known that the lode was gone. That is what most chaps would have done, and a third chap who was working with us was all for doing it. Anyone would have given us five hundred ounces for it. Well, I didn't say nothing, it was what pretty nigh anyone on the mines would have done if he had the chance, but Harry turned on our partner like a mountain lion. 'You are a mean skunk, New Jersey' says he. 'Do you think that I would be one to rob a man only because he would be fool enough to take a place without looking at it? We've worked to the edge of the claim both ways, and I don't reckon there is a dollar's worth of gold left in it, now that it has pettered out at the bottom, and if there was I would not work another day with a man who proposed to get up a swindle.' So as soon as he got up to the surface he told everyone that the lode had gone out and that the claim weren't worth a red cent. He and New Jersey had a big fight with fists that evening. The other was bigger than Harry, and stronger, but he were no hand with his pistol, and Harry is a dead shot; so he told New Jersey he would fight him English fashion, and Harry gave him the biggest licking I ever saw a man have. I felt pretty mean myself, you bet, for having thought of planting the thing off; but as I hadn't spoken, Harry knew nothing about it. If he had, I doubt if he would ever have given me his hand again. Yes, sir, he is a straight man all round, and there is no man better liked than Harry. Why, there are a score of men in this town who know him as I do, and, if he came to them and said, 'I have struck it rich, I will go halves with you if you will plank down twenty thousand dollars to open her up,' they would pay down the cash without another word; and, I tell you, there ain't ten men west of the Missouri of whom as much could be said." The next morning at daybreak Jerry and Tom started. They rode due north, skirting the foot of the hills, till they reached the emigrant route, for the railway had not been carried farther than Wabash, from which point it ran south to Denver. It was a journey of some five hundred miles to Fort Bridger, and they took a month to accomplish it, sometimes following the ordinary line of travel, sometimes branching off more to the north, where game was still abundant. "That is Fort Bridger, Tom. It ain't much of a place to look at; but is, like all these forts, just a strong palisading, with a clump of wooden huts for the men in the middle. Well, the first stage of your journey is over, and you know a little more now than when you left Denver; but though I have taught you a good bit, you will want another year's practice with that shooting-iron afore you're a downright good shot; but you have come on well, and the way you brought down that stag on a run yesterday was uncommon good. You have made the most of your opportunities, and have got a steady hand and a good eye. You are all right on your horse now, and can be trusted to keep your seat if you have a pack of red-skins at your heels. You have learnt to make a camp, and to sleep comfortable on the ground; you can frizzle a bit of deer-flesh over the fire, and can bake bread as well as a good many. Six months of it and you will be a good plain's-man. I wish we had had a shot at buffalo. They are getting scarcer than they were, and do not like crossing the trail. We ain't likely to see many of them west of the Colorado; the ground gets too hilly for them, and there are too many bad lands." "What are bad lands, Jerry?" "They are just lands where Nature, when she made them, had got plenty of rock left, but mighty little soil or grass seed. There are bad lands all over the country, but nowhere so bad as the tract on both sides of the Green and Colorado rivers. You may ride fifty miles any way over bare rock without seeing a blade of grass unless you get down into some of the valleys, and you may die of thirst with water under your feet." "How do you mean, Jerry?" "The rivers there don't act like the rivers in other parts. Instead of working round the foot of the hills they just go through them. You ride along on what seems to be a plain, and you come suddenly to a crack that ain't perhaps twenty or thirty feet across, and you look down, if you have got head enough to do it, and there, two thousand feet or more below you, you see a river foaming among rocks. It ain't one river or it ain't another river as does it; every little stream from the hills cuts itself its cañon and makes its way along till it meets two or three others, then they go on together, cutting deeper and deeper until they run into one of the arms of the Green River or the Colorado or the Grand. "The Green and the Colorado are all the same river, only the upper part is called the Green. For about a thousand miles it runs through great cañons. No one has ever gone down them, and I don't suppose anyone ever will; and people don't know what is the course of the river from the time it begins this game till it comes out a big river on the southern plains. You see, the lands are so bad there is no travelling across them, and the rapids are so terrible that there is no going down them. Even the Indians never go near the cañons if they can help it. I believe they think the whole thing is the work of an evil spirit." "But you said some of the valleys had grass?" "Yes; I have gone down one or two myself from the mountains of Utah, where the stream, instead of cutting a cañon for itself, has behaved for a bit in the ordinary way and made a valley. Wonderfully good places they were--plenty of grass, plenty of water, and no end of game. I have spent some months among them, and got a wonderful lot of skins, beavers principally of course, but half a dozen mountain lions and two grizzlies. I did not bring home their skins, you bet. They were too heavy, and I should not have troubled them if they had not troubled me. There was good fish, too, in the streams, and I never had a better time. The red-skins happened to be friendly, and I was with a hunter who had a red-skin wife and a dozen ponies. If it hadn't been for that I should soon have had to quit, for it ain't no good hunting if you can't carry away the skins. As it was I made a good job of it, for I got nigh a thousand dollars for my skins at Utah. "Well, here we are at the fort. I guess we may as well make our camp outside. If you go in you have got to picket your horse here and put your baggage there and come in at gun-fire, and all sorts of things that troubles a man who is accustomed to act as he likes." The horses were soon picketed. "I will go in first and see who is here, Tom. There are usually a lot of loafing Indians about these forts, and though it is safe enough to leave our traps, out on the plain, it will not do here. We must stay with them, or at any rate keep them in sight; besides, these two horses would be a temptation to any redskin who happened to want an animal." "I will wait willingly, Jerry; I should know nobody inside the fort if I went in. I will see to making a fire and boiling the kettle, and I will have supper ready at seven o'clock." "I shall be sure to be back by that time; like enough I sha'n't be a quarter of an hour away." It was but half an hour, indeed, before Tom saw him returning, accompanied by a tall red-skin. "This is a friend of mine, Tom. He was a chief of the Senecas, but his tribe are nearly wiped out, and he has been all his life a hunter, and there are few of us who have been much out on the plains who don't know him. Chief, this is Straight Harry's nephew I was telling you of, who has come out here to join his uncle. Sit down, we have got some deer-flesh. Tom here knocked one over on the run at two hundred and fifty yards by as good a shot as you want to see; while it is cooking we can smoke a pipe and have a chat." The chief gravely seated himself by the fire. "What have you been doing since I last saw you up near the Yellowstone?" "Leaping Horse has been hunting," the Indian said quietly, with a wave of his hand, denoting that he had been over a wide expanse of country. "I guessed so," Jerry put in. "And fighting with 'Rappahoes and Navahoes." "Then you've been north and south?" The Indian nodded. "Much trouble with both; they wanted our scalps. But four of the 'Rappahoe lodges are without a master, and there are five Navahoe widows." "Then you were not alone?" "Garrison was with me among the 'Rappahoes; and the Shoshone hunter, Wind-that-blows, was with me when the Navahoes came on our trail." "They had better have left you alone, chief. Do you know the Ute country?" "The Leaping Horse has been there. The Utes are dogs." "They are troublesome varmint, like most of the others," Jerry agreed. "I was telling you Straight Harry is up in their country somewhere. Tom here is anxious to join him, but of course that can't be. You have not heard anything of him, I suppose?" "The Leaping Horse was with him a week ago." "You were, chief! Why did you not tell me so when I was saying we did not know where he was?" "My white brother did not ask," the chief said quietly. "That is true enough, chief, but you might have told me without asking." The Indian made no reply, but continued to smoke his hatchet pipe tranquilly, as if the remark betrayed such ignorance of Indian manners that it was not worth replying to. Tom took up the conversation now. "Was it far from here that you saw him?" "Five days' journey, if travel quick." "Was he hunting?" Jerry asked. "Hunting, and looking for gold." "Who had he with him?" "Two white men. One was Ben Gulston. Leaping Horse had met him in Idaho. The other was called Sam, a big man with a red beard." "Yes, Sam Hicks; he only came back from California a few months back, so you would not be likely to have met him before. Were they going to remain where you left them?" The Indian shook his head. "They were going farther north." "Farther north!" Jerry repeated. "Don't you mean farther south?" "Leaping Horse is not mistaken, he knows his right hand from his left." "Of course, of course, chief," the miner said apologetically; "I only thought that it was a slip of the tongue. Then if they were going farther north they must have come back in this direction." "They were on the banks of the Big Wind River when Leaping Horse met them." "Jerusalem!" the miner exclaimed. "What on airth are they doing there? Why, we thought they had gone down to the west of the Colorado. I told you so, chief, when I talked to you about it; and instead of that, here they are up in the country of the 'Rappahoes and Shoshones." "They went south," the Indian said quietly, "and had trouble with the Utes and had to come back again, then they went north." "Ah, that accounts for it. I wonder Harry didn't send word to Pete Hoskings that he had gone up to the Big Wind River. I ain't heard of there being any gold in that region, though some think that coming down through the big hills from Yellowstone Valley on the northwest, metal might be struck." "Going to look for gold a little," the chief said, "hunt much; not stay there very long, mean to go down south again after a bit. Leaping Horse go with them." "Oh, I see. The Utes had come upon them, and they knew that if they stopped there they would lose their scalps sooner or later, so they came up here and made north for a bit to hunt and fossick about in the hills, and then go back when the Utes had quieted down." The chief nodded. "Well, well, that alters the affair altogether. Whereabouts did you leave them?" "Near the Buffalo Lake." "Don't know it. Where does it lie?" "On a stream that runs into the river from the west, from a valley running up near Frémont's Buttes. They were going up so as to follow the Rivière de Noir, and then either strike up across the hills to the Upper Yellowstone, or go out west and come down over the Grosventre range on to the Wyoming range, and then down through Thompson's Pass, or else skirt the foot-hills on to the Green River." "Waal, chief, I reckon that among all those hills and mountains, one would have just about the same chance of lighting on them as you would have of finding a chipmunk in a big pine-forest." "Couldn't find," the chief said, "but might follow. If they go fast never catch them; if wait about, hunt beaver, look for gold and silver, then might come up to them easy enough, if 'Rappahoes not catch and kill. Very bad place. Leaping Horse told them so. White brother said he think so too; but other men think they find gold somewhere, so they go on. They have got horses, of course. Three horses to ride, three horses to carry beaver-traps and food. Leaping Horse came back here to sell his skins. He had promised to meet a friend here, or he would not have left Straight Harry, who is a good man and a friend of Leaping Horse. Three men not enough in bad country." "Do you think there would be any chance of my finding them?" Tom asked eagerly. A slight gleam of amusement passed over the Indian's face. "My brother is very young," he said. "He will be a brave warrior and a great hunter some day, but his eyes are not opened yet. Were he to try he would leave his scalp to dry in the 'Rappahoes' lodges." "That is just what I told him, chief. It would be sheer madness." The Indian made no reply, and Jerry turned the conversation. "You don't drink spirits, chief, or I would go and get a bottle from the fort." "Leaping Horse is not a madman," the Indian said scornfully, "that he should poison his brain with fire-water." "Yes; I remembered, chief, that you had fallen into our ways and drink tea." "Tea is good," the Indian said. "It is the best thing the white man has brought out on to the plains." "That is so, chief, except tobacco. We did not bring that; but I reckon you got it from the Spaniards long ago, though maybe you knew of it before they came up from the south." The meat was now cooked, and Tom took it off the fire and handed the pieces on the ramrod, that had served as a spit, to the others, together with some bread, poured out the tea from the kettle, and placed a bag of sugar before them. There was little talk until after the meal was over. Then the Indian and Jerry smoked steadily, while Tom took a single pipe, having only commenced the use of tobacco since he had left Denver. Presently the Indian arose. "In the morning I will see my white friends again," he said, and without further adieu turned and walked gravely back to the fort.

4

LEAPING HORSE

"He is a fine fellow," Jerry said, after the Indian had left him. "You must have a talk with him one of these days over his adventures among the 'Rappahoes and Navahoes, who are both as troublesome rascals as are to be found on the plains. An Indian seldom talks of his adventures, but sometimes when you can get him in the right humour you may hear about them." "He talks very fair English," Tom said. "Yes; he has been ten years among us. He was employed for two or three years supplying the railway men with meat; but no Indian cares to hunt long in one place, and he often goes away with parties of either hunters or gold-seekers. He knows the country well, and is a first-rate shot; and men are always glad to have him with them. There is no more trusty red-skin on the plains, and he will go through fire and water for those whom he regards as his special friends. I should say he is about the one man alive who could take you to your uncle." "Do you think he would?" Tom asked eagerly. "Ah, that is another matter; I don't know what his plans are. If he is engaged to go with another party he will go, for he would not fail anyone to whom he had made a promise. If he isn't engaged he might perhaps do it. Not for pay, for he has little use for money. His hunting supplies him with all he wants. It gives him food, and occasionally he will go with a bundle of pelts to the nearest town, and the money he gets for them will supply him with tea and tobacco and ammunition, and such clothes as he requires, which is little enough. Buckskin is everlasting wear, and he gets his worked up for him by the women of any Indian tribe among whom he may be hunting. If he were one of these fort Indians it would be only a question of money; but it would never do to offer it to him. He does not forget that he is a chief, though he has been away so many years from what there is left of his old tribe. If he did it at all it would be for the sake of your uncle. I know they have hunted together, and fought the Apachés together. I won't say but that if we get at him the right way, and he don't happen to have no other plans in his mind, that he might not be willing to start with you." "I should be glad if he would, Jerry. I have been quite dreading to get to Fort Bridger. I have had such a splendid time of it with you that I should feel awfully lonely after you had gone on." "Yes, I dare say you would feel lonesome. I should have felt lonesome myself if I did not light upon some mate going the same way. We got on very well together, Tom. When Pete Hoskings first put it to me whether I would be willing to take you with me as far as this, I thought that though I liked you well enough, it would not be in my way to be playing a sort of schoolmaster business to a young tenderfoot; but I had got to like the notion before we left Denver, and now it seems to me that we have had a rare good time of it together." "We have indeed, Jerry; at least I have had. Even if the Indian would agree to take me I should miss you awfully." Jerry made no reply, but sat smoking his pipe and looking into the fire. As he was sometimes inclined to be taciturn, Tom made no attempt to continue the conversation; and after moving out and shifting the picket-pegs so as to give the horses a fresh range of grass to munch during the night, he returned to the fire, wrapped himself in his blankets and lay down, his "Good-night, Jerry," meeting with no response, his companion being evidently absorbed in his own thoughts. "You are not going on to-day, Jerry, are you?" Tom said, as he threw off his blankets and sat up in the morning. The sun was not yet up, but Jerry had already stirred up the embers, put some meat over them to cook, and put the kettle among them. "No, I shall stop here for a day or two, lad. I am in no special hurry, and have no call to push on. I have not made up my mind about things yet." They had scarcely finished breakfast when Leaping Horse came down from the fort. "Tom here has been asking me, chief, whether there was any chance of getting you to guide him to his uncle. I said, of course, that I did not know what your plans were; but that if you had nothing special before you, possibly you might be willing to do so, as I know that you and Straight Harry have done some tall hunting and fighting together." The Indian's face was impassive. "Can my young brother ride day after day and night after night, can he go long without food and water, is he ready to run the risk of his scalp being taken by the 'Rappahoes? Can he crawl and hide, can he leave his horse and travel on foot, can he hear the war-cry of the red-skins without fear?" "I don't say that I can do all these things, chief," Tom said; "but I can do my best. And, anyhow, I think I can promise that if we should be attacked you shall see no signs of my being afraid, whatever I may feel. I am only a boy yet, but I hope I am not a coward." "You have come a long way across the sea to find my brother, Straight Harry. You would not have come so far alone if your heart had been weak. Leaping Horse is going back to join his white brother again, and will take you to him." Tom felt that any outburst of delight would be viewed with distaste by this grave Indian, and he replied simply: "I thank you with all my heart, chief, and I am sure that my uncle will be grateful to you." The chief nodded his head gravely, and then, as if the matter were settled and no more need be said about it, he turned to Jerry: "Which way is my white friend going?" "I'm dog-goned if I know. I had reckoned to go down past Utah, and to go out prospecting among the hills, say a hundred miles farther west; then while I journeyed along with Tom I got mixed in my mind. I should like to have handed him over safe to Harry; but if Harry had gone down to the Ute hills with an idea of trying a spot I have heard him speak of, where he thought he had struck it rich, he might not have cared to have had me come there, and so I concluded last night it was best the lad should wait here till Harry got back. Now the thing is altered; they are just hunting and prospecting, and might be glad to have me with them, and I might as well be there as anywhere else; so as you are going back there, I reckon I shall be one of the party." "That will be capital, Jerry," Tom said. "With you as well as the chief we shall be sure to get through; and it will be awfully jolly having you with us." "Don't you make any mistake," the miner said, "I should not be of much more use in finding them than you would. I ain't been up among the mountains all these years without learning something, but I ain't no more than a child by the side of the chief. And don't you think this affair is going to be a circus. I tell you it is going to be a hard job. There ain't a dozen white men as have been over that country, and we shall want to be pretty spry if we are to bring back our scalps. It is a powerful rough country. There are peaks there, lots of them, ten thousand feet high, and some of them two or three thousand above that. There are rivers, torrents, and defiles. I don't say there will be much chance of running short of food, if it wasn't that half the time one will be afraid to fire for fear the 'tarnal Indians should hear us. We ain't got above a month afore the first snows fall. Altogether it is a risky business, look at it which way you will." "Well, Jerry, if it is as bad as that, I don't think it will be right for you and the chief to risk your lives merely that I should find my uncle. If he is alive he is sure to come back here sooner or later; or if he goes some other way back to Denver he will hear from Pete that I am here, and will either write or come for me." "It ain't entirely on your account, lad, as I am thinking of going; and I am pretty sure the chief would tell you that it is the same with him. You see, he tried to persuade your uncle to turn back. My opinion is, that though he had to come here to keep the appointment, he had it in his mind to go back again to join your uncle. Haven't I about struck your thoughts, chief?" The chief nodded. "My white brother Harry is in danger," he said. "Leaping Horse had to leave him; but would have started back to-day to take his place by his side. The Hunting Dog will go with him." "I thought so, chief; I am dog-goned if I did not think so. It was Hunting Dog you came back here to meet, I suppose." "Hunting Dog is of my tribe," he said; "he is my sister's son. He came across the plains to join me. He has hunted in his own country; this is the first time he has come out to take his place as a man. Leaping Horse will teach him to be a warrior." "That is good; the more the better, so that there ain't too many. Well, what is your advice, chief? Shall we take our pack pony with the outfit?" The chief shook his head decidedly. "Must travel quick and be able to gallop fast. My white brothers must take nothing but what they can carry with them." "All right, chief; we will not overload ourselves. We will just take our robes and blankets, our shooting-irons, some tea and sugar, and a few pounds of flour. At what time shall we start?" "In an hour we will ride out from the fort." "We shall be ready. Ten minutes would fix us, except that I must go into the fort and sell my critter and what flour and outfit we sha'n't want, to a trader there. "I ain't done badly by that deal," Jerry said when he returned. "I have sold the pony for more than I gave for him; for the red-skins have been keeping away from the fort of late, and the folks going by are always wanting horses in place of those that have died on the way. The other things all sold for a good bit more than we gave for them at Denver. Carriage comes mighty high on these plains; besides, the trader took his chances and reckoned them in." "How do you mean, Jerry?" "Waal, I told him we was going up to the Shoshone Sierra, and intended to hunt about and to come back, maybe by the Yellowstone and then by the Bear rivers, and that we would take the price of the goods out in trade when we got back. That made it a sort of lottery for him, for if we never came back at all he would never have to pay, so he could afford to take his risks and offer me a good price. I reckon he thinks he has got them at a gift. He has given two pieces of paper, one for you and one for me, saying that he owes the two of us the money; so if I should go under and you should get back, you will draw it all right." They at once proceeded to pack their ponies. Divided between the saddle-bags of the two animals were four pounds of tea, eight of sugar, and thirty-six of flour. Each took a good store of ammunition, an extra pair of breeches, a flannel shirt, and a pair of stockings. The rest of their clothes had been packed, and taken up by Jerry to the traders to lie there until their return. "That is light enough for anything," Jerry said, when the things were stowed into the saddle-bags. "Four-and-twenty pounds of grub and five pounds of ammunition brings it up to nine-and-twenty pounds each, little enough for a trip that may last three months for aught we know." In addition to the ammunition in the saddle-bags, each carried a powder-horn and a bag of bullets over his shoulder. The revolvers were in their belts, and the rifles slung behind them. While Jerry was away at the fort Tom had made and baked three loaves, which were cut up and put in the holsters. "Now we are ready, Tom; the Indians will be out in a minute or two. The sun is just at its highest." Two minutes later the chief and his companion rode out from the gate of the fort. Jerry and Tom mounted their horses and cantered over to meet them. As they came up, Tom looked with interest at the young Indian. He judged him to be about nineteen, and he had a bright and intelligent face. He was, like his uncle, attired in buckskin; but the shirt was fringed and embroidered, as was the band that carried his powder-horn, a gift, doubtless, from some Indian maiden at his departure from his village. No greetings were exchanged; but the chief and Jerry rode at once side by side towards the northeast, and Tom took his place by the side of the young Indian. "How are you?" he said, holding out his hand. The young Indian took it and responded to the shake, but he shook his head. "Ah, you don't speak English yet?" Hunting Dog again shook his head. "That is a pity," Tom went on; "it would have been jolly if we could have talked together." The chief said something to Jerry, who turned around in his saddle. "His uncle says he can talk some. He has taught him a little when he has paid visits to the village, but he has had no practice in speaking it. He will get on after a time." All were well mounted, and they travelled fast. Just before sunset they crossed the Green River at a ford used by the emigrants, and some fifty miles northeast of Fort Bridger. They had seen a herd of deer by the way, and the two Indians had dismounted and stalked them. The others lost sight of them, but when two rifle-shots were heard Jerry said, "We will take the horses along to them, you may be sure they have got meat; the chief is a dead shot, and he says that his nephew has also gifts that way." As they expected, they found the Indians standing beside two dead deer. Hunting Dog laid open the stomachs with a slash of his knife, and removed the entrails, then tying the hind legs together swung the carcasses on to his horse behind the saddle, and the journey was at once renewed. "You will make for Frémont's Buttes, I suppose, chief?" Jerry said, as after riding up the river for three or four miles so as to be able to obtain wood for their fire--as for a considerable distance on either side of the emigrant trail not a shrub was to be seen--they dismounted, turned the horses loose, lit a fire, and prepared a meal. "Yes. We will go over the pass and camp at one of the little lakes at the head of the north fork, thence we will ride across the plain and ford Little Wind River, and then follow up the Sage Creek and make our camp at night on Buffalo Lake. From there we must follow their trail." "And where shall we have to begin to look out for the 'Rappahoes?" "They may be over the next rise; no one can say. The 'Rappahoes are like the dead leaves drifting before the wind. They come as far south as the emigrant trail, and have attacked caravans many times. After to-night we must look out for them always, and must put out our fires before dark." Tom had noticed how carefully the young Indian had selected the wood for the fire; searching carefully along by the edge of the river for drift-wood, and rejecting all that contained any sap. He himself had offered to cut down some wood with the axe he carried strapped to his saddle, but Hunting Dog had shaken his head. "No good, no good," he said. "Make heap smoke; smoke very bad." Tom thought that the shrub he was about to cut would give out obnoxious smoke that would perhaps flavour the meat hanging over it, but when the Indian added, "Heap smoke, red-skins see a long way," he understood that Hunting Dog had been so careful in choosing the wood in order to avoid making any smoke whatever that might attract the attention of Indians at a distance from them. It was his first lesson in the necessity for caution; and as darkness set in he looked round several times, half expecting to see some crouching red-skins. The careless demeanour of his companions, however, reassured him, for he felt certain that if there was any fear of a surprise, they would be watchful. After supper the Indian talked over with Jerry the route they would most probably have to pursue. The miner had never been in this part of the country before; indeed, very few white men, with the exception of trappers who had married Indian women and had been admitted into their tribes, had ever penetrated into this, the wildest portion of the Rocky Mountains. Vague rumours existed of the abundance of game there, and of the existence of gold, but only one attempt had been made to prospect on a large scale. This had taken place three years before, when a party of twenty Californian miners penetrated into the mountains. None of them returned, but reports brought down by Indians to the settlements were to the effect that, while working a gold reef they had discovered, they were attacked and killed to a man by a war party of Sioux. "I was mighty nigh being one of that crowd," Jerry said when he told the story to Tom, as they sat over the camp-fire that night. "I heard of their start when I got back to Salt Lake City, after being away for some time among the hills. I legged it arter them as fast as I could, but I found when I got to the last settlement that they had gone on ten days before, and as I did not know what line they had followed, and did not care to cross the pass alone, I gave it up. Mighty lucky thing it was, though I did not think so at the time." "But why should my uncle's party have gone into such a dangerous country when they knew that the natives were so hostile?" "It is a mighty big place, it is pretty nigh as big as all the eastern states chucked into one, and the red-skins are not thick. No one knows how many there are, but it is agreed they are not a big tribe. Then it ain't like the plains, where a party travelling can be seen by an Indian scout miles and miles away. It is all broken ground, canons and valleys and rocks. Then again, when we get on the other side of the Wind River they tell me there are big forests. That is so, chief, isn't it?" The chief nodded. "Heap forests," he said, "higher up rocks and bad lands; all bad. In winter snow everywhere on hills. Red-skins not like cold; too much cold, wigwam no good." "That's it, you see, Tom. We are here a long way above the sea-level, and so in the hills you soon get above the timber-line. It's barren land there, just rock, without grass enough for horses, and in winter it is so all-fired cold that the Indians can't live there in their wigwams. I reckon their villages are down in the sheltered valleys, and if we don't have the bad luck to run plump into one of these we may wander about a mighty long time before we meet with a red-skin. That is what you mean, isn't it, chief?" Leaping Horse grunted an assent. "What game is there in the country?" "There are wapitis, which are big stag with thundering great horns, and there are big-horns. Them are mountain sheep; they are mostly up above the timber-line. Wapitis and big-horns are good for food, but their skins ain't worth taking off. There is beaver, heaps of them; though I reckon there ain't as many as there were by a long way, for since the whites came out here and opened trade, and the red-skins found they could get good prices for beaver, they have brought them down by thousands every year. Still, there is no doubt there is plenty left, and that trappers would do first-rate there if the red-skins were friendly. In course, there is plenty of b'ars, but unless you happen to have a thundering good chance it is just as well to leave the b'ars alone, for what with the chances of getting badly mauled, and what with the weight of the skin, it don't pay even when you come right side up out of a tussle." "Are there any maps of the region?" "None of any account. They are all just guess-work. You may take it that this is just a heap of mountains chucked down anyhow. Such maps as there are have been made from tales trappers who came in with pelts have told. Well, firstly they only knew about just where the tribe they had joined lived, and in the second place you may bet they warn't such fools as to tell anything as would help other fellows to get there; so you may put down that they told very little, and what they did tell was all lies. Some day or other I suppose there will be an expedition fitted out to go right through, and to punish these dog-goned red-skins and open the country; but it will be a long time arter that afore it will be safe travelling, for I reckon that soldiers might march and march for years through them mountains without ever catching a sight of a red-skin if they chose to keep out of their way. And now I reckon we had best get in atween our blankets." The two Indians had already lain down by the fire. Tom was some time before he could get to sleep. The thought of the wild and unknown country he was about to enter, with its great game, its hidden gold treasures, its Indians and its dangers, so excited his imagination that, tired as he was with the long ride, two or three hours passed before he fell off to sleep. He was awoke by being shaken somewhat roughly by Jerry. "Why, you are sleeping as sound as a b'ar in a hollow tree," the miner said. "You are generally pretty spry in the morning." A dip in the cold water of the river awoke Tom thoroughly, and by the time he had rejoined his comrades breakfast was ready. The ground rose rapidly as they rode forward. They were now following an Indian trail, a slightly-marked path made by the Indians as they travelled down with their ponies laden with beaver skins, to exchange for ammunition, blankets, and tobacco at the trading station. The country was barren in the extreme, being covered only with patches of sage brush. As they proceeded it became more and more hilly, and distant ridges and peaks could be seen as they crossed over the crests. "These are the bad lands, I suppose?" "You bet they are, Tom, but nothing like as bad as you will see afore you are done. Sage brush will grow pretty nigh everywhere, but there are thousands of square miles of rock where even sage brush cannot live." The hills presently became broken up into fantastic shapes, while isolated rocks and pinnacles rose high above the general level. "How curiously they are coloured," Tom remarked, "just regular bands of white and red and green and orange; and you see the same markings on all these crags, at the same level." "Just so, Tom. We reckon that this country, and it is just the same down south, was once level, and the rains and the rivers and torrents cut their way through it and wore it down, and just these buttes and crags and spires were left standing, as if to show what the nature of the ground was everywhere. Though why the different kinds of rocks has such different colours is more than I can tell. I went out once with an old party as they called a scientific explorer. I have heard him say this was all under water once, and sometimes one kind of stuff settled down like mud to the bottom, sometimes another, though where all the water came from is more nor I can tell. He said something about the ground being raised afterwards, and I suppose the water run off then. I did not pay much attention to his talk, for he was so choke-full of larning, and had got such a lot of hard names on the tip of his tongue, that there were no making head or tail of what he was saying." Tom had learnt something of the elements of geology, and could form an idea of the processes by which the strange country at which he was looking had been formed. "That's Frémont's Buttes," the Indian said presently, pointing to a flat-topped hill that towered above the others ahead. "Why, I thought you said it was a fifty-mile ride to-day, Jerry, and we can't have gone more than half that." "How far do you suppose that hill is off?" "Three or four miles, I should think." "It is over twenty, lad. Up here in the mountains the air is so clear you can see things plain as you couldn't make out the outlines of down below." "But it seems to me so close that I could make out people walking about on the top," Tom said a little incredulously. "I dare say, lad. But you will see when you have ridden another hour it won't seem much closer than it does now." Tom found out that the miner was not joking with him, as he at first had thought was the case. Mile after mile was ridden, and the landmark seemed little nearer than before. Presently Hunting Dog said something to the chief, pointing away to the right. Leaping Horse at once reined in, and motioned to his white companions to do the same. "What is it, chief?" Jerry asked. "Wapiti," he replied. "That is good news," the miner said. "It will be lucky if we can lay in a supply of deer flesh here. The less we shoot after we get through the pass the better. Shall we go with you, chief?" "My white brothers had better ride on slowly," Leaping Horse said. "Might scare deer. No good lose time." Tom felt rather disappointed, but as he went on slowly with Jerry, the miner said: "You will have plenty of chances later on, lad, and there is no time to lose in fooling about. The red-skins will do the business." Looking back, Tom saw the two Indians gallop away till they neared the crest of a low swell. Then they leapt from their horses, and stooping low went forward. In a short time they lay prone on the ground, and wriggled along until just on the crest. "I reckon the stag is just over there somewhere," Jerry said. "The young red-skin must have caught sight of an antler." They stopped their ponies altogether now, and sat watching the Indians. These were half a mile away, but every movement was as clearly visible as if they were but a hundred yards distant. The chief raised himself on his arms and then on to his knees. A moment later he lay down again, and they then crawled along parallel with the crest for a couple of hundred yards. Then they paused, and with their rifles advanced they crept forward again. "Now they see them," Jerry exclaimed. The Indians lay for half a minute motionless. Then two tiny puffs of smoke darted out. The Indians rose to their feet and dashed forward as the sound of their shots reached the ears of their companions. "Come on," Jerry said, "you may be sure they have brought down one stag anyhow. The herd could not have been far from that crest or the boy would not have seen the antler over it, and the chief is not likely to miss a wapiti at a hundred yards." Looking back presently Tom saw that the Indian ponies had disappeared. "Ay, Hunting Dog has come back for them. You may be sure they won't be long before they are up with us again." In a quarter of an hour the two Indians rode up, each having the hind-quarters of a deer fastened across his horse behind the saddle, while the tongues hung from the peaks. "Kill them both at first shot, chief?" Jerry asked; "I did not hear another report." "Close by," the chief said; "no could miss." "It seems a pity to lose such a quantity of meat," Tom remarked. "The Indians seldom carry off more than the hindquarters of a deer, never if they think there is a chance of getting more soon. There is a lot more flesh on the hindquarters than there is on the rest of the stag. But that they are wasteful, the red-skins are, can't be denied. Even when they have got plenty of meat they will shoot a buffalo any day just for the sake of his tongue." It was still early in the afternoon when they passed under the shadow of the buttes, and, two miles farther, came upon a small lake, the water from which ran north. Here they unsaddled the horses and prepared to camp.

5

IN DANGER

There were no bushes that would serve their purpose near the lake; they therefore formed their camp on the leeward side of a large boulder. The greatest care was observed in gathering the fuel, and it burned with a clear flame without giving out the slightest smoke. "Dead wood dries like tinder in this here air," the miner said. "In course, if there wur any red-skins within two or three miles on these hills they would make out the camp, still that ain't likely; but any loafing Indian who chanced to be hunting ten or even fifteen miles away would see smoke if there was any, and when a red-skin sees smoke, if he can't account for it, he is darned sartin to set about finding out who made it." The horses fared badly, for there was nothing for them to pick up save a mouthful of stunted grass here and there. "Plenty of grass to-morrow," the chief said in answer to a remark of Tom as to the scantiness of their feed. "Grass down by Buffalo Lake good." Early the next morning they mounted and rode down the hills into Big Wind River valley. They did not go down to the river itself, but skirted the foot of the hills until they reached Buffalo Lake. "There," the chief said, pointing to a pile of ashes, "the fire of my white brother." Alighting, he and Hunting Dog searched the ground carefully round the fire. Presently the younger Indian lightly touched the chief and pointed to the ground. They talked together, still carefully examining the ground, and moved off in a straight line some fifty yards. Then they returned. "Indian here," Leaping Horse said, "one, two days ago. Found fire, went off on trail of white men." "That is bad news, chief." "Heap bad," the Indian said gravely. "Perhaps he won't follow far," Tom suggested. The Indian made no answer. He evidently considered the remark to be foolish. "You don't know much of Indian nature yet, Tom," the miner said. "When a red-skin comes upon the trail of whites in what he considers his country, he will follow them if it takes him weeks to do it, till he finds out all about them, and if he passes near one of his own villages he will tell the news, and a score of the varmint will take up the trail with him. It's them ashes as has done it. If the chief here had stopped with them till they started this would not have happened, for he would have seen that they swept every sign of their fire into the lake. I wonder they did not think of it themselves. It was a dog-goned foolish trick to leave such a mark as this. I expect they will be more keerful arterwards, but they reckoned that they had scarce got into the Indian country." "Do you think it was yesterday the red-skin was here, or the day before, chief?" "Leaping Horse can't say," the Indian replied. "Ground very hard, mark very small. No rain, trail keep fresh a long time. Only find mark twice." He led them to a spot where, on the light dust among the rocks, was the slight impression of a footmark. "That is the mark of a moccasin, sure enough," Jerry said; "but maybe one of the whites, if not all of them, have put on moccasins for the journey. They reckoned on climbing about some, and moccasins beat boots anyhow for work among the hills." "Red-skin foot," the Indian said quietly. "Well, if you say it is, of course it is. I should know it myself if I saw three or four of them in a line, but as there is only one mark it beats me." "How would you know, Jerry?" "A white man always turns out his toes, lad, an Indian walks straight-footed. There are other differences that a red-skin would see at once, but which are beyond me, for I have never done any tracking work." The Indian without speaking led them to another point some twenty yards away, and pointed to another impression. This was so slight that it was with difficulty that Tom could make out the outline. "Yes, that settles it," Jerry said. "You see, lad, when there was only one mark I could not tell whether it was turned out or not, for that would depend on the direction the man was walking in. This one is just in a line with the other, and so the foot must have been set down straight. Had it been turned out a bit, the line, carried straight through the first footprint, would have gone five or six yards away to the right." It took Tom two or three minutes to reason this out to himself, but at last he understood the drift of what his companion said. As the line through one toe and heel passed along the centre of the other, the foot must each time have been put down in a straight line, while if the footprints had been made by a person who turned out his toes they would never point straight towards those farther on. "Well, what is your advice, chief?" Jerry asked. "Must camp and eat," the Indian replied, "horses gone far enough. No fear here, red-skin gone on trail." "Do you think there have been more than one, chief?" "Not know," Leaping Horse said; "find out by and by." Tom now noticed that Hunting Dog had disappeared. "Where shall we make the fire?" The chief pointed to the ashes. "That's it," Jerry said. "If any red-skin came along you see, Tom, there would be nothing to tell them that more than one party had been here." The chief this time undertook the collection of fuel himself, and a bright fire was presently burning. Two hours later Hunting Dog came back. He talked for some time earnestly with the chief, and taking out two leaves from his wampum bag opened them and showed him two tiny heaps of black dust. Jerry asked no questions until the conversation was done, and then while Hunting Dog cut off a large chunk of deer's flesh, and placing it in the hot ashes sat himself quietly down to wait until it was cooked, he said: "Well, chief, what is the news?" "The Indian had a horse, Hunting Dog came upon the spot where he had left it a hundred yards away. When he saw ashes, he came to look at them. Afterwards he followed the trail quite plain on the soft ground at head of lake. Over there," and he pointed to the foot of the hills, "Indian stopped and fired twice." "How on earth did he know that, chief?" The chief pointed to the two leaves. The scout examined the powder. "Wads," he said. "They are leather wads, Tom, shrivelled and burnt. What did he fire at, chief?" "Signal. Half a mile farther three other mounted redskins joined him. They stopped and had heap talk. Then one rode away into hills, the others went on at gallop on trail." "That is all bad, chief. The fellow who went up the hills no doubt made for a village?" The chief nodded. "The only comfort is that Harry has got a good start of them. It was a week from the time you left them before we met you, that is three days ago, so that if the red-skins took up the trail yesterday, Harry has ten days' start of them." Leaping Horse shook his head. "Long start if travel fast, little start if travel slow." "I see what you mean. If they pushed steadily on up the valley, they have gone a good distance, but if they stopped to catch beaver or prospect for gold they may not have got far away. Hadn't we better be pushing on, chief?" "No good, horses make three days' journey; rest well to-day, travel right on to-morrow. If go farther to-night, little good to-morrow. Good camp here, all rest." "Well, no doubt you are right, chief, but it worries one to think that while we are sitting here those 'tarnal red-skins may be attacking our friends. My only hope is that Harry, who has done a lot of Indian fighting, will hide his trail as much as possible as he goes on, and that they will have a lot of trouble in finding it." The chief nodded. "My white brother, Harry, knows Indian ways. He did not think he had come to Indian country here or he would not have left his ashes. But beyond this he will be sure to hide his trail, and the 'Rappahoes will have to follow slow." "You think they are 'Rappahoes, chief?" "Yes, this 'Rappahoe country. The Shoshones are further north, and are friendly; the Bannacks and Nez Percés are in northwest, near Snake River; and the Sioux more on the north and east, on other side of great mountains. 'Rappahoes here." "Waal," Jerry said wrathfully, "onless they catch Harry asleep, some of the darned skunks will be rubbed out afore they get his scalp. It is a good country for hiding trail. There are many streams coming down from the hills into the Big Wind, and they can turn up or down any of them as they please, and land on rocky ground too, so it would be no easy matter to track them. By the lay of the country there does not seem much chance of gold anywheres about here, and, as I reckon, they will be thinking more of that than of beaver skins, so I think they would push straight on." "Harry said he should get out of Big Wind River valley quick," Leaping Horse said. "Too many Indians there. Get into mountains other side. Go up Rivière de Noir, then over big mountains into Sierra Shoshone, and then down Buffalo through Jackson's Hole, and then strike Snake River. I told him heap bad Indians in Jackson's Hole, Bannacks, and Nez Percés. He said not go down into valley, keep on foot-hills. I told him, too bad journey, but he and other pale-faces thought could do it, and might find much gold. No good Leaping Horse talk." "This is a dog-goned bad business I have brought you into, Tom. I reckoned we should not get out without troubles, but I did not calkerlate on our getting into them so soon." "You did not bring me here, Jerry, so you need not blame yourself for that. It was I brought you into it, for you did not make up your mind to come till I had settled to go with Leaping Horse." "I reckon I should have come anyhow," Jerry grumbled. "Directly the chief said where Harry and the others had gone my mind was set on joining them. It was a new country, and there wur no saying what they might strike, and though I ain't a regular Indian-fighter, leaving them alone when they leave me alone, I can't say as I am averse to a scrimmage with them if the odds are anyways equal." "It is a wonderful country," Tom said, looking at the almost perpendicular cliffs across the valley, with their regular coloured markings, their deep fissures, crags, and pinnacles, "and worth coming a long way to see." "I don't say as it ain't curous, but I have seen the like down on the Colorado, and I don't care if I never see no more of it if we carry our scalps safe out of this. I don't say as I object to hills if they are covered with forest, for there is safe to be plenty of game there, and the wood comes in handy for timbering, but this kind of country that looks as if some chaps with paint-pots had been making lines all over it, ain't to my taste noway. Here, lad; I never travel without hooks and lines; you can get a breakfast and dinner many a day when a gun would bring down on you a score of red varmints. I expect you will find fish in the lake. Many of these mountain lakes just swarm with them. You had better look about and catch a few bugs, there ain't no better bait. Those jumping bugs are as good as any," and he pointed to a grasshopper, somewhat to Tom's relief, for the lad had just been wondering where he should look for bugs, not having seen one since he landed in the States. There were two lines and hooks in the miner's outfit, and Tom and Hunting Dog, after catching some grasshoppers, went down to the lake, while Jerry and the chief had a long and earnest conversation together. The baited hooks were scarcely thrown into the water when they were seized, and in a quarter of an hour ten fine lake trout were lying on the bank. Tom was much delighted. He had fished from boats, but had never met with much success, and his pleasure at landing five fish averaging four or five pounds apiece was great. As it was evidently useless to catch more, they wound up their lines, and Hunting Dog split the fish open and laid them down on the rock, which was so hot that Tom could scarce bear his hand on it. Seeing the elder men engaged in talk Tom did not return to them, but endeavoured to keep up a conversation with the young Indian, whom he found to be willing enough to talk now they were alone, and who knew much more English than he had given him credit for. As soon as the sun set the fire was extinguished, and they lay down to sleep shortly afterwards. An hour before daylight they were in the saddle. Hunting Dog rode ahead on the line he had followed the day before. As soon as it became light Tom kept his eyes fixed upon the ground, but it was only now and then, when the Indian pointed to the print of a horse's hoof in the sand between the rocks, that he could make them out. The two Indians followed the track, however, without the slightest difficulty, the horses going at a hand gallop. "They don't look to me like horses' footprints," Tom said to Jerry when they had passed a spot where the marks were unusually clear. "I reckon you have never seen the track of an unshod horse before, Tom. With a shod horse you see nothing but the mark of the shoe, here you get the print of the whole hoof. Harry has been careful enough here, and has taken the shoes off his ponies, for among all the marks, we have not seen any made by a shod horse. The Indians never shoe theirs, and the mark of an iron is enough to tell the first red-skin who passes that a white man has gone along there. The chief and I took off the shoes of the four horses yesterday afternoon when you were fishing. We put them and the nails by to use when we get out of this dog-goned country." After riding for two hours they came to the bank of a stream. The chief held up his hand for them to stop, while he dismounted and examined the foot-marks. Then he mounted again and rode across the stream, which was some ten yards wide and from two to three feet deep. He went on a short distance beyond it, leapt from his saddle, threw the reins on the horse's neck, and returned to the bank on foot. He went a short distance up the stream and then as much down, stooping low and examining every inch of the ground. Then he stood up and told the others to cross. [Illustration: "Leaping Horse Mounted, And Rode Across The Stream"] "Leave your horses by mine," he said as they joined him. "Trail very bad, all rock." He spoke to the young Indian, who, on dismounting, at once went forward, quartering the ground like a spaniel in search of game, while the chief as carefully searched along the bank. "Best leave them to themselves, Tom; they know what they are doing." "They are hunting for the trail, Jerry, I suppose?" "Ay, lad. Harry struck on a good place when he crossed where he did, for you see the rock here is as smooth as the top of a table, and the wind has swept it as clean of dust as if it had been done by an eastern woman's broom. If the horses had been shod there would have been scratches on the rock that would have been enough for the dullest Indian to follow, but an unshod horse leaves no mark on ground like this. I expect the red-skins who followed them were just as much puzzled as the chief is. There ain't no saying whether they crossed and went straight on, or whether they never crossed at all or kept in the stream either up or down." It was half an hour before the two Indians had concluded their examination of the ground. "Well, chief, what do you make of it?" Jerry asked when they had spoken a few words together. "Hunting Dog has good eyes," the chief said. "The white men went forward, the red men could not find the trail, and thought that they had kept in the river, so they went up to search for them. Come, let us go forward." The miner and Tom mounted their horses, but the Indians led theirs forward some three hundred yards. Then Hunting Dog pointed down, and the chief stooped low and examined the spot. "What is it, chief?" Jerry asked; and he and Tom both got off and knelt down. They could see nothing whatever. "That is it," Leaping Horse said, and pointed to a piece of rock projecting half an inch above the flat. "I am darned if I can see anything." "There is a tiny hair there," Tom said, putting his face within a few inches of the ground. "It might be a cat's hair; it is about the length, but much thicker. It is brown." "Good!" the chief said, putting his hand on Tom's shoulder. "Now let us ride." He leapt into his saddle, the others following his example, and they went on at the same pace as before. "Well, chief," the miner said, "what does that hair tell you about it, for I can't make neither head nor tail of it?" "The white men killed a deer on their way up here, and they cut up the hide and made shoes for horses, so that they should leave no tracks. One of the horses trod on a little rock and a hair came out of the hide." "That may be it, chief," the miner said, after thinking the matter over, "though it ain't much of a thing to go by." "Good enough," Leaping Horse said. "We know now the line they were taking. When we get to soft ground see trail plainer." "What will the others do when they cannot find the trail anywhere along the bank?" "Ride straight on," the chief said. "Search banks of next river, look at mouths of valleys to make sure white men have not gone up there, meet more of tribe, search everywhere closely, find trail at last." "Well, that ought to give Harry a good start, anyhow." "Not know how long gone on," the chief said gravely. "No rainfall. Six, eight--perhaps only two days' start." "But if they always hide their trail as well as they did here I don't see how the Indians can find them at all--especially as they don't know where they are making for, as we do." "Find camp. Men on foot may hide traces, but with horses sure to find." "That is so," Jerry agreed, shaking his head. "An Indian can see with half an eye where the grass has been cropped or the leaves stripped off the bushes. Yes, I am afraid that is so. There ain't no hiding a camp from Indian eyes where horses have been about. It is sure to be near a stream. Shall you look for them, chief?" The Indian shook his head. "Lose time," he said. "We go straight to Rivière de Noir." "You don't think, then, they are likely to turn off before that?" "Leaping Horse thinks not. They know Indian about here. Perhaps found Indian trail near first camp. Know, anyhow, many Indians. Think push straight on." "That is the likeliest. Anyhow, by keeping on we must get nearer to them. The worst danger seems to me that we may overtake the red-skins who are hunting them." The chief nodded. "It is an all-fired fix, Tom," Jerry went on. "If we go slow we may not be in time to help Harry and the others to save their scalps; if we go fast we may come on these 'tarnal red-skins, and have mighty hard work in keeping our own ha'r on." "I feel sure that the chief will find traces of them in time to prevent our running into them, Jerry. Look how good their eyes are. Why, I might have searched all my life without noticing a single hair on a rock." After riding some fifteen miles beyond the stream, and crossing two similar though smaller rivulets, the chief, after a few words with Jerry, turned off to the left and followed the foot of the hills. At the mouth of a narrow valley he stopped, examined the ground carefully, and then led the way up it, carrying his rifle in readiness across the peak of the saddle. The valley opened when they had passed its mouth, and a thick grove of trees grew along the bottom. As soon as they were beneath their shelter they dismounted. The horses at once began to crop the grass. Hunting Dog went forward through the trees, rifle in hand. "Shall I take the bits out of the horses' mouths, Jerry?" Tom asked. "Not till the young Indian returns. It is not likely there is a red-skin village up there, for we should have seen a trail down below if there had been. Still there may be a hut or two, and we can do nothing till he comes back." It was half an hour before Hunting Dog came through the trees again. He shook his head, and without a word loosened the girths of his horse and took off the bridle. "He has seen no signs of them, so we can light a fire and get something to eat. I am beginning to feel I want something badly." Thus reminded, Tom felt at once that he was desperately hungry. They had before starting taken a few mouthfuls of meat that had been cooked the day before and purposely left over, but it was now three o'clock in the afternoon, and he felt ravenous. The Indians quickly collected dried wood, and four of the fish were soon frizzling on hot ashes, while the kettle, hung in the flame, was beginning to sing. "We have done nigh forty miles, Tom, and the horses must have a couple of hours' rest. We will push on as fast as we can before dark, and then wait until the moon rises; it will be up by ten. This ain't a country to ride over in the dark. We will hide up before morning, and not go on again till next night. Of course we shall not go so fast as by day, but we sha'n't have any risk of being ambushed. The chief reckons from what he has heard that the Indian villages are thick along that part of the valley, and that it will never do to travel by day." "Then you have given up all hopes of finding Harry's tracks?" "It would be just wasting our time to look for them. We will push on sharp till we are sure we are ahead of them. We may light upon them by chance, but there can be no searching for them with these red varmint round us. It would be just chucking away our lives without a chance of doing any good. I expect Harry and his party are travelling at night too; but they won't travel as fast as we do, not by a sight. They have got pack-ponies with them, and they are likely to lay off a day or two if they come upon a good place for hiding." They travelled but a few miles after their halt, for the Indians declared they could make out smoke rising in two or three places ahead; and although neither Jerry nor Tom could distinguish it, they knew that the Indians' sight was much keener than their own in a matter of this kind. They therefore halted again behind a mass of rocks that had fallen down the mountain-side. Hunting Dog lay down among the highest of the boulders to keep watch, and the horses were hobbled to prevent their straying. The miner and the chief lit their pipes, and Tom lay down on his back for a sleep. A short time before it became dusk the call of a deer was heard. "There are wapiti, chief. We can't take a shot at them; but it don't matter, we have meat enough for a week." The chief had already risen to his feet, rifle in hand. "It is a signal from Hunting Dog," he said, "he has seen something in the valley. My white brother had better get the horses together," and he made his way up the rocks. In a minute or two he called out that the horses might be left to feed, and presently came leisurely down to them. "Seen Indians--ten 'Rappahoes." "Which way were they going?" "Riding from Big Wind River across valley. Been away hunting among hills over there. Have got meat packed on horses, ride slow. Not have heard about white men's trail. Going to village, where we saw smoke." Tom was fast asleep when Jerry roused him, and told him that the moon was rising, and that it was time to be off. They started at a walk, the chief leading; Jerry followed him, while Tom rode between him and Hunting Dog, who brought up the rear. Tom had been warned that on no account was he to speak aloud. "If you have anything you want to say, and feel that you must say it or bust," Jerry remarked, "just come up alongside of me and whisper it. Keep your eyes open and your rifle handy, we might come upon a party any minute. They might be going back to their village after following Harry's trail as long as they could track it, or it might be a messenger coming back to fetch up food, or those fellows Hunting Dog made out going on to join those in front. Anyhow we have got to travel as quiet as if there was ears all round us." As they passed the clumps of trees where the Indian villages stood they could see the reflection of the fires on the foliage, and heard the frequent barking of dogs and an occasional shout. A quarter of a mile farther the chief halted and spoke to Hunting Dog, who at once dismounted and glided away towards the village. "Gone to see how many men there," the chief said in explanation to Jerry. "Too much laugh, no good." "He means the men must have gone off again, Tom. If there were men in the camp the boys would not be making a noise." They were but a few hundred yards from the trees, and in a very short time the Indian returned. "Men are gone," he said; "only squaws and boys there." "How many lodges are there?" the chief asked. Hunting Dog held up both hands with extended fingers, and then one finger only. "Eleven of them," Jerry said. "I expect they are all small villages, and they move their lodges across into the forests when winter comes on." As soon as they had mounted, the chief put his horse into a canter, and at this pace they went forward for some hours, breaking into a walk occasionally for a few minutes. "I thought you said we should not go beyond a walk to-night, Jerry," Tom remarked on the first of these occasions. "That is what we kinder agreed, lad; but you may be sure the chief has some good reason for going on faster. I dunno what it is, and I ain't going to ask. Red-skins hate being questioned. If he wants to tell us he will tell us without being asked." A faint light was stealing over the sky when the chief halted his horse and sat listening. No sound, however, broke the stillness of the night. "Did you think you heard anything, chief?" "Leaping Horse heard nothing, but he stopped to listen. What does my white brother think of the 'Rappahoes having gone on directly they returned from the chase?" "I thought that when they got the news that some white men had gone through, they might have started to join those following up the trail. Isn't that what you think, chief?" "Only three white men, plenty Indians on trail; no hurry to follow; might have had feast after hunt and gone on in morning." "So they might. You think the whites have been tracked, and are to be attacked this morning?" "Perhaps attacked yesterday. Perhaps have got strong place, 'Rappahoes want more help to take it. White rifle shoot straight, perhaps want more men to starve them out." They again went forward, at a gallop now. Jerry did not think much of the chief's idea. It seemed to him natural that the Indians should want to join in the hunt for scalps, and to get a share of the white men's goods, though he admitted that it was strange they should have gone on without taking a meal. Presently the chief reined in his horse again, and sat with head bent forward. Tom heard an angry grunt from between Hunting Dog's teeth. Listening intently also, he was conscious of a faint, far-away sound. "You hear?" the chief said to Jerry. "I heard something; but it might be anything. A waterfall in the hills miles away, that is what it sounds like." "Guns," the chief said laconically. "Do you think so?" Jerry said doubtfully. "There don't seem to me anything of guns in it. It is just a sort of murmur that keeps on and on." "It is the mountains speaking back again," the chief said, waving his hand. "Hills everywhere. They say to each other, the red men who live in our bosoms are attacking the pale-face strangers." "What do you think, Hunting Dog?" Tom whispered to the Indian. "Gun-shot," he replied, in a tone of absolute conviction. "Waal, chief, I will not gainsay your opinion," Jerry said. "How far do you think it is off?" "The horses will take us there in two hours," the chief replied. "Then we can put it at twenty miles at least. Let us be going; whatever the sound is, we shall know more about it before we have gone much farther." "Not too fast," Leaping Horse said as the miner was urging his horse forward. "Maybe have to fight, maybe have to run. No good tire horse too much." It was more than an hour before Tom could hear any distinct change in the character of the sound, but at last he was able to notice that, though seemingly continuous, the sound really pulsated; sometimes it almost died away, then suddenly swelled out again, and there were several vibrations close together. Jerry, more accustomed to the sound of firearms in the mountains, had before this come round to the chief's opinion. "It is guns, sure enough, Tom; the chief has made no mistake about it. Waal, there is one comfort, they ain't been surprised. They are making a good fight of it, and we may be there in time to take a hand in the game." "Shall we ride straight on and join them?" "I reckon not, lad. We must wait until we see what sort of place Harry is in, and how we can best help him, before we fix on any scheme." The sound became louder and clearer. The echo was still continuous, but the sound of the shots could be distinctly heard. "It is over there, to the right," Jerry said. "They must have crossed the Big Wind River." "And gone up the De Noir valley," the chief said. "We ought to be close to it now." "Yes, I reckon it can't be far off, by what you told me about the distance." "Better cross Big Wind at once. They no see us now." "I agree with you, chief; it would not do for them to get sight of us. If they did our case would be worse than Harry's. I expect he has got strongly posted, or he would have been wiped out long ago; that is what would happen to us if they were to make us out and spy our numbers afore we get to some place where we and Harry's outfit can help each other." They rode rapidly down to the river. With the exception of a few yards in the middle, where the horses had to swim, the depth was not great, and they were soon on the other side. They rode to the foot of the hills, and then kept along it. The sound of firing became louder and louder, and Tom felt his heart beat quickly at the thought that he might soon be engaged in a desperate fight with the Indians, and that with the odds greatly against his party. Presently the hills fell sharply away, and they were at the entrance of the valley of the Rivière de Noir, which is the principal arm of the Big Wind River at this point. The firing had very much died out during the last few minutes, and only an occasional shot was heard. "They have beat off the attack so far," Jerry said to him encouragingly. "Now we have got to lie low a bit, while the chief sees how things stand." Leaping Horse dismounted at the mouth of a narrow canon running up into the cliff beside them. A little stream trickled down its centre. "Could not have been better," Jerry said. "Here is a place we four could hold against a crowd of red-skins for hours. There is water anyway, and where there is water there is mostly a little feed for horses. I will take your horse, chief, and Tom will take Hunting Dog's, if so be you mean him to go with you. "Don't you worry yourself, lad," he went on, seeing how anxious Tom looked, as they started with the horses up the cañon. "If Harry and his friends have beaten off the first attack, you may bet your boots they are safe for some time. It is clear the red-skins have drawn off, and are holding a pow-wow as to how they are to try next. They attacked, you see, just as the day was breaking; that is their favourite hour, and I reckon Harry must have been expecting them, and that he and his mates were prepared."

6

UNITED

The cañon showed no sign of widening until they had proceeded a quarter of a mile from the entrance, then it broadened suddenly for a distance of a hundred yards. "There has been a big slip here both sides," the miner said, looking round. "It must have taken place a great many years ago, for the winter floods have swept away all signs of it, and there are grass and trees on the slopes. The horses can find enough to keep them alive here for a day or two, and that is all we shall want, I hope." "It would be a nasty place to get out of, Jerry, for the cliffs are perpendicular from half-way up." "It ain't likely as there is any place we could get out without following it to the upper end, which may be some fifty miles away. I don't know the country it runs through, but the red-skins are pretty certain to know all about it. If they were to track us here they would never try to fight their way in, but would just set a guard at the mouth and at the upper end and starve us out. It is a good place to hide in, but a dog-goned bad one to be caught in. However, I hope it ain't coming to that. It is we who are going to attack them, and not them us, and that makes all the difference. The red-skins can't have a notion that there are any other white men in this neighbourhood, and when we open fire on them it will raise such a scare for a bit that it will give us a chance of joining the others if we choose. That of course must depend on their position." They walked back to the mouth of the cañon, and had not to wait long for the return of the Indians. "Come," Leaping Horse said briefly, at once turning and going off at a swift pace. Jerry asked no questions, but with Tom followed close on the Indians' heels. There were bushes growing among the fallen rocks and débris from the face of the cliff, and they were, therefore, able to go forward as quickly as they could leap from boulder to boulder, without fear of being seen. A quarter of an hour's run, and the chief climbed up to a ledge on the face of the cliff where a stratum harder than those above it had resisted the effects of the weather and formed a shelf some twelve feet wide. He went down on his hands and knees, and keeping close to the wall crawled along to a spot where some stunted bushes had made good their hold. The others followed him, and lying down behind the bushes peered through them. The valley was four or five hundred yards wide, and down its centre ran the stream. Close to the water's edge rose abruptly a steep rock. It was some fifty feet in height and but four or five yards across at the top. On the north and west the rocks were too perpendicular to be climbed, but the other sides had crumbled down, the stones being covered with brushwood. From the point where they were looking they could see the six horses lying among the bushes. They were evidently tightly roped, and had probably been led up there when the attack began and thrown at the highest point to which they could be taken, a spot being chosen where the bushes concealed their exact position from those below. The rock was about two hundred and fifty yards from the spot where the party was lying, and their position was about level with its top. Some twenty Indians were gathered a few hundred yards higher up the valley, and about as many some distance down it. "Why didn't the varmint take their places here?" Jerry whispered to the chief. "They came here. See," and he pointed to a patch of blood a few feet beyond him. "Indian guns not shoot far," he said, "powder weak; white man's rifles carry here, red-skin not able to shoot so far. When they found that, went away again." "What are they going to do now, do you think?" "Soon attack again." Half an hour passed, and then a loud yell gave the signal and the two troops galloped towards the rock. They had evidently had experience of the accuracy of the white men's fire; not an Indian showed himself, each dropping over one side of his pony, with an arm resting in a rope round the animals' necks and one leg thrown over the back. So they dashed forward until close to the foot of the rocks. Another instant and they would have thrown themselves from their horses and taken to the bushes, but although hidden from the sight of the defenders of the position, they were exposed to the full view of the party on the ledge, from whom they were distant not more than two hundred yards. The chief fired first, and almost together the other three rifles flashed out. Three of the Indians fell from their horses, another almost slipped off, but with an effort recovered his hold with his leg. A yell of astonishment and fear broke from the Indians. As the two bands mingled together, some of the riders were exposed to those on the top of the rock, and three shots were fired. Two more of the 'Rappahoes fell, and the whole band in obedience to a shout from one of their chiefs galloped at full speed down the valley. The three men sprang to their feet, waving their hats, while the party on the ledge also leapt up with a shout. "It's you, chief, I see!" one of those on the rocks shouted. "I have been hoping ever since morning to hear the crack of your rifle, and I never heard a more welcome sound. We should have been rubbed out sure. Who have you got with you?" "It's Jerry Curtis, Harry. I come up along with Leaping Horse, though I did not expect to find you in such a bad fix. This young Indian is Hunting Dog, and this young chap next to me is your nephew, Tom Wade. You did not expect to meet him like this, I reckon?" While he had been speaking, all had reloaded their rifles. "You had best go across and talk it over with Harry, chief, and consart measures with him for getting out of this fix. Those red-skins have got a bad scare, but you may bet they ain't gone far; and they have lost six of their bucks now beside what the others shot before, and it ain't in Indian natur for them to put up with such a loss as that." He had been looking at the rock as he spoke, and turning round uttered an exclamation of surprise, for the chief was no longer there. Looking down they saw that he had managed to make his way down the face of the cliff, and in another two minutes was ascending the rock. There he stood for some time in earnest conversation with the whites, and then returned to the ledge. "Trouble over horses," he said. "Ay, ay, I reckoned that was what you was talking over. There ain't no going back for them now." The chief shook his head. " 'Rappahoes keep watch," he said, "cannot go till night to fetch horses. All lie here to-day, go across to rock when darkness comes, then white men go up valley till get to trees an hour's march away; can see them from rock. Get in among trees and work up into hills. Leaping Horse and Hunting Dog cross river, go down other side past 'Rappahoes, then cross back and get into cañon, drive horses up. White men meet them up in mountains." "That seems a good plan enough, chief. That is, if you can get out at the other end of the cañon." "Cañon little up high," the chief replied. "Find some place to climb." "But they may find the horses to-day." The Indian nodded. "May find, perhaps not." "Why should we not go across to the rock at once, chief?" "Indian count on fingers how many. They do not know we only four; much troubled in their mind where men come from, who can be. Red-skins not like white men. Have many fancies. Fire come out of bush where 'Rappahoe had been killed; think that bad medicine, keep together and talk. Think if men here, why not go across to rock." "I should not be surprised if you are right, chief. They are more likely to fancy we have come down from above than from below, for they must have reckoned for sure there were no other white men in the Big Wind valley, and our not showing ourselves will give them an all-fired scare." "What does the chief mean by bad medicine, Jerry?" Tom asked. "A red-skin is full of all sorts of ideas. Anything he can't make head nor tail of, is bad medicine; they think there is some magic in it, and that old Nick has had his finger in the pie. When they get an idea like that in their minds, even the bravest of them loses his pluck, and is like a child who thinks he has seen a ghost. It is a mighty good notion for us to lie low all day. The red-skins will reason it all out, and will say, if these are white men who killed our brothers why the 'tarnal don't they go and join the others, there ain't nothing to prevent them. If they ain't white men, who are they? Maybe they can move without our being able to see them and will shoot from some other place. No, I reckon it is likely they will keep pretty close together and won't venture to scatter to look for tracks, and in that case the chief's plan will work out all right. In course, a good deal depends on their chief; one of them is among those we shot, you can make out his feathers from here. If he is the boss chief, it may be that they will give it up altogether; the next chief will throw the blame on to him, and may like enough persuade them to draw off altogether. If it ain't the boss chief, then they are bound to try again. He would not like to take them back to their villages with the news that a grist of them had been killed and narry a scalp taken. I expect you will see this afternoon some of them come down to palaver with Harry." The morning passed quietly and not unpleasantly, for they were lying in the shade, but before noon the sun had climbed up over the cliff behind them and shone down with great force, and they had to lie with their heads well under the bushes to screen them from its rays. Presently, Leaping Horse said: "Indian chief come, no lift heads." All shifted their position so as to look down the valley. An Indian chief, holding up his hands to show that he was unarmed, was advancing on foot, accompanied by another Indian also without arms. "There is Harry going down to meet them," Jerry said. Tom looked eagerly at the figure that came down from the rock and advanced to meet the Indians. It seemed strange to him that after having come so far to join his uncle they should remain for hours in sight of each other without meeting. It was too far to distinguish his features, but he saw by the light walk and easy swing of the figure that his uncle was a much more active man than he had expected to see. He had known indeed that he was but forty years old, but he had somehow expected that the life of hardship he had led would have aged him, and he was surprised to see that his walk and figure were those of a young man. "Is it not rather dangerous, his coming down alone to meet two of them? They may have arms hidden." "They have got arms, you maybe sure," Jerry replied. "They have knives for certain, and most likely tomahawks, but I expect Harry has got his six-shooter. But it don't matter whether he has or not, there are his two mates up on that rock with their rifles, and we are across here. The 'Rappahoes would know well enough their lives wouldn't be worth a red cent if they were to try any of their games. They don't mean business; they will make out they have come to persuade Harry and his mates to give up, which they know quite well they ain't fools enough to do. But what is really in their minds is to try and find out who we are, and where we have come from." The conversation lasted a few minutes. Tom could see that questions were being asked about the concealed party, for the chief pointed to the ledge two or three times. When the talk was over the Indians went down the valley again at a slow pace, never once looking back, and the Englishman returned to the rocks. "I don't suppose they have got much from Harry." "I suppose uncle talks their language?" "No, I don't reckon he knows the 'Rappahoe dialect. But the tribes on the western side of the plains can mostly understand each other's talk; and as I know he can get on well with the Utes, he is sure to be able to understand the 'Rappahoes' talk." "Leaping Horse will go along the ledge," the chief said a few minutes later, after a short conversation with Hunting Dog. "The 'Rappahoes will try to find out who are here; not like to attack the rock till find out." The two Indians lay down flat on the ledge, and crawled along without raising themselves in the slightest until they reached a point where the cliffs projected somewhat. From here they could see down the valley, and they lay immovable, with their rifles in front of them. "They are not more than fifty yards or so from those bushes where we got up on to the ledge. That is where the red-skins are likely to try crawling up, for there they would be out of sight of the rock." "Surely they would never venture to come along the ledge in daylight, Jerry. They would have to pass along under the fire of uncle and his mates, and would have our rifles to meet in front." "No, it would only be one, or at most, two scouts. They would reckon that from that point where the chief is lying they would get a view right along the ledge to here, and be able to make out what we are. It is the strangeness of the thing that has kept them quiet all these hours, and I expect their chief will want to prove that there are only a few of us, and that we are men for certain. I reckon they have sent off to the villages already, and there will be more of the varmint here to-night. The Indians are never fond of attacking in the dark; still, if they were sure about us, they might try it. They would know they could get up to the foot of that rock before being seen, and once among the bushes they would reckon they could make easy work of it." A quarter of an hour later there was the crack of a rifle, followed instantly by an Indian yell. "That is the chief's piece, Tom, and I reckon the lead has gone straight." The silence remained unbroken for the next two hours, and then Leaping Horse crawled back as quietly as he had gone. "What was it, chief?" "It was a 'Rappahoe, who will scout no more," the chief said quietly. "He came up the bushes, but before he could step on to the ledge Leaping Horse fired, and he will take no tales back to his tribe." "They won't try again, chief?" Leaping Horse shook his head. "First take rock," he said, "then when they have the scalps of the white men they will watch us here. Will know we cannot stay here long without water." "You are right there, chief, and no m'stake; my tongue is like a piece of leather now, and as soon as it gets dark I shall make a bee-line down to the river. I want to have a talk with Harry, but just at present I want a drink a blamed sight worse. If I had thought we were going to be stuck up here all day I would have brought my water-bottle with me." The time passed very slowly, although the air became cooler as soon as the sun had gone down behind the opposite range. As soon as the light faded a little, the Indian crawled farther along the ledge, and returned in a short time saying that he had found a spot where the whites could descend. Two or three times Jerry urged that it was dark enough, before the chief consented to move. At last, however, he stood up and gave the cry of an owl, and they were in a minute or two joined by Hunting Dog, who had until now remained at his post. The chief at once led the way along the ledge until he reached the spot where the rock had crumbled away somewhat. "We had better go down one at a time," Jerry said. "For if there was a slip or a tumble it might let down a gun-hammer, and we want our lead for the 'Rappahoes, and not for each other." When it came to Tom's turn, he found it a very difficult place to get down in the semi-darkness, and two or three times he almost lost his footing. As soon as all were down they fell into Indian file, and crossed the valley to the rock, the chief giving the hoot of an owl twice as he approached it. Three men at once stepped out from the bushes at its foot. "I began to wonder when you were coming, and was just going to get the ponies down before it was too dark to do it without running the risk of breaking their legs. Well, I am right glad to see you, Jerry; and you too, Tom, though it is too dark to see much of you. The chief has been telling me how he brought you along. There is no time to talk now, but I am right glad to see you, lad" and he shook Tom heartily by the hand. "Now, mates, let us get the horses down." "I must make tracks for the water first, Harry, the young un and I are pretty near choking; and I expect the Indians are as bad, though it ain't their natur to talk about it." "Get down horses first," the chief said. "Too dark soon." "Waal, I suppose five minutes won't make much difference," Jerry grumbled, "so here goes." "I have tied some hide over their hoofs," Harry said, "so as to make as little noise as possible about it." "Must make no noise," the chief said urgently. "Redskin scouts soon be crawling up." One by one the horses were brought down, Harry leading them, and the others pushing aside the bushes as noiselessly as possible. Then their loads were carried down and packed upon them. "You get on my horse, Jerry," Harry Wade whispered, "I will walk with Tom. I have had no time to say a word to him yet, or to ask about the people at home. Where is the chief?" Leaping Horse and his companion had stolen away as soon as the loads had been adjusted. The others led the horses to the river, and allowed them to drink, while Jerry and Tom lay down and took a long draught of the water. The miners' bottles were filled, and they then started. "It is lucky the river makes such a roar among these rocks here," Harry said, "it will drown the sound of the horses' hoofs." For half an hour they proceeded at a fast walk, then the skins were taken off the horses' feet and they went on at a trot, the two Wades taking hold of Jerry's stirrup-leathers and running alongside. In half an hour they entered the belt of trees, and dismounting, at once began to ascend the hill. They were some distance up when they heard a distant yell. "You may yell as much as you like," Jerry panted, "you won't catch us now. They have been a mighty long time finding out we were gone." "They could not make out about you," Harry said. "I could see by the chief's manner, and the glances the Indian with him kept giving to the place where you were lying, that they were puzzled and alarmed. They offered if we would surrender that they would allow us to return down the valley without hurt. I said, of course, that I preferred staying where I was; we had come up the valley and intended going farther; we didn't want to interfere with them, and if they had left us alone we should have left them alone; and they had only themselves to thank for the loss of some of their braves. 'We have,' I said, 'many friends, who will protect us, and much harm will fall on the Indians who venture to meddle with us.' " 'Are your friends white men?' the chief asked. 'Have they wings that they have flown down here from the hills?' " 'They have come, that is enough,' I said. 'You see, when they were wanted they were here, and if they are wanted again you will hear of them, and your braves will die, and you will gain nothing. You had best go back to your lodges and leave us to go away in peace. Whoever they are, they can shoot, as you have found out to your cost. They have no ill-will to the red-skins, providing the redskins let us alone. They only fired four shots; if they had wished to, they could have killed many more.' When the chief saw that he could get nothing further from me he went away. As usual he spoke boastfully at last, and said that he had offered peace to us, and if war came, it would be our faults. I laughed, and said that we could take care of ourselves, and preferred doing so to trusting ourselves in the hands of the 'Rappahoes, when we had made some of their squaws widows." "Would they have kept their word, uncle, do you think?" Tom asked. "Not they. There are a few of the Indian tribes whose word can be taken, but as a rule words mean nothing with them, and if we had put ourselves in their power they would have tomahawked us instantly, or else taken us down and tortured us at their villages, which would have been a deal worse. I have no doubt they had a long talk after the chief returned to them, and that it was some time after it became dark before they could pluck up courage enough to climb the rock, though I expect they must have got close to it very soon after we left. I reckon they have been crawling up inch by inch. Of course, directly they got to where the horses had been tied they knew we had gone, and I expect that yell was a signal for a rush forward to the top. But we need not bother any more about them. They may ride as far as the foot of the forest, but when they find we have gained that safely they will give it up until morning; they will know well enough it is no good starting to search the woods in the dark. We may as well rest where we are until the moon is up, for we make so much noise crashing through this undergrowth that they could hear us down there." "Now tell me, lad, about your mother and sisters, and how you came out after all." Tom told his uncle of his mother's death, and the reason why he had left his sisters to come out to join him. "It is a very bad business, lad, and I take a lot of blame to myself. When I got your mother's letter, telling me of poor John's death, and that she would not hear of your coming out, I said some very hard things to myself. Here had I been knocking about for twenty years, and having had a fair share of luck, and yet I could not put my hand on five hundred dollars, and there was my brother's widow and children, and I, their nearest relative, could not help them. It made me feel a pretty mean man, I can tell you. Your mother did not say much about her circumstances, but it did not need that. I knew that John had retired from the navy with little besides his half-pay, and that her pension as his widow must be a mighty slim one. Altogether I had a pretty bad time of it. However, I took a tall oath that the next rich strike I made the dollars should not be thrown away. I reckoned that you would be out before long; for it was certain that if you were a lad of spirit you would not be staying there doing nothing. Your mother said that the girls all intended to take up teaching, and it was not likely that you would let them work for the family while you were loafing about at home. I know in my time it was hard enough to get anything to do there, and young fellows who have come out here to ranche tell me that it is harder than ever now. I thought you would fancy this life, and that in time you would talk your mother over into letting you come." "I should never have got her to agree to it, uncle. I wanted to go to sea, but after father's death she would not hear of it. She said I was her only boy and that she could not spare me, and I had to promise to give up the thought. She was still more against your plan, but when I wrote to you I thought that possibly in time she might agree to it. But it was not long afterwards that her health began to fail, and I saw then that I must give up all thought of leaving her, and must, when I left school, take anything that offered; and it was only after her death that I talked it over with the girls, and they agreed that to come here was the best thing for me." "And you left before my last letter arrived?" "Yes; we had no letter after the one you wrote asking me to come out." "No, I suppose you could not have had it. I wrote before I started out three months ago from Salt Lake City. I had struck a ledge of pretty good stuff, I and another. We sold out for a thousand dollars, and I sent my share off to your mother, telling her that I had been having bad luck since I got her letter, but that I hoped to do better in future, and I thought, anyhow, I could promise to send her as much once a year, and if I had a real stroke of luck she and her girls would have the benefit of it." "That was good of you, uncle." "Not good at all," Harry Wade grumbled. "I have behaved like a fool all along; it is true that when I did get letters from your father, which was not very often, he always wrote cheerfully, and said very little about how he was situated as to money. But I ought to have known--I did know, if I thought of it--that with a wife and six children it must be mighty hard to make ends meet on a lieutenant's half-pay, and there was I, often throwing away twice as much as his year's pension on a week's spree. When I heard he was gone you may pretty well guess how I felt. However, lad, if things turn out well I will make it up as far as I can. Now, let us join the others." The others, however, were all sound asleep, having wrapped themselves in their blankets, and lain down as soon as the halt was decided upon. Jerry, having had no sleep the previous night, and but little for four or five days, had not even thought of asking the others for food, which they doubtless had on their saddles, although he had tasted nothing for twenty-four hours. Tom, however, less accustomed to enforced fasts, felt ravenous. "We have had nothing to eat to-day, uncle, except a crust left over from yesterday's baking, and I don't think I could get to sleep if I did not eat something." "Bless me, I never thought of that, Tom. If I had I would have sent food across by the chief this morning. There is no bread, but there is plenty of cold meat. We cooked a lot yesterday evening, for we thought we might not get a chance of cooking to-day." "Then you knew, uncle, the Indians were near?" Tom went on, when he had appeased his appetite and taken a drink of water, with a little whisky in it from his uncle's flask. "Ay, lad; we guessed somehow we had been followed all along. We had done everything we could to throw them off the trail--travelling as much as we could in the course of streams, muffling the feet of our ponies, and picking out the hardest ground to travel on; but every morning before daybreak one of us went up the hillside, and twice we made out mounted Indians moving about down the valley. Yesterday morning ten of them came galloping up within easy shot. I don't think they thought that we were so near. They drew up their horses suddenly, had a talk, and then came riding after us. It didn't need their yells to tell us what their intention was. We knocked three of them out of their saddles, then threw our horses down and lay behind them. "They galloped round and round us shooting, but we picked two more off, and then they rode away. We knew enough of them to be sure that they were not going to give it up, but would follow us till joined by enough of their tribe to attack us again. We made a long march, hoping to get to the timber before they could come up, but just as the sun was setting we saw them coming along, about fifteen of them; and we had just time to get up to that rock. As they rode past we opened a smart fire and dropped four of them; the others rode up the valley, so as to cut us off from going farther. We filled our water-skins and got the horses half-way up as you saw, and then lighted a fire and cooked. We kept watch all night, two down below and one at the top; but everything was quiet, and we guessed they were waiting for others to come up. "About an hour before daylight we heard another gang arrive below us. They halted there, and it was not long before they began crawling up from above and below, and for a bit we shot pretty brisk. The odds were too much against them, with us on the height, and they drew off. Then for an hour they were pretty quiet while they were holding council, except that we did some shooting with a party who had climbed up to that ledge opposite; then we saw both bands mount, and reckoned they were going to make a dash for us. We knew if they did it in earnest we must go down, for once among the rocks and bushes there would be no keeping them from mounting up. We made up our minds that the end was not far off, though I fancy we should have accounted for a good many of them before they rubbed us out. When your four rifles spoke from the ledge we thought it was a party who had gone back there, for we felt sure that we had driven them all away, but it wasn't more than a moment before we saw it wasn't that. There was no mistaking the yell of astonishment from the Indians, and as the horses swerved round we saw that three of them had fallen. You may guess we didn't stop to argue who it was, but set to work to do our share; but it seemed to us something like a miracle when the red-skins rode off. "We had been talking of Leaping Horse during the night, for he had promised to come back to join us, and I knew him well enough to be able to bet all creation that he would come. He had only left us to keep an appointment with his nephew, who was to join him at Fort Bridger. If there had only been two guns fired we should have put it down to him, but being four I don't think either of us thought of him till he stood up and shouted. Now, lad, you had better take a sleep. We shall be moving on as soon as the moon is fairly up, and it won't be over that hill behind us till two or three. I will watch till then, but I don't think there is the least chance of their following us to-night; they have been pretty roughly handled, and I don't think they will follow until they have solved the mystery of that ledge. They searched it, no doubt, as soon as they found the rock was empty, and at daybreak they will set about tracing the trail up. That will be easy enough for them when they have once got rid of the idea that there was something uncanny about it, and then we shall have them on our heels again and on the chief's too. The first thing for us to do will be to make along the hill till we get to the edge of the cañon, where Leaping Horse has gone for your ponies, and to follow it to its upper end." "I will watch, uncle, if you will wake me in an hour. I shall be all right after a nap, but I can scarcely keep my eyes open now." It seemed, however, to Tom that he had not been asleep five minutes when his uncle shook him. The others were already on their feet. The moon was shining down through the trees, and with cautious steps, and taking the utmost trouble to avoid the branches, they started on their upward climb. Not a word was spoken, for all knew how far sound travels on a still night. There was, however, a slight breeze moving among the tree tops when they started, and in an hour this had so far increased that the boughs were swaying and the leaves rustling. "I reckon there ain't no occasion to keep our mouths shut no longer," one of the men said. "Now that the trees are on the move they would not hear us if they were only a hundred yards away." All were glad when daylight began to appear, Tom because the climbing would be much easier when the ground could be seen, the others because they were all longing for a pipe, but had hitherto not dared to light one, for the flash of a match could be seen far away. They had been bearing steadily to the right as they mounted, and shortly after daybreak they suddenly found themselves on the edge of a cañon. "Do you think this is the one, Jerry?" one of the men asked. "That is more than I can tell, Ben. I did not see an opening in the valley as we came up it, but we might very well have missed one in the dark. I should think from the distance we have gone towards the right it must be the one where we left our horses. Anyhow, whether it is or not, we must follow it up to the top and wait there for a bit to see if the chief comes." "I reckon he will be there before us," Harry said; "that is if he got round the red-skins all right and found the horses. There would be no reason for him to wait, and I expect he would go straight on, and is like enough to be waiting for us by this time."

7

CHASED

The party pressed forward as rapidly as they could. The ground was rough and at times very steep, and those on foot were able to keep up with the horses without much difficulty. "You think the Indians will follow, uncle?" Tom asked. "They will follow, you may bet your boots, Tom; by this time they have got to the bottom of the mystery. The first thing this morning some of them will go up on to the ledge where you were, follow your tracks down to the cañon where you left the horses, and find that you came up the valley and not down it. They will have made out that there were two whites and two red-skins, and that the two red-skins have gone up the cañon with the horses. Directly the matter is all cleared up, they will be hotter than ever for our scalps, for there is nothing a red-skin hates worse than being fooled. Of course, they will know that it is a good deal harder to wipe out seven men than three, and I don't think they will attack us openly; they know well enough that in a fair fight two red-skins, if not three, are likely to go down for each white they rub out. But they will bide their time: red-skins are a wonderful hand at that; time is nothing to them, and they would not mind hanging about us for weeks and weeks if they can but get us at last. However, we will talk it all over when the Indians join us. I don't think there is any chance of fighting to-day, but whether we shall get out of these mountains without having another scrimmage is doubtful." Tom noticed that in his talk with him his uncle dropped most of the western expressions which when speaking with the others he used as freely as they did. He was now able to have a fair look at him, and found that he agreed pretty closely with the ideas he had formed of him. There was a strong likeness between him and his brother. They were about the same height, but Harry was broader and more strongly built. His face was deeply bronzed by long exposure to the wind and sun. He had a large tawny beard, while Tom's father had been clean shaved. The sailor was five years the senior, but the miner looked far younger than Tom could ever remember his father looking, for the latter had never thoroughly recovered his, health after having had a long bout of fever on the Zanzibar station; and the long stride and free carriage of his uncle was in striking contrast to the walk of his father. Both had keen gray eyes, the same outline of face, the same pleasant smile. "Now that I can see you fairly, Tom," the miner said, when they halted once for the horses to come up to them, "I can make out that you are a good deal like your father as I can first remember him." "I was thinking you were very like him, uncle." "We used to be alike in the old days, but I reckon the different lives we led must have changed us both a great deal. He sent me once a photograph four or five years ago, and at first I should not have known it was he. I could see the likeness after a bit, but he was very much changed. No doubt I have changed still more; all this hair on my face makes a lot of difference. You see, it is a very long time since we met. I was but twenty when I left England, and I had not seen him for two or three years before that, for he was on the Mediterranean station at the time. Well, here are the horses again, and as the ground looks flatter ahead we shall have to push on to keep up with them." They were presently altogether beyond the forest, and a broad plateau of bare rock stretched away in front of them for miles. "There they are," Jerry Curtis shouted. "I was beginning to feel scared that the 'Rappahoes had got them." It was a minute or two before Tom could make out the distant figures, for his eyes were less accustomed to search for moving objects than were those of his companions. "They are riding fast," Harry Wade said. "I reckon they have made out some Indians on their trail." The little dark mass Tom had first seen soon resolved itself into two horsemen and two riderless animals. They were still three or four miles away, but in twenty minutes they reached the party advancing to meet them. The whites waved their hats and gave them a cheer as they rode up. "So you have managed to get through them all right, chief?" "The 'Rappahoes are dogs. They are frightened at shadows; their eyes were closed. Leaping Horse stood near their fires and saw them go forward, and knew that his white brothers must have gained the forest before the 'Rappahoes got to the rock. He found the horses safe, but the cañon was very dark and in some places very narrow, with many rocks in the road, so that he had to stop till the moon was high. It was not until morning came that he reached the head of the cañon, an hour's ride from here. Half an hour back Leaping Horse went to the edge and looked down. There were ten 'Rappahoes riding fast up the trail. Has my brother heard anything of the others?" "Nothing whatever," Harry said. "I reckon they did not begin to move until daylight, and as we went on when the moon rose they must be a good two hours behind us. Which way do you think we had better go, chief?" "Where does my brother wish to go?" "It matters mighty little. I should say for a bit we had better travel along this plateau, keeping about the same distance from the timber-line. I don't think the 'Rappahoes will venture to attack us in the open. If we keep on here we can cross the divide and get into the Shoshones' country, and either go down the Buffalo and then up the Snake and so work down south, or go east and strike some of the streams running that way into the Big Horn." The chief shook his head. "Too far, too many bad Indians; will talk over fire tonight." "That is it, chief. It is a matter that wants a good deal of talking over. Anyhow, we had better be moving on at once." Tom was glad to find himself in the saddle again, and the party rode on at a steady pace for some hours, then they halted, lit a fire, and cooked a meal. Tom noticed that the Indians no longer took pains to gather dry sticks, but took the first that came to hand. He remarked this to Jerry. "They know it is no use trying to hide our trail here; the two bands of Indians will follow, one up and one down, until they meet at the spot where the chief joined us. From there they can track us easy enough. Nothing would suit us better than for them to come up to us here, for we should give them fits, sartin. This is a good place. This little stream comes down from that snow peak you see over there, and we have got everything we want, for this patch of bushes will keep us in firing for a bit. You see, there are some more big hills in front of us, and we are better here than we should be among them. I expect we shall camp here for the night." "Then you don't think the Indians will come up close?" "Not they. They will send a spy or two to crawl up, you may be sure, but they will know better than to come within reach of our rifles." "I am mighty glad to have my teeth into some deer-flesh again," Ben Gulston said. "We had two or three chances as we came along, but we dare not fire, and we have just been living on bread and bacon. Where did you kill these wapiti?" "At our first halt, near Fremont's Pass. We got two." "Well, you haven't eaten much, Jerry," Sam Hicks said. "I reckon four men ought pretty well to have finished off two quarters by this time." "I reckon we should have finished one of the bucks, Sam; but we caught a grist of fish the same day, dried them in the sun, and I think we mostly ate them. They would not keep as well as the flesh. That is as good as the day we shot it, for up here in the dry air meat keeps a sight better than down in the plains. Give me some more tea, Sam." "What do you think, mates, of camping here?" Harry Wade said. "The chief thinks we are better here than we should be if we moved on. He feels certain the red-skins won't dare attack us." There was a cordial agreement in favour of a halt, for after the work they had gone through during the last week they were glad of a rest. No one would have thought half an hour afterwards that the little party engaged in washing their shirts at the stream or mending their clothes, were in the heart of a country unknown to most of them, and menaced by a savage foe. The horses cropped the scanty tufts of grass or munched the young tops of the bushes, the rifles stood stacked by the fire, near which the two Indians sat smoking and talking earnestly together, Hunting Dog occasionally getting up and taking a long careful look over the plain. As the men finished their various jobs they came back to the fire. "Now, chief," Harry said, "let us hear your ideas as to what we had best do. We are all pretty old hands at mountaineering, but we reckon you know a great deal more about it than we do. You don't like the plans I proposed." "No can do it," the chief said positively. "In a moon the snow will fall, and there will be no crossing mountains." "That is true enough," Jerry said. "An old trapper who had lived among the Shoshones told me that nine months in the year they were shut up in the valleys by the snow on the passes." "Then how can live?" the chief went on. "As long as we stay in this country the 'Rappahoes will watch us. They will tell the Bannacks and the Nez Percés, and they too would be on our trail. As long as we keep together and watch they will not come, they fear the white man's rifle; but we cannot live without hunting, and then they kill one, two, till all killed. At night must always watch, at day cannot hunt. How we live? What good to stay? If we stop all killed sure." There was silence round the circle. Every one of them felt the truth of the Indian's words, and yet they hated the thought of abandoning their search for gold, or, failing that, of a return home with their horses laden with beaver skins. Harry was the first to speak. "I am afraid these varmint have interfered with our plans, mates. If we had had the luck to drop into one of the upper valleys without being noticed we could have hunted and trapped there and looked for gold for months without much chance of being discovered, but this has upset it all. I am afraid that what the chief says is true. If we keep together we starve, if we break up and hunt we shall be ambushed and killed. I hate giving up anything I have set my mind on, but this time I don't see a way out of it. We ain't the first party that has come up here and had to go back again with empty hands, and we know what happened to that party of twenty old-time miners from California two years ago, though none of them ever got back to tell the tale. We knew when we started, it wur just a chance, and the cards have gone against us." "That is so," Ben agreed; "if it had turned out well we might have made a good strike. It ain't turned out well, and as every day we stay here there will be more of those varmint swarming round us, I say the sooner we get out of this dog-goned country the better." "You can count me in with you, Ben," Sam Hicks said. "We have gone in for the game and we don't hold hands, and it ain't no use bluffing against them red-skins. We sha'n't have lost much time arter all, and I reckon we have all learned something. Some day when the railroad goes right across, Uncle Sam will have to send a grist of troops to reckon up with the red-skins in these hills, and arter that it may be a good country for mining and trapping, but for the present we are a darned sight more likely to lose our scalps than to get skins." "Well, Leaping Horse, which way would you advise us to take, then?" "Go straight back to cañon, ride down there, cross river, go up mountains other side, pass them north of Union Peak, come down on upper water Big Wind River. From there little way on to Green River. Leaping Horse never been there, but has heard. One long day's ride from here, go to upper waters of Green River." "That sounds good," Jerry Curtis said. "If we could once strike the Green we should be out of the 'Rappahoe country altogether. I have known two or three men who have been up the Green nearly to its head, and there is good hunting and a good many beaver in the side streams. I should not have thought it would have come anywhere like as near as this, but I don't doubt the chief is right." "Union Peak," the chief said, pointing to a crag rising among a tumble of hills to the south. "Are you sure, chief?" The Indian nodded. "Forty, fifty miles away," he said. "Leaping Horse has been to upper waters of Green River, seen the peak from other side." "That settles it, then," Harry said. "That is our course, there cannot be a doubt. I should never have proposed the other if I had had an idea that we were within sixty or seventy miles of the Green River. And you think we had better take the cañon you came up by, chief?" The Indian nodded. "If go down through forest may be ambushed. Open ground from here back to cañon. 'Rappahoes most in front. Think we go that way, not think we go back. Get good start. Once across river follow up little stream among hills other side, that the way to pass. If 'Rappahoes follow us we fight them." "Yes, we shall have them at an advantage there, for they would have to come up under our fire, and there are sure to be places where half a dozen men could keep fifty at bay. Very well, chief, that is settled. When do you think we had better start?" "When gets dark," the chief replied. "No lose time, more Indian come every hour. Keep fire burning well, 'Rappahoes think we camp here. Take horses a little way off and mount beyond light of fire." "You think they will be watching us?" "Sure to watch. First ride north half an hour, then turn and ride to cañon. If spies see us go off take word to friends we gone north. Too dark to follow trail. They think they catch us easy to-morrow, and take up trail in morning; but too late then, we cross river before that." There was a general murmur of assent. The thought of being constantly watched, and suddenly attacked when least expecting it, made them feel restless, and the thought of early action was pleasant to them. "You don't think that there are any spies watching us now, uncle, do you?" "Not close, Tom; they would know better than that. They could see us miles away if we were to mount and ride off, and it is only when it gets dark that they would venture to crawl up, for if one were sighted in the daytime he would not have a ghost of a chance of getting away, for we could ride him down sartin." "Well, I reckon we may as well take a sleep," Sam Hicks said. "You lie down for one, anyhow, Harry, for you watched last evening. We will toss up which of us keeps awake." "Leaping Horse will keep watch," the chief said quietly. "No fear of Indians, but better to watch." Knowing the power of the red-skins to keep awake for an almost unlimited time, none of the others thought of refusing the offer, and in a few minutes all were sound asleep. Towards sunset they were on their feet again. Another meal was cooked and eaten, then as it became dusk the horses were gathered fifty yards away, and Hunting Dog and Tom took their places beside them. "Keep your eyes open and your rifle handy, Tom," his uncle said. "It is like enough that some young brave, anxious to distinguish himself, may crawl up with the intention of stampeding the ponies, though I don't think he would attempt it till he thought most of us were asleep. Still, there is no saying." The watch was undisturbed, and soon it became so dark that objects could no longer be seen fifty yards away. Tom began to feel nervous. Every tuft of ground, every little bush seemed to him to take the form of a crawling Indian, and he felt a great sense of relief when he saw the figures round the fire rise and walk towards him. "I am glad you have come, uncle," he said frankly; "I began to feel very uncomfortable several times. It seemed to me that some of the bushes moved." "That is just what I thought you would be feeling, Tom. But it was just as well that your first watch should be a short one, without much chance of an ambush being on foot; and I knew that if your eyes deceived you, Hunting Dog was there. Next time you won't feel so nervous; that sort of thing soon passes off." A fresh armful of brushwood had been thrown on to the fire before the men left it, and long after they had ridden away they could see the flames mounting high. After riding north for a quarter of an hour they changed their route and passed round, leaving the fire half a mile on their right. The light of the stars was quite sufficient for them to travel by, and after four hours' journey the chief, who was riding ahead, halted. "Not far from cañon now. Listen." A very faint murmur came to their ears, so faint that had not his attention been drawn to it Tom would not have noticed it at all. "What is that noise?" he asked. "That is the stream down in the cañon," his uncle replied. "How far are we from the head, chief?" "Not far, must ride slow." They proceeded at a walk, changing their course a little towards the east. Hunting Dog went on ahead, and in a quarter of an hour they heard his signal, the cry of an owl. It arose from a point still further east, and quickening their pace, in a few minutes they came up to the young Indian, who was standing by his horse at the edge of a steep descent, at the bottom of which Tom could see a stream of water. "It looks very steep," Jerry said. "Steep, but smooth," the Indian replied. "Came up here with horses this morning." All dismounted, and Tom went up to his horse's head. "That won't do, Tom. Never go before a horse down a steep place where you can't see your way, always drive it before you." There was some trouble in getting the horses to commence the descent, but after a short time the chief's pony set the example; and tucking its hind legs under it until it sat down on its haunches, began to slide down, while the other animals, after staring into the darkness with ears laid back and snorting with fear, were half-persuaded, half-forced to follow its example, and the men went down after them. The descent was not so steep as in the darkness it looked, and the depth was not over fifty feet. As soon as they reached the bottom they mounted again, and the chief leading the way, they rode down the cañon. At first they were able to proceed at a fair pace, but as the sides grew higher and more precipitous the darkness became more dense, and they were obliged to pick their way with great caution among the boulders that strewed the bottom of the ravine. Several times they had to dismount in order to get the horses over heavy falls, and it was four hours from the time they entered the cañon before they approached its mouth. When they entered the little wood where they had first left the horses, the chief said, "Make fire, cook food here. Leaping Horse and Hunting Dog go on and scout, maybe 'Rappahoes left watch in valley." "Very well, chief. It is seven hours since we started; I think the horses will be all the better for an hour's rest, and I am sure we shall be the better of a feed. Besides, when we are once out of this hole we may have to travel fast." "You don't think it likely that the 'Rappahoes are on the look-out for us at the entrance?" Tom asked, as the Indians moved away. "Not likely at all, Tom. Still, as they might reckon that if we gave their searching party the slip we must come down again by the river or through this cañon, they may have left a party or sent down word to some of their villages to keep a watch in the valley." It was more than an hour before the Indians returned. "No 'Rappahoes in valley," the chief said, as he seated himself by the fire and began without loss of time to eat the meat they had cooked in readiness. "Better be going soon, must cross river and get on before light come; have seen fires, Indian villages up on hillsides. When light comes and 'Rappahoes find trail they come back quick." "You may bet your boots they will, chief," Sam Hicks said. "They will be a pretty mad crowd when they make out that we have come down again by the cañon. As soon as they see which way we have headed some of them will make a bee-line down here in hopes of cutting us off at the mouth, but by the time they are here we shall be half-way up the hill." The Indian made no reply, but he and Hunting Dog ate their meal steadily, and as soon as they had finished rose to their feet, and saying "Time to go" went out to fetch in their horses. "I don't think the chief is as confident we shall get off without a fight as Sam seemed to be," Tom said to his uncle. "There is never any saying what an Indian thinks, Tom, even when he has fallen into white man's ways, as Leaping Horse has done. It may be that the sight of the fires he made out on the opposite hills has troubled him. It will be light before we are far up on the side, and we may be made out by some of the varmint there. They are always restless. Go into an Indian village when you will, you will find some of them smoking by the fire. Their ears are so 'tarnal sharp, they can hear sounds that would never catch our ears, not at half the distance. The clink of a couple of pans together, or a stone set rolling by a horse's tread, were it ever so faint, would bring them on their feet directly, especially now they know that a war-party is out." The march was again resumed. Passing through the narrowest part of the cañon they issued out into the valley and made for the river. Some time was lost here, for Sam Hicks, who was leading one of the pack-ponies, was carried down several hundred yards by the stream, and with difficulty effected his landing. The horse's load shifted and had to be repacked. As soon as this was done they followed the river down for two miles till they came upon a stream running into it from the southwest. "You think this is the stream we have to follow, chief?" "Must be him, no other came in on this side for a long way; right line for peak." They turned up by the stream, and after riding a mile found themselves entering a mountain gorge. It was not a cañon but a steep, narrow valley. They picked their way with the greatest caution for some time, then the two Indians stopped simultaneously. "What is the matter, chief?" Harry, who was riding next to them, whispered. "Smell smoke." Harry sniffed the air. "I can't say I smell it, chief, but if you say you do that settles it. Where do you think it comes from?" "Up valley; wind light, but comes that way. Indian village up here." "Well, so much the worse for the Indian village if it interferes with us," Harry said grimly; "there is one thing certain, we have got to go through. Probably most of the braves are away up in the hills." They now went on with redoubled caution. The chief gave his bridle to Hunting Dog and went forward on foot. A hundred yards farther the valley made a sharp turn and then widened out considerably, and the glow of a fire was visible among some trees standing on the hillside some fifty feet above the level of the stream. The chief looked at the sky; a faint light was breaking, and without pausing he continued to lead the way. They passed under the Indian encampment, and had got a few yards higher when the pony Sam Hicks was leading gave a sharp neigh. "Darn its old ears!" Tom heard Jerry growl. Harry at the same moment put his horse to a trot, and the others following clattered up the valley, knowing that concealment was no longer of any use; indeed, an answering neigh from above and hurried shouts were heard, followed a moment afterwards by a loud yell as an Indian running through the trees caught sight of them in the moonlight. "We are in for it now, Tom; that is, if there are men enough in the village to attack us." The horses broke into a gallop. They had gone but fifty yards when a rifle-shot was heard from behind, and Tom felt a shock as the ball struck his saddle. Almost immediately another shot was fired abreast of him, and an Indian yell rose loudly behind them. A moment later Leaping Horse with a shout of triumph bounded down the rocks and leapt on to his horse. Four or five more shots were fired from behind, but none of them were hit. A hundred yards farther they were in shelter of a belt of trees that extended down to the stream. As they entered it Harry looked back. He could now see the hills beyond the main valley. "Look, chief!" he exclaimed. "The varmint up there are signalling far off above the timber-line." Bright tongues of fire could be seen, two close together and one a short distance to the left. "What does that mean, uncle?" Tom asked, as the chief gave a short exclamation of surprise and anger. "It means, lad, that the red-skins have been sharper than we gave them credit for. When their spies brought them news that we had started they must have come down to the fire and followed our trail at once with torches, before we had got above an hour or two away. No doubt it was slow work, but they must have found where we changed our course, and made out that we were making for the head of the cañon. I expect most of them lost no time in following the trail farther, but rode straight for the head of the cañon, and like enough they weren't half an hour behind us when we came out. The others rode to the edge of the plateau and set those fires alight." "But what do they mean, uncle?" "They are a warning to all the villages that we have headed back, you may be sure of that, though I can't say what the message is, for every tribe has its own signals, but it will have set them on the watch up and down the valley; and like enough the signal has been repeated somewhere at a point where it can be seen straight down the Big Wind Valley. The shooting will tell them all which way we are making, and if the 'Rappahoes have come out of the cañon, as I reckon they have, they need lose no more time in looking for our trail. I reckon in half an hour we shall have a hundred or so of the varmint after us. I only hope there are no more villages upon this line. I don't so much care about the fellows who are following us, we are sure to find some place where we can make a stand, but it would be awkward if we find our way barred." "But if there is no one in front, uncle, I should think we might be able to keep ahead. Our horses are as good as they are likely to have." "You and Jerry might be able to, Tom, for you have got hold of two first-rate ponies; but the Indians' are nothing out of the way, and our ponies ain't in it with you; besides, they and the pack-horses have all been doing hard work for the last week with none too much food, and many of the 'Rappahoes will be on fresh horses. I expect we have got some very tall climbing to do before we get up to the pass, and we have got to do our fighting before we get there." The ground rose steeply, and was encumbered by fallen stones and boulders, and it was not long before the pack-horses began to show signs of distress, while those ridden by Harry and his two comrades were drawing their breath in short gasps. After emerging from the trees the ravine had run in almost a straight line for more than half a mile, and just as they reached the end of this stretch a yell was heard down the valley. Looking back they saw eight or ten mounted Indians emerging from the wood at the lower end. "That is a signal," Harry exclaimed, as four rifles were fired in quick succession. "Well, we have got a bit of a start of them, and they won't venture to attack us until some more come up. We had better take it a bit quietly, chief, or our horses will give out. I expect we sha'n't be long before we come upon a place where we can make a stand." The Seneca looked round at the horses. "You, Sam, Ben and pack-horses go on till you get to place where can fight. We four wait here; got good horses, and can ride on. We stop them here for a bit." "That would be best. I don't like being out of it, but we will do our share presently." No more words were necessary. Harry and his two mates rode on at a slower pace than before, while the two Indians, Jerry, and Tom dismounted, left their horses beyond the turn, and then coming back took up their positions behind four large boulders. The Indians had noticed their returning figures, for they suddenly drew up their horses and gathered together in consultation. "Draw your bullet, Tom," Jerry said, "and drop in half a charge more powder; I reckon that piece of yours will send a bullet among them with the help of a good charge. Allow a bit above that top notch for extra, elevation. It's a good big mark, and you ought to be able to plump a bullet among them." Tom followed the instructions, and then resting the barrel on the top of the boulder took a steady aim and fired. There was a sudden stir among the group of Indians. A horse reared high in the air, almost unseating its rider, and then they all rode off at the top of their speed, and halted two or three hundred yards lower down the valley. The Senecas uttered a grunt of approval. "That was a good shot, Tom, though I wish you had hit one of the red-skins instead of his critter. Still, it will give them a good lesson, and make them mighty keerful. They won't care about showing their ugly heads within range of a piece that will carry five hundred yards." A quarter of an hour passed without any movement on the part of the Indians. Then a large party of horsemen appeared from the trees below, and were greeted by them with a yell of satisfaction. "There must be well-nigh fifty of them," Jerry said. "I reckon it's the party that came down the hill. They must have picked up a good many others by the way. Now the fun is going to begin." After five minutes' consultation some twenty of the Indians dismounted, and dividing into two parties ascended the slopes of the valley and began to move forward, taking advantage of every stone and bush, so that it was but occasionally that a glimpse of one of their bodies was obtained. "They are going to skirmish up to us," Jerry said, "till they are near enough to make it hot for us if we show a head above the rocks to fire. As soon as they can do that, the others will charge. I think they are not more than four hundred yards off now, Tom. That is within your range, so you may as well begin to show them that we are awake. If you can bring one down it will check their pace." Tom had just noticed three Indians run behind a clump of bushes, and he now levelled his rifle so that it bore on a spot a foot on one side of it. Half a minute later an Indian appeared at the bush and began to run forward. Tom pressed the trigger. The Indian ran a few steps, and then fell forward on his face. "Bravo, Plumb-centre!" Jerry shouted. "We said that you would do the rifle credit, Tom, and Billy the Scout could not have done better himself." "Young white man make great hunter," the chief remarked approvingly. "Got good eye and steady hand." The lesson had its effect. The Indian advance was no longer rapid, but was conducted with the greatest caution, and it was only occasionally that a glimpse could be caught of a dusky figure passing from rock to rock. When they came within three hundred yards the two Indians and Jerry also opened fire. One fell to a shot from the chief, but neither of the others hit their marks. Tom indeed did not fire again, the movements of the Indians being so rapid that they were gone before he could bring his sight to bear upon any of them. "Go now," the chief said. " 'Rappahoes fire soon; run quick." It was but a few yards to shelter. As they dashed across the intervening space two or three Indian rifles rang out, but the rest of the assailants had been too much occupied in sheltering themselves and looking for the next spot to make for, to keep an eye upon the defenders, and the hastily-fired shots all missed. A moment later the party mounted their horses and rode up the ravine, the yells of the Indians ringing in their ears. [Illustration: "A Moment Later The Indian Fell Forward On His Face."]

8

IN SAFETY

"We have gained half an hour anyhow," Jerry said, as they galloped up the ravine, "and I reckon by the time we overtake them we shall find them stowed away in some place where it will puzzle the red-skins to dislodge us. The varmint will fight hard if they are cornered, but they ain't good at advancing when there are a few rifle-tubes, in the hands of white men, pointing at them, and they have had a lesson now that we can shoot." The ravine continued to narrow. The stream had become a mere rivulet, and they were high up on the hillside. "I begin to be afeared there ain't no place for making a stand." Here he was interrupted by an angry growl, as a great bear suddenly rose to his feet behind a rock. "You may thank your stars that we are too busy to attend to you," Jerry said, as they rode past within a few yards of it. "That is a grizzly, Tom; and an awkward beast you would have found him if you had come upon him by yourself without your shooting-iron. He is a big one too, and his skin would have been worth money down in the settlements. Ah, there they are." The ravine made an abrupt turn to the west, and high up on its side they saw their three companions with the five horses climbing up the precipitous rocks. "How ever did they get up there?" Jerry exclaimed. "Found Indian trail," the chief said. "Let my brothers keep their eyes open." They rode on slowly now, examining every foot of the steep hillside. Presently Hunting Dog, who was ahead, uttered an exclamation. Between two great boulders there was a track, evidently a good deal used. "Let Hunting Dog go first," the chief said. "Leaping Horse will follow the white men." "I reckon that this is the great Indian trail over the pass," Jerry said to Tom, who preceded him. "I have heard there ain't no way over the mountains atween that pass by Fremont's Buttes and the pass by this peak, which they calls Union Peak, and the red-skins must travel by this when they go down to hunt buffalo on the Green River. It is a wonder Harry struck on it." "Leaping Horse told him to keep his eyes open," the chief said from the rear. "He knew that Indian trail led up this valley." "Jee-rusalem! but it's a steep road," Jerry said presently. "I am dog-goned if I can guess how the red-skins ever discovered it. I expect they must have tracked some game up it, and followed to see where it went to." The trail wound about in a wonderful way. Sometimes it went horizontally along narrow ledges, then there was a bit of steep climbing, where they had to lead their horses; then it wound back again, and sometimes even descended for a distance to avoid a projecting crag. "Ah! would ye, yer varmint?" Jerry exclaimed, as a shot rang out from the valley below and a bullet flattened itself against a rock within a foot or two of his head. The shot was followed by a loud yell from below, as a crowd of mounted Indians rode at full gallop round the angle of the ravine. "Hurry on, Hunting Dog, and get round the next corner, for we are regular targets here." A few yards farther a turn of the path took them out of sight of the Indians, but not before a score of bullets came whistling up from below. "The varmint have been riding too fast to shoot straight, I reckon. It will be our turn directly." Just as he spoke the chief called upon them to dismount. They threw their bridles on their horses' necks, and descending to the ledge they had just left, lay down on it. "Get your revolver out, Tom, before you shoot," Jerry said. "They will be off before you have time to load your rifle again." The Indians were some four hundred feet below them, and were talking excitedly, evidently hesitating whether to follow up the trail. The four rifles cracked almost together. Two Indians fell, and the plunging of two horses showed that they were hit. In an instant the whole mass were on their way down the valley, followed by bullet after bullet from the revolvers which Leaping Horse as well as the whites carried. Anything like accurate aim was impossible, and no Indian was seen to fall, but it was probable that some of the bullets had taken effect among the crowded horsemen. "Go on quiet now," Leaping Horse said, rising to his feet. " 'Rappahoes not follow any farther. One man with this"--and he touched his revolver--"keep back whole tribe here." Half an hour later they joined the party who had halted at the top of the track. "It air too bad our being out of it," Ben said. "I hope you have given some of the varmint grist." "Only five or six of them," Jerry replied regretfully, "counting in the one Leaping Horse shot at the village. Tom here did a big shot, and brought one down in his tracks at a good four hundred yards--as neat a shot as ever I saw fired. The chief he accounted for another; then atween us we wiped out two down below; and I reckon some of the others are carrying some of our lead away. Waal, I think we have shook them off at last any how. I suppose there ain't, no other road they can come up here by, chief?" "Leaping Horse only heard of one trail." "You may bet your life there ain't another," Harry remarked. "They would never have used such a dog-goned road as this if there had been any other way of going up." "Camp here," the chief said. "Long journey over pass, too much cold. Keep watch here at head of trail." "That is a very good plan. I have heard that the pass is over nine thousand feet above the sea, and it would never do to have to camp up there. Besides, I have been looking at the sky, and I don't much like its appearance. Look over there to the north." There were, indeed, evident signs of an approaching change in the weather. On the previous day every peak and jagged crest stood out hard and distinct in the clear air. Now all the higher summits were hidden by a bank of white cloud. "Snow," the Indian said gravely; "winter coming." "That is just what I thought, chief. At any rate we know where we are here, and there is brushwood to be gathered not far down the trail; and even if we are shut up here we can manage well enough for a day or two. These early snows don't lie long, but to be caught in a snow-storm higher up would be a sight worse than fighting with red-skins." From the spot where they were now standing at the edge of the ravine the ground sloped very steeply up for some hundreds of feet, and then steep crags rose in an unbroken wall; but from the view they had had of the country from the other side they knew that behind this wall rose a range of lofty summits. The Indian trail ran along close to the edge of the ravine. The chief looked round earnestly. "No good place to camp," he said. "Wind blow down hills, horses not able to stand against it. Heap snow tumble down from there," and he pointed upwards. "Carry everything down below." "Well, if you think we had better push on, let us do so, chief." The Indian shook his head and pointed to the clouds again. "See," he said; "storm come very soon." Even in the last two or three minutes a change was perceptible. The upper edge of the clouds seemed to be suddenly broken up. Long streamers spread out like signal flags of danger. Masses of clouds seemed to be wrenched off and to fly with great rapidity for a short distance; some of them sinking a little, floated back until they again formed a part of the mountain cap, while others sped onwards towards the south. "No time," the chief repeated earnestly; "must look for camp quick." He spoke in the Indian tongue to Hunting Dog, and the two stood on a point where the ground jutted out, and closely examined the ravine up whose side they had climbed. The chief pointed farther along, and Hunting Dog started at a run along the Indian trail. A few hundred yards farther he paused and looked down, moved a few steps farther, and then disappeared from sight. In three or four minutes he returned and held up his arms. "Come," the chief said, and taking his horse's rein led it along the path. The others followed his example, glad, indeed, to be in motion. Five minutes before they had been bathed in perspiration from their climb up the cliff; now they were conscious of the extraordinary change of temperature that had suddenly set in, and each had snatched a blanket from behind his saddle and wrapped it round him. They soon reached the spot where Hunting Dog was standing, and looked down. Some thirty feet below there was a sort of split in the face of the cliff, a wall of rock rising to within four or five feet of the level of the edge of the ravine. At one end it touched the face of the rock, at the other it was ten or twelve feet from it, the space between being in the form of a long wedge, which was completely filled up with trees and brushwood. A ledge ran down from the point where Hunting Dog was standing to the mouth of the fissure. "Jee-rusalem, chief!" Ben exclaimed. "That air just made for us--we could not have found a better, not if we had sarched for a year. But I reckon we shall have to clear the place a bit before we take the critters down." Two axes were taken from one of the pack-horses. "Don't cut away the bigger stuff, Ben," Harry said as his two mates proceeded down the ledge, "their heads will shelter us from the snow a bit; and only clear away the bushes enough to give room for the horses and us, and leave those standing across the entrance to make a screen. While you are doing it we will fetch in as much more wood and grass as we can get hold of before the snow begins to fall." The horses were left standing while the men scattered along the top of the ravine, and by the time Ben shouted that they were ready, a considerable pile of brushwood and a heap of coarse grass had been collected. The horses were then led down one by one, unsaddled, and packed together in two lines, having beyond them a great pile of the bushes that had been cut away. "I am dog-goned if this ain't the best shelter I ever struck upon," Jerry said. "We could not have fixed upon a better if we had had it built special," the others cordially agreed. The place they occupied was of some twelve feet square. On either side was a perpendicular wall of rock; beyond were the horses; while at the entrance the bush, from three to four feet high, had been left standing; above them stretched a canopy of foliage. Enough dry wood had been collected to start a fire. "Don't make it too big. Jerry, we don't want to scorch up our roof," Harry Wade said. "Well, I reckon we have got enough fuel here for a week, for there is what you cut down and what we brought, and all that is left standing beyond the horses; and with the leaves and the grass the ponies should be able to hold out as long as the fuel lasts. We are short of meat, but we have plenty of flour; and as for water, we can melt snow." Buffalo rugs were laid down on each side by the rock walls, and on these they took their seats and lighted their pipes. "I have been wanting a smoke pretty bad," Jerry said; "I ain't had one since we halted in that there cañon. Hello, here it comes!" As he spoke a fierce gust of wind swayed the foliage overhead and sent the smoke, that had before risen quietly upwards, whirling round the recess; then for a moment all was quiet again; then came another and a stronger gust, rising and gathering in power and laden with fine particles of snow. A thick darkness fell, and Harry threw some more wood on the fire to make a blaze. But loud as was the gale outside, the air in the shelter was hardly moved, and there was but a slight rustling of the leaves overhead. Thicker and thicker flew the snow flakes in the air outside, and yet none seemed to fall through the leaves. "I am dog-goned if I can make this out," Sam Hicks said. "We are as quiet here as if we were in a stone house, and one would think there was a copper-plated roof overhead. It don't seem nat'ral." The others were also looking up with an air of puzzled surprise, not unmingled with uneasiness. Harry went to the entrance and looked out over the breastwork of bushes. "Look here, Sam," he said. "Why, Harry, it looks to me as if it were snowing up instead of down," the miner said as he joined him. "That is just it. You see, we are in the elbow of the valley and are looking straight down it, into the eye of the wind. It comes rushing up the valley and meets this steep wall on its way, and pushed on by the wind behind has to go somewhere, and so it is driven almost straight up here and over the hilltops behind us. So you see the snow is carried up instead of falling, and this rock outside us shoots it clear up over the path we were following above. As long as the wind keeps north, I reckon we sha'n't be troubled by the snow in here." The explanation seemed satisfactory, and there was a general feeling of relief. "I remember reading," Tom said, as the others took their seats again, "that people can stand on the edge of a cliff, facing a gale, without feeling any wind. For the wind that strikes the cliff rushes up with such force that it forms a sort of wall. Of course, it soon beats down again, and not many yards back you can feel the gale as strongly as anywhere else. But just at the edge the air is perfectly still." The miners looked at Tom as if they thought that he was making a joke at their expense. But his uncle said: "Yes, I can quite believe that. You see, it is something like a waterfall; you can stand right under that, for the force shoots it outwards, and I reckon it is the same sort of thing here." The chief nodded gravely. He too had been surprised at the lull in their shelter when the storm was raging so furiously outside, but Harry's illustration of the action of rushing water enlightened him more than his first explanation had done. "But water ain't wind, Harry," Ben said. "It is like water in many ways, Ben. You don't see it, but you can feel it just the same. If you stand behind a tree or round a corner it rushes past you, and you are in a sort of eddy, just as you would be if it was a river that was moving alongside of you. Wind acts just the same way as water. If it had been a big river coming along the valley at the same rate as the wind it would rush up the rocks some distance and then sweep round and race up the valley; but wind being light instead of being heavy is able to rush straight up the hill till it gets right over the crest." "Waal, if you say it is all right I suppose it is. Anyhow, it's a good thing for us, and I don't care how long it goes on in the same way. I reckoned that before morning we should have those branches breaking down on us with the weight of snow; now I see we are like to have a quiet night." "I won't answer for that, Ben; it is early in the day yet, and there is no saying how the wind may be blowing before to-morrow morning. Anyhow, now we have time we may as well get some of those bundles of bushes that we brought down, and pile them so as to thicken the shelter of these bushes and lighten it a bit. If we do that, and hang a couple of blankets inside of them, it will give us a good shelter even if the wind works round, and will help to keep us warm. For though we haven't got wind or snow in here, we have got cold." "You bet," Jerry agreed; "it is a regular blizzard. And although I don't say as it is too cold sitting here by the fire, it won't cost us anything to make the place a bit warmer." Accordingly the bundles of wood they had gathered were brought out, and with these the screen of bush was thickened, and raised to a height of five feet; and when this was hung inside with a couple of blankets, it was agreed that they could get through the storm comfortably even if it lasted for a month. They cooked their last chunk of deer's flesh, after having first prepared some bread and put it in the baking pot among the embers, and made some tea from the water in the skins. When they had eaten their meal they covered themselves up in buffalo robes and blankets, and lighted their pipes. There was, however, but little talk, for the noise of the tempest was so great, that it was necessary to raise the voice almost to a shout to be heard, and it was not long before they were all asleep. For hours there was no stir in the shelter, save when a horse pawed the ground impatiently, or when Hunting Dog rose two or three times to put fresh sticks on the fire. It seemed to Tom when he woke that it ought to be nearly morning. He took out his watch, and by the light of the fire made out to his surprise that it was but ten o'clock. The turmoil of the wind seemed to him to be as loud as before, and he pulled the blankets over his shoulder again and was soon sound asleep. When he next woke, it was with the sensation of coldness in the face, and sitting up he saw that the blankets and the ground were covered with a thick coating of fine snow. There was a faint light in addition to that given by the embers of the fire, and he knew that morning was breaking. His movement disturbed his uncle, who was lying next him. He sat up and at once aroused the others. "Wake up, mates," he said; "we have had somewhere about eighteen hours' sleep, and day is breaking." In a minute all were astir. The snow was first shaken off the blankets, and then Harry, taking a shovel, cleared the floor. Jerry took the largest cooking-pot, and saying to Tom, "You bring that horse-bucket along," pushed his way out through a small gap that had been left in the screen of bushes. The wind had gone down a good deal, though it was still blowing strongly. The snow had drifted against the entrance, and formed a steep bank there; from this they filled the pot and bucket, pressing the snow down. Tom was glad to get back again within the shelter, for the cold outside was intense. The fire was already burning brightly, and the pot and a frying-pan were placed over it, and kept replenished with snow as fast as their contents melted. "We must keep on at this," Harry said, "there is not a drop left in the skins, and the horses must have water." As soon as enough had melted it was poured into the kettle. There was some bacon among the trappers' stores, as they had calculated that they would not be able to hunt until out of Big Wind Valley and far up among the forests beyond. The frying-pan was now utilized for its proper work, while the pail was placed close enough to the fire to thaw its contents, without risking injury to it. Within an hour of breakfast being finished enough snow had been thawed to give the horses half a bucket of water each. In each pail a couple of pounds of flour had been stirred to help out what nourishment could be obtained from the leaves, and from the small modicum of grass given to each animal. "It will be a big journey over the pass, anyhow," Harry had said. "Now that we are making tracks for the settlements we need not be sparing of the flour; indeed, the lighter we are the better." The day did not pass so pleasantly as that preceding it, for the air was filled with fine snow that blew in at the entrance and found its way between the leaves overhead; while from time to time the snow accumulating there came down with a crash, calling forth much strong language from the man on whom it happened to fall, and shouts of laughter from his comrades. The party was indeed a merry one. They had failed altogether in the objects of their expedition, but they had escaped without a scratch from the Indians, and had inflicted some damage upon them; and their luck in finding so snug a shelter in such a storm far more than counterbalanced their disappointment at their failure. "Have you often been caught in the snow, uncle?" "You bet, Tom; me and the chief here were mighty nigh rubbed out three years ago. I was prospecting among the Ute hills, while Leaping Horse was doing the hunting for us both. It was in the middle of winter; the snow was deep on the ground in the valleys and on the tops of the hills, but there was plenty of bare rock on the hillside, so I was able to go on with my work. While as for hunting, the cold drove the big-horns down from the heights where they feed in summer, and the chief often got a shot at them; and they are good eating, I can tell you. "We hadn't much fear of red-skins, for they ain't fond of cold and in winter move their lodges down to the most sheltered valleys and live mostly on dried meat. When they want a change they can always get a bear or maybe a deer in the woods. We were camped in a grove of pines in a valley and were snug enough. One day I had struck what I thought was the richest vein I had ever come on. I got my pockets full of bits of quartz with the gold sticking thick in it, and you may bet I went down to the camp in high glee. A quarter of a mile before I got there I saw Leaping Horse coming to meet me at a lope. It didn't want telling that there was something wrong. As soon as he came up he said 'Utes.' 'Many of them, chief?' I asked. He held up his open hands twice. " 'Twenty of them,' I said; 'that is pretty bad. How far are they away?' He said he had seen them coming over a crest on the other side of the valley. 'Then we have got to git,' I said, 'there ain't no doubt about that. What the 'tarnal do the varmint do here?' 'War-party,' the chief said. 'Indian hunter must have come across our trail and taken word back to the lodges.' The place where he had met me was among a lot of rocks that had rolled down. There had been no snow for a fortnight, and of course the red-skins would see our tracks everywhere, going and coming from the camp. We were on foot that time, though we had a pack-horse to carry our outfit. Of course they would get that and everything at the camp. I did not think much of the loss, the point was how were we to save our scalps? We had sat down behind a rock as soon as he had joined me. Just then a yell came from the direction of our camp, and we knew that the red-skins had found it. 'They won't be able to follow your trail here, chief, will they?' He shook his head. 'Trail everywhere, not know which was the last.' We could see the grove where the camp was, and of course they could see the rocks, and it was sartin that if we had made off up the hill they would have been after us in a squirrel's jump; so there was nothing to do but to lie quiet until it was dark. We got in among the boulders, and lay down where we could watch the grove through a chink. " 'I don't see a sign of them,' I said. 'You would have thought they would have been out in search of us.' " 'No search,' the chief said. 'No good look for us, not know where we have gone to. Hide up in grove. Think we come back, and then catch us.' "So it turned out. Not a sign of them was to be seen, and after that first yell everything was as quiet as death. In a couple of hours it got dark, and as soon as it did we were off. We talked matters over, you may be sure. There weren't no denying we were cornered. There we were without an ounce of flour or a bite of meat. The chief had caught up a couple of buffalo rugs as soon as he sighted the red-skins. That gave us just a chance, but it wasn't more. In the morning the red-skins would know we had either sighted them or come on their trail, and would be scattering all over the country in search of us. We agreed that we must travel a good way apart, though keeping each other in sight. They would have noticed that the trails were all single, and if they came upon two together going straight away from the camp, would know for sure it was us making off. "You may think that with so many tracks as we had made in the fortnight we had been there, they would not have an idea which was made the first day and which was made the last, but that ain't so. In the first place, the snow was packed hard, and the footprints were very slight. Then, even when it is always freezing there is an evaporation of the snow, and the footprints would gradually disappear; besides that, the wind on most days had been blowing a little, and though the drift does not count for much on packed snow, a fine dust is blown along, and if the prints don't get altogether covered there is enough drift in them to show which are old ones and which are fresh. We both knew that they could not make much mistake about it, and that they would be pretty sure to hit on the trail I had made in the morning when I went out, and on that of the chief to the rocks, and following mine back to the same place would guess that we had cached there till it was dark. "I could have done that myself; one can read such a trail as that like a printed book. The worst of it was, there were no getting out of the valley without leaving sign. On the bare hillsides and among the rocks we could travel safe enough, but above them was everywhere snow, and do what we would there would be no hiding our trail. We agreed that the only thing was to cross the snow as quick as possible, to keep on the bare rock whenever we got a chance, and wherever we struck wood, and to double sometimes one way sometimes another, so as to give the red-skins plenty of work to do to follow our trail. We walked all that night, and right on the next day till early in the afternoon. Then we lay down and slept till sunset, and then walked again all night. We did not see any game. If we had we should have shot, for we knew the red-skins must be a long way behind. When we stopped in the morning we were not so very far from the camp we had started from, for if we had pushed straight back to the settlements we should have been caught sure, for the Utes would have been certain to have sent off a party that way to watch the valleys we should have had to pass through. We lay down among some trees and slept for a few hours and then set out to hunt, for we had been two days without food, and I was beginning to feel that I must have a meal. "We had not gone far when we came across the track of a black bear. We both felt certain that the trail was not many hours old. We followed it for two miles, and found it went up to a slide of rocks; they had come down from a cliff some years before, for there were bushes growing among them. As a rule a black bear will always leave you alone if you leave him, and hasn't much fight in him at the best; so up we went, thinking we were sure of our bear-steak without much trouble in getting it. I was ahead, and had just climbed up on to a big rock, when, from a bush in front, the bear came out at me with a growl. I expect it had cubs somewhere, I had just time to take a shot from the hip and then he was on me, and gave me a blow on the shoulder that ripped the flesh down to the elbow. "But that was not the worst, for the blow sent me over the edge, and I fell seven or eight feet down among the sharp rocks. I heard the chief's rifle go off, and it was some time after that before I saw or heard anything more. When I came to I found he had carried me down to the foot of the slide and laid me there. He was cutting up some sticks when I opened my eyes. 'Have you got the bear, Leaping Horse?' " 'The bear is dead,' he said. 'My brother is badly hurt.' " 'Oh, never mind the hurt,' I said, 'so that we have got him. What are you doing, chief? You are not going to make a fire here, are you?' " 'My brother's leg is broken,' he said. 'I am cutting some sticks to keep it straight.' "That brought me round to my senses, as you may guess. To break one's leg up in the mountains is bad at any time, but when it is in the middle of winter, and you have got a tribe of red-skins at your heels, it means you have got to go under. I sat up and looked at my leg. Sure enough, the left one was snapt like a pipe-stem, about half-way between the knee and the ankle. 'Why, chief,' I said, 'it would have been a sight better if you had put a bullet through my head as I lay up there. I should have known nothing about it.' " 'The Utes have not got my white brother yet.' " 'No,' said I, 'but it won't be long before they have me; maybe it will be this afternoon, and maybe to-morrow morning.' The chief said nothing, but went on with his work. When he had got five or six sticks about three feet long and as many about a foot, and had cut them so that they each had one flat side, he took off his buckskin shirt, and working round the bottom of it cut a thong about an inch wide and five or six yards long. Then he knelt down and got the bone in the right position, and then with what help I could give him put on the splints and bandaged them tightly, a long one and a short one alternately. The long ones he bandaged above the knee as well as below, so that the whole leg was stiff. I felt pretty faint by the time it was done, and Leaping Horse said, 'Want food; my white brother will lie quiet, Leaping Horse will soon get him some.' "He set to work and soon had a fire going, and then went up to the rocks and came down again with the bear's hams and about half his hide. It was not long before he had some slices cooked, and I can tell you I felt better by the time we had finished. We had not said much to each other, but I had been thinking all the time, and when we had done I said, 'Now, chief, I know that you will be wanting to stay with me, but I ain't going to have it. You know as well as I do that the Utes will be here to-morrow at latest, and there ain't more chance of my getting away from them than there is of my flying. It would be just throwing away your scalp if you were to stop here, and it would not do me a bit of good, and would fret me considerable. Now before you start I will get you to put me somewhere up among those stones where I can make a good fight of it. You shall light a fire by the side of me, and put a store of wood within reach and a few pounds of bear's flesh. I will keep them off as long as I can with the rifle, then there will be five shots with my Colt. I will keep the last barrel for myself; I ain't going to let the Utes amuse themselves by torturing me for a few hours before they finish me. Then you make straight away for the settlements; they won't be so hot after you when they have once got me. The next time you go near Denver you can go and tell Pete Hoskings how it all came about.' " 'My white brother is weak with the pain,' the chief said quietly; 'he is talking foolishly. He knows that Leaping Horse will stay with his friend. He will go and look for a place.' Without listening to what I had to say he took up his rifle and went up the valley, which was a steep one. He was away better than half an hour and then came back. 'Leaping Horse found a place,' he said, 'where he and his brother can make a good fight. Straight Harry get on his friend's back.' It was clear that there weren't no use talking to him. He lifted me up on to my feet, then he got me well up on to his back, as if I had been a sack of coal, and went off with me, striding along pretty near as quick as if I had not been there. It might have been half a mile, when he turned up a narrow ravine that was little more than a cleft in the rock that rose almost straight up from the valley. It did not go in very far, for there had been a slide, and it was blocked up by a pile of rocks and earth, forty or fifty feet high. It was a big job even for the chief to get me up to the top of them. The snow had drifted down thick into the ravine, and it was a nasty place to climb even for a man who had got nothing but his rifle on his shoulder. However, he got me up safely, and laid me down just over the crest. He had put my buffalo robe over my shoulders before starting, and he rolled me up in this and said, 'Leaping Horse will go and fetch rifles and bear-meat,' and he set straight off and left me there by myself."

9

A BAD TIME

"Even to me," Harry went on, after refilling and lighting his pipe, "it did not seem long before the chief was back. He brought a heavy load, for besides the rifles and bear's flesh he carried on his back a big faggot of brushwood. After laying that down he searched among the rocks, and presently set to work to dig out the snow and earth between two big blocks, and was not long before he scooped out with his tomahawk a hole big enough for the two of us to lie in comfortably. He laid the bear's-skin down in this, then he carried me to it and helped me in and then put the robes over me; and a snugger place you would not want to lie in. "It was about ten feet below the level of the crest of the heap of rocks, and of course on the upper side, so that directly the red-skins made their appearance he could help me up to the top. That the two of us could keep the Utes back I did not doubt; we had our rifles, and the chief carried a revolver as well as I did. After they had once caught a glimpse of the sort of place we were on, I did not think they would venture into the ravine, for they would have lost a dozen men before they got to the mound. I had looked round while the chief was away, and I saw that a hundred yards or so higher up, the ravine came to an end, the sides closing in, so there was no fear of our being attacked from there. What I was afraid of was that the Indians might be able to get up above and shoot down on us, though whether they could or not depended on the nature of the ground above, and of course I could not see beyond the edge of the rocks. "But even if they could not get up in the daylight, they could crawl up at night and finish us, or they could camp down at the mouth of the ravine and starve us out, for there was no chance of our climbing the sides, even if my leg had been all right. I was mighty sorry for the chief. He had just thrown his life away, and it must come to the same in the end, as far as I was concerned. Even now he could get away if he chose, but I knew well enough it weren't any good talking to him. So I lay there, just listening for the crack of his rifle above. He would bring down the first man that came in, sartin, and there would be plenty of time after that to get me up beside him, for they would be sure to have a long talk before they made any move. I did not expect them until late in the afternoon, and hoped it might be getting dark before they got down into the valley. There had been a big wind sweeping down it since the snow had fallen, and though it had drifted deep along the sides, the bottom was for the most part bare. I noticed that the chief had picked his way carefully, and guessed that, as they would have no reason for thinking we were near, they might not take up the trail till morning. Of course they would find our fire and the dead bear, or all that there was left of him, and they would fancy we had only stopped to take a meal and had gone on again. They would see by the fire that we had left pretty early in the day. I heard nothing of the chief until it began to get dark; then he came down to me. " 'Leaping Horse will go out and scout,' he said. 'If Utes not come soon, will come back here; if they come, will watch down at mouth of valley till he sees Utes go to sleep.' 'Well, chief,' I said; 'at any rate you may as well take this robe; one is enough to sleep with in this hole, and I shall be as snug as a beaver wrapped up in mine. Half your hunting shirt is gone, and you will find it mighty cold standing out there.' "In an hour he came back again. 'Utes come,' he said. 'Have just lighted fire and going to cook. No come tonight. Leaping Horse has good news for his brother. There are no stars.' "That is good news indeed,' I said. 'If it does but come on to snow to-night we may carry our scalps back to the settlement yet.' " 'Leaping Horse can feel snow in the air,' he said. 'If it snows before morning, good; if not, the Utes will tell their children how many lives the scalps of the Englishman and the Seneca cost.' "The chief lay down beside me. I did not get much sleep, for my leg was hurting me mightily. From time to time he crawled out, and each time he returned saying, 'No snow.' I had begun to fear that when it came it would be too late. It could not have been long before daybreak when he said, as he crawled in: 'The Great Manitou has sent snow. My brother can sleep in peace.' An hour later I raised myself up a bit and looked out. It was light now. The air was full of fine snow, and the earth the chief had scraped out was already covered thickly. I could see as much as that, though the chief had, when he came in for the last time, drawn the faggot in after him. I wondered at the time why he did it, but I saw now. As soon as the snow had fallen a little more it would hide up altogether the entrance to our hole. Hour after hour passed, and it became impossible to get even a peep out, for the snow had fallen so thickly on the leafy end of the brushwood, which was outward, that it had entirely shut us in. All day the snow kept on, as we could tell from the lessening light, and by two o'clock only a faint twilight made its way in. " 'How long do you think we shall be imprisoned here, chief?' I asked. " 'Must not hurry,' he replied. 'There are trees up the valley, and the Utes may make their camp there and stay till the storm is over. No use to go out till my brother can walk. Wait till snow is over; then stay two or three days to give time for Utes to go away. Got bear's flesh to eat; warm in here, melt snow.' This was true enough, for I was feeling it downright hot. Just before night came on the chief pushed the end of his ramrod through the snow and looked out along the hole. " 'Snow very strong,' he said. 'When it is dark can go out if wish.' "There is not much to tell about the next five days. The snow kept falling steadily, and each evening after dark the chief went outside for a short time to smoke his pipe, while I sat at the entrance and smoked mine, and was glad enough to get a little fresh air. As soon as he came in again the faggot was drawn back to its place, and we were imprisoned for another twenty-four hours. One gets pretty tired after a time of eating raw bear's flesh and drinking snow-water, and you bet I was pretty glad when the chief, after looking out through a peephole, said that the snow had stopped falling and the sun was shining. About the middle of that day he said suddenly: 'I hear voices.' "It was some time before I heard anything, but I presently made them out, though the snow muffled them a good deal. They did not seem far off, and a minute or two later they ceased. We lay there two days longer, and then even the chief was of opinion that they would have moved off. My own idea was that they had started the first afternoon after the snow had stopped falling. " 'Leaping Horse will go out to scout as soon as it is dark,' he said. 'Go to mouth of ravine. If Utes are in wood he will see their fires and come back again. Not likely come up here again and find his traces.' "That is what I had been saying for the last two days, for after some of them had been up, and had satisfied themselves that there was no one in the gully, they would not be likely to come through the snow again. When the chief returned after an hour's absence, he told me that the Utes had all gone. 'Fire cold,' he said; 'gone many hours. Leaping Horse has brought some dry wood up from their hearth. Can light fire now.' You may guess it was not long before we had a fire blazing in front of our den, and I never knew how good bear-steak really was till that evening. "The next morning the chief took off the splints and rebandaged my leg, this time putting on a long strip of the bear's skin, which he had worked until it was perfectly soft while we had been waiting there. Over this he put on the splints again, and for the first time since that bear had knocked me off the rock I felt at ease. We stayed there another fortnight, by the end of which time the bones seemed to have knit pretty fairly. However, I had made myself a good strong crutch from a straight branch with a fork at the end, that the chief had cut for me, and I had lashed a wad of bear's skin in the fork to make it easy. Then we started, making short journeys at first, but getting longer every day as I became accustomed to the crutch, and at the end of a week I was able to throw it aside. "We never saw a sign of an Indian trail all the way down to the settlements, and by the time we got there I was ready to start on a journey again. The chief found plenty of game on the way down, and I have never had as much as a twinge in my leg since. So you see this affair ain't a circumstance in comparison. Since then the chief and I have always hunted together, and the word brother ain't only a mode of speaking with us;" and he held out his hand to the Seneca, who gravely placed his own in it. "That war a tight corner, Harry, and no blamed mistake. Did you ever find out whether they could have got on the top to shoot down on you?" "Yes, the chief went up the day after the Utes had left. It was level up there, and they could have sat on the edge and fired down upon us, and wiped us out without our having a show." "And you have never since been to that place you struck the day the Utes came down, Harry?" Jerry asked. "I have heard you talk of a place you knew of, just at the edge of the bad lands, off the Utah hills. Were that it?" Harry nodded. "I have never been there since. I went with a party into Nevada the next spring, and last year the Utes were all the time upon the war-path. I had meant to go down this fall, but the Utes were too lively, so I struck up here instead; but I mean to go next spring whether they are quiet or not, and to take my chances, and find out whether it is only good on the surface and peters out to nothing when you get in, or whether it is a real strong lode. Ben and Sam, and of course the chief, will go with me, and Tom here, now he has come out, and if you like to come we shall be all glad." "You may count me in," Jerry said, "and I thank you for the offer. I have had dog-goned bad luck for some time, and I reckon it is about time it was over. How are you going to share?" "We have settled that. The chief and I take two shares each as discoverers. You four will take one share each." "That is fair enough, Harry. Those are mining terms, and after your nearly getting rubbed out in finding it, if you and the chief had each taken three shares there would have been nothing for us to grunt at. They are a 'tarnal bad lot are the Utes. I reckon they are bad by nature, but the Mormons have made them worse. There ain't no doubt it's they who set them on to attack the caravans. They could see from the first that if this was going to be the main route west there would be so many coming along, and a lot perhaps settle there, that the Gentiles, as they call the rest of us, would get too strong for them. What they have been most afeard of is, that a lot of gold or silver should be found up in the hills, and that would soon put a stop to the Mormon business. They have been wise enough to tell the red-skins that if men came in and found gold there would be such a lot come that the hunting would be all spoilt. There is no doubt that in some of the attacks made on the caravans there have been sham Indians mixed up with the real ones. Red-skins are bad enough, but they are good men by the side of scoundrels who are false to their colour, and who use Indians to kill whites. That is one reason I want to see this railway go on till it jines that on the other side. It will be bad for game, and I reckon in a few years the last buffalo will be wiped out, but I will forgive it that, so that it does but break up the Saints as they call themselves, though I reckon there is about as little of the saint among them as you will find if you search all creation." "Right you are, Jerry," Sam Hicks said. "They pretty nigh wiped me out once, and if Uncle Sam ever takes to fighting them you may bet that I am in it, and won't ask for no pay." "How did it come about, Sam?" Jerry asked. "I dunno as I have ever heard you tell that story." "Waal, I had been a good bit farther east, and had been doing some scouting with the troops, who had been giving a lesson to the red-skins there, that it was best for them to let up on plundering the caravans going west. We had done the job, and I jined a caravan coming this way. It was the usual crowd, eastern farmers going to settle west, miners, and such like. Among them was two waggons, which kept mostly as far apart from the others as they could. They was in charge of two fellows who dressed in store clothes, and had a sanctimonious look about them. There was an old man and a couple of old women, and two or three boys and some gals. They did not talk much with the rest, but it got about that they were not going farther than Salt Lake City, and we had not much difficulty in reckoning them up as Mormons. There ain't no law perviding for the shooting of Mormons without some sort of excuse, and as the people kept to themselves and did not interfere with no one, nothing much was said agin them. On a v'yage like that across the plains, folks has themselves to attend to, and plenty to do both on the march and in camp, so no one troubles about any one else's business. "I hadn't no call to either, but I happened to go out near their waggons one evening, and saw two or three bright-looking maids among them, and it riled me to think that they was going to be handed over to some rich old elder with perhaps a dozen other wives, and I used to feel as it would be a satisfaction to pump some lead into them sleek-looking scoundrels who had them in charge. I did not expect that the gals had any idea what was in store for them. I know them Mormons when they goes out to get what they call converts, preaches a lot about the prophet, and a good deal about the comforts they would have in Utah. So much land for nothing, and so much help to set them up, and all that kind of thing, but mighty little about polygamy and the chance of their being handed over to some man old enough to be their father, and without their having any say in the matter. Howsoever, I did not see as I could interfere, and if I wanted to interfere I could not have done it; because all those women believed what they had been taught, and if I a stranger, and an ill-looking one at that, was to tell them the contrary, they wouldn't believe a word what I had said. So we went on till we got within four or five days' journey of Salt Lake City, then one morning, just as the teams were being hitched up, two fellows rode into camp. "As we were in Utah now, there weren't nothing curious about that, but I reckoned them up as two as hard-looking cusses as I had come across for a long time. After asking a question or two they rode to the Mormon waggons, and instead of starting with the rest, the cattle was taken out and they stopped behind. Waal, I thought I would wait for a bit and see what they were arter. It weren't no consarn of mine noways, but I knew I could catch up the waggons if I started in the afternoon, and I concluded that I would just wait; so I sat by the fire and smoked. When the caravan had gone on the Mormons hitched up their cattle again. They were not very far away from where I was sitting, and I could see one of the men in black pointing to me as he talked with the two chaps who had just jined them. With that the fellow walked across to where I was sitting. " 'Going to camp here?' says he. " 'Waal,' I says, 'I dunno, as I haven't made up my mind about it. Maybe I shall, maybe I sha'n't.' "'I allow it would be better for you to move on.' " 'And I allow,' says I, 'it would be better for you to attend to your own affairs.' " 'Look here,' says he, 'I hear as you have been a-spying about them waggons.' " 'Then,' says I, 'whosoever told you that, is an all-fired liar, and you tell him so from me.' "I had got my hand on the butt of my Colt, and the fellow weakened. " 'Waal,' he said, 'I have given you warning, that is all.' " 'All right,' says I, 'I don't care none for your warnings; and I would rather anyhow be shot down by white skunks dressed up as red-skins, than I would have a hand in helping to fool a lot of innercent women.' "He swore pretty bad at this, but I could see as he wasn't real grit, and he went off to the waggons. There was considerable talk when he got there, but as the Mormons must have known as I had been a scout, and had brought a lot of meat into the camp on the way, and as the chap that came across must have seen my rifle lying handy beside me, I guess they allowed that I had better be left alone. So a bit later the waggons started, and as I expected they would, went up a side valley instead of going on by the caravan route. The fellow had riz my dander, and after sitting for a bit I made up my mind I would go after 'em. I had no particular motive, it wur just out of cussedness. I was not going to be bluffed from going whar I chose. This air a free country, and I had as much right to go up that valley as they had." "I should have thought yer had had more common sense, Sam Hicks," Jerry said reproachfully, "than to go a-mixing yourself up in a business in which you had no sort of consarn. Ef one of them women had asked you to help her, or if you had thought she was being taken away agin her will, you or any other man would have had a right to take a hand in the game; but as it was, you war just fooling with your life to interfere with them Mormons in their own country." "That is so, Jerry, and I ain't a word to say agin it. It war just a piece of cussedness, and I have asked myself forty-eleven times since, what on arth made me make such a blame fool of myself. Afore that fellow came over to bluff me I hadn't no thought of following the waggons, but arter that I felt somehow as if he dared me to do it. I reckoned I was more nor a match for the two fellows who just jined them, and as for the greasy-faced chaps in black, I did not count them in, one way or the other. I had no thought of getting the gals away, nor of getting into any muss with them if they left me alone. It was just that I had got a right to go up that valley or any other, and I was not going to be bluffed out of it. So I took up my shooting-iron, strapped my blanket over my shoulder, and started. They war maybe a mile away when I turned into the valley. I wasn't hungry for a fight, so I didn't keep up the middle, but just skirted along at the foot of the hill where it did not seem likely as they would see me. I did not get any closer to them, and only caught sight of them now and then. "As far as I could make out there was only one horseman with them, and I reckoned the other was gone on ahead; looking for a camping-ground maybe, or going on to one of the Mormon farms to tell them to get things ready there. What I reckoned on doing, so far as I reckoned at all, was to scout up to them as soon as it got dark and listen to their talk, and try to find out for certain whether the women war goin' willing. Then I thought as I would walk straight up to their fires and just bluff those four men as they tried to bluff me. Waal, they went on until late in the afternoon, unhitched the cattle, and camped. I waited for a bit, and now that I war cooled down and could look at the thing reasonable, I allowed to myself that I had showed up as a blamed fool, and I had pretty well made up my mind to take back tracks and go down the valley, when I heard the sound of some horses coming down fast from the camp. "Then the thought that I was a 'tarnal fool came to me pretty strong, you bet. One of those fellows had ridden on and brought down some of the Regulators, as we used to call them in the mining camps, but I believe the Mormons call them Destroying Angels, though there is mighty little of angels about them. I hoped now that they had not caught sight of me during the day, and that the band were going right down to the waggon camp; but as I had not taken any particular pains to hide myself, I reckoned they must have made me out. It war pretty nigh dark, and as I took cover behind a bush I could scarce see them as they rode along. They went down about two hundred yards and then stopped, and I could hear some of them dismount. " 'You are sure we are far enough?' one said. " 'Yes; I can swear he was higher up than this when we saw him just before we camped.' " 'If you two fellows hadn't been the worst kind of curs,' a man said angrily, 'you would have hidden up as soon as you made out he was following you and shot him as he came along.' " 'I told you,' another voice said, 'that the man is an Indian fighter, and a dead shot. Suppose we had missed him.' " 'You could not have missed him if you had waited till he was close to you before you fired; then you might have chucked him in among the bushes and there would have been an end of it, and we should have been saved a twenty-mile ride. Now then, look sharp for him and search every bush. Between us and Johnson's party above we are sure to catch him.' "I didn't see that, though I did wish the rocks behind had not been so 'tarnal steep. I could have made my way up in the daylight, though even then it would have been a tough job, but without light enough to see the lay of the ledges and the best places for getting from one to another, it was a business I didn't care about. I was just thinking of making across to the other side of the valley when some horsemen came galloping back. " 'You stop here, brother Ephraim, and keep your ears well open, as well as your eyes. You stop fifty yards higher up, Hiram, and the others at the same distance apart. When the men among the rocks come abreast of you, Ephraim, ride on and take your place at the other end of the line. You do the same, Hiram, and so all in turn; I will ride up and down.' "It was clear they meant business, and I was doubting whether I would take my chance of hiding or make for the cliff, when I saw a light coming dancing down from the camp, and knew it was a chap on horseback with a torch. As he came up the man who had spoken before said: 'How many torches have you got, brother Williams?' " 'A dozen of them.' " 'Give me six, and take the other six down to the men below. That is right, I will light one from yours.' "You may guess that settled me. I had got to git at once, so I began to crawl off towards the foot of the cliffs. By the time I had got there, there war six torches burning a hundred yards below, and the men who carried them were searching every bush and prying under every rock. Along the middle of the valley six other torches were burning fifty yards apart. There was one advantage, the torches were pitch-pine and gave a fairish light, but not so much as tarred rope would have done; but it was enough for me to be able to make out the face of the cliff, and I saw a break by which I could get up for a good bit anyhow. It was where a torrent came down when the snows were melting, and as soon as I had got to the bottom I made straight up. There were rocks piled at its foot, and I got to the top of these without being seen. "I hadn't got a dozen feet higher when my foot set a boulder rolling, and down it went with a crash. There were shouts below, but I did not stop to listen to what they said, but put up the bed of the torrent at a two-forty gait. A shot rang out, and another and another, but I was getting now above the light of their torches. A hundred feet higher I came to a stand-still, for the rock rose right up in front of me, and the water had here come down from above in a fall. This made it a tight place, you bet. There war no ledge as I could see that I could get along, and I should have to go down a good bit afore I got to one. They kept on firing from below, but I felt pretty sure that they could not see me, for I could hear the bullets striking high against the face of the rock that had stopped me. "You may bet I was careful how I went down again, and I took my time, for I could see that the men with the torches had halted at the foot of the heap of rocks below, not caring much, I expect, to begin to mount, while the horsemen kept on firing, hoping to hear my body come rolling down; besides, they must have known that with their torches they made a pretty sure mark for me. At last I got down to the ledge. It war a narrow one, and for a few yards I had to walk with my face to the rock and my arms spread out, and that, when I knew that at any moment they might make me out, and their bullets come singing up, warn't by no means pleasant. In a few yards the ledge got wider and there was room enough on it for me to lie down. I crawled along for a good bit, and then sat down with my back against the rock and reckoned the matter up. All the torches war gathered round where I had gone up. Four more men had come down from the camp on horseback, and five or six on foot with torches were running down the valley. They had been searching for me among the bushes higher up, and when they heard the firing had started down to jine the others. The leader was shouting to the men to climb up after me, but the men didn't seem to see it. " 'What's the use?' I heard one fellow say; 'he must be chock-full of bullets long ago. We will go up and find his carcass in the morning.' " 'But suppose he is not dead, you fool.' " 'Well, if he ain't dead he would just pick us off one after another as we went up with torches.' " 'Well, put your torches out, then. Here, I will go first if you are afraid,' and he jumped from his horse. "You can bet your boots that my fingers itched to put a bullet into him. But it warn't to be done; I did not know how far the ledge went or whether there might be any way of getting off it, and now I had once got out of their sight it would have been chucking away my life to let them know whar I lay. So I got up again and walked on a bit farther. I came on a place where the rock had crumbled enough for me to be able to get up on to the next ledge, and after a lot of climbing up and down I got to the top in about two hours, and then struck across the hills and came down at eight o'clock next morning on to the caravan track. I hid up till evening in case they should come down after me, and next morning I came up to the caravan just as they were hitching the teams up for a start." "You got out of that better than you deserved," Harry said. "I wouldn't have believed that any man would have played such a fool's trick as to go meddling with the Mormons in their own country without any kind of reason. It war worse than childishness." The other two miners assented vigorously, and Sam said: "Waal, you can't think more meanly of me over that business than I do of myself. I have never been able to make out why I did it, and you may bet it ain't often I tells the story. It war a dog-goned piece of foolishness, and, as Harry says, I didn't desarve to get out of it as I did. Still, it ain't made me feel any kind of love for Mormons. When about two hundred shots have been fired at a man it makes him feel kinder like as if he war going to pay some of them back when he gets the chance, and you may bet I mean to." "Jee-rusalem!" The exclamation was elicited by the fall of a heavy mass of snow on to the fire, over which the kettle had just begun to boil. The tripod from which it hung was knocked over. A cloud of steam filled the place, and the party all sprung to their feet to avoid being scalded. "It might have waited a few minutes longer," Jerry grumbled, "then we should have had our tea comfortable. Now the fire is out and the water is spilt, and we have got to fetch in some more snow; that is the last lot there was melted." "It is all in the day's work, Jerry," Harry said cheerfully, "and it is just as well we should have something to do. I will fetch the snow in if the rest of you will clear the hearth again. It is a nuisance about the snow, but we agreed that there is no help for it, and we may thank our stars it is no worse." It was not long before the fire was blazing again, but it took some time before water was boiling and tea made, still longer before the bread which had been soddened by the water from the kettle was fit to eat. By this time it was dark. When the meal was over they all turned in for the night. Tom was just going off to sleep, when he was roused by Leaping Dog suddenly throwing off his buffalo robe and springing to his feet with his rifle in his hand. "Hist!" he said in a low tone. "Something comes!" The men all seized their rifles and listened intently. Presently they heard a soft step on the snow outside, then there was a snuffing sound. "B'ar!" the Indian said. A moment later a great head reared itself over the bushes at the entrance. Five rifles rang out, the two Indians reserving their fire; the report was followed by the dull sound of a heavy fall outside. "Wait a moment," Harry said sharply, as the others were preparing to rush out, "let us make sure he is dead." "He is dead enough," Jerry said. "I reckon even a grizzly cannot walk off with five bullets in his head." Harry looked over the screen. "Yes, he is dead enough; anyhow he looks so. Waal, this is a piece of luck." They all stepped out on to the platform. "Is it a grizzly, uncle?" Tom asked excitedly. "He is a grizzly, sure enough. You don't want to see his colour to know that. Look at his size." "Why, he is as big as a cow." "Ay, lad, and a big cow too. You go in and make up the fire while we cut off enough meat for supper." The fact that they had eaten a meal but half an hour before, went for nothing; slices of bear-meat were soon frizzling, and as hearty a meal was eaten as if no food had been tasted since the previous day. The men were in the highest spirits; the fact that they were out of meat had been the greatest drawback to the prospect of being shut up for perhaps a week, for badly-baked bread is but a poor diet to men accustomed to live almost exclusively upon meat. "What brought the bear down here?" Tom asked. "Curiosity at first perhaps, and then hunger," his uncle replied. "I expect he was going along on the path above when he saw the light among the leaves, and then no doubt he smelt the bread, and perhaps us and the horses, and came down to see what he could get. "Curiosity is a bad fault, Tom. You have had two lessons in that this evening. Bear in mind that in this part of the world the safest plan is always to attend strictly to your own business." All thought of sleep was for the present dissipated; their pipes were again lighted, and it was midnight before they lay down. In the morning the bear was with some difficulty skinned and cut up, the joints being left outside to freeze through. The snow still fell steadily, but the wind had almost died down. Sallying out they cut five or six long poles, and with some difficulty fixed these from above across from the cliff to the outstanding rock, pushed the bear's-skin across them, and lashed it there, its bulk being sufficient to cover the space above the fire and a considerable portion of their dwelling room. After breakfast snow was again melted for the horses, and the work for the day thus done they seated themselves contentedly round the fire.

10

AN AVALANCHE

"You don't think, chief," Harry asked, "that there is any chance of the 'Rappahoes taking it into their heads to come up to have a look round?" "Indians keep in lodges, no like cold; they think we have gone on over pass. If weather gets fine perhaps they come to look for our guns and packs. They think sure we die in snow-storm when we up in pass. When snow stops falling, we make no more fire; but path from valley all shut up by snow now." "Yes, I don't think anyone would try to climb it till the sun has cleared the track; it was a pretty bad place when we came up," Harry said. "I don't say that men on foot could not make their way up; but as you say, the red-skins are not likely to try it until the weather has cleared a bit, though I don't say that they wouldn't if they knew we were camped here close to the top." "What noise is that?" Tom asked. "I have heard it several times before, but not so loud as that." "Snow-slide," Leaping Horse said. "Snow come down from mountains; break off trees, roll rocks down. Bad place all along here." "Yes. I saw that you looked up at the hills behind there before you looked over the edge here, chief," Ben Gulston said, "and I reckoned that you had snow-slides in your mind. I thought myself that it was like enough the snow might come tumbling over the edge of that high wall and then come scooting down over where we war, and there would have been no sort of show for us if we had been camped whar the trail goes along." "Leaping Horse has heard from his red brothers with whom he has spoken that trail from top of valley very bad when snow falls. Many Indians stopping too long at fort, to trade goods, have been swept away by snow-slides when caught in storm here." "I thought it looked a bad place," Harry remarked. "There ain't no fooling with a snow-slide anyway. I have come across bones once or twice lying scattered about in snug-looking valleys--bones of horses and men, and it was easy to see they had been killed by a snow-slide coming down on them. Rocks were heaped about among them, some of the bones were smashed. They had been hunting or trapping, and sheltered up in a valley when the storm came on and the slide had fallen on them, and there they had laid till the sun melted the snow in summer, when the coyotes and the vultures would soon clean the bones." He broke off suddenly; there was a dull sound, and at the same moment a distinct vibration of the ground, then a rustling murmur mingled with a rumbling as of a waggon passing over a rocky ground. "There is another one," Jerry exclaimed, "and it is somewhere just above us. Keep your backs to the wall, boys." [Illustration: "There Is Another Avalanche, Keep Your Backs To The Wall, Boys"] Louder and louder grew the sound; the tremor of the earth increased, the horses neighed with fright, the men stood with their backs against the rock next to the hill. Suddenly the light was darkened as a vast mass of snow mingled with rocks of all sizes leapt like a torrent over the edge of the cliff, the impetus carrying it over the outer wall of their shelter and down into the ravine. There was a mighty sound of the crashing of trees, mingled with a thumping and rolling of the rocks as they clashed against the side of the ravine and went leaping down into the valley. The ground shook with a continuous tremor, and then the light returned as suddenly as it had been cut off, and a few seconds later a dead stillness succeeded the deafening roar from below. The passage of the avalanche overhead had lasted but a minute, though to the men standing below it the time had seemed vastly longer. Instinctively they had pressed themselves against the rock, almost holding their breath, and expecting momentarily that one of the boulders in its passage would strike the top of the outside wall and fall in fragments among them. The silence that followed was unbroken for some seconds, and then Sam Hicks stepped a pace forward. "Jee-rusalem!" he said, "that was a close call. I don't know how you felt, boys, but it seemed as if all the sand had gone out of me, and I weakened so that my knees have not done shaking yet." The men, accustomed as they were to danger, were all equally affected. Tom felt relieved to see that the others all looked pale and shaken, for he was conscious that he had been in a terrible fright, and that his legs would scarcely support his weight. "I am glad to hear you say so, Sam, for I was in an awful funk; but I should not have said so if you hadn't spoken." "You needn't be ashamed of that, Tom," his uncle put in. "You showed plenty of pluck when we were in trouble with the red-skins, but I am sure there was not one of us that did not weaken when that snow-slide shot over us; and none of us need be ashamed to say so. A man with good grit will brace up, keep his head cool and his fingers steady on the trigger to the last, though he knows that he has come to the end of his journey and has got to go down; but it is when there is nothing to do, no fight to be made, when you are as helpless as a child and have no sort of show, that the grit runs out of your boots. I have fought red-skins and Mexicans a score of times; I have been in a dozen shooting scrapes in saloons at the diggings; but I don't know that I ever felt so scared as I did just now. Ben, there is a jar of whisky in our outfit; we agreed we would not touch it unless one of us got hurt or ill, but I think a drop of medicine all round now wouldn't be out of place." There was a general assent. "But before we take it," he went on, "we will take off our hats and say 'Thank God' for having taken us safe through this thing. If He had put this shelter here for us express, He could not have planted it better for us, and the least we can do is to thank Him for having pulled us through it safe." The men all took off their hats, and stood silent for a minute or two with bent heads. When they had replaced their hats Ben Gulston went to the corner where the pack-saddles and packs were piled, took out a small keg, and poured out some whisky for each of the white men. The others drank it straight; Tom mixed some water with his, and felt a good deal better after drinking it. Ben did not offer it to the Indians, neither of whom would touch spirits on any occasion. "It is a good friend and a bad enemy," Harry said as he tossed off his portion. "As a rule there ain't no doubt that one is better without it; but there is no better medicine to carry about with you. I have seen many a life saved by a bottle of whisky. Taken after the bite of a rattlesnake, it is as good a thing as there is. In case of fever, and when a man is just tired out after a twenty-four hours' tramp, a drop of it will put new life into him for a bit. But I don't say as it hasn't killed a sight more than it has cured. It is at the bottom of pretty nigh every shooting scrape in the camps, and has been the ruin of hundreds of good men who would have done well if they could but have kept from it." "But you ain't a temperance man yourself, Harry?" "No, Sam; but then, thank God, I am master of the liquor, and not the liquor of me. I can take a glass, or perhaps two, without wanting more. Though I have made a fool of myself in many ways since I have come out here, no man can say he ever saw me drunk; if liquor were to get the better of me once, I would swear off for the rest of my life. Don't you ever take to it, Tom; that is, not to get so as to like to go on drinking it. In our life we often have to go for months without it, and a man has got to be very careful when he goes down to the settlements, else it would be sure to get over him." "I don't care for it at all, uncle." "See you don't get to care for it, Tom. There are plenty start as you do, and before they have been out here long they do get to like it, and from that day they are never any good. It is a big temptation. A man has been hunting or trapping, or fossicking for gold in the hills for months, and he comes down to a fort or town and he meets a lot of mates. One says 'Have a drink?' and another asks you, and it is mighty hard to be always saying 'no'; and there ain't much to do in these places but to drink or to gamble. A man here ain't so much to be blamed as folks who live in comfortable houses, and have got wives and families and decent places of amusement, and books and all that sort of thing, if they take to drink or gambling. I have not any right to preach, for if I don't drink I do gamble; that is, I have done; though I swore off that when I got the letter telling me that your father had gone. Then I thought what a fool I had made of myself for years. Why, if I had kept all the gold I had dug I could go home now and live comfortably for the rest of my life, and have a home for my nieces, as I ought to have. However, I have done with it now. And I am mighty glad it was the cards and not drink that took my dust, for it is a great deal easier to give up cards than it is to give up liquor when you have once taken to it. Now let us talk of something else; I vote we take a turn up on to the trail, and see what the snow-slide has done." Throwing the buffalo robes round their shoulders the party went outside. The air was too thick with snow to enable them to perceive from the platform the destruction it had wrought in the valley below, but upon ascending the path to the level above, the track of the avalanche was plainly marked indeed. For the width of a hundred yards, the white mantle of snow, that covered the slope up to the point where the wall of cliff rose abruptly, had been cleared away as if with a mighty broom. Every rock and boulder lying upon it had been swept off, and the surface of the bare rock lay flat, and unbroken by even a tuft of grass. They walked along the edge until they looked down upon their shelter. The bear's hide was still in its place, sloping like a pent-house roof, from its upper side two or three inches below the edge of the rock, to the other wall three feet lower. It was, however, stripped of its hair, as cleanly as if it had been shorn off with a razor, by the friction of the snow that had shot down along it. "That is the blamedest odd thing I ever saw," Sam Hicks said. "I wonder the weight of the snow didn't break it in." "I expect it just shot over it, Sam," Harry said. "It must have been travelling so mighty fast that the whole mass jumped across, only just rubbing the skin. Of course the boulders and stones must have gone clean over. That shows what a narrow escape we have had; for if that outer rock had been a foot or so higher, the skin would have caved in, and our place would have been filled chock up with snow in a moment. Waal, we may as well turn in again, for I feel cold to the bones already." On the evening of the fifth day the snow ceased falling, and next morning the sky was clear and bright. Preparations were at once made for a start. A batch of bread had been baked on the previous evening. Some buckets of hot gruel were given to the horses, a meal was hastily eaten, the horses saddled and the packs arranged, and before the sun had been up half an hour they were on their way. The usual stillness of the mountains was broken by a variety of sounds. From the valley at their feet came up sharp reports, as a limb of a tree, or sometimes the tree itself, broke beneath the weight of the snow. A dull rumbling sound, echoing from hill to hill, told of the falls of avalanches. Scarcely had the echoes of one ceased, than they began again in a fresh quarter. The journey was toilsome in the extreme, for the horses' hoofs sank deep in the freshly-fallen snow, rendering their progress exceedingly slow. "If we had been sure that this weather would hold, chief, it would have been better to have waited a few days before making our start, for by that time the snow would have been hard enough to travel on." The chief shook his head. "Winter coming for good," he said, waving his hand towards the range of snowy summits to the north. "Clouds there still; if stop, not able to cross pass till next summer." "That is so; we agreed as to that yesterday, and that if we don't get over now the chances are we shall never get over at all. Yet, it is a pity we can't wait a few days for a crust to form on the snow." Twice in the course of the next hour avalanches came down from the hills above them; the first sweeping down into the valley a quarter of a mile behind them, the next but two or three hundred yards ahead of them. Scarcely a word was spoken from end to end of the line. They travelled in Indian file, and each horse stepped in the footprints of its predecessor. Every few hundred yards they changed places, for the labour of the first horse was very much heavier than of those following. At the end of an hour the men drew together for a consultation. There was a wide break in the line of cliffs, and a valley ran nearly due south. "What do you think, chief? This confounded snow has covered up all signs of the trail, and we have got to find our own way. There is no doubt this valley below is running a deal too much to the west, and that the trail must strike off somewhere south. It looks to me as if that were a likely valley through the cliff. There is no hiding the fact that if we take the wrong turn we are all gone coons." "Leaping Horse knows no more than his brother," the chief said gravely. "He knows the pass is on the western side of the great peak. The great peak lies there," and he pointed a little to the west of the break in the hills up which they were looking. "It may be that we must cross the hills into another valley, or perhaps this will turn west presently." "I tell you what, Harry," Sam Hicks said, "my opinion is, that our best plan by a long chalk will be to go back to our last place and to stop there for a bit. We have got b'ar's flesh enough for another fortnight, and we may kill some more game afore that is done. Ef this is but a spell of snow it may melt enough in another ten days for us to make out the trail and follow it. Ef, as the chief thinks, we have got winter right down on us, we must wait till the snow crust hardens ef it is a month or double. Anything is better than going on like this. What with this soft snow and these 'tarnal snow-slides, there ain't no more chance of our getting over that pass in one day's journey, than there air in our flying right down to Salt Lake City. Ef the worst comes to the worst, I tell yer I would rather go back and take our chance of following the Big Wind River down, and fighting the red-skins, than I would of crossing over these dog-goned hills." The other three men were of the same opinion. "Well, what do you say, chief?" Harry asked the Indian. "Leaping Horse thinks that the trail will not be found until next summer," the chief replied quietly. "Heap of hills in front and heap of snow. If snow-storm catch us in the hills no find way anywhere. Leaping Horse is ready to do whatever his white brother thinks." "Well, I am with the others," Harry said. "I don't like the look of those clouds. They are quiet enough now, but they may begin to shift any time, and, as you say, if we are caught in a snow-storm on the hills there is an end of us. I think Sam is right. Even if we have to rustle all through the winter in that hut there, I would rather face it than keep on." That settled it. The horses' heads were turned, and they retraced their steps until they reached the shelter. The bear's-skin had been left where it was, the fire was soon set going, and there was a general feeling of satisfaction as they laid out the robes and blankets again. "Look here, boys," Harry said, "this is not going to be a holiday time, you bet. We have got to make this place a sight snugger than it is now, for, I tell you, when the winter sets in in earnest, it will be cold enough here to freeze a buffalo solid in an hour. We have got to set to work to make a roof all over this place, and we have got to hunt to lay in a big stock of meat. We have got to get a big store of food for the horses, for we must be mighty careful with our flour now. We can wait a fortnight to see how things go, but if it is clear then that we have got to fight it out here through the winter, we must shoot the pack-ponies at once, and I reckon the others will all have to go later. However, we will give them a chance as long as we can." "Take them down into the valley," the chief said. "All Indian horses." "Ah, I didn't think of that, chief. Yes, they are accustomed to rustle for their living, and they may make a shift to hold on down there. I don't think there is much fear of Indians coming up." "No Indians," Leaping Horse said. "Indians go away when winter set in. Some go to forest, some go to lodges right down valley. No stop up here in mountains. When winter comes plenty game--big-horn, wapiti." "Ah, that is a more cheerful look-out, chief. If we can get plenty of meat we can manage without flour, and can go down and give the ponies a pail of hot gruel once a week, which will help them to keep life together. The first thing, I take it, is to cut some poles for the roof. I am afraid we shall have to go down to the bottom for them." "Waal, we needn't begin that till to-morrow," Sam Hicks said. "If we had them, we have got no skins to cover them." "Cut brushwood," Indian said. "First put plenty of brushwood on poles, then put skins over." "Yes, that is the plan, chief. Well, if we get down there we shall have to take our shovels and clear the snow off some of the narrow ledges. If we do that we can lead one of the horses down to pack the poles up here." The chief went out on to the platform. "No use clear snow now. Clouds moving. In two hours snow fall again." The others joined him outside. "I reckon you are right, chief," Jerry said. "It is mighty lucky we didn't go on. It can't be much worse here than it was before." At three in the afternoon it began to snow heavily again. There was less wind than there had been on the previous occasion, and the snow drifted through the entrance less than before. Just as they were turning in for the night an ominous crack was heard above. All leapt from their blankets, and looking up they could see by the light of the fire that the poles supporting the skin were all bent in a curve downwards. "Jee-rusalem!" Sam Hicks exclaimed, "the whole outfit will be coming down on us." "That it will, Sam. You see, there is no wind as there was before, and one of our jobs will be keeping the roof clear of snow. Turn out, boys; we must get rid of it somehow." They at once set to work to lash two poles, some eight feet long, to the handles of the shovels, and as soon as this was done they all turned out. On reaching the edge of the ravine above the roof, they first cleared away the snow down to the rock so as to have firm standing, and then proceeded to shovel the snow off the surface of the skin. It was easier work than they expected, for as soon as it was touched it slid down the incline, and in a very few minutes the whole was cleared off. "I think that is good until morning now," Harry said. "As long as the snow lasts we shall have to do it every few hours. Directly we get a spell of fine weather we must put some more poles under it to strengthen it." For six days the snow continued to fall without intermission. At daybreak, at mid-day, and the last thing before they turned in at night the snow was cleared off the hide. With this exception they did not stir out of the shelter. They had also each day to clear out the inner portion of the fissure, as the snow now frequently broke through the trees in masses, startling the horses, and keeping them in a state of restlessness. The sixth day it stopped snowing, and the next morning the sky was bright and clear. The whole party at once started out, two of them taking shovels, and the rest brooms that they had made during the long hours of their confinement. By the middle of the day they had cleared the path down into the valley, and on their way back to dinner each carried up a large bundle of faggots. The meal was cooked and eaten hastily, and the whole of the horses were then led down into the valley. Here a couple of dozen stout poles for the roof were cut by the whites, the two Indians at once going up the valley in search of game. In half an hour two rifle-shots were heard, and presently Hunting Dog ran in with the news that they had killed two wapiti. Jerry and Sam Hicks at once went off with him, leading two horses, and presently returned with the dead deer fastened across their backs. "They are very like pictures I have seen of moose," Tom said to his uncle as he examined the great stags. "New-comers often call them moose, Tom; but there is a difference between them, though what the difference is I cannot tell you, for I have never hunted moose. I believe the wapiti are peculiar to the West. They often go in great herds of three or four hundreds together." "The chief says there are a great many of them up the valley," Jerry put in. "They made off when he fired, but I could see their foot-tracks myself all about. He says they have been driven down here by the storm for shelter. He has gone round with the lad to head them back." "That is good news, Jerry. The meat we have got already will last some time, but it is as well to lay in a good stock, and we want the skins badly to make our roof. You had better lead these horses to the foot of the path, and then we will all take our post behind trees across the valley." An hour later they heard the reports of two rifles a long way up the valley, and all stood in readiness. A few minutes later there was a dull trampling sound, and almost directly afterwards a herd of wapiti came along at a heavy trot, ploughing their way but slowly through the snow. "Don't use your revolvers, boys," Harry had said, "except to finish off a stag you have wounded with your rifle. The chance is all against your bringing them down, and the poor brutes would only get away to die." One after another the rifles rang out. Tom and his uncle both had the satisfaction of seeing the stags they had aimed at, plunge forward before they had gone many yards farther, and roll over dead. The other three had each hit the animal they aimed at, but as these kept on their course they dashed out in pursuit, firing their Colts, which in their hands were as deadly weapons as a rifle, and the three stags all fell, although one got nearly half a mile down the valley before he succumbed. A carcass was hoisted on to each of the horses' backs, and the loaded animals were then led up the track. "Shall I wait until the Indians come back, uncle, and tell them why you have gone up?" "There is no occasion for that, Tom; they would hear the shots, and will have guessed what has happened." The poles were divided among the men and carried up to the top of the path, and laid down just above the shelter. Harry and Sam Hicks at once proceeded to cut them up into proper lengths, while the others skinned and cut up the deer. A number of thongs were cut from one of the hides for lashing cross-poles across those that were to act as ridge-poles. The bear's-skin was removed and additional poles placed at that spot, and all working together the framework of the roof was completed by nightfall. The Indians had returned soon after the party began their work, and taking their horses down fetched up the deer they had killed. In the morning the roof was completed, hides being stretched over the framework and securely lashed to it with thongs. The whole of the trees and brushwood were then chopped down close to the ground so as to leave a level floor. The foliage was given to the horses, and the wood cut up and piled for fuel. The chief reported that at the upper end of the valley there was a thick pine-wood, which would give good shelter to the horses. Near it were plenty of bushes, and a level tract which had been a beaver meadow, and was thickly covered with grass, as he could see where the wapiti had scratched away the snow to get at it. This was excellent news, for the question of how the horses could be fed through the winter had troubled them much more than that of their own maintenance. The joints of venison were hung up on a pole outside what they now called their hut, one or two hams being suspended from the rafters over the fire, to be smoked. "We shall have to rig up a b'ar-trap outside," Ben said, "or we shall be having them here after the meat; and a b'ar's ham now and then will make a change. Wapiti flesh ain't bad, but we should get dog-goned tired of it arter a bit." "You may bet we shall, Ben," Jerry agreed; "but I reckon that we shall be able to get a lot of game through the winter. That valley down there is just the place for them to shelter in, and I hope we shall get a big-horn now and then. It will be a difficult thing to make a b'ar-trap outside. A grizzly wants a pretty strong pen to keep him in, and though the horses might drag up some big beams from below, there ain't no fastening them in this rock." "No; I don't think we can make that sort of trap," Harry said. "We must contrive something else. We need not do all our work at once; we have got plenty of time before us. We want three or four more skins to finish our hut." "You mean to fill up the entrance?" "Yes; we will sew them together, and make a curtain to hang from the edge of the roof to the ground. I tell you it is going to be mighty cold here, and besides, it will keep the snow from drifting in." "I wish to goodness we could make a chimney," Tom said. "The smoke went up through the leaves all right, but my eyes are watering now, and if you fill up the end with skins it will be something awful." "You will get accustomed to it, Tom; but, of course, we must make a hole at the top when we fill up the entrance. What do you think is the next thing to be done, chief?" "Get wood," the chief said emphatically. "Must fill all the end of hut with wood." "That will be a big job, chief, but there is no doubt we must lay in a great store of it. Well, there is plenty of timber down in the valley, and with ten horses we can bring up a tidy lot every day." "Let us cut quick before snow comes again." "We will begin to-morrow morning, chief. I agree with you, the sooner the better." Accordingly the next morning they went down to the valley. They had but two axes, and Jerry and Sam Hicks, who had both done a good deal of wood-cutting, undertook this portion of the work. The others took the horses up to the beaver meadow, where they at once began scraping at the snow, and were soon munching away at the rich grass. "Why do you call it a beaver meadow, uncle? I don't see any beavers." "They have gone long ago, perhaps a hundred years. As we know, this valley is occupied by the Indians in summer, and they would soon clear out the beavers. But it is called a beaver meadow because it was made by them. They set to work and dammed up the stream, and gradually all this flat became a lake. Well, in time, you know, leaves from the woods above, and soil and dead wood and other things brought down by the stream, gradually filled up the bottom. Then the beavers were killed, and their dams went to ruin and the water drained off, and in a short time grass began to grow. There are hundreds, ay, and thousands of beaver meadows among the hills, and on the little streams that run into the big rivers, and nowhere is the grass so rich. You will often see an Indian village by one of these meadows. They grow their roots and plant their corn there. The horses will do first-rate here through the winter if the snow don't get too deep for them, and, anyhow, we can help them out with a bucket of gruel occasionally." "It will be awfully cold for them, though." "It will be coldish, no doubt, but Indian ponies are accustomed to it." "I should think, uncle, it would not take much trouble to make them a sort of shed up among the trees there." Sam laughed, and even the chief smiled. "It would not be a bad plan, Tom," his uncle said; "not so much for the sake of the warmth, though there is no doubt that the warmer they are the less they can do with to eat, but if they have a place to go to they are less likely to wander away, and we shall not have the trouble of hunting for them. Well, we will think it over." Following the valley up, they found that it extended some ten miles farther, for the last two of which it was but a narrow cañon a few yards wide. They shot a black bear and four small deer, and returned carrying the skins, the hind-quarters of the deer, and the bear's hams. "We seem to have got meat enough for anything," Tom remonstrated when they shot the deer. "Seven men will get through a lot of meat, Tom, when they have nothing else to go with it; and we may be weeks before we can put our heads out of our hut. Besides, the skins will be useful. We shall want deer-skin shirts, trousers, and socks and caps; and the skin of these deer is softer and more pliable than that of the wapiti. I don't want to kill more than I can help, lad, for I hate taking life without there is a necessity for it, but we can do with a lot more skins before we are stocked." When, driving the horses before them, they returned to the woodcutters, they found they had cut down and chopped into logs a number of trees; and Tom was quite astonished at the great pile of firewood that had been got ready by them in the course of a day's work. The logs were made up into bundles, each weighing about eighty pounds. These were tied together with the horses' lariats, and then secured, one on each side of the saddle, two of the horses carrying the meat. Harry took the bridle of his horse and started up the path, the others following at once. "That is a good day's work," Harry said as the logs were piled at the inner end of the hut. "That is about half a ton of wood. If we have but a week of open weather we shall have a good store in our cellar." The work continued steadily for a week. The horses were each day taken to feed at the meadow, the two wood-choppers continued their work, while the rest of the party hunted. The Indians had on the second day gone down the valley, and returned with the report that the Indian lodges had all disappeared and that the valley was entirely deserted. Eight more wapiti were killed during the week, and fourteen smaller deer. Of an evening they occupied themselves in sewing the skins together with thongs of leather, the holes being made with their knives; and a curtain at the mouth of the hut was completed and hung. Four wide slabs of wood had been cut. These had been bound together with thongs so as to form a sort of chimney four feet high, and with a good deal of difficulty this was secured by props in its position over a hole cut through the skins, above the fire. "The first avalanche will carry it away, Tom." "Yes, uncle; but we have had one avalanche here, and it seems to me the chances are strongly against our having another in exactly the same place." The skins of the smaller deer were carefully scraped with knives on the inner side, smeared with bears' fat, and then rubbed and kneaded until they were perfectly soft.

11

WINTER

The erection of Tom's shed for the horses did not take long. The whole party, with the exception of the two Indians,--who, as usual, went hunting,--proceeded to the pine-wood above the beaver meadow. After a little search six trees were found conveniently situated with regard to each other. The axemen cut down three young firs. One was lashed by the others between the two central trees, to form a ridge-pole eight feet from the ground; the others against the other trees, at a height of three feet, to support the lower ends of the roof. They were but ten feet apart, so that the roof might have a considerable pitch. Numbers of other young trees were felled and fixed, six inches apart, from the ridge down to the eaves. On these the branches of the young fir-trees were thickly laid, and light poles were lashed lengthways over them to keep them in their places. As the poles of the roof had been cut long enough to extend down to the ground, no side walls were necessary. The ends were formed of poles lashed across to the side trees, but extending down only to within four feet six of the ground, so as to allow the horses to pass under, and were, like the roof, thickly covered with boughs. The lower ends were left open for a width of four feet in the middle, uprights being driven into the ground and the sides completed as before. "What do you want a doorway at both ends for?" Tom asked. "It would have been easier and quicker to have shut one end up altogether, and it would be a good deal warmer." "So it would, Tom; but if a grizzly were to appear at the door, what would the horses do? They would be caught in a trap." "Do you think they are likely to come, uncle?" "The likeliest thing in the world, Tom. Horses can smell bear a good distance off, and if they heard one either coming down or going up the valley, they would bolt through the opposite door. They will do first-rate here; they will stand pretty close together, and the warmth of their bodies will heat the place up. They won't know themselves, they will be so comfortable. It has only taken us a day's work to make the shed; and though we laughed at your idea at first, I think now that the day has been well spent in getting them up such a good shelter. Jerry has got the big pail boiling over his fire, and we will put in a few handfuls of the flour we brought down. Bring the horses in from the meadow, and we will give them each a drink of gruel in the shed. They will soon learn that it is to be their home." For two more days the open weather continued, and the horses took up three loads of wood each afternoon, as they had done the previous week. Then, as there were signs of change, they were given a good feed at their shed; the saddles were taken off and hung up on some cross-poles over their heads. The party had scarcely returned to the hut when the snow began to fall. They were, however, weather-proof, and felt the immense additional comfort of the changes they had made. Their stock of firewood was now a very large one. At each journey the horses had brought up about fifteen hundredweight; and as the work had gone on for nine days, they had, they calculated, something like fourteen tons of firewood neatly stacked. They had also a stock of poles in case the roof should require strengthening. A certain amount of light found its way in at the edges of the curtain across the entrance, but they depended principally upon the fire-light. The smoke, however, was a serious grievance, and even the men were forced occasionally to go outside into the open air to allay the smarting of their eyes. "Don't you think, uncle, we might do something to dry the wood?" "I can't see that we can do more than we are doing, Tom. We always keep a dozen logs lying round the fire to dry a bit before they are put on." "I should think we might make a sort of stage about four feet above the fire and keep some logs up there. We might pile them so that the hot air and smoke could go up through them. They would dry a great deal faster there than merely lying down on the ground." "I think the idea is a very good one, Tom; but we shall have to make the frame pretty strong, for if it happened to come down it might break some of our legs." The men all agreed that the idea was a capital one, and after some consultation they set to to carry it out. Two strong poles were first chosen. These were cut carefully to the right length, and were jambed between the rocks at a height of seven feet above the floor and five feet apart. They were driven in and wedged so tightly that they could each bear the weight of two men swinging upon them without moving. Then four upright poles were lashed to them, five feet apart, and these were connected with cross-poles. "That is strong enough for anything," Jerry said when the structure had been so far completed. "If a horse were to run against one of the poles he would hardly bring the thing down." Four other short poles were now lashed to the uprights three feet below the upper framework, and were crossed by others so as to form a gridiron. On this, the logs were laid in tiers crossing each other, sufficient space being left between them to allow for the passage of the hot air. "That is a splendid contrivance," Harry said when they took their seats on the buffalo robes round the fire and looked up admiringly at their work. "The logs will get as dry as chips, and in future we sha'n't be bothered with the smoke. Besides, it will do to stand the pail and pots full of snow there, and keep a supply of water, without putting them down into the fire and running the risk of an upset." They had occupation now in manufacturing a suit of clothes a-piece from the deer-skins. As the work required to be neater than that which sufficed for the making of the curtain, pointed sticks hardened in the fire were used for making the holes, and the thongs that served as thread were cut as finely as possible; this being done by the Indians, who turned them out no thicker than pack-thread. There was no occasion for hurry, and there was much laughing and joking over the work. Their hunting-shirts and breeches served as patterns from which to cut out the skins; and as each strove to outvie the others, the garments when completed were very fair specimens of work. The hunting-shirts were made with hoods that, when pulled over the head, covered the whole face except the eyes, nose, and mouth. As they had plenty of skin, the hoods and shirts were made double, so that there was hair both inside and out. They were made to come down half-way to the knee, being kept close at the waists by their belts. The leggings were made of single thickness only, as they would be worn over their breeches; they were long and reached down below the ankle. The Indians made fresh moccasins for the whole party; they were made higher than usual, so as to come up over the bottom of the leggings. In addition each was provided with long strips of hide, which were to be wound round and round the leggings, from the knee to below the ankle, covering tightly the tops of the moccasins, and so preventing the snow from finding its way in there. Gloves were then manufactured, the fingers being in one and the thumb only being free. The work occupied them a fortnight, broken only by one day's spell of fine weather, which they utilized by going down into the valley, taking with them their kettles and pail, together with a few pounds of flour. They found the horses out in the meadow, and these, as soon as they saw them, came trotting to meet them with loud whinnies of pleasure. A fire was lit near the shed, the snow melted, and an allowance of warm gruel given to each horse. At Tom's suggestion a few fir-boughs were hung from the bar over each entrance. These would swing aside as the horses entered, and would keep out a good deal of wind. When at the end of a fortnight the sky cleared, the chief said that he thought that there would be but little more snow. "If storm come, sure to bring snow, but not last long. Winter now set in; soon snow harden. Now make snowshoes." The hunters had all been accustomed to use these in winter. They had found the last expedition through the deep snow a very toilsome one, and they embraced the idea eagerly. Some of the poles were split into eight feet lengths. These were wetted and hung over the fire, the process being repeated until the wood was sufficiently softened to be bent into the required shape. This was done by the chief. Two cross-pieces were added, to stiffen them and keep them in the right shape when they dried; and the wood was then trimmed up and scraped by the men. When it had dried and hardened, the work of filling up the frame with a closely-stretched network of leather was undertaken. This part of the work occupied three or four days. The straps were attached to go across the toe and round the heel, and they were then ready to set off. The weather was now intensely cold, but as there was but little wind it was not greatly felt; at the same time they were glad of their furs when they ventured outside the hut. On the first day after their snow-shoes were finished, the rest of the party started off to visit the horses, Hunting Dog remaining behind to give Tom instructions in the use of the snow-shoes, and to help him when he fell down. Tom found it difficult work at first, the toe of the shoe frequently catching in the snow, and pitching him head foremost into it, and he would have had great difficulty in extricating himself, had not the young Indian been at hand. Before the day was over, however, he could get on fairly well; and after two or three more days' practice had made such progress that he was considered capable of accompanying the rest. The wood-drying apparatus had succeeded excellently. The wood was now dried so thoroughly before being put on to the fire that there was no annoyance from the smoke inside the hut, and scarce any could be perceived coming from the chimney. Upon Harry's remarking upon this with satisfaction the first time they went out after using the dry wood, Tom said: "What does it matter? There are no Indians in the valley." "That is so, Tom; but as soon as the weather sets in clear, the red-skins will be hunting again. Winter is their best time for laying in their stock of pelts for trading. At other times the game is all high up in the mountains, and it is very difficult to get within range of it. In the winter the animals come down to the shelter of the forests and valleys, and they can be shot in numbers; especially as the Indians in their snow-shoes can get along almost as quickly as the wapiti can plough through the snow. At present the red-skins think that we must have been overtaken by that first storm and have all gone under; but as soon as they begin to venture out of their lodges to hunt, a column of smoke here would be sure to catch their eyes, and then we should be having them up the valley to a certainty. The first thing they would do would be to find our horses and drive them off, and the next thing would be to set themselves to work to catch us." "But we could hold the path against them, uncle." "Yes; but we should have to keep watch every day, which would be a serious trouble. Besides, there must be other places they could get up. No doubt their regular trail comes up here, because it is the straightest way to the pass, and possibly there may be no other point at which loaded animals could mount anywhere about here. But there must be plenty of places where Indians could climb, and even if it took them a detour of fifty miles they would manage it. As long as there is no smoke we may hope they will not discover us here, though any hunting party might come upon the horses. That is what has bothered me all along; but the chief and I have talked it over a dozen times, and can see no way of avoiding the risk. "We can't keep the horses up here because we can't feed them; and even if we were to bring ourselves to leave this comfortable place and to build a hut down in the valley, we might be surprised and rubbed out by the red-skins. Of course we might bring them up here every night and take them down again in the morning, but it would be a troublesome business. We have agreed that we won't do much more shooting down in the valley, and that in coming and going to the horses we will keep along close to the foot of the cliffs this side, so that if two or three Indians do come up they won't see any tracks on the snow, unless they happen to come close up to the cliff. Of course if they go up as far as the beaver flat they will light upon the horses. There is no help for that; but the chief and I agreed last night that in future two of us shall always stay up here, and shall take it by turns to keep watch. It won't be necessary to stand outside. If the curtain is pulled aside three or four inches one can see right down the valley, and any Indians coming up could be made out. If the party is a strong one a gun would be fired as a signal to those away hunting, and some damp wood thrown on the fire. They might possibly push on up the valley to have a look at the place, but the two up here with their rifles would soon stop them. After that, of course, the horses would have to be brought up here at night, and a watch kept by night as well as by day." Two or three mornings later they found on going out that two joints of venison had been carried off, and footprints in the snow showed that it had been done by a grizzly bear. This turned their attention again to the construction of a trap, which had not been thought of since the day it was first mentioned. A young tree of four or five inches in diameter was cut below and brought up. The butt was cut in the shape of a wedge, and this was driven strongly into a fissure in the rock. A rope with a running noose had been fastened to the tree, and this was bent down by the united strength of four men, and fixed to a catch fastened in the ground, the noose being kept open by two sticks placed across it. A foot beyond the noose a joint of venison was hung, the rope passing over a pole and then down to the catch, so that upon the joint being pulled the catch would be loosened, when the tree would fly up and the noose catch anything that might be through it. A week later they were disturbed by an outburst of violent growling. Seizing their rifles they rushed out. A huge bear was caught by one of his paws. The animal's weight was too great for it to be lifted from the ground, but it was standing upright with its paw above its head, making furious efforts to free itself. A volley of bullets at once put an end to its life. The tree was bent down again and the noose loosed, and they at once returned to their rugs, leaving the bear where it fell. Four times during the winter did they thus capture intruders, providing themselves with an ample supply of bear's flesh, while the skins would sell well down at the settlements. Otherwise sport was not very good. No more wapiti came up, but black and white tail deer were occasionally shot, and five or six big-horn sheep also fell to their rifles. One day on approaching the beaver meadow the chief pointed to some deep footprints. No explanation was needed. All knew that they were made by a big grizzly, and that the animal was going up the valley. No horses were in view on the flat, and grasping their rifles they hurried towards the wood. Just as they reached it the horses came galloping to meet them, whinnying and snorting. "They have been scared by the critter," Jerry said. "Do you see their coats are staring. Gosh, look at this pack-pony--the bear has had his paw on him!" The animal's hind-quarters were indeed badly torn. "I wonder how it got away," Harry said. "When a grizzly once gets hold, it don't often leave go." "There is something in front of the hut," Tom exclaimed. "It's the grizzly, sure enough," Harry said. "It is a rum place for it to go to sleep." They advanced, holding their rifles in readiness to fire, when Leaping Horse said: "Bear dead." "What can have killed him?" Harry asked doubtfully. "Horses kill him," the chief replied. They hurried up to the spot. The bear was indeed dead, and there were signs of a desperate struggle. There was blood on the snow from a point near the door of the hut to where the animal was lying ten yards away. Round it the snow was all trampled deeply. The bear's head was battered out of all shape; its jaw was broken, and one of its eyes driven out. The Indians examined the ground closely. "Well, what do you make of it, chief?" Harry asked. "Bear walk round hut, come in other end. Horses not able to get out in time. Pack-horse last, bear catch him by hind-quarters. Horse drag him a little way and then fall. Then other horses come back, form ring round bear and kick him. Look at prints of fore-feet deep in snow. That is where they kick; they break bear's jaw, break his ribs, keep on kick till he dead." "I suppose that is how it came about, chief. I should not have thought they would have done it." The Seneca nodded. "When wild horses with young foals attacked by bear or mountain-lion, they form circle with colts in the middle, stand heads in and kick. Bears and mountain-lion afraid to attack them." "Waal, I should hardly have believed if I had not seen it," Sam Hicks said, "that horses would come back to attack a grizzly." "Not come back," the chief said, "if not for friend. Friend cry out loud, then horses come back, fight bear and kill him." "Well, it was mighty plucky of them," Harry said. "I am afraid this pony won't get over it; he is terribly torn." The chief examined the horse's wounds again. "Get over it," he said. "Cold stop wounds bleeding, get some fat and put in." "I reckon you will find plenty inside the grizzly," Jerry said. The chief shook his head. "Bear's fat bad; other horses smell him, perhaps keep away from him, perhaps kick him. Leaping Horse will bring fat from the big-horn he shot yesterday." The animal lay where it had fallen, a mile up the valley. They went up and tied the great sheep's feet together, and putting a pole through them brought it down to the hut. Partly skinning it, they obtained some fat and melted this in a kettle over the fire. Sam Hicks had remained behind at the fire, the horses all standing near him, excited at the prospect of their usual meal. As soon as the fat was melted it was poured into the horse's wounds. The mess of gruel was then prepared and given to the animals. The bear was skinned and the hams cut off, then by a united effort it was dragged some distance from the hut, and the carcass of the big-horn, the bear's flesh and hide, were afterwards carried up to the hut. Early in February the cold reached its extreme point, and in spite of keeping up a good fire they had long before this been compelled to build up the entrance with a wall of firewood, the interstices being stuffed with moss; the hut was lighted by lamps of bear and deer fat melted down and poured into tin drinking-cups, the wicks being composed of strips of birch bark. A watch was regularly kept all day, two always remaining in the hut, one keeping watch through a small slip cut in the curtain before the narrow orifice in the log wall, that served as a door, the other looking after the fire, keeping up a good supply of melted snow, and preparing dinner ready for the return of the hunters at sunset. Of an evening they told stories, and their stock of yarns of their own adventures and of those they had heard from others, seemed to Tom inexhaustible. Hunting Dog had made rapid advances with his English, and he and Tom had become great friends, always hunting together, or when their turn came, remaining together on guard. The cold was now so intense that the hunting party was seldom out for more than two or three hours. Regularly twice a week the horses were given their ration of hot gruel, and although they had fallen away greatly in flesh they maintained their health, and were capable of work if called upon to do it. It was one day in the middle of February, that Hunting Dog, who was standing at the peep-hole, exclaimed: "'Rappahoes!" Tom sprang up from the side of the fire, and running to the entrance pulled aside the curtain and looked out. Six Indians on snow-shoes were coming up the valley. He ran out on to the platform and fired his ride. As the sound of the report reached the Indians' ears they stopped suddenly. "Shall I throw some green wood on the fire, Hunting Dog?" "No need," the Indian replied. "The others only gone an hour, not farther than horses' hut; hear gun plain enough. Perhaps 'Rappahoes go back." The Indians remained for some time in consultation. "Not know where gun fired," Hunting Dog said. "Soon see hut, then know." After a time the red-skins continued their way up the valley, but instead of coming on carelessly in the centre they separated, and going to the other side crept along among the fallen boulders there, where they would have escaped observation had it not been for their figures showing against the white snow. "Must fire now," the young Indian said, "then Leaping Horse know 'Rappahoes coming up." They went out on to the platform and opened fire. They knew that their chance of hitting one of the Indians was small indeed; the other side of the valley was a quarter of a mile away, and the height at which they were standing rendered it difficult to judge the elevation necessary for their rifles. However, they fired as fast as they could load. The Indians made no reply, for their guns would not carry anything like the distance. They occasionally gathered when they came upon a boulder of rock sufficiently large to give shelter to them all, and then moved on again one at a time. When opposite the lower end of the pathway they again held a consultation. "No go further," Hunting Dog said. "Afraid we come down path and stop them. See, Leaping Horse among rocks." It was some time before Tom could detect the Indian, so stealthily did he move from rock to rock. "Where are the others?" "No see, somewhere in bushes. Leaping Horse go on to scout; not know how many 'Rappahoes." Presently they saw the chief raise his head behind a rock within a hundred yards of that behind which the 'Rappahoes were sheltering. "He see them now," Hunting Dog said. "See, he going to fire." There was a puff of smoke and a sharp report, and almost simultaneously rose an Indian yell, and the war-cry of the Seneca. Then five Indians leapt out from behind the rock and made down the valley at full speed, while from a clump of trees two hundred yards above the spot from which the chief had fired the four white men hurried out rifle in hand. The chief waited until they joined him, for the bend in the valley prevented him from seeing that the 'Rappahoes were making straight down it, and it would have been imprudent to have ventured out until his white allies came up. "They have gone right down," Tom shouted at the top of his voice. Harry waved his arm to show that he heard the words, and then the five men ran to the corner. The Indians were already a quarter of a mile away, and were just entering the wood below. The whites were about to fire, when the chief stopped them. "No use fire," he said. "Stand back behind rocks; no good let 'Rappahoes count our rifles." "That is true enough, chief," Harry said, as they all sprang among the rocks. "All they know at present is, that there are two up on the top there and one down here. If we were sure that we could wipe them all out it would be worth following and making a running fight of it, but there would be no chance of that, and it is better to let them go without learning more about us. Well, I should say the first thing is to get up the horses." The chief nodded. "Get up," he said, "but no fear 'Rappahoes come back to-night. Many hours' journey down to villages, then great council. Next night scouts come up valley, look all about for sign, and then go back and tell friends." "I dare say you are right, chief. Anyhow, I shall feel a great deal more comfortable when we have got the critters up." It was late in the afternoon before they reached the hut. Some hours were spent in collecting tufts of grass in places sheltered from the snow, and in cutting off great bundles of young fir-branches and the heads of evergreen bushes, and the horses arrived almost hidden under the load of grass and foliage they carried. Little was said until some hot tea had been drunk and the bear steaks in readiness were disposed of, for although they had worked hard and kept themselves comparatively warm down in the valley, they had as they moved slowly up the path with the horses become chilled to the bone. "Now then, chief," Harry said, when they had lighted their pipes with the mixture of tobacco and willow bark that they had taken to, as soon as they found that they were likely to be imprisoned all the winter, "we must hold a council. We have been longer than I expected without disturbance by these varmint, but it has come now, and the question is what are we to do? We have agreed all along that there is no getting over the pass till the spring comes." "Too cold," the chief said, "deep drift snow. Indians all say no can pass over hills in winter." "That air a fact," Jerry said. "Down in the valley there it is all right, but up here the cold pretty near takes one's breath away. We ain't sure about the way. We couldn't get over the pass in one day's tramp, and we should be all stiff before morning. There would be no taking the horses, and there is a hundred miles to be done over the snow before we reach the fort. It ain't to be thought of. I would a sight rather go down the valley and fight the hull tribe." "I agree with you, Jerry. We might, with luck, get down the valley, but I don't think there is a possibility of our crossing the pass till the winter breaks." "No can go down valley," Leaping Horse said; "they find trail on snow, sure." "That is so, chief, and in that case it is evident that we have got to fight it out here." "Good place to stop," the Seneca said; "no good place to fight." This was self-evident. An enemy on the rock above would be able to fire down through the roof, without their having a chance of making an effectual reply. "The only way I can see," Harry said after a long pause, "is to build a sort of fort up above. If we put it just at the top of this pathway, we should have them whether they came up by the trail from below or climbed up anywhere else and came along above. It need not be a very big place, only just big enough for us all to fire over. We might make a sort of shelter in it with a fire, and keep guard there by turns." The chief nodded, and there was a general exclamation of assent from the others. "The worst of it is," Jerry said, "the ground is so 'tarnal hard that there will be no driving posts into it. We have cut down all the trees near the bottom of the pass, and it would be a risky thing to go up higher, when we might have the red-skins come whooping up the valley at any time." "Why not make a snow fort?" Tom suggested. "There is four feet of snow up there, and with the shovels we could make a wall ten feet high in a very short time." "So we might, Tom; that is a capital idea. The difficulty is, the snow does not bind in this bitter cold as it does in England." "If it was hammered down it would, I should think, uncle. You know the Esquimaux make snow houses, and it is as cold there as it is here. The snow at the top is light enough, but I should think as it gets down it would be hard enough to cut out in blocks. We have plenty of water, and if we pour it over each layer of blocks it would freeze into solid ice directly. When we finish it we might pour more water down over the outside, and it would make a regular wall of ice that no one could climb up." "Hooray! Bully for you, Tom!" Jerry shouted, while similar exclamations of approval broke from all the others, while the chief said gravely, "My young brother has the head of a man; he is able to teach warriors." "You shall be engineer-in-chief, Tom," Harry said. "It is certain we may sleep quietly to-night; at daybreak to-morrow we will begin the job." The first thing in the morning a semicircular line was traced out at the top of their pathway. It was thirty feet across, for, as Tom said, the walls ought to be at least four feet thick; and six feet would be better, as they would want a parapet at least two feet thick to fire over. It was agreed that the whites should use the two shovels by turns. The Indians were unaccustomed to the work, and were to undertake that of scouting along the hillside, and of watching by turns at night. The frying-pan was brought into requisition, a wooden handle being made for it. The hard upper crust was removed with the shovels, and the layer beneath this was sufficiently soft for the instrument to be used as a shovel. Below that it hardened, and could be cut out in great blocks. The loose snow was thrown inside of the line traced out. As fast as the blocks were cut out they were carried and piled regularly to form the face. Tom's share of the work was to keep on melting snow, and to bring it up and pour between and over the blocks. As fast as a line of these were made the loose snow was thrown in behind it and trampled down hard. Except for meals there was no rest. The chief said that as there was little chance of the 'Rappahoes coming up so soon, Hunting Dog had better stay behind and help, and he lent his aid in carrying the blocks of snow on a rough stretcher they made for the purpose. By the time it became dark the wall had risen to a height of three feet above the general level of the snow, and was already sufficient to form an excellent breastwork. At the end farthest from the side from which the Indians were likely to come, a gap was left between it and the edge of the ravine three feet wide, in order that if necessary the horses could pass out. When it became dark the chief returned. He had gone many miles along towards the main valley, but had seen no sign of any Indians. After supper was over he took one of the wapiti skins and his buffalo robe, went up to the "fort," as they had already called it, and laid the deer-skin down on the slope of snow behind the wall, wrapped the buffalo robe round him, and lay down upon it. Hunting Dog then threw another robe over him, projecting a foot beyond his head, so that he could from time to time raise it and look out over the snow. The night was a dark one, but any object moving across the unbroken white surface could be seen at a considerable distance. "I feel sure I should go to sleep," Tom said, "if I were to lie down like that." "I have no doubt you would, Tom, but there is no fear with the chief. An Indian never sleeps on the watch, or if he does sleep, it is like a dog: he seems to hear as well as if he were awake, and every minute or two his eyes open and he takes a look round. I would rather have an Indian sentry than half a dozen white ones, unless it is in the open, where there is no tree to lean against, and a man must keep moving." Hunting Dog threw himself down as soon as he returned to the hut, and was almost instantly asleep. Three hours later he rose and went out, and Leaping Horse a minute or two later returned. "All quiet," he said; and then after smoking for a short time also lay down.

12

THE SNOW FORT

The hut was quiet at an unusually early hour, for the men had done a very hard day's work, and felt the strain after the long weeks of inactivity. At daybreak they were up and about, but could remain out but a few minutes, for the cold was so intense that they felt unable to face it until they had taken some hot tea and eaten something. Half an hour sufficed for this early breakfast. Hunting Dog was again left behind by the chief when he started. "Two eyes enough," the latter said. "Hunting Dog more use here." The wall of blocks was raised three more feet during the day, as it was agreed to devote all their efforts to this, and to defer the work of thickening it until the next day, for the snow had now been cleared so far from its foot that it could no longer be thrown inside. Though but six feet above the snow level, it was at least three feet more above the level of the rock, and its face was a solid sheet of ice, Tom having, during the two days, made innumerable journeys backwards and forwards with snow-water. "Another couple of feet and it will be high enough for anything," Harry said. "I don't believe that the Indians will venture to attack us, but it is just as well to have it so high that they can't help each other up to the top. If they knew how strong it is, I am sure they would not attack, and would leave us alone altogether, but if a hundred of them creep up in the dark and make a rush, they will do their best to try to climb it. Anyhow we sha'n't need to make the bank behind very high. If it goes to within four feet and a half of the top, so that we can stand and fire over the wall, that is all that is wanted." Leaping Horse returned at dusk as before. He uttered a warm approval of the work when he had examined it. "Good fort," he said, "better than palisades. Indian no climb over it. No opening to fire through, good as wall of town house." "I think they will be puzzled when they get here, chief." "Must watch well to-night," the chief said. "Indian scout sure to come. Two men keep on watch; two better than one." "That is so, chief; we will change every hour. But it will be mighty cold. I don't see why we shouldn't rig up a shelter against the wall, and have a bit of a fire there. Then the two on watch can take it by turns every few minutes to come in and get a warm." With poles and skins a lean-to was speedily constructed against the wall. The snow was hammered down, and a hearth made of half a dozen logs packed closely together. Some brands were brought up from the fire in the hut, and the skins across the end of the lean-to dropped, so that the air within could get warm while they were at supper. "Hunting Dog and Tom shall take the first watch," Harry said; "Sam and I will take the next, Jerry and Ben the third, then you, chief, can take the next." "Leaping Horse watch by himself," the Seneca said; "his eyes will be open." "Very well, chief. I know you are as good as any two of us, so that will give us each one hour out and three hours in bed." Wrapping buffalo robes round them, Tom and the young Indian went up to the fort. Tom drew aside one of the skins and looked into the shelter. The hearth was in a glow, and two logs lying on it were burning well. The night was very still, except for the occasional rumble of some distant snow-slide. For a few minutes they stood looking over the wall, but keeping far back, so that only their heads were above its level. "Tom go in by the fire," the Indian said. "All white, no need for four eyes." "Very well, I will go in first; but mind, you have got to go in afterwards. I sha'n't go in if you don't." After waiting for a few minutes in the shelter Tom went out again, and Hunting Dog took his place. It was his first war-path, and nothing would have persuaded him to retire from the watch had he not felt sure that even white men's eyes could not fail to detect any dark object moving on the surface of the snow. But although all white the surface was not level; here and there were sudden elevations marking rises in the rock beneath. Still it seemed impossible to Tom that anyone could approach unseen. In spite of the protection of the buffalo robe it was intensely cold outside, and he was glad each time when his turn came for a warm by the fire. The changes, too, made the time pass quickly, and he was quite surprised when his uncle and Sam came out to relieve them. The other two men and the chief were still smoking by the fire. There was tea in the kettle, and they evidently did not mean to lie down until after their first watch. Every few minutes the chief got up and went out to the platform, and stood listening there intently for a short time. Just before it was time to change the guard again he said when he returned: "Indian down in valley." "Have you heard them, chief?" "Leaping Horse heard a dead stick crack." "That might have been a deer," Ben suggested. The chief shook his head. " 'Rappahoe; heard gun strike tree." "Then I reckon they will be up in our watch," Ben said. "Well, we shall be ready for them." "Perhaps come, perhaps not come; perhaps scout up valley first see if some of us there, and look for horses. Perhaps some come up path; but crawl up slow, not know whether look-out there." "Well, I don't envy them if they have got much crawling to do to-night; it is cold enough to freeze one's breath." " 'Rappahoe not like cold," the chief said, "but wants scalp bad; that makes his blood warm." "I will let some of it out," Jerry said wrathfully, "if I get a chance to lay a bead on one of them. Don't you be afeard, chief; we will look out sharp enough, you bet. Waal, I reckon it is about our time to turn out, Ben." "Jerry tells me that you have heard noises below, chief," Harry said when he came in. "We heard nothing, but it ain't easy to hear well with these hoods over one's head." "Hoods bad for hear," the chief assented. "Leaping Horse heard plain, Indians down below." "Well, it is only what we expected, chief. Anyhow, we are ready for them when they come." Tom lay down now, and knew nothing more till Hunting Dog touched him. "Time to go and watch," he said. "Has everything been quiet?" The Indian nodded. "No come yet." Leaping Horse remained at his post after they came out to relieve him. Tom made no comment. Harry had impressed upon him the necessity for absolute silence. "If they hear voices they will never come near us," he had said, "and we would rather they came than stopped away. The sooner we get this job over the better." The chief stood with his head slightly bent forward and the hood of his hunting-shirt thrown back, listening attentively. Then he touched Hunting Dog, and stooping low down whispered something in his ear, and then both stood again listening. Tom, too, threw back his hood, but he could hear nothing whatever, and was soon glad to pull it forward over his ears again. He strained his eyes in the direction towards which they were listening, which was apparently towards the edge of the ravine where the Indian trail came up from below. All seemed to him to be white and bare. Presently the chief's rifle went up to his shoulder; there was a sharp crack, a dark figure leapt up from the snow fifty yards away and then fell headlong down again. It seemed to Tom almost magical. His eyes had been fixed in that direction for the last five minutes, and he could have sworn that the surface of the snow was unbroken. A minute later the other four men came running up. "What is it, chief?" Harry whispered. Leaping Horse pointed to the dark figure stretched out on the snow. "So you have got the varmint. Good! Do you think there are any more of them about?" "More there sure," the chief said, pointing to the path up from below. "Perhaps more there," and he pointed to a broad black line from the foot of the cliffs to the edge of the ravine, where, three days before, an avalanche from the hills above had swept the rock clear of snow. "They must have made sure that we were all asleep, or that fellow would never have shown himself on the snow," Harry said. "He did not show himself, uncle. How he got there I don't know; but I was looking at the spot when the chief fired, and I saw no signs of him whatever. How he hid himself I don't know. If it had been anywhere else I should have said he must have had a white sheet over him." "It certainly was not that whatever it was, Tom. However, we shall see in the morning. Well, we may as well turn in again. Will they try again, do you think, chief?" "Not try to-night, too cold; if any there, will hide up till daybreak. Now they know we are awake, will not venture on snow." Half an hour later a great fire was lighted out of gunshot range lower down the valley, and three or four figures could be seen round it. "Too cold," Hunting Dog said to Tom. "All gone down to get warm." The watches were relieved regularly through the night, but there was no further alarm until just after daylight had broken, when Sam Hicks suddenly discharged his rifle. The others all turned out at once. He had fired at a bush just at the point where the trail came up from below, and he declared that he had seen a slight movement there, and that some pieces of the snow had dropped from the leaves. "We will make sure that there is no one there," Harry said, "and then we will turn out and have a look. It is like enough that one of the red-skins from below came up the path to have a look at us this morning." He took a steady aim and fired. "Fetch up an axe, Tom; we will cut that bush away at once. It is lucky that Sam caught sight of the red-skin. If he had not done so he might have got a bullet in his own head, for when the red-skin had finished taking a view of the fort he would certainly have picked off Sam or myself before he went down. It is a weak point, that from here one can't command the path. If they come in force we shall have to keep watch on the platform too. From there you can get a sight of two or three of its turnings." [Illustration: "They Went Out To Look At The Indian The Chief Had Shot."] They went out together, and as they passed, stopped to look at the body of the Indian the chief had shot. He was a young brave of two-or three-and-twenty, and the manner of his advance so far unperceived was now evident. Favoured by a slight fall in the ground, he had crawled forward, scooping a trench wide enough for his body a foot in depth, pushing the snow always forward, so that it formed a sort of bank in front of him and screened him from the sight of those on watch. The chief's keen eye had perceived a slight movement of the snow, and after watching a moment had fired at the point where he judged anyone concealed by it must be. He had calculated accurately. The ball had struck on the shoulder close to the neck, and had passed down through the body. The Indian had brought no rifle with him, but had knife and tomahawk in his belt. "Poor young fellow," Harry said. "He wanted to win a name for himself by a deed of desperate bravery. It has cost him his life, but as he would have taken ours if he had had a chance it is of no use regretting it." They now went on to the bush. "You were right, Sam," he went on, as they saw the impression on the snow made by a figure lying down behind it. "There was an Indian here sure enough, and here is the mark of the stock of his rifle, and no doubt he would have picked off one of us if you had not scared him. I don't expect you hit him; there are no signs of blood." "Fire too high," the chief said, pointing to a twig that had been freshly cut off two feet from the ground. "Always shoot low at man behind bush. Man cannot float in air." There was a general laugh at Sam, who replied: "I did not suppose he could, chief. I just fired where I saw the snow fall, without thinking about it one way or the other. I was an all-fired fool, but I shall know better next time." The bush was cut down, and also two or three others that grew along by the edge of the ravine. On their way back to the hut Harry stopped by the dead Indian. "Fetch me a shovel, Tom," he said, "I will dig a hole in the snow; it ain't a pleasant object to be looking at anyway." Tom fetched the shovel, Harry dug down in the snow till he reached the rock, then he and Jerry laid the body in it and filled in the snow again. The chief looked on. "Bears get him," he said when they had finished. "That is like enough, chief, but we have done the best we can for him. There is no digging into the rock." "I thought the Indians always scalped enemies they shot?" Tom afterwards said to his uncle. "So they do, Tom; but you see the chief is a sort of civilized Indian. He has consorted for years with whites, and he knows that we don't like it. I don't say he wouldn't do it if he were on the war-path by himself, but with us he doesn't, at any rate not openly. I have no doubt it went against his grain to see the red-skin buried with his hair on, for the scalp would have been a creditable one, as it would not have been got without a clear eye and good judgment in shooting. I have no doubt he has got some scalps about him now, though he don't show them; but they will be hung up some day if he ever settles down in a wigwam of his own. "Well, chief, and what do you think," he asked Leaping Horse, as, after returning to the hut, they sat down to breakfast, "will they come or won't they?" "I think they no come," the chief said. "Scout behind bush will tell them fort too strong to take; must cross snow, and many fall before they get to it. Very hard to climb. No like cold, Leaping Horse thinks they will stop in wigwams." "No fools either," Jerry agreed; "a man would be worse than a natural if he were to go fooling about in this weather, and run a pretty good big risk of getting shot and nothing much to gain by it. They know we have left their country now, and ain't likely to come back again either to hunt there or to dig gold, and that all we want is to get away as soon as we can. I allow that the chief is right, and that we sha'n't hear no more of them, anyhow not for some time." The chief nodded. "If come again, not come now. Wait a moon, then think perhaps we sleep sound and try again; but more likely not try." "Much more likely," Harry assented. "Unless they can do it by a surprise. Indians are not fond of attacking; they know we shoot straighter than they do and have better rifles. You remember that time when you and I and Jersey Dick kept off a party of Navahoes from sunrise till sunset down near the Emigrant trail? It was lucky for us that a post-rider who was passing along heard the firing, and took the news to a fort, and that the officer there brought out fifty troopers just as the sun went down, or we should have been rubbed out that night sure." The Seneca nodded. "How was it, Harry?" Sam Hicks asked. "It was just the usual thing, Sam. We had left the trail two days before, and were hunting on our own account when the Navahoes came down. We had just time to throw the three horses and lie down behind them. They were within two hundred yards when I began and fetched the chief, who was leading them, out of his saddle. Leaping Horse brought down another one and Jersey Dick held his fire, and instead of keeping straight on they began to straggle round. And they kept at that all day. Sometimes they would get in pretty close, but each time they did the chief brought down a horse, and when his rider, who was of course hanging on the other side of him, got up to run, I fetched him down. Dick wasn't much of a shot, so we would not let him fire. It discourages red-skins mightily when they see that there is never a shot thrown away, and that it is sure death whenever one draws a trigger. So at last they got careful and held off, knowing as they would get us at night, when they could have crawled up on foot and made a rush when they got close to us. "The worst of it was we hadn't struck water the evening before, and it was just one of the hottest days on the plains, and we were pretty nigh mad with thirst before evening. I believe when the soldiers rode up I was about as glad to get a drink from one of their bottles as I was that the Navahoes bolted when they saw them coming. No, the red-skins ain't any good for an open attack; they would have lost fewer men by riding straight at us than they did by fooling round, but they could not bring themselves to do it, and I reckon that is what it will be here. They may, as the chief says, try, say six weeks on, when the frost begins to break, in hopes that we may have given up keeping watch: but if they find us awake they will never try an open attack, for they could not reckon on taking the place without losing a score of men in doing so. If the snow was off the ground it would be different. Then of a dark night they could crawl up close and make a rush." After breakfast the chief and Hunting Dog went out scouting. When they returned they brought news that three Indians had come over the snow along the side of the hills, that three others had come up the valley, and that in a wood half a mile below where they had seen the fire, there had been a large party encamped. "I reckoned that would be about it, chief. Three fellows came along over the hill, in case we should be keeping guard at the top of the path, and they had a big force somewhere down below, so that if the scouts reported that there was nothing to prevent them falling on us they would come up before morning and wipe us out. I suppose they have all ridden off?" "All gone. Leaping Horse and Hunting Dog followed right down valley. No stop anywhere, gone back to lodges." "Then in that case, Harry, we had best get the critters down to their shed again. They have eaten all that stuff they brought up three days ago, I gave them the last of it this morning. The Indians know that we keep a pretty sharp look-out during the day and there ain't no fear of their coming up here when it is light." As the chief was also of opinion that there was no danger, the horses were taken down the path into the valley, where on having their bridles unbuckled they at once trotted off of their own accord towards the beaver meadow. For the next six weeks a watch was kept regularly, but by only one man at a time. The horses were driven down to the valley every morning and brought up again before sunset. There was little hunting now, for they had as many skins as they could carry comfortably, and a supply of frozen meat sufficient to last well into the spring. In March the weather became perceptibly warmer, and the snow in the valley began to melt where the full power of the sun at mid-day fell upon it. Day by day the crashes of distant avalanches became more frequent, and they began to look forward to the time when they should be able to proceed on their journey. One night towards the end of the month Tom was on watch, when he heard a rustling sound far up beyond the wall of cliff in front of him. It grew louder and rose to a roar, and then a white mass came pouring down over the cliff. Leaping from the wall he dashed down the path to the hut. It needed no word to call the men to their feet, for a deep rumbling filled the air and the rock seemed to quiver. The horses struggled to break their head-ropes and snorted with fright. "Your backs to the wall!" Harry shouted, and as all leapt across at his order there was a crash overhead. The roof above them fell in and a mass of snow followed; a minute later a deep silence followed the deafening roar. "Anyone hurt?" Harry shouted, and the replies came in muffled tones. Tom was jambed against the rock by the snow; he was nearest to the entrance, his uncle was next to him. "I am all right at present, uncle, but I feel half smothered." "All right, lad; I am pretty free, and I will soon clear you a bit." The snow was pushed away from before Tom's face, his left arm was cleared, and then his uncle with a vigorous pull brought him back close to him. Here he was comparatively free, for a part of the roof had fallen close to the wall and had partially kept off the snow. Then Harry turned, and with some difficulty managed to get Jerry, who was next to him, freed from the snow. "Now, Jerry, you work along that way and get at the others. Tom and I will try to burrow a way out." It was a difficult task. Once through the passage in the log wall they pushed to the left towards the edge of the platform, taking it by turns to go first until the snow became lighter; then by a vigorous effort Harry rose to his feet, sending a mass of snow tumbling over the edge of the platform. As soon as Tom had joined him they set to work with hands and knives, and soon cleared a passage back to the entrance. Just as they did so Jerry crawled out from within. "Are they all right, Jerry?" "Yes, the others are coming; only about twelve feet of the roof caved in, and the two Indians and Sam soon got in among the horses. I had a lot of trouble with Ben; he had been knocked down, and I thought that he was gone when I got him out; but he is all right now, though he can't walk yet. The Indians and Sam have got the shovels, and are working away to clear a passage along by the wall; there is no getting Ben out through that rabbit-hole you have made." "Thank God we are all right," Harry said; "it does not matter a bit, now that we know no one is badly hurt. We will begin at this end, but we sha'n't be able to do much until we get the shovels, the snow will fall in as fast as we get it out." They soon found that they could do nothing in this way. "We will try to tunnel again," Harry said, "it is not more than ten feet along. If we get in and hump ourselves, we shall soon get it big enough to drag Ben out, then the others can follow, and we can set to work with the spades to clear the place." After a good deal of effort they succeeded in enlarging the hole, and then got Ben through it, one crawling backwards and pulling him while the other shoved at his legs. "How do you feel, Ben?" Harry asked him when they laid him down outside. "I dunno, Harry; I am afraid my back is badly hurt. I don't seem to feel my legs at all. I expect they are numbed from the weight of snow on them." "I will crawl into our store and fetch out the keg." "I reckon a drop of whisky will do me good if anything will," Ben said. "I was crushed pretty near flat, and if my head hadn't been against the wall I should have been smothered. Are you all right, young Tom?" "Yes, I am not hurt at all. The snow squeezed me against the rock, and I could not move an inch, but uncle managed to get me a little free and then pulled me out of it." Harry soon came back with the whisky, and was followed by the Indians and Sam, who found that they could do nothing with the snow, which fell in as fast as they cleared it. Their first step was to dig out a buffalo robe to wrap Ben in. His voice was stronger after he had drank some spirit, and he said that he felt better already. The others at once set to work with the shovels. They first cleared the platform along by the wall to the entrance, and then attacked the snow which filled the space between the two rock walls to the top. Two of them worked with poles, loosening the snow above, and bringing it down in masses, while those with shovels cast it out on to the platform, going out occasionally to throw it over into the ravine. Hunting Dog made his way up over the snow to the top of the path, and called down to say that the fort was entirely swept away, and the chief told him to take up his post at once at the top of the path leading from below. "He need not have told us that the fort was gone," Jerry grumbled. "If it had been made of cast-iron it would not have stood. The sooner we get our rifles out the better." This could not be done for a time, for the loosening of the snow above had caused that below to slip, and the passage along by the wall had fallen in. The Indians, however, who had slept beyond the part filled by snow, had brought their pieces out with them, and could have defended the path alone. Several times those at work were buried by falls of snow, and had to be dragged out by the others. By daylight a considerable gap had been made in the snow, and they were able to get into the space beyond the fall. A number of logs, and a joint of meat that had been taken in the day before to thaw, were brought out, and a fire was soon blazing on the platform. "I wonder why the snow did not shoot over as it did before?" Ben, who was now able to sit up, remarked. "I reckon it is the fort did it," Harry said. "Of course it went, but it may have checked the rush of the snow for a moment, and those thick walls couldn't have got the same way on as the rest of the snow had." "But the fort wasn't over the roof, uncle," Tom remarked. "No, but it may have blocked the slide a little, and thrown some of it sideways; you see it is only this end that gave, while it shot right over the rest of the roof just as before." "It is mighty lucky it did not break in all along," Sam Hicks said, "for it would have left us without horses if it had; and it would have been mighty rough on us to have lost them, just as we are going to want them, after our taking such pains with them all through the winter." The chief took Hunting Dog's place as soon as he had finished his meal, and remained on watch all day. The men worked without ceasing, but it was not until sunset that the snow was completely cleared away. "I reckon that we shall have to be starting before long," Jerry said as they sat round the fire in what they before called their store-room, having driven the horses as far in as possible to make room. "We could have held out before as long as we liked, but it is different now. The rock's cleared now for a hundred yards on each side of us, our fort's gone, and there is nothing to prevent the redskins from crawling close up the first dark night and making a rush. They are like enough to be sending scouts up the valley occasionally, and it won't be long before they hear that our fort has gone and the ground cleared of snow." Leaping Horse nodded. "Two men must watch at top of path," he said. "That is right enough, chief; but we know three of them came along the hills before, and it is like enough they will all come that way next time. They are safe to reckon that we shall hold the path." "It is very unfortunate," Harry said; "in another month, we should have been able to travel. Anyhow, it seems to me that we have got to try now; it would never do to be caught in here by the red-skins. If we are to go, the sooner the better. All our meat has been carried over the edge. This is about the time we expected the Indians back, and it would be dangerous to scatter hunting. It is a big risk, too, taking the horses down to the meadow. No, I think we can manage to get over the pass. The snow gets softer every day when the sun is on it; but it freezes at night. We have the moon, too, so we shall be able to travel then; and even if we take three or four days getting over the divide we can sleep in the daytime." "We must get a little more meat anyhow before we start," Jerry said. "This joint ain't more than enough for another square meal for us, and though I reckon the bighorns will be coming up to the hills again now, it won't do to risk that." "We have the pack-horses, Jerry." "Yes, I did not think of them. Horseflesh ain't so bad on a pinch; but I don't want to lose our skins." "Better our skins than our hair," Sam laughed. "That is right enough, Sam, but I would like to save both." "Perhaps there is some of the meat under the snow," Tom suggested. "It hung near the wall, and the snow must have come straight down on it from above, as it did in here." "That is so, Tom; we will have a look the first thing in the morning. I am so tired now I would not dig for it if it were gold." As soon as it was light the next morning they began to clear the snow from the rest of the platform, and found to their great satisfaction four bear hams. The rest of the meat had been swept over the edge. The two Indians had not shared in the work, having started away early without saying where they were going. They returned to breakfast, each carrying a hind-quarter of venison, which they had found in the snow below. It was agreed that a start should be made that evening. By sunset the horses were loaded, and half an hour later they moved away. Ben Gulston had to be assisted on to his horse, for although in other respects recovered, it was found that he had so severely strained his back across the loins that he was scarcely able to walk a foot. The moon was shining brightly, and as soon as they were on the snow they could see as plainly as if it were day. All were in high spirits that they had left the spot where for six months they had been prisoners. They had difficulty in restraining themselves from shouting and singing, but the chief before starting had warned them of the necessity for travelling silently. "Snow-slides very bad now; shouting might set them going." The others looked rather incredulous, but Harry said: "I know he is right, boys; for I have heard that in the Alps the guides always forbid talking when they are crossing places exposed to avalanches. At any rate we may as well give the snow as little chance as may be of going for us." They travelled in Indian file from habit rather than necessity, for the snow was firm and hard, and the horses made their way over it without difficulty. There had been some debate as to the way they should go; but they determined at last to take the valley through the cliff wall, and to strike to the right whenever they came upon a likely spot for crossing. Two such attempts were made in vain, the upper slopes of snow being found too steep for the horses to climb; but at the third, which was made just after morning broke, they succeeded in getting up the hill to their right, and, after great difficulty, descended into another valley. This they had little doubt was the one that led to the pass, for from the hill they could see the great peak along whose foot the trail ran. It was ten o'clock before they got down into the valley. The snow was beginning to be soft on the surface, and the horses were tired out. They therefore halted, made a fire with two or three of the logs they had brought with them for the purpose, boiled water and had breakfast, and gave half a bucket of gruel to each of the animals. Then wrapping themselves in their buffalo robes they lay down and slept till late in the afternoon. The journey was resumed at sunset, and before morning they had crossed the divide; and when the sun rose obtained a view over the country far to the south.

13

A FRESH START

In the evening they camped on the banks of the Green River, here a stream of but small size, except when the melting snow swelled its waters into a torrent. At the spot where they halted a rivulet ran into the stream from a thickly-wooded little valley. It was frozen, but breaking the ice with their axes they found that water was flowing underneath. They had observed that there was a marked difference in temperature on this side of the mountains, upon which the strength of the southern sun had already in many places cleared away the snow. "It is a comfort to be able to sit by a fire without the thought that red-skins maybe crawling up towards you," Sam Hicks said heartily, "and to sleep without being turned out to stand watch in the cold. "You say the country ahead is bad, chief?" "Bad lands both sides of Green River. Deep canons and bare rock." "Well, we need not follow it; it don't make any difference to us whether we get down to the fort in a fortnight or six weeks." "None at all," Harry said. "We have agreed that when summer fairly sets in we will try that place I hit on just as the Utes came down on us. It is the richest place I have ever seen, and if the Indians will but let us alone for a month we ought to bring back a big lot of dust; and if we do, we can sell our share in it for a big sum, and take down enough men to thrash the Utes out of their boots if they interfere with us. By our reckoning it is the end of March now, though we don't at all agree as to the day; but at any rate, it is there or thereabouts. That gives us a good six weeks, and if we start in the middle of May it will be time enough. So I propose that we strike more to the west, or to the east, whichever you think is the best, chief, and try and pick up a few more pelts so as to lay in a fresh stock of goods for our next trip." "Bad hills everywhere," the chief said; "better go west, plenty of game there." "No fear of Indians?" "Indians there peaceable; make good trade with whites. Ten years ago fight, but lose many men and not get much plunder. Trappers here good friends with them. Traders bring up powder and cloth and beads. Indians no give trouble." For the next six weeks, therefore, they travelled slowly, camping sometimes for two or three days on a stream, and then making a long march until they again came to water. The beaver traps had been left behind, but they were fortunate enough to come upon several beaver villages, and by exercising patience they were able to shoot a good many, getting in all some fifty skins. Tom used to go out in the evening and lie down to watch the beavers at work, but he would not take a gun. "I could not shoot them down in cold blood, uncle. It is almost like looking at a village of human beings at work. One can shoot a man who is wanting to shoot you, without feeling much about it, but to fire at a man labouring in the fields is murder. Of course, if we wanted the flesh for food it would be different." "I did not see you refuse that beaver-tail soup we had last night, Tom." "No, and it was very good, uncle; but I would very much rather have gone without it than shoot the beaver the tail belonged to." "Well, Tom, as we have all got guns, and as none of us have any scruples that way, there is no occasion whatever for you to draw a trigger on them. They take some shooting, for if you hit them in the water they sink directly, and you have got to kill them dead when they are on land, otherwise they make for the water at once and dive into their houses and die there." They killed a good many other animals besides the beaver, including several wolverines, and by the time they got down to the fort in the middle of May they had had to give up riding and pack all the animals with the skins they had obtained. None of these were of any great value, but the whole brought enough to buy them a fresh outfit of clothes, a fresh stock of provisions and powder, and to give them a hundred dollars each. The evening after the sale was effected Tom wrote home to his sisters, giving them a brief account of what had taken place since the letter he had posted to them before starting for the mountains, but saying very little of their adventures with Indians. "I am afraid you have been in a great fright about me," he said, "but you must never fidget when you don't get letters. We may often be for a long time away from any place where we can post them, or, as they call it here, mail them, though I certainly do not expect to be snowed up again for a whole winter. Owing to the Indians being hostile we did not do nearly so well as we expected, for we could not go down to hunt in the valleys. So after getting a fresh outfit for our next journey our share is only a hundred dollars each. I did not want to take a share, for of course I was not of much use to them, though I have learnt a lot in the last six months, and can shoot now as well as any of them, except the two Indians. "However, they all insisted on my having the same share as the rest. Uncle wanted me to take his hundred dollars and send them home to you with mine, but I told him that I would not do so, for I know you have money enough to go on with, even if your school has turned out a failure. So I think it would be as well for us to keep our money in hand for the present. There is never any saying what may happen; we may lose our horses and kit, and it would be very awkward if we hadn't the money to replace them. As soon as we get more we will send it off, as you know I always intended to do. I have still some left of what I brought out with me, but that and the two hundred dollars would not be more than enough to buy an entirely new outfit for us both. "I hope you got the five hundred dollars uncle sent you. He told me he sent it off from Denver, and it ought to have got home a few weeks after I left. It is horrid to think that there may be letters from you lying at Denver, but it serves me right for being so stupid as not to put in the short note I wrote you from here before I started, that you had better direct to me at Fort Bridger, as I shall almost be sure to come back to it before I go to Denver. I like uncle awfully; it seems to me that he is just what I expected he would be. I suppose they all put in equal shares, but the other men quite look upon him as their leader. Sometimes when he is talking to me he speaks just as people do at home. When he talks to the men he uses the same queer words they do. He is taller than father was, and more strongly built. What I like in him is, he is always the same. Sometimes the others used to get grumbly when we were shut up so long, but it never seemed to make any difference in him. "I told you when I wrote from Denver that he was called 'Straight Harry,' because he always acted straightforwardly, and now I know him I can quite understand their calling him so. One feels somehow that one could rely upon his always being the same, whatever happened. Leaping Horse is a first-rate fellow, and so is Hunting Dog, though of course he does not know nearly as much as the chief does, but he knows a lot. The other three are all nice fellows, too, so we were a very jolly party. They know a tremendous lot of stories about hunting and red-skins and that sort of thing. Some of them would make all you girls' hairs stand on end. We are going to start off in two or three days to hunt up a gold mine uncle found three years ago. The Indians are going, too; they will hunt while the rest of us work. It will be quite a different journey to the last, and I expect it will be just as hot this time as it was cold last. We may be away for four months, and perhaps we may not come back till the snow sets in, so don't expect a letter till you see it." This was by far the longest letter Tom had ever written, and it took him several hours to get through. He had the room to himself, for the others were talking over their adventures with old friends they had met at the fort. His uncle returned about ten o'clock. "Where are the others?" Tom asked. "In the saloon; but they are not drinking, that is, not drinking much. I told them that if they were to get drunk one of them would be sure to blab as to where we were going, or at any rate to say enough to excite suspicion among some of the old miners, that we knew of a good thing, and in that case we should get a lot of men following us, and it would interfere with our plans altogether. A party as small as ours may live for months without a red-skin happening to light on us, but if there were many more they would be certain to find us. There would be too much noise going on, too much shooting and driving backward and forward with food and necessaries. We want it kept dark till we thoroughly prove the place. So I made them all take an oath this morning that they would keep their heads cool, and I told them that if one of them got drunk, or said a word about our going after gold, I would not take him with us. I have given out that we are going on another hunting party, and of course our having brought in such a lot of skins will make them think that we have hit on a place where game is abundant and are going back there for the summer." Two more pack-ponies had been added to the outfit. They might be away for five or six months, and were determined to take a good supply of flour this time, for all were tired of the diet of meat only, on which they had existed for the last six months, having devoted by far the greater part of the flour to the horses. When they started next day they turned their faces north, as if they intended to hunt in the mountains where they had wintered. They made but a short march, camped on a stream, and long before daybreak started again, travelling for some hours to the west and then striking directly south. For two days they travelled rapidly, Tom going out every morning with the Indians hunting, while the others kept with the pack-horses. Ben had now quite recovered from the strain which had crippled him for the first three weeks of their march down to Fort Bridger. They were now fairly among the Ute hills, and at their third camping-place Harry said: "We must do no more shooting now till we get to our valley. We have got a supply of deer-flesh for a week at least, and we must be careful in future. We heard at the fort that several miners have been cut off and killed by the Utes during the winter, and that they are more set than ever against white men entering their country. Everyone says those rascally Saints are at the bottom of it. We must hide our trail as much as we can. We are just at the edge of the bad lands, and will travel on them for the next two days. The red-skins don't go out that way much, there being nothing either to hunt or to plunder, so there is little fear of their coming on our trail on the bare rocks, especially as none of the horses are shod. On the third day we shall strike right up into their mountains." "Are you sure that you will know the place again, Harry?" "I reckon I could find it, but I should not feel quite certain about it if I had not the chief with me. There is no fear of his going wrong. When a red-skin has once been to a place he can find his way straight back to it again, even if he were a thousand miles off." "You said when we were talking of it among the hills, uncle," Tom said, as he rode beside him the next morning, "that Leaping Horse and you each took two shares. I wonder what he will do with his if it turns out well." "He won't do anything with it, Tom. The chief and I are like brothers. He does not want gold, he has no use for it; and, besides, as a rule, Indians never have anything to do with mining. He and Hunting Dog really come as hunters, and he has an understanding with me that when the expedition is over I shall pay them the same as they would earn from any English sportsman who might engage them as guides and hunters, and that I shall take their shares in whatever we may make. I need not say that if it turns out as well as we expect, the Indians will get as many blankets and as much ammunition as will last them their lives. You can't get a red-skin to dig. Even the chief, who has been with us for years, would consider it degrading to do work of that kind; and if you see an Indian at mining work, you may be sure that he is one of the fellows who has left his tribe and settled down to loaf and drink in the settlements, and is just doing a spell to get himself enough fire-water to make himself drunk on. "The Seneca would be just as willing to come and hunt for us for nothing. He would get his food and the skins, which would pay for his tobacco and ammunition, and, occasionally, a new suit of leggings and hunting-shirt, made by an Indian woman, and with this he would be happy and contented. He doesn't mind taking money in return for skins, and he and Hunting Dog had their full share in the division at the fort. When I last talked to him about this business, he said, 'Leaping Horse doesn't want money. Of what use is it to him? He has got a bagful hidden at home, which he has been paid when he was scouting with the army, and for the skins of beasts he has shot. It is enough to buy many horses and blankets, and all that a chief can want. He is going with his friend to hunt, and to fight by his side if the Utes come; he wants none of the gold.' I explained the matter to him, and he said carelessly: 'Leaping Horse will take the two shares, but it will be for his brother, and that he may send it to the girls, the sisters of his friend Tom, of whom he spoke one night by the fire.' "Hunting Dog is like Leaping Horse, he will take no gold. I have told the three men how matters stand. Of course, it makes no difference to them whether the Indians keep their share or hand it over to me, but at the same time I thought they ought to know how we stood. They said it was no business of theirs; that as I was the discoverer I had a right to sell the whole thing if I chose, and that they thought I had done the friendly thing by them in letting them in as partners. So you see it is all right and square. It is like enough, too, that we shall find some other lodes, and of course there they will come in on even terms with us. So they are pleased with the look-out, and know well enough it is likely to be the best strike they ever made in their lives." They kept near the edge of the bad lands, as had they gone farther out they would have been obliged to make long detours to get round the head of the cañons made by rivers running down into the Colorado. They had filled their water-skins at the last stream where they had camped, and had taken with them enough dried wood for their fires. These they lit each night in a hollow, as from the upper slopes of the Ute hills a view could be obtained for a great distance over the flat rocky plateau. Tom was heartily glad when the two days' journey was over. Not a living creature had met their eyes; there was no grass on which beasts could exist, no earth in which prairie-dogs could burrow; even birds shunned the bare waste of rock. "It is a desolate country," he said, as they sat round the fire; "it would be enough to give one the horrors if one were alone. It is hot now, and in the height of summer the heat and glare from the rock must be awful." "It is, Tom; many and many a man has died of thirst in the bad lands. And what makes it more terrible is, that they can perhaps see water a thousand feet below them and yet die from the want of it." "When we were camped on the Green River, uncle, you said that no one had ever followed it down." "That is so, lad. One knows whereabouts it goes, as men driven by thirst have followed cañons down to it; and in some places it runs for many miles across low land before it plunges into another cañon. Then it cuts its way for two or three hundred miles, perhaps, through the hills, with walls two or three thousand feet high. No one, so far as I know, has gone down these big cañons, but it is certain there are rapids and whirlpools and rocks in them. Two or three parties have gone down through some of the shorter cañons to escape Indians, and most of them have never been heard of again, but one or two have got down some distance and managed to escape. "No one has followed the course by land. They could not do so unless they carried all their provisions, and drink and food for their animals, and even then the expedition would take months, perhaps years to do; for every spring from the hills runs down a cañon to the river, sometimes fifty miles, sometimes a hundred long, and each time the party came upon one of these they would have to work up to the mountains to get round it. It is over a thousand miles in a straight line from the place where the Green River first enters a cañon to where the Colorado issues out on to the plains, and it may be quite twice that distance if one could follow all its windings. Some day when the country fills up attempts will no doubt be made to find out something about it; but it will be a big job whenever it is tried, and may cost a lot of lives before the cañons are all explored." In the morning they started westward for the hills. The greatest care was observed on the march. They took advantage of every depression, and when obliged to pass over level ground moved at a distance apart, as a clump or string of moving animals would be made out at a distance from which a solitary one would be unnoticed. By noon they had left the bare rock, and were travelling up a valley clothed with grass and dotted with clumps of trees. In the first of these they halted. "We will stay here until it begins to get dusk," Harry said, "and then move on as fast as we can go. If we don't lose our way we shall be there before morning." There was no moon, but the stars shone brilliantly, and the mountains, with their summits still covered with snow, could be seen ahead. The chief went on in front. Sometimes they proceeded up valleys, sometimes crossed shoulders and spurs running down from the hills. They moved in Indian file, and at times proceeded at a brisk pace, at other times more slowly; but there was no halt or sign of hesitation on the part of their leader. At last, just as morning was breaking, the chief led them into a clump of trees. He moved a little distance in, and then reined in his horse and dismounted. "Does my brother remember that?" he said to Harry, pointing to something on the ground. "Jee-hoshaphat!" Harry exclaimed; "if that ain't my old pack-saddle! This is the very spot where we camped, boys. Well, chief, you are certainly a wonder. I doubt whether I could have found my way here in the daytime. Half a dozen times to-night it seemed to me that you were going in the wrong direction altogether, and yet you bring us as straight to the spot as if all the time you had been following a main road." "Bully for the chief!" Jerry said warmly. "I am blamed if that ain't a fust-rate piece of tracking. Waal, here we are at our journey's end. Can we make a fire?" "Make small fire, but must put screen round." "Very well; we will leave the fire to you, and we will unpack the critters. There is a bundle of dry wood left, so we sha'n't have the bother of looking for it now." Before lighting the fire the two Indians stretched some blankets some six feet above it, to prevent the light falling upon the foliage; then by their directions Sam cut a dozen short poles, and fixed them in a circle round the fire. Half a dozen more blankets were fastened to the poles, forming a wall round the fire, which the chief then lighted. The nights were, at that height above the sea-level, cool enough to make the heat pleasant, and there was just room for the seven men to sit between the blanket wall and the fire. "Do you mean this to be our permanent camp, Harry?" "What do you think, Leaping Horse?" "Wait till me go up gold valley," the Seneca said. "If can't find a good place there better stay here; if go backwards and forwards every day make trail Indian squaw would notice." "That is so, chief; but by what Harry says it is a mere gully, and the horses will have to range." "Horses must feed," the chief said. "If we find a place up there, make hut, take saddles and outfit there. Tie up horses here, and let them loose to feed at night. No regular track then. But talk after sleep." "It will be broad daylight by the time that we have finished our meal," Jerry said, "and I reckon none of us will be wanting to sleep till we have got a sight of Harry's bonanza." As soon as they had finished their meal, the mining implements, which had been carefully hidden among the rest of their goods when they started from the fort, were brought out. Among these were a dozen light pick-heads and half a dozen handles, as many shovels, a flat iron plate for crushing ore upon, and a short hammer, with a face six inches in diameter, as a pounder; also a supply of long nails, to be used in fastening together troughs, cradles, or any other woodwork that might be required; three or four deep tin dishes, a bottle of mercury, a saw, and a few other tools. Three of the pick-heads were now fastened to their handles, and taking these, a couple of shovels, two of the tin basins, a sledge hammer, and some steel wedges, and the peculiar wooden platter, in shape somewhat resembling a small shield with an indentation in the middle, called a vanner, and universally used by prospectors, the five whites and Leaping Horse started from their camp for the spot where Harry had found the lode. It lay about a mile up a narrow valley, running into the larger one. A rivulet trickled down its centre. "I reckoned on that," Harry said. "Of course it was frozen when we were here, but I could see that there was water in summer. You see this hollow runs right up into that wood, and there is sure to be water in it for the next three months anyhow." They had gone but a short distance up when they stopped at a spot where the streamlet widened out into a pool. "Let us try here," Jerry said, "and see if there is any sign." Half a shovelful of sand was placed in the vanner with a small quantity of water, and while Harry and Sam proceeded to wash some gravel roughly in the pans, Tom stood watching Jerry's operations. He gave a gentle motion to the vanner that caused its contents to revolve, the coarser particles being thrown towards the edges while the finer remained in the centre. The water was poured away and the rougher particles of gravel and sand swept off by the hand; fresh water was then added, and the process repeated again and again, until at last no more than a spoonful of fine sand remained in the centre. A sideway action of the vanner caused this to slope gradually down towards the edge. At the very bottom three tiny bits of yellow metal were seen. They were no bigger than pins' heads. It seemed to Tom that this was a miserably small return for five minutes' labour, but the others seemed well satisfied, and were still more pleased when, on the two pans being cleaned out, several little pieces of gold were found, one of which was nearly as large as a small pea. "That is good enough," Ben said; "it will run a lot richer when we get down on to the rock." At two other places on their way up they tried the experiments, with increasingly good results. "There is some tall work to be done here with washing," Harry said. "Now come on to the vein. I only saw one of them, but there must be a lot more or you would not find so much metal in the sand. However, the one I saw is good enough for anything." They went on again to a point where the rock cropped boldly out on both sides of the valley; Harry led them a few paces up the side, and pointed to some white patches in the rock. "That is where I chipped it off, lads, three years ago." The face of the lode, discoloured by age and weather, differed but little from the rock surrounding it; but where it had been broken off it was a whitish yellow, thickly studded with little bits of dull yellow metal sticking out of it. Tom was not greatly impressed; but he saw from the faces of his companions that they were at once surprised and delighted. "By gosh, Harry, you have done it this time!" Sam Hicks exclaimed. "You have struck it rich, and no mistake. I thought from the way you talked of it it must be something out of the way, but I am blamed if I thought it was like this." "Stand back, you chaps," Jerry said, lifting the heavy sledge hammer; "let me get a drive at it. Here is a crack. Put one of them wedges in, Ben." The wedge was placed in the fissure, and Ben held it while Jerry gave a few light blows to get it firmly fixed. "That will do, Ben; take away your hand and let me drive at it." Swinging the hammer round his head Jerry brought it down with tremendous force on the head of the wedge. Again and again the heavy hammer rose and fell, with the accuracy of a machine, upon the right spot, until the wedge, which was nine inches long, was buried in the crevice. "Now another one, Ben. Give me a longer one this time." This time Ben held the wedge until it was half buried, having perfect confidence in Jerry's skill. It was not until the fourth wedge had been driven in that a fragment of rock weighing four or five hundredweight suddenly broke out from the face. All bent eagerly over it, and the miners gave a shout of joy. The inner surface, which was white, but slightly stained with yellow, with blurs of slate colour here and there, was thickly studded with gold. It stuck out above the surface in thin, leafy plates with ragged edges, with here and there larger spongy masses. "I reckon that is good enough," Jerry said, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "Ef there is but enough of it, it is the biggest thing that ever was struck. There ain't no saying how rich it is, but I will bet my boots it's over five hundred ounces to the ton. It ain't in nature that it is going to run far like that, but it is good enough for anything. Well, what is the next thing, Harry?" "We will break it up," Harry said, "and carry it down with us to the camp. If the Utes came down on us tomorrow, and we could get off with it, that would be plenty to show if we want to make a sale." It took them a long time to break up the rock, for the quartz was hard, and was so bound together by the leafy gold running through it that each of the four men had several spells with the hammer before it was broken up into fragments weighing some twenty pounds apiece. As soon as this was done the men collected earth, filled up the hole in the face of the rock, and planted several large tufts of grass in it, and poured four or five tins of water over them; then they smeared with mud the patches where Harry had before broken pieces off. "What is all that for, Jerry?" Tom asked. "It is to hide up the traces, lad. We may have to bolt away from here to-morrow morning for anything we know, and before we come back again someone else may come along, and though we shall locate our claims at the mining register, there would be a lot of trouble if anyone else had taken possession, and was working the vein when we got back." "It is not likely that anyone else would come along here, Jerry." "Waal, I reckon that is so, but one ain't going to trust to chance when one has struck on such a place as this." The Seneca had been the only unmoved person in the party. "What do you think of that, chief?" Harry asked him. "If my white brother is pleased Leaping Horse is glad," he replied. "But the Indian does not care for gold. What can he do with it? He has a good gun, he does not want twenty. He does not want many hunting suits. If he were to buy as many horses as would fill the valley he could not ride them all, and he would soon tire of sitting in his lodge and being waited upon by many wives. He has enough for his needs now. When he is old it will be time to rest." "Well, that is philosophy, chief, and I don't say you are wrong from your way of looking at it. But that gold means a lot to us. It means going home to our people. It means living in comfort for the rest of our lives. It means making our friends happy." "Leaping Horse is glad," the chief said gravely. "But he cannot forget that to him it means that the white brother, with whom he has so long hunted and camped and fought bad Indians, will go away across the great salt water, and Leaping Horse will see him no more." "That is so, chief," Harry said, grasping the Indian's hand warmly, "and I was a selfish brute not to think of it before. There is one thing I will promise you. Every year or so I will come out here and do a couple of months' hunting with you. The journey is long, but it is quickly made now, and I know that after knocking about for twenty years I shall never be content if I don't take a run out on the plains for a bit every summer. I will give you my word, Leaping Horse, that as long as I have health and strength I will come out regularly, and that you shall see your white brother's friendship is as strong as your own." The Seneca's grave face lit up with pleasure. "My white brother is very good," he said. "He has taken away the thorn out of the heart of Leaping Horse. His Indian brother is all glad now." The quartz was placed in sacks they had brought with them to carry down samples, and they at once returned to the camp, where, after smoking a pipe, they lay down to sleep; but it was some time before all went off, so excited were they at the thought of the fortune that seemed before them. In the afternoon they took one of the pieces of stone, weighing, by a spring balance, twenty pounds, and with the flat plate and the crushing-hammer went to the stream. The rock was first broken with the sledge into pieces the size of a walnut. These were pulverized on the iron plate and the result carefully washed, and when the work was finished the gold was weighed in the miner's scales, and turned the four-ounce weight. "That is nearly five hundred ounces to the ton," Harry said, "but of course it is not going to run like that. I reckon it is a rich pocket; there may be a ton of the stuff, and there may be fifty. Now let's go up and have a quiet look for the lode, and see if we can trace it. We ought to see it on the rock the other side." A careful search showed them the quartz vein on the face of the rock some fifty feet higher up the valley, and this showed them the direction of the run of the lode. It was here, however, only six inches wide instead of being two feet, as at the spot where it was first found. Some pieces were broken off: there was gold embedded in it, but it was evident that it was nothing like so rich as on the other side. A piece of ten pounds was pounded up, it returned only a little over a pennyweight of gold. "About twelve ounces to the ton," Harry said. "Not bad, but a mighty falling off from the other. To-morrow morning we will follow the lode on the other side and see if we can strike an outcrop." The next day they found the lode cropping up through the rock some thirty yards from their great find. It was about nine inches wide. They dug it out with their picks to a depth of two feet so as to get a fair sample. This when crushed gave a return at the rate of twenty ounces. "That is rich enough again, and would pay splendidly if worked by machinery. Of course the question is, how far it holds on as rich as we found it at the face, and how it keeps on in depth? But that is just what we can't find. We want drills and powder, as picks are no sort of good on this hard quartz. Supposing it goes off gradually from the face to this point, there would be millions of dollars in it, even supposing it pinched in below, which there is no reason in the world to suppose. We may as well take a few of these chunks of rock, they will show that the gold holds fairly a good way back anyhow." A few pieces were put aside and the rest thrown into the hole again, which was stamped down and filled up with dust. The party then went back to dinner, and a consultation was held as to what was next to be done. "Of course we must stake out our claims at once," Harry said. "In the first place there are our own eight claims--two for each of the discoverers and one each for the others. Hunting Dog will not have a share, but will be paid the regular rate as a hunter. Then we will take twenty claims in the names of men we know. They wouldn't hold water if it were a well-known place, and everyone scrambling to get a claim on the lode; but as there is no one to cut in, and no one will know the place till we have sold it and a company sends up to take possession and work it, it ain't likely to be disputed. The question is, What shall we do now? Shall we make back to the settlements, or try washing a bit?" "Try washing, I should say," Jerry said. "You may be some time before you can sell the place. Anyone buying will know that they will have to send up a force big enough to fight the Utes, and besides they will want someone to come up here to examine it before they close the bargain. I vote we stick here and work the gravel for a bit so as to take enough away to keep us till next spring. I reckon we shall find plenty of stuff in it as we go down, and if that is so we can't do better than stick to it as long as there is water in the creek." "I agree with you there, Jerry; but it will never do to risk losing those first samples. I am ready to stay here through the summer, but I vote we sew them up in deer-hide, and put two or three thicknesses of skin on them so as to prevent accidents. Two of us had best go with them to the fort and ask the Major to let us stow them away in his magazine, then, if we have to bolt, we sha'n't be weighted down with them. Besides, we might not have time for packing them on the horses, and altogether it would be best to get them away at once, then come what might we should have proofs of the value of the mine." This proposal was cordially agreed to, and it was settled that on the following morning Harry himself should, with Hunting Dog and two pack-horses, start for the fort, following the same route they came, while the rest should set to work to construct a cradle, and troughs for leading the water to it.

14

AN INDIAN ATTACK

A couple of trees were felled in the middle of the clump in which they were still encamped. They were first roughly squared and then sawn into planks, the three men taking it by turns to use the saw. The question of shifting the camp up to the spot where they intended to work was discussed the night before Harry started, but it was agreed at last that it would be better to remain where they were. "If Utes come, sure to find traces," the chief said. "Many horses in valley make tracks as plain as noonday. Gold valley bad place for fight." "That is so," Jerry agreed. "We should not have a show there. Even if we made a log-house, and it would be a dog-goned trouble to carry up the logs,--we might be shut up in it, and the red-skins would only have to lie round and shoot us down if we came out. I reckon we had best stay here after all, Harry. We could keep them outside the range of our rifles anyhow by day." "I don't see that that would be much good to us, Jerry; for if they came by day they would not find us here. Still I don't know that it ain't best for us to stay here; it would give us a lot of trouble to build a place. I reckon two of us had better stay here all the day with the horses. If the red-skins come, they can fire a couple of shots, and we shall hear them up at the washing-place. The red-skins would be safe to draw off for a bit to talk it over before they attacked, as they would not know how many there were among the trees. That would give the rest time to come down." It took three days' hard work to saw the planks and make the cradle, and troughs sufficiently long to lead the water down into it from the stream higher up. These were roughly but strongly made, the joints being smeared with clay to prevent the water from running through. A dam was then made to keep back the water above the spot where they intended to begin, which was about fifty yards below the quartz vein, and from this dam the trough was taken along on strong trestles to the cradle. The horses were brought into the camp at daybreak every morning and tied up to the trees, and were let out again at nightfall. Tom remained in camp, the chief being with him. The latter, however, was, during the time Harry was away, twice absent for a day on hunting excursions lower down the valley, which was there thickly wooded. The first time, he returned with the hams and a considerable portion of the rest of the flesh of a bear. The second time, he brought up the carcass of a deer. "How far does the valley run?" Tom asked. "Valley last ten miles. Sides get steep and high, then cañon begin." "That will run right down to the Colorado?" The chief nodded. "Leaping Horse go no farther. Cañon must go down to the river." "How far is it before the sides of the valley get too steep to climb?" "Two miles from here. Men could climb another mile or two, horses not." "Is there much game down there, chief?" The Seneca nodded. "That is a comfort, we sha'n't be likely to run out of fresh meat." The chief was very careful in choosing the wood for the fire, so that in the daytime no smoke should be seen rising from the trees. When the dead wood in the clump of trees was exhausted he rode down the valley each day, and returned in an hour with a large faggot fastened behind him on the horse. He always started before daybreak, so as to reduce the risk of being seen from the hills. On the sixth day the men began their work at the gravel. The bottle of mercury was emptied into the cradle, the bottom of which had been made with the greatest care, so as to prevent any loss from leakage. Two of the men brought up the gravel in buckets and pans, until the cradle was half full. Then water was let in, and the third man rocked the machine and kept on removing the coarse stuff that worked up to the top, while the others continued bringing up fresh gravel. "Well, what luck?" Tom asked, when they returned in the evening. "We have not cleaned up yet; we shall let it run for three or four days before we do. We are only on the surface yet, and the stuff wouldn't pay for the trouble of washing out." On the eighth day after their departure Harry and Hunting Dog returned. "Well, boys, it is all stowed away safely," he said. "I know the Major well, and he let me have a big chest, which he locked up, after I had put the bags in, and had it stowed away in the magazine; so there is no fear of its being touched. Any signs of the red-skins?" "Nary a sign. We have none of us been up the valley beyond this, so that unless they come right down here, they would find no trail. The horses are always driven down the valley at night." "How is the work going on, Jerry?" "We began washing two days ago; to-morrow night we shall clean up. We all think it is going to turn out pretty good, for we have seen gold in the sand several times as we have carried it up in the pails." The next day Tom went up with the others, the Indians remaining in camp. Two men now worked at the cradle, while the other three brought up the sand and gravel. Towards evening they began the work of cleaning up. No more stuff was brought up to the machine, but the water was still run into it. As fast as the shaking brought the rough gravel to the top it was removed, until only a foot of sand remained at the bottom. The water was now stopped and the sand dug out, and carefully washed in the pans by hand. At the bottom of each pan there remained after all the sand had been removed a certain amount of gold-dust, the quantity increasing as the bottom was approached. The last two panfuls contained a considerable amount. "It does not look much," Tom said when the whole was collected together. "It is heavy stuff, lad," Harry replied. "What do you think there is, Jerry? About twelve ounces, I should fancy." "All that, Harry; nigher fourteen, I should think." The pan was now put at the bottom of the cradle, a plug pulled out, and the quicksilver run into it. A portion of this was poured on wash-leather, the ends of which were held up by the men so as to form a bag. Harry took the leather, and holding it over another pan twisted it round and round. As the pressure on the quicksilver increased it ran through the pores of the leather in tiny streams, until at last a lump of pasty metal remained. This was squeezed again and again, until not a single globule of quicksilver passed through the leather. The ball, which was of the consistency of half-dried mortar was then taken out, and the process repeated again and again until the whole of the quicksilver had been passed through the leather. Six lumps of amalgam about the size of small hens' eggs remained. "Is that good, uncle?" Tom asked. "Very fair, lad; wonderfully good indeed, considering we have not got down far yet. I should say we shall get a pound and a half of gold out of it." "But how does the gold get into it, uncle?" "There is what is called an affinity between quicksilver and gold. The moment gold touches quicksilver it is absorbed by it, just as a drop of water is taken up by a lump of salt. It thickens the quicksilver, and as it is squeezed through the leather the quicksilver is as it were strained out, and what remains behind becomes thicker and thicker, until, as you see, it is almost solid. It is no good to use more pressure, for if you do a certain amount of the gold would be squeezed through the leather. You see, as the stuff in the cradle is shaken, the gold being heavier than the sand finds its way down to the bottom, and every particle that comes in contact with the quicksilver is swallowed up by it." "And how do you get the quicksilver out of those lumps?" "We put them in one of those clay crucibles you saw, with a pinch of borax, cover them up, and put them in a heap of glowing embers. That evaporates the quicksilver, and leaves the gold behind in the shape of a button." This was done that evening, and when the buttons were placed in the scales they just turned the two-pound weight. "Well, boys, that is good enough for anything," Harry said. "That, with the dust, makes a pound a day, which is as good as the very best stuff in the early days of California." They worked steadily for the next seven weeks. Contrary to their expectations the gravel was but little richer lower down than they had found it at the end of the first wash-up, but continued about equally good, and the result averaged about a pound weight of gold a day. This was put into little bags of deer-skin, each containing five pounds' weight, and these bags were distributed among the saddle-bags, so that in case of sudden disturbance there would be no risk of their being left behind. The Indians took it by turns to hunt; at other times they remained on guard in camp, Tom only staying when one of them was away. One day when the mining party stopped work, and sat down to eat some bread and cold meat,--which they had from the first brought up, so as to save them the loss of time entailed by going to the camp and back,--the report of a gun came upon their ears. All started to their feet and seized their rifles, and then stood listening intently. A minute later two more shots were heard at close intervals. "Red-skins for sure!" Jerry exclaimed. "I thought as how our luck were too good to last." They started at a run down the little valley, and only paused when they reached its mouth. Harry then advanced cautiously until he could obtain a view of the main valley. He paused for a minute and then rejoined his companions. "There are fifty of them," he said, "if there is one. They are Utes in their war-paint. They are a bit up the valley. I think if we make a rush we can get to the trees before they can cut us off." "We must try anyhow," Sam Hicks said, "else they will get the two Indians and our horses and saddles and all. Just let us get breath for a moment, and then we will start." "Keep close together as you run," Harry said, "and then if they do come up we can get back to back and make a fight of it." After a short pause they started. They had not gone twenty yards when a loud yell proclaimed that the Indians had seen them. They had, however, but three hundred yards to run, while the Utes were double that distance from the clump. When the miners were within fifty yards of the trees two rifle-shots rang out, and two of the Utes, who were somewhat ahead of the rest; fell from their horses, while the rest swerved off, seeing that there was no hope of cutting the party off. A few more yards and the miners were among the trees. "So the Utes have found us out, chief," Harry said as he joined Leaping Horse, who had just reloaded his ride. "Must have tracked us. They are a war-party," the Seneca replied. "Hunter must have found tracks and taken news back to the villages." "Well, we have got to fight for it, that is clear enough," Harry said. "Anyhow, now they see there are seven of us they are not likely to attack until it gets dark, so we have time to think over what had best be done. We had just begun our meal when we heard your shot, and the best thing we can do is to have a good feed at once. We may be too busy later on." The chief said a word to the young Indian, and, leaving him on the watch, accompanied the others to the fire. They had scarcely sat down when Hunting Dog came up. "More Utes," he said briefly, pointing across the valley. They at once went to the outer line of trees. On the brow of the rise opposite were a party of horsemen between twenty and thirty strong. "That shows they have learnt all about our position," Harry said. "Those fellows have been lying in wait somewhere over the hill to cut us off if we took to our horses on seeing the main body. Let us have a look the other side." Crossing the clump of trees, they saw on the brow there another party of Utes. "I reckon they must have crossed that valley we were working in just after we got through," Jerry said. "It is mighty lucky they did not come down on us while we were washing, for they could have wiped us all out before we had time to get hold of our guns. Well, Harry, we are in a pretty tight fix, with fifty of them up the valley and five-and-twenty or so on each side of us. We shall have to be dog-goned smart if we are to get out of this scrape." "Hand me your rifle, Tom," his uncle said, "it carries farther than mine, and I will give those fellows a hint that they had best move off a bit." Steadying his piece against a tree, he took a careful aim and fired. One of the Indians swerved in his saddle, and then fell forward on the neck of his horse, which turned and galloped off with the rest. "Now we will have our meal and take council, chief," Harry said as he turned away. "If we have got to fight there is no occasion to fight hungry." The fire was made up; there was no need to be careful now. Strips of deer's flesh were hung over it, and the meal was soon ready. But little was said while it was being eaten, then they all lighted their pipes and each put a pannikin of hot tea beside him. "Now, chief," Harry said, "have you arrived at any way out of this? It is worse than it was the last time we got caught in this valley." The chief shook his head. "No good fight here," he said; "when night come they creep up all round." "Yes, I see that we have got to bolt, but the question is, how? If we were to ride they would ride us down, that is certain. Jerry and Tom might possibly get away, though that ain't likely. Their critters are good, but nothing downright extraordinary, and the chances are that some of the Utes have got faster horses than theirs. As for the rest of us, they would have us before we had ridden an hour." "That ain't to be thought of," Jerry said. "It seems to me our best chance would be to leave the critters behind, and to crawl out the moment it gets dark, and try and get beyond them." "They will close in as soon as it gets dark, Jerry. They will know well enough that that is the time we shall be moving. I reckon we should not have a chance worth a cent of getting through. What do you say, chief?" Leaping Horse nodded in assent. "Well, then," Sam Hicks said, "I vote we mount our horses and go right at them. I would rather do that and get rubbed out in a fair fight than lie here until they crawl up and finish us." No one answered, and for some minutes they smoked on without a word being spoken, then Harry said: "There is only one chance for us that I can see, and that is to mount now and to ride right down the valley. The chief says that in some places it is not more than fifty yards wide, with steep cliffs on each side, and we could make a much better fight there, for they could only attack us in front. There would be nothing for them then but to dismount and close in upon us from tree to tree, and we could make a running fight of it until we come to the mouth of the cañon. There must be places there, that we ought to be able to hold with our seven rifles against the lot of them." "Bully for you, Harry! I reckon that would give us a chance anyhow. That is, if we ain't cut off before we get to the wood." "Let us have a look round and see what they are doing," Harry said. "Ah! here comes Hunting Dog. He will tell us all about it." "Utes on hills all gone up and joined the others," the young Indian said as he came up. "It could not be better news!" Harry exclaimed. "I reckon they have moved away to tempt us to make a start for the fort, for they know if we go that way they will have us all, sure. They have not reckoned on our riding down the valley, for they will be sure we must have found out long ago that there ain't any way out of it. Well, we had best lose no time. There is some meat ready, Hunting Dog, and you had best fill up while we get ready for a start." The blankets and buffalo rugs were wrapped up and strapped behind the saddles, as soon as these were placed behind the horses. They had only a small quantity of meat left, as the chief was going out hunting the next morning, but they fastened this, and eighty pounds of flour that still remained, on to one of the pack-horses. They filled their powder-horns from the keg, and each put three or four dozen bullets into his holsters, together with all the cartridges for their pistols; the rest of the ammunition was packed on another horse. When all was completed they mounted. "We may get a couple of hundred yards more start before we are seen," Harry said. "Anyhow, we have got five hundred yards, and may reckon on making the two miles to where the valley narrows before they catch us." The instant, however, they emerged from the wood, two loud yells were heard from Indians who had been left lying down on watch at the top of the slopes on either side. Sam, who was the worst shot of the party, had volunteered to lead the string of pack-horses, while Ben was ready to urge them on behind. "You may want to stop some of the leading varmint, and I should not be much good at that game, so I will keep straight on without paying any attention to them." A loud answering yell rose from the Indians up the valley. "We shall gain fifty yards or so before they are fairly in the saddle," Harry said as they went off at the top of their speed, the horses seeming to know that the loud war-cry boded danger. They had gone half a mile before they looked round. The Indians were riding in a confused mass, and were some distance past the grove the miners had left, but they still appeared as far behind as they had been when they started. Another mile and the mass had broken up; the best-mounted Indians had left the rest some distance behind, and considerably decreased the gap between them and the fugitives. Another five minutes and the latter reached the wood, that began just where the valley narrowed and the cliffs rose almost perpendicularly on each side. As soon as they did so they leapt from their horses, and each posting himself behind a tree opened fire at their pursuers, the nearest of whom were but two hundred yards away. Four fell to the first seven shots; the others turned and galloped back to the main body, who halted at once. "They won't try a charge," Harry said; "it isn't in Indian nature to come across the open with the muzzles of seven rifles pointed at them. They will palaver now; they know they have got us in a trap, and they will wait till night. Now, chief, I reckon that you and I and Hunting Dog had best stay here, so that if they try, as they are pretty sure to do, to find out whether we are here still, we can give them a hint to keep off. The other four had better ride straight down the cañon, and go on for a bit, to find out the best place for making a stand, and as soon as it is dark we will go forward and join them. There will be no occasion for us to hurry. I reckon the skunks will crawl up here soon after it is dark; but they won't go much farther, for we might hide up somewhere and they might miss us. In the morning they will come down on foot, sheltering behind the trees as much as they can, till at last they locate us." The chief nodded his approval of the plan, and Tom and the three miners at once started, taking the pack-horses with them. On the way down they came upon a bear. Ben was about to fire, but Jerry said: "Best leave him alone, Ben; we are only three miles down, and these cliffs would echo the sound and the red-skins would hear it and know that some of us had gone down the valley, and might make a rush at once." In an hour and a half they came down to a spot where the valley, after widening out a good bit, suddenly terminated, and the stream entered a deep cañon in the face of the wall of rock that closed it in. "I reckon all this part of the valley was a lake once," Jerry said. "When it got pretty well full it began to run over where this cañon is and gradually cut its way out down to the Colorado. I wonder how far it is to the river." They had gone but a hundred yards down the cañon when they came to a place where a recent fall of rocks blocked it up. Through these the stream, which was but a small one, made its way. "There is a grist of water comes down here when the snow melts in the spring," Ben remarked. "You can see that the rocks are worn fifty feet up. Waal, I reckon this place is good enough for us, Jerry." "I reckon so, too," the latter agreed. "It will be a job to get our horses over; but we have got to do it anyhow, if we have to carry them." The animals, however, managed to scramble up the rocks that filled the cañon to the height of some thirty feet. The distance between the rock walls was not more than this in width. "We could hold this place for a year," Ben said, "if they didn't take to chucking rocks down from above." "Yes, that is the only danger," Jerry agreed; "but the betting is they could not get nigh enough to the edge to look down. Still, they might do it if the ground is level above; anyhow, we should not show much at this depth, for it is pretty dark down here, and the rocks must be seven or eight hundred feet high." It was, indeed, but a narrow strip of sky that they saw as they looked up, and although still broad daylight in the valley they had left, it was almost dark at the bottom of the deep gorge, and became pitch dark as soon as the light above faded. "The first job in the morning," Jerry said, "will be to explore this place down below. I expect there are places where it widens out. If it does, and there are trees and anything like grass, the horses can get a bite of food; if not, they will mighty soon go under, that is if we don't come upon any game, for if we don't we sha'n't be able to spare them flour." "It is almost a pity we did not leave them in the valley to take their chance," Tom said. "Don't you make any mistake," Jerry said. "In the first place they may come in useful to us yet, and even if we never get astride of them again they may come in mighty handy for food. I don't say as we mayn't get a bear if there are openings in the cañon, or terraces where they can come down, but if there ain't it is just horse-meat we have got to depend on. Look here, boys, it is 'tarnal dark here; I can't see my own hand. I vote we get a light. There is a lot of drift-wood jammed in among the stones where we climbed up, that will do to start a fire, and I saw a lot more just at the mouth of this gap. We know the red-skins ain't near yet, so I vote we grope our way up and bring some down. It will be a first-rate thing, too, to make a bit of fire half-way between here and the mouth; that would put a stop to their crawling up, as they are like enough to try to do, to make out whereabouts we are. Of course we shall have to damp our own fire down if they come, else we should show up agin the light if we went up on the rock." The others agreed at once, for it was dull work sitting there in the black darkness. All had matches, and a piece of dry fir was soon found. This was lighted, and served as a torch with which to climb over the rocks. Jammed in between these on the upper side was a large quantity of drift-wood. This was pulled out, made into bundles, and carried over the rock barrier, and a fire was soon blazing there. Then taking a brand and two axes they went up to the mouth of the gorge, cut up the arms of some trees that had been brought down by the last floods and left there as the water sank. The greater part of these were taken down to their camping-place; the rest, with plenty of small wood to light them, were piled halfway between the barrier and the mouth of the cañon, and were soon blazing brightly. They were returning to their camping-place, when Ben exclaimed that he heard the sound of horses' hoofs. All stopped to listen. "There are not more than three of them," Ben said, "and they are coming along at a canter. I don't expect we shall hear anything of the red-skins until tomorrow morning." They heard the horses enter the cañon, then Jerry shouted: "Are you all right, Harry?" "Yes; the red-skins were all quiet when we came away. Why, where are you?" he shouted again when he came up to the fire. "A hundred yards farther on I will show you a light." Two or three blazing brands were brought up. Harry and the Indians had dismounted at the first fire, and now led their horses up to the stone barrier. "What on arth have you lit that other fire for, Jerry?" Harry asked as he stopped at the foot of the barrier. "Because we shall sleep a dog-goned sight better with it there. As like as not they may send on two or three young warriors to scout. It is as black as a wolf's mouth, and we might have sat listening all night, and then should not have heard them. But with that fire there they dare not come on, for they would know they could not pass it without getting a bullet in them." "Well, it is a very good idea, Jerry; I could not think what was up when I got there and did not see anybody. I see you have another fire over the other side. I could make it out clear enough as we came on." "It will burn down a bit presently," Jerry said. "I should not try to get those horses up here now, Harry. It was a bad place to come up in daylight, and like enough they would break their legs if they tried it now. They will do just as well there as they would on this side, and you can get them over as soon as the day breaks." "I would rather get them over, Jerry; but I see it is a pretty rough place." Leaving the horses, Harry and the Indians climbed over the barrier, and were soon seated with the others round their fire, over which the meat was already frizzling. "So the Indians kept quiet all the afternoon, Harry?" "As quiet as is their nature. Two or three times some of them rode down, and galloped backwards and forwards in front of us to make out if we were there. Each time we let them fool about for a good long spell, and then when they got a bit careless sent them a ball or two to let them know we were still there. Hunting Dog went with the three horses half a mile down the valley soon after you had gone, so that they might not hear us ride off. "As soon as it began to get dusk we started. We had to come pretty slow, for it got so dark under the trees we could not make out the trunks, and had to let the horses pick their own way. But we knew there was no hurry, for they would not follow till morning, though of course their scouts would creep up as soon as it was dark, and wouldn't be long before they found out that we had left." "I reckon they will all come and camp in the wood and wait for daylight before they move, though I don't say two or three scouts may not crawl down to try and find out where we are. They will move pretty slow, for they will have to pick their way, and will know well enough that if a twig cracks it will bring bullets among them. I reckon they won't get here under four or five hours. It is sartin they won't try to pass that fire above. As soon as they see us they will take word back to the others, and we shall have the whole lot down here by morning." "We shall have to get the horses over, the first thing. Two of us had best go down, as soon as it is light enough to ride without risking our necks, to see what the cañon is like below." "Yes, that is most important, Jerry; there may be some break where the red-skins could get down, and so catch us between two fires." "I don't care a red cent for the Utes," Jerry said. "We can lick them out of their boots in this cañon. What we have been thinking of, is whether there is some place where the horses can get enough to keep them alive while we are shut up here. If there is game, so much the better; if there ain't, we have got to take to horseflesh." "How long do you suppose that the Indians are likely to wait when they find that they can't get at us?" Tom asked. "There ain't no sort of saying," his uncle replied. "I reckon no one ever found out yet how long a red-skin's patience will last. Time ain't nothing to them. They will follow up this cañon both sides till they are sartin that there ain't no place where a man can climb up. If there ain't, they will just squat in that valley. Like enough they will send for their lodges and squaws and fix themselves there till winter comes, and even then they might not go. They have got wood and water. Some of them will hunt and bring in meat, which they will dry for the winter; and they are just as likely to stay here as to go up to their villages." A vigilant watch was kept up all night, two of them being always on guard at the top of the barrier. As soon as morning broke, the three horses were got over, and half an hour later Harry and Sam Hicks rode off down the cañon, while the others took their places on guard, keeping themselves well behind the rocks, between which they looked out. They had not long to wait, for an Indian was seen to dart rapidly across the mouth of the cañon. Two rifles cracked out, but the Indian's appearance and disappearance was so sudden and quick that they had no reason to believe that they had hit him. "They will know now that we are here, and are pretty wide awake," Ben said. "You may be sure that he caught sight of these rocks." A minute or two later several rifles flashed from among the fallen stones at the mouth of the gorge. "Keep your eyes open," Jerry said, "and when you see the slightest movement, fire. But don't do it unless you feel certain that you make out a head or a limb. We've got to show the Utes that it is sartin death to try and crawl up here." Almost immediately afterwards a head appeared above the stones, the chief's rifle cracked, and at the same instant the head disappeared. "Do you think you got him, chief?" "Think so, not sure. Leaping Horse does not often miss his mark at two hundred yards." Almost directly afterwards Tom fired. An Indian sprang to his feet and bounded away. "What did you fire at, Tom?" "I think it was his arm and shoulder," Tom replied. "I was not sure about it, but I certainly saw something move." "I fancy you must have hit him, or he would not have got up. Waal, now I reckon we are going to have quiet for a bit. They must have had a good look at the place while they were lying there, and must have seen that it air too strong for them. I don't say they mayn't come on again tonight--that they may do, but I think it air more likely they won't try it. They would know that we should be on the watch, and with seven rifles and Colts we should account for a grist of them afore they got over. What do you say, chief?" "Not come now," the Indian said positively. "Send men first along top see if can get down. Not like come at night; the cañons of the Colorado very bad medicine, red-skins no like come into them. If no way where we can get up, then Utes sit down to starve us." "That will be a longish job, chief. A horse a week will keep us for three months." "If no food for horse, horse die one week." "So they will, chief. We must wait till Harry comes back, then we shall know what our chances are." It was six hours before Harry and Sam returned. There was a shout of satisfaction from the men when they saw that they had on their saddles the hind-quarters of a bear. "Waal, what is the news, Harry?" "It ain't altogether good, Ben. It goes down like this for about twelve miles, then it widens out sudden. It gets into a crumbly rock which has got worn away, and there is a place maybe about fifty yards wide and half a mile long, with sloping sides going up a long way, and then cliff all round. The bottom is all stones; there are a few tufts of coarse grass growing between them. On the slopes there are some bushes, and on a ledge high up we made out a bear. We had two or three shots at him, and at last brought him down. There may be more among the bushes; there was plenty of cover for them." "There was no place where there was a chance of getting up, Harry?" "Nary a place. I don't say as there may not be, but we couldn't see one." "But the bear must have got down." "No. He would come down here in the dry season looking for water-holes, and finding the place to his liking he must have concluded to settle there. It is just the place a bear would choose, for he might reckon pretty confident that there weren't no chance of his being disturbed. Well, we went on beyond that, and two miles lower the cañon opened again, and five minutes took us down on to the bank of the Colorado. There was no great room between the river and the cliff, but there were some good-sized trees there, and plenty of bush growing up some distance. We caught sight of another bear, but as we did not want him we left him alone." "Waal, let us have some b'ar-meat first of all," Jerry said. "We finished our meat last night, and bread don't make much of a meal, I reckon. Anyhow we can all do with another, and after we have done we will have a talk. We know what to expect now, and can figure it up better than we could before."

15

THE COLORADO

"Well, boys," Harry Wade began after they had smoked for some time in silence, "we have got to look at this matter squarely. So far we have got out of a mighty tight place better than we expected. Yesterday it seemed to us that there weren't much chance of our carrying our hair away, but now we are out of that scrape. But we are in another pretty nigh as bad, though there ain't much chance of the red-skins getting at us." "That air so, Harry. We are in a pretty tight hole, you bet. They ain't likely to get our scalps for some time, but there ain't no denying that our chance of carrying them off is dog-goned small." "You bet there ain't, Jerry," Sam Hicks said. "Them pizon varmint will camp outside here; for they know they have got us in a trap. They mayn't attack us at present, but we have got to watch night and day. Any dark night they may take it into their heads to come up, and there won't be nothing to prevent them, for the rustling of the stream among the rocks would cover any little noise they might make. The first we should know of it would be the yell of the varmint at the foot of this barrier, and afore we could get to the top the two on guard would be tomahawked, and they would be down on us like a pack of wolves. I would a'most as soon put down my rifle and walk straight out now and let them shoot me, if I knew they would do it without any of their devilish tortures, as go on night after night, expecting to be woke up with their war-yell in my ears. "Of course they will be always keeping a watch there at the mouth of the cañon,--a couple of boys are enough for that,--for they will know that if we ride out on our horses we must go right up the valley, and it is a nasty place to gallop through in the dark; besides, some of them will no doubt be placed higher up to cut us off, and if we got through, which ain't likely, they could ride us down in a few hours. If we crept out on foot and got fairly among the trees we should be no better off, for they would take up our trail in the morning and hunt us down. I tell you fairly, boys, I don't see any way out of it. I reckon it will come to our having to ride out together, and to wipe out as many of the Utes as possible afore we go down. What do you say, chief?" "Leaping Horse agrees with his white brother, Straight Harry, whose mind he knows." "Waal, go on then, Harry," Sam said. "I thought that you had made an end of it or I wouldn't have opened out. I don't see no way out of it at present, but if you do I am ready to fall in with it whatever it is." "I see but one way out of it, boys. It is a mighty risky thing, but it can't be more risky than stopping here, and there is just a chance. I spoke to the chief last night, and he owned that it didn't seem to him there was a chance in that or any other way. However, he said that if I went he would go with me. My proposal is this, that we take to the river and try and get through the cañons." There was a deep silence among the men. The proposal took them by surprise. No man had ever accomplished the journey. Though two parties similarly attacked by Indians had attempted to raft down some of the cañons higher up; one party perished to a man, one survivor of the other party escaped to tell the tale; but as to the cañons below, through which they would have to pass, no man had ever explored them. The Indians regarded the river with deep awe, and believed the cañons to be peopled with demons. The enterprise was so stupendous and the dangers to be met with so terrible, that ready as the western hunters were to encounter dangers, no one had ever attempted to investigate the windings and turnings of the river that for two thousand miles made its way through terrific precipices, and ran its course some three thousand feet below the surrounding country, until it emerged on to the plains of Mexico. "That was why I was so anxious to reach the river," Harry went on after a pause. "I wanted to see whether there were some trees, by which we could construct a raft, near its bank. Had there not been, I should have proposed to follow it up or down, as far as we could make our way, in hopes of lighting on some trees. However, as it is they are just handy for us. I don't say as we shall get through, boys, but there is just a chance of it. I don't see any other plan that would give us a show." Jerry was the first to speak. "Waal, Harry, you can count me in. One might as well be drowned in a rapid or carried over a fall as killed, or, wuss, taken and tortured by the red-skins." "That is so, Jerry," Sam Hicks agreed. While Ben said: "Waal, if we git through it will be something to talk about all our lives. In course there ain't no taking the horses?" "That is out of the question, Ben. We shall not have much time to spare, for the Utes may take it into their heads to attack us any night; and, besides, we have no means of making a big raft. We might tie two or three trunks together with the lariats and spike a few cross-pieces on them, we might even make two such rafts; that is the outside. They will carry us and our stores, but as for the horses, we must either leave them down in the hollow for the Indians to find, or put a bullet through their heads. I expect the latter will be the best thing for them, poor beasts." "No want trees," the chief said. "Got horses' skins; make canoes." "You are right, chief," Harry exclaimed; "I never thought of that. That would be the very thing. Canoes will go down the rapids where the strongest rafts would be dashed to pieces, and if we come to a bad fall we can make a shift to carry them round." The others were no less pleased with the suggestion, and the doubtful expression of their faces as they assented to the scheme now changed to one of hopefulness, and they discussed the plan eagerly. It was agreed that not a moment should be lost in setting to work to carry it out, and that they should forthwith retreat to the mouth of the lower cañon; for all entertained a secret misgiving that the Utes might make their attack that night, and felt that if that attack were made in earnest it would succeed. It was certain they would be able to find some point at which the lower gorge could be held; and at any rate a day would be gained, for at whatever hour of the night the Indians came up they would not venture farther until daybreak, and there would probably be a long palaver before they would enter the lower cañon. Tom had not spoken. He recognized the justice of Harry's reasoning, but had difficulty in keeping his tears back at the thought of his horse being killed. For well-nigh a year it had carried him well; he had tended and cared for it; it would come to his call and rub its muzzle against his cheek. He thought that had he been alone he would have risked anything rather than part with it. "Don't you like the plan, Tom?" Harry said to him, as, having packed and saddled the horses, they rode together down the cañon. "I don't suppose the passage is so terrible after all." "I am not thinking of the passage at all, uncle," Tom said almost indignantly; "it will be a grand piece of adventure; but I don't like--I hate--the thought of my horse being killed. It is like killing a dear friend to save one's self." "It is a wrench, lad," Harry said kindly; "I can quite understand your feelings, and don't like the thought myself. But I see that it has got to be done, and after all it will be better to kill the poor brutes than to let them fall into the hands of the Indians, who don't know what mercy to their beasts means, and will ride them till they drop dead without the least compunction." "I know it is better, uncle, ever so much better--but it is horrible all the same. Anyhow, don't ask me to do it, for I could not." "I will see to that, Tom. You shall be one of the guards of the cañon. You would not be of much use in making the canoes, and you won't have to know anything about it till you go down and get on board." Tom nodded his thanks; his heart was too full for him to speak, and he felt that if he said a word he should break down altogether. They rode rapidly along, passed through the little valley where the bear had been killed, without stopping, and went down the lower cañon, carefully examining it to fix upon the most suitable point for defence. There had been no recent fall, and though at some points great boulders lay thickly, there was no one place that offered special facilities for defence. "Look here, boys," Harry said, reining up his horse at a point within two hundred yards of the lower end, "we can't do better than fix ourselves here. An hour's work will get up a wall that will puzzle the red-skins to get over, and there is the advantage that a shot fired here by the guard will bring our whole force up in a couple of minutes. I vote we ride the horses down to the river and let them pick up what they can, and then come back here and build the wall. It will be getting dark in an hour's time, and we may as well finish that job at once. Ben and Sam, you may as well pick out a couple of young fir-trees and bring them down at once, then there will be no time lost. Five of us will be enough for the wall. Keep your eyes open. Likely enough there is a bear or two about, and it would be a great thing for us to lay in a stock of meat before we start." As soon as they issued from the gorge the horses were unsaddled and the stores taken off the pack-animals. As they were doing this Harry said a few words in a low tone to Sam. He then carefully examined the trees, and picked out two young firs. Sam and Ben took their axes, and the other five went up the gorge again, and were soon hard at work collecting boulders and piling them in a wall. "There is a gun, uncle," Tom exclaimed presently. "Well, I hope they have got sight of a bear, we shall want a stock of meat badly." A dozen shots were fired, but Tom thought no more of it as he proceeded with his work. The bottom of the cañon was but fifteen feet wide, and by the time it was dark they had a solid wall across it nearly six feet high, with places for them to stand on to fire over. "Now then, Tom, you may as well take post here at once. I will send Sam or Ben up to watch with you. I don't think there is a shadow of chance of their coming to-night, but there is never any answering for red-skins. I would leave Hunting Dog with you, but we shall want him to help make the framework for the canoes; the Indians are a deal handier than we are in making lashings. I will send your supper up here, lad, and your buffalo robes. Then you can take it by turns to watch and sleep. I reckon we shall be at work all night; we have got to get the job finished as quick as we can." A quarter of an hour later Sam Hicks came up. "Have you got the trees down, Sam?" "Lor' bless you, it didn't take a minute to do that. We got them down and split them up, then lit a fire and got the meat over it and the kettle, and mixed the dough." "Did you kill another bear? We heard you firing." "No; the critter was too high up, and I ain't much good at shooting. Perhaps they will get sight of him tomorrow, and Harry and the chief will bring him down if he is within range of their shooting-irons. It is 'tarnal dark up here." In twenty minutes two lights were seen approaching, and Harry and Hunting Dog came up carrying pine-wood torches. Each had a great faggot of wood fastened on his back, and Harry also carried the frying-pan, on which were a pile of meat and two great hunks of bread, while Hunting Dog brought two tin pannikins of hot tea. "That will make it more cheerful for you," Harry said, as he unfastened the rope that tied the faggot to his shoulders. "Now, Hunting Dog, get a good fire as soon as you can, and then come down again to us." The fire was soon blazing merrily, and Tom and Sam sat down to enjoy their meal. "Don't you think one of us ought to keep watch, Sam?" "Not a bit of it," Sam said. "The red-skins will never dare to enter that cañon until after dark, and if they started now and made their way straight on, they would not be here for another three or four hours. I would bet my boots they don't come at all tonight; even if they were not scared at us, they would be scared at coming near the river in the dark. No, we will just take our meal comfortable and smoke a pipe, and then I will take first watch and you shall take a sleep. We ain't closed an eye since the night before last." Tom, indeed, was nearly asleep before he had finished his pipe, and felt that he really must get a nap. So saying to Sam, "Be sure and wake me in two hours," he rolled himself in his robe and instantly fell asleep. It seemed to him that he had only just gone off when Sam roused him. He leapt to his feet, however, rifle in hand. "Anything the matter, Sam?" "Everything quiet," the miner replied. "What did you wake me for then? I have not been asleep five minutes." "According to my reckoning, mate, you have been asleep better'n five hours. It was about half-past eight when you went off, and I reckon it is two now, and will begin to get light in another hour. I would not have waked you till daybreak, but I found myself dropping off." "I am awfully sorry," Tom began. "Don't you trouble, young un. By the time you have been as long in the West as I have you won't think anything of two nights' watch. Now you keep a sharp lookout. I don't think there is much chance of their coming, but I don't want to be woke up with a red-skin coming right down on the top of me." "I see you have let the fire out, Sam," Tom said, with a little shiver. "I put it out hours ago," Sam said, as he prepared to lie down. "It would never have done to keep it all night, for a red-skin would see my head over the top of the wall, while I should not get a sight of him till he was within arm's-length." Tom took up his post, and gazed earnestly into the darkness beyond the wall. He felt that his sense of vision would be of no use whatever, and therefore threw all his faculties into that of listening. Slight as was the chance of the Indians coming, he yet felt somewhat nervous, and it was a satisfaction to him to see beyond the mouth of the cañon the glow of the fire, by which, as he knew, the others were hard at work. In an hour the morning began to break, and as soon as he could see well up the cañon he relighted the fire, jumping up to take a look over the wall every minute or so. It was not long before he saw his uncle approaching with a kettle. "I saw your smoke, Tom, and guessed that you would be glad of a mug of hot tea. You have seen no signs of Indians, I suppose?" "We have heard nothing, uncle. As to seeing, up to half an hour ago there was no possibility of making out anything. But I have not even been listening; Sam went on guard directly we had finished supper, and I asked him to call me in two hours, but he did not wake me until two o'clock." "He is a good fellow," Harry said. "Well, don't wake him now. I can't leave you the kettle, for we have to keep boiling water going, but you can put his tin into the ashes and warm it up when he wakes. Here are a couple of pieces of bread." "Why do you have to keep the kettle boiling, uncle?" "To bend the wood with. The piece we are working on is kept damp with boiling water. We hold it for a time over the fire, pouring a little water on as fast as it evaporates; that softens the wood, and we can bend it much more evenly than we could if we did it by force. Besides, when it is fastened into its position it remains, when it is dry, in that shape, and throws no strain on to anything." "Are you getting on well?" "Capitally. We should have done both the frames by now, but we were obliged to make them very strong so as to resist the bumps they are sure to get against rocks. When they are finished you might almost let them drop off the top of a house, they will be so strong and elastic. If the Indians will but give us time we shall make a first-rate job of them." Three hours later Harry came up again with the kettle and some cooked meat. Sam had just woke up, and was quite angry with Tom for not rousing him before. "The others have been working all night," he said, "and here have I been asleep for five hours; a nice sort of mate they will think me." "Well, but you were watching five hours, Sam; and I would a deal rather work all night than stand here for two hours in the dark, wondering all the time whether the Indians are crawling up, and expecting at any moment to hear a rush against the wall." "I am going to take your place, Sam, when you have finished your breakfast," Harry said, as he came up. "If the Utes found out last night that we had gone, their scouts may be coming down before long. My rifle shoots a bit straighter than yours does." "It ain't the rifle, Harry," Sam said good-temperedly; "it is the eye that is wrong, not the shooting-iron. I never had much practice with these long guns, but when it comes to a six-shooter, I reckon I can do my share as well as most. But they won't give me a chance with it." "I hope they won't, Sam. I am sure they won't as long as there is light, and I hope that before it gets dark they will conclude to leave us alone." A vigilant watch was kept now. "I think I saw a head look out from that corner," Tom exclaimed suddenly, two hours after Sam had left them. "I am quite sure I did, Tom. We must wait until he shows himself a bit more. I reckon it is a good three hundred yards off, and a man's head is a precious small mark at that distance. Stand a bit higher and lay your rifle on the wall. Don't fire if he only puts his head out. They know we can shoot, so there is not any occasion to give them another lesson. I don't hold to killing, unless you have got to do it. Let him have a good look at us. "When he goes back and tells the tribe that there is a three hundred yards' straight passage without shelter, and a strong wall across the end of it, and two white men with rifles ready to shoot, I reckon they will know a good deal better than to try to come up it, as long as there is light. Besides, they won't think there is any occasion to hurry, for they won't count on our taking to the river, and will know that we shall be keeping watch at night. So it may very well be that they will reckon on wearing us out, and that we may not hear of them for a week. There is the fellow's head again!" The head remained visible round the corner of the rock for two or three minutes. "He knows all about it now, Tom. You won't see any more of him to-day. I will go down and lend them a hand below." Tom asked no questions about the horses; he had thought of them a score of times as he stood on guard, and the thought had occurred to him that it was possible the shots he had heard while they were building the wall on the previous afternoon, had been the death shots of the horses. It did not occur to him when Sam was telling the story about the bear, that this was a got-up tale, but when he came to think it over, he thought it probable that it was so. Sam himself was not much of a shot, but Ben, although inferior to Harry or either of the two Indians, shot as well as Jerry, and would hardly have missed a bear three or four times running. Each time the thought of the horses occurred to him he resolutely put it aside, and concentrated his mind upon the probable perils of the passage down the cañons and the wonderful gorges they would traverse, and the adventures and excitement they were sure to pass through. He thought how fortunate it was they had taken the precaution of sending their specimens of quartz back to the fort; for were they in the canoes, the fruits of the journey would be irrevocably lost were these to upset; for now the Indians had twice discovered the presence of whites in the valley they would be sure to watch it closely, and it would not be possible to go up to the mine again unless in strong force. The day passed quietly. Harry brought up Tom's meals, and late in the afternoon all hands came up, and the wall of stones was raised four feet, making it almost impregnable against a sudden attack. The two Indians took post there with Tom, and watched alternately all night. The Utes, however, remained perfectly quiet. They probably felt sure that the fugitives must sooner or later be forced to surrender, and were disinclined to face the loss that must occur before so strong a position, defended by seven men armed with rifles and revolvers, could be carried. At three o'clock on the following afternoon Hunting Dog came up. "Tom go down and get dinner," he said, "Hunting Dog will watch." Tom took his rifle and started down the cañon. "Come on, lad," his uncle shouted. "We are pretty near ready for a start, and have all had our dinner; so be quick about it. We want to get well away from here before night." Tom went to the fire and ate his meal. As he sat down he saw that the stores, blankets, and robes had all been carried away. When he finished, his uncle led him down to the river. Two canoes were floating in the water, and the other men were standing beside them. "There, Tom, what do you think of them?" "They are splendid, uncle; it seems impossible that you can have built them in two days." "Five hands can do a lot of canoe-building in forty-eight hours' work, Tom." The canoes were indeed models of strength if not of beauty. They were each about twenty feet long and five feet wide. Two strong pieces of pine two inches square ran along the top of each side, and one of the same width but an inch deeper formed the keel. The ribs, an inch wide and three-quarters of an inch thick, were placed at intervals of eighteen inches apart. The canoes were almost flat-bottomed. The ribs lay across the keel, which was cut away to allow them to lie flush in it, a strong nail being driven in at the point of junction--these being the only nails used in the boat's construction. The ribs ran straight out to almost the full width of the canoe, and were then turned sharp up, the ends being lashed with thongs of hide to the upper stringers. Outside the ribs were lashed longitudinal wattles of tough wood about an inch wide. They were placed an inch apart, extending over the bottom and halfway up the side. Over all was stretched the skin, five horses' hides having been used for each boat. They were very strongly sewed together by a double row of thongs, the overlaps having, before being sewed, been smeared with melted fat. Cross-pieces of wood at the top kept the upper framework in its place. The hair of the skin was outward, the inner glistened with the fat that had been rubbed into it. "They are strong indeed," Tom said. "They ought to stand anything, uncle." "Yes, I think they would stand a blow against any rock if it hadn't a cutting edge. They would just bound off as a basket would. Of course they are very heavy for canoes; but as they won't have to carry more than the weight of four men each, they will draw little over a couple of inches or so of water. "That is why we made them so wide. We could not get strength without weight; and as there is no saying what shallows there may be, and how close in some places rocks may come up to the surface, we were obliged to build them wide to get light draught. You see we have made ten paddles, so as to have a spare one or two in case of breakage. We have two spare hides, so that we shall have the means of repairing damages." Tom said nothing about the horses. Manufactured into a boat, as the skins were, there was not much to remind him of them; but he pressed his uncle's hand and said, "Thank you very much, uncle; I don't mind so much now, but I should not like to have seen them before." "That is all right, Tom; it was a case of necessity. Sam and Ben shot them directly we got here." The stores were all laid by the boats, being divided between them so that the cargoes were in all respects duplicates of each other. Before Tom came down some had already been placed in each boat, with a blanket thrown over them. "You have got the gold, I suppose, uncle?" "You may bet that we did not leave that behind. There is half in each boat, and the bags are lashed to the timbers, so that if there is an upset they cannot get lost." "How are we going?" "We have settled that you and I and the two Indians shall go together, and the rest in the other boat. The Indians know nothing of canoeing, and won't be of very much use. I know you were accustomed to boats, and I did some rowing when I was a young man. I wish we had a couple of Canadian Indians with us, or of half-breeds; they are up to this sort of work, and with one in the stern of each canoe it would be a much less risky business going down the rapids. However, no doubt we shall get handy with the paddles before long." When everything was ready Harry fired his rifle, and in a couple of minutes Hunting Dog came running down. The others had already taken their seats. He stepped into Harry's boat, and they at once pushed off. The river was running smoothly here, and Harry said, "Directly we get down a little way we will turn the boat's head up stream and practise for a bit. It would never do to get down into rough water before we can use the paddles fairly." Tom sat in the bow of his boat, Hunting Dog was next to him, then came the chief, and Harry sat in the stern. A paddle is a much easier implement to manage for a beginner than is an oar, and it was not long before they found that they could propel the boats at a fair rate. In a short time they had passed the end of the shelf at the mouth of the cañon, and the cliffs on that side rose as abruptly as they did on the other. The river was some eighty yards wide. "We will turn here," Harry said, "and paddle up. We sha'n't do more than keep abreast of these rocks now, for the stream runs fast though it is so smooth." They found, indeed, that they had to work hard to hold their position. "Now, Tom," Harry sang out, "it is you and I do the steering, you know. When you want the head to go to the right you must work your paddle out from the boat, when you want to go to the left you must dip it in the water rather farther out and draw it towards the boat. Of course when you have got the paddle the other side you must do just the contrary. You must sing out right or left according as you see rocks ahead, and I shall steer with my paddle behind. I have a good deal more power over the boat than you have, and you must depend upon me for the steering, unless there is occasion for a smart swerve." At first the two boats shot backwards and forwards across the stream in a very erratic way, but after an hour's practice the steersmen found the amount of force required. An hour later Harry thought that they were competent to make a start, and turning they shot rapidly past the cliffs. In a couple of miles there was a break in the rocks to the left. "We will land there," Harry said. "There are trees near the water and bushes farther up. We will make a camp there. There is no saying how far we may have to go before we get another opportunity. We have done with the Utes for good, and can get a sound night's sleep. If you, chief, will start with Hunting Dog as soon as we land, we will get the things ashore and light the fire. Maybe you will be able to get a bear for us." They did not trouble to haul up the canoes, but fastened them by the head-ropes, which were made from lariats, to trees on the shore. Daylight was beginning to fade as they lighted the fire. No time was lost before mixing the dough, and it was in readiness by the time that there were sufficient glowing embers to stand the pot in. The kettle was filled and hung on a tripod over the fire. In a short time the Indians returned empty-handed. "No find bear," the chief said, "getting too dark to hunt. To-morrow morning try." Harry got up and went to the boats, and returned directly with a joint of meat. Tom looked up in surprise. "It is not from yours, Tom," Jerry said as he saw him looking at it. "We took the hind-quarters of the four pack-ponies, but left the others alone. It was no use bringing more, for it would not keep." "So it is horseflesh!" Tom rather shrank from the idea of eating it, and nothing would have induced him to touch it had he thought that it came from his own favourite. Some steaks were cut and placed in the frying-pan, while strips were hung over the fire for those who preferred the meat in that way. Tom felt strongly inclined to refuse altogether, but when he saw that the others took their meat as a matter of course, and proceeded to eat with a good appetite, he did not like to do so. He hesitated, however, before tasting it; but Harry said with a laugh, "Fire away, Tom. You can hardly tell it from beef, and they say that in Paris lots of horseflesh is sold as beef." Thus encouraged, Tom took a mouthful, and found it by no means bad, for from their long stay in the valley the animals were all in excellent condition, and he acknowledged to himself that he would not have known the flesh from beef. "I call it mighty good for a change." Terry said. "Out on the plains, where one can get buffalo, one would not take horse for choice, but as we have been eating deer and bear meat for about a year, horse-meat ain't bad by no means. What! You won't take another bit, Tom?" "Not to-night, Jerry; next time I shall be all right. But it is my first trial, you know, and though I can't say it is not good, it gives me a queer feeling, so I will stick to the bread." "Well, boys," Harry said presently, "we have made a first-rate start, and have got out of a big scrape, easier than I ever looked for. We could not have got two better canoes for our work if we had had them brought special from Canada, and it seems to me that they ought to go down pretty near anywhere without much damage. We shall get real handy with our paddles in two or three days, and I hope we sha'n't meet with any big rapids until we have got into the way of managing them well." "You bet, Harry, we have got out well," said Jerry. "I tell you it looked downright ugly, and I wouldn't have given a continental for our chances. As for the rapids, I guess we shall generally find rocks one side or the other where we can make our way along, and we can let down the canoes by the ropes. Anyhow, we need not get skeery over them. After getting out of that valley with our hair on, the thought of them does not trouble me a cent."

16

AFLOAT IN CANOES

The two Indians were off long before daylight, and just as the others were having a wash at the edge of the river they heard the crack of a rifle some distance up the cliff. "Bear!" Jerry exclaimed; "and I reckon they have got it, else we should have heard another shot directly afterwards. That will set us up in food for some time. Get the fire made up, Tom, you won't have to eat horse steak for breakfast unless you like." The Indians returned half an hour later laden with as much bear-flesh as they could carry. "I vote we stop here for two days," Harry said. "We have got a lot of meat now, but it won't keep for twenty-four hours in this heat, so I vote we cut it up and dry it as the Indians do buffalo-meat; it will keep any time. Besides, we deserve a couple of days' rest, and we can practise paddling while the meat dries. We got on very well yesterday, but I do want us to get quite at home in the boats before we get to a bad bit." The proposal was agreed to, and as soon as breakfast was over the whole of the meat was cut up into thin slices and hung up on cords fastened from tree to tree. "It ought to take three days to do it properly, and four is better," Harry said. "Still, as we have cut it very thin, I should think two days in this hot sun ought to be enough." "Are there any fish in the river, uncle?" "I have no doubt there are, Tom, grists of them, but we have got no hooks." "Jerry has got some, he told me he never travelled without them, and we caught a lot of fish with them up in the mountains just after we started before. I don't know about line, but one might unravel one of the ropes." "I think you might do better than that, Tom. The next small animal we shoot we might make some lines from the gut. They needn't be above five or six feet long. Beyond that we could cut a strip of thirty or forty feet long from one of the hides. However, we can do nothing at present in that way. Now let us get into the canoes and have a couple of hours' paddling. After dinner we will have another good spell at the work." By evening there was a marked improvement in the paddling over that of the previous day, and after having had another day's practice all felt confident that they should get on very well. By nightfall on the second day, the meat was found to be thoroughly dried, and was taken down and packed in bundles, and the next morning they started as soon as it was light. It was agreed that the boats should follow each other at a distance of a hundred yards, so that the leader could signal to the one behind if serious difficulties were made out ahead, and so enable it to row to the bank in time. Were both drawn together into the suck of a dangerous rapid they might find themselves without either boats or stores, whereas if only one of the boats was broken up, there would be the other to fall back upon. Harry's boat was to take the lead on the first day, and Tom, as he knelt in the bows, felt his heart beat with excitement at the thought of the unknown that lay before them, and that they were about to make their way down passes probably unpenetrated by man. Passing between what had seemed to them the entrance to a narrow cañon, they were surprised to rind the river widen out. On their right a great sweep of hills bent round like a vast amphitheatre, the resemblance being heightened by the ledges running in regular lines along it, the cliff being far from perpendicular. "I should think one could climb up there," Tom said, half-turning round to his uncle. "It looks like it, Tom, but there is no saying; some of those steps may be a good deal steeper than they look. However, I have no doubt one could find places where it would be possible to climb if there were any use in doing so, but as we should only find ourselves up on bad lands we should gain nothing by it." "I don't mean we should want to climb up now, uncle; but it seemed a sort of satisfaction to know that there are places where one could climb in case we got the boats smashed up." "If we had to make our way up, lad, it would be much better to go by one of the lateral canons like the one we came down by. I can see at least half a dozen of them going up there. We should certainly find water, and we might find game, but up on the plateau we should find neither one nor the other." On the left-hand bank of the river the cliffs fell still farther back in wide terraces, that rose one behind the other up to a perpendicular cliff half a mile back from the river. There was a shade of green here and there, and the chief pointed far up the hill and exclaimed "Deer!" "That is good," Harry said. "There are sure to be more of these places, and I should think we are not likely to starve anyhow. We can't spare time to stop now; we want to have a long day's paddle to see what it is going to be like, and we have got meat enough for the present. If we happen to see a deer within rifle-shot, so that we can get at him without much loss of time, we will stop, for after all fresh meat is better eating than dry." "I should think it would be, uncle," Tom said. "From the look of the stuff I should think it would be quite as tough as shoe leather and as tasteless." "It needs a set of sharp teeth, Tom, but if you are hard set I have no doubt you will be able to get through it, and at any rate it constitutes the chief food of the Indians between the Missouri and the Rockies." For the next three hours they paddled along on the quiet surface of the river. The other canoe had drawn up, since it was evident that here at least there was no reason why they should keep apart. "I didn't expect we should find it as quiet as this, Harry," Jerry Curtis said. "It is a regular water-party, and I should not mind how long I was at it if it were all like this." "We shall have rough water enough presently, Jerry, and I expect we shall look back on this as the pleasantest part of the trip. It seems to me that the hills close in more towards the end of this sweep. It has made a regular horseshoe." "I reckon it depends upon the nature of the rock," Ben put in. "That is it, you may be sure, Ben. Wherever it is soft rock, in time it crumbles away like this; where it is hard the weather don't affect it much, and we get straight cliffs. I expect it is there we shall find the rapids worst. Well, we shall soon make a trial of them, I fancy. It looks like a wall ahead, but the road must go through somewhere." A quarter of an hour later Harry said: "You had better drop back now, Jerry, there is the gap right ahead. If you see me hold up my paddle you row ashore. When we come to a bad rapid we had better all get out, and make our way down on the rocks as far as we can, to see what it is like. It will never do to go at it blind. Of course we may find places where the water comes to the wall faces on both sides, and then there is nothing to do but to take our chance, but I don't propose to run any risks that I can avoid." There was a perceptible increase in the rate of the current as they neared the gorge, and when they came within a short distance of it Harry gave the signal to the boat behind, and both canoes made for the shore. As they stepped out on to the rocks the chief pointed to a ledge far above them. "There will be time for Hunting Dog to shoot a deer," he said, "while we go down to see cañon." Tom in vain endeavoured to make out the object at which the Indian was pointing. Hunting Dog had evidently noticed it before landing, and upon Harry giving a nod of assent, started off with his rifle. The others waited until Jerry and his companions joined them, and then started along the rocks that had fallen at the foot of the cliffs. They were soon able to obtain a far better view of the gorge than they had done from the canoe. The river ran for a bit in a smooth glassy flood, but a short distance down, it began to form into waves, and beyond that they could see a mass of white foam and breakers. They made their way along the rocks for nearly two miles. It seemed well-nigh impossible to Tom that the boats could go down without being swamped, for the waves were eight or ten feet high, with steep sides capped with white. At last the gorge widened again, and although the cliff to the right rose perpendicularly, on the other side it became less steep, and seemed lower down to assume the same character as that above the gorge. "It looks pretty bad," Harry said, speaking for almost the first time since they had started, for the roar of the water against the rocks, echoed and re-echoed by the cliffs, rendered conversation an impossibility. "It looks bad, but as far as I can see there are no rocks that come up near the surface, and the canoes ought to go through the broken water safely enough." "It is an all-fired nasty-looking place," Jerry said; "but I have heard men who had been in the north talk about rapids they had gone through, and from what they said about them they must have been worse than this. We have got to keep as near the side as we can; the waves ain't as high there as they are in the middle, and we have got to keep the boat's head straight, and to paddle all we know. If we do that, I reckon the canoes will go through." They retraced their steps up the gorge. Hunting Dog was standing by the boat with the dead deer at his feet. Jerry picked it up. "I had better take this, I reckon, Harry. You have got one man more than we have;" and he and his two companions went on to their boat. "Now, what do you think, Tom?" his uncle said. "Can you trust your head to keep cool? It will need a lot of nerve, I can tell you, and if her head swerves in the slightest she will swing round, and over she will go, and it would want some tall swimming to get out of that race. You paddle as well as the chief,--better, I think,--but the chief's nerves are like iron. He has not been practising steering as you have, but as there seem to be no rocks about, that won't matter so much. I ought to be able to keep her straight, if you three paddle hard. It may need a turn of the paddle now and then in the bow, but that we can't tell. So it shall be just as you like, lad. If you think your nerves can stand it you take your usual place, but if you have doubts about it, it were best to let the chief go there." "I think I could stand it, uncle, for I have been out in wherries in some precious rough seas at Spithead; but I think it would be best for the chief to take my place this time, and then I shall see how I feel." Harry said a few words to the chief in his own language, and Leaping Horse without a word stepped into the bow, while Tom took the seat behind him. "We sha'n't be long going down," Harry said, "I reckon the stream is running ten miles an hour, and as we shall be paddling, it will take us through in ten minutes. We had all better sit farther aft, so as to take her bow right out of water. She will go through it ever so much easier so." They shifted their seats until daylight could be seen under the keel a foot from the bow. "I think that is about the right trim," Harry said. "Now paddle all." The boat shot off from the shore. A minute later it darted into the gorge, the Indian setting a long sweeping stroke. There were two or three long heaves, and then they dashed into the race. Tom held his breath at the first wall of water, but, buoyant and lightly laden as the canoe was, with fully a foot of free board, she rose like a feather over it, and darted down into the hollow beyond. Tom kept his eyes fixed on the back of the chief's head, clinched his teeth tightly, and paddled away with all his strength. He felt that were he to look round he should turn giddy at the turmoil of water. Once or twice he was vaguely conscious of Harry's shouts, "Keep her head inshore!" or "A little farther out!" but like a man rowing a race he heeded the words but little. His faculties were concentrated on his work, but he could see a slight swerve of the Indian's body when he was obeying an order. He was not conscious of any change of motion, either in the boat or in the water round, when Harry shouted, "Easy all!" and even then it was the chief's ceasing to paddle rather than Harry's shout which caused him to stop. Then he looked round and saw that the race was passed, and that the canoe was floating in comparatively quiet water. "She is a daisy!" Harry shouted; "we could not do better if we had been all Canadian half-breeds, chief. Now, we had better set to and bale her out as quickly as we can." Tom now for the first time perceived that he was kneeling in water, and that the boat was nearly half-full. Their tea pannikins had been laid by their sides in readiness, and Hunting Dog touched him and passed forward his tin and the chief's, both of which had been swept aft. The Seneca at once began to throw out the water, but Tom for a minute or two was unable to follow his example. He felt as weak as a child. A nervous quivering ran through his body, and his hand trembled so that he could not grasp the handle of the tin. "Feel bad, Tom?" his uncle asked cheerily from behind. "Brace up, lad; it was a pretty warm ten minutes, and I am not surprised you feel it. Now it is over I am a little shaky myself." "I shall be all right presently, uncle." A look at the chief's back did more to steady Tom's nerves than his own efforts. While he himself was panting heavily, and was bathed in perspiration, the chief's breath came so quietly that he could scarce see his shoulders rise and fall, as he baled out the water with perfect unconcern. With an effort the boy took hold of his dipper, and by the time the boat was empty his nerves were gaining their steadiness, though his breath still came quickly. As he laid down his tin he looked round. "Heap water," Hunting Dog said with a smile; "run like herd of buffalo." The other boat lay twenty yards behind them, and was also engaged in baling. "All right now, Tom?" "All right, uncle; but it is lucky you put the chief in the bows. I should have made a mess of it; for from the time we got into the waves it seemed nothing but confusion, and though I heard your voice I did not seem to understand what you said." "It was a trial to the nerves, Tom, but we shall all get accustomed to it before we get through. Well, thank God, we have made our first run safely. Now paddle on, we will stop at the first likely place and have a meal." A mile farther they saw a pile of drift-wood on the left bank, and Harry at once headed the canoe to it, and drawing the boat carefully alongside they got out. A minute later the other canoe joined them. "Jee-hoshaphat, Harry!" Jerry exclaimed as he stepped out; "that was worse nor a cyclone. I would rather sit on the back of the worst kind of bucker than jump over those waves again. If we are going to have much of this I should say let us find our way back and ask the Utes to finish us off." "It was a rough bit, Jerry; but it might have been a deal worse if there had been rocks in the stream. All we had to do was to keep her straight and paddle." "And a pretty big all, too," Jerry grumbled. "I felt skeered pretty nigh out of my wits, and the other two allow they were just as bad. If it hadn't been for your boat ahead I reckon we should never have gone through it, but as long as you kept on straight, there didn't seem any reason why we shouldn't. I tell you I feel so shaky that if there were a grizzly twenty yards off I am blamed if I could keep the muzzle of my rifle on it." Tom had been feeling a good deal ashamed of his nervousness, and was much relieved at hearing that these seasoned men had felt somewhat the same as he had done. "What do you say, boys," Harry asked when breakfast had been cooked and eaten, "if we stop here for to-day? Likely enough we may get some game, and if not it won't matter, for the deer will last us a couple of days." "You bet," Ben Gulston said; "I think we have had enough of the water for to-day. I don't feel quite sure now I ain't going round and round, and I don't think any of us will feel right till we have had a night's sleep. Besides, all the rugs and blankets are wet and want spreading out in the sun for a bit, and the flour will want overhauling." "That settles it, Ben; let us get all the outfit out of the boats at once." After the things had been laid out to dry the two Indians went off in search of game; but none of the others felt any inclination to move, and they spent the rest of the day lying about smoking and dozing. The Indians brought back a big-horn, and the next morning the canoes dropped down the stream again. For some miles the river flowed quietly along a wide valley. At the end of that time it made an abrupt turn and entered the heart of the mountains. As before, Harry's canoe went in advance. The cañon was here a deep gloomy chasm, with almost perpendicular sides, and for some distance the river ran swiftly and smoothly, then white water was seen ahead, so the two boats rowed in to the rocks at the foot of the precipice, and the occupants proceeded to explore the pass ahead. It was of a different character to the last. Black rocks rose everywhere above the surface, and among these the river flowed with extraordinary force and rapidity, foaming and roaring. All agreed that it was madness to think of descending here, and that a portage was necessary. The contents of the boats were lifted out, and then one of them was carried down over the rocks by the united strength of the party. They had gone half a mile when they came to a spot where they could go no farther, as the water rushed along against the rock wall itself. Some fifty yards further down they could see that the ledge again began. "We must go and fetch the other boat," Harry shouted above the din of the water, "and let them down one by one. There is no other way to do it." The second boat was brought down, and another journey was made to bring down the stores. The lariats were then tied together. "Let us sit down and smoke a pipe before we do anything more," Jerry said. "Three times up and down them rocks is worse nor thirty miles on a level." All were glad to adopt this suggestion, and for half an hour they sat watching the rushing waters. As they did so they discussed how they had better divide their forces, and agreed that Harry's boat should, as before, go down first. Three men would be required to let the boat down, and it would need at least four to check the second boat when it came abreast of them. Although all felt certain that a single line of the plaited hide would be sufficient, they determined to use two lines to ensure themselves against risk. "I should let them run out fast at first, Jerry, only keeping enough strain on them to keep her head well up stream. Begin to check her gradually, and let her down only inch by inch. When you see we are close to the rocks, hold her there while we get her alongside, and don't leave go till we lift her from the water. Directly we are out, fasten the ropes to the bow of your canoe, then launch her carefully; and whatever you do, don't let go of the rope. Launch her stern first close to the wall, then two get in and get well towards the stern, while the other holds the rope until the last moment. Then those two in the boat must begin to paddle as hard as they can, while the last man jumps in and snatches up his paddle. Keep her head close to the wall, for if the current catches it and takes her round she would capsize in a moment against those rocks. Paddle all you know; we shall haul in the rope as fast as you come down. When you come abreast two of us will check her, and the others will be on the rocks to catch hold of her side as she swings in." The first canoe was launched stern foremost, the four men took their seats in her and began to paddle against, the stream with all their strength, while Jerry and his companions let the lines run through their fingers. The boat glanced along by the side of the wall. The men above put on more and more strain, giving a turn of the ropes round a smooth water-worn rock they had before picked out as suitable for the purpose. The water surged against the bow of the canoe, lifting it higher and higher as the full strain of the rope came upon it. The chief was kneeling in the stern facing the rocks below, and as the canoe came abreast of them he brought her in alongside. Harry held up his paddle, the men above gave another turn of the ropes round the rock, and the canoe remained stationary. Hunting Dog sprang out on to the rocks, and taking hold of the blade of the chief's paddle, brought the canoe in so close that the others were able to step ashore without difficulty. The baggage was taken out, and the canoe lifted from the water, turned upside down, and laid on the rocks. Harry held up his hand to show that they were ready, having before he did so chosen a stone round which to wind the lariats. The other boat was then launched. Sam and Ben took their places astern and began to paddle against the stream. As they were in the back-water below the ledge of rock they were able to keep her stationary while Jerry took his place and got out his paddle. When all were ready, they paddled her out from the back-water. As soon as the current caught her she flew past the cliff like an arrow, although the three men were now paddling at the top of their speed. Harry and the chief pulled in the rope hand over hand, while Hunting Dog and Tom went a short way down the rocks. "Don't check her too suddenly, chief," Harry shouted. "Let the rope run out easy at first and bring the strain on gradually." "The ropes will hold," the chief said. "One stop buffalo in gallop, two stop boat." "Yes, but you would pull the head out of the canoe; chief, if you stopped her too suddenly." The chief nodded. He had not thought of that. In spite of the efforts of the oarsmen the canoe's head was swerving across the stream just as she came abreast of them. A moment later she felt the check of the rope. "Easy, chief, easy!" Harry shouted, as the water shot up high over the bow of the canoe. "Wait till she gets a bit lower or we shall capsize her." The check of the bow had caused the stern to swerve out, and when they again checked her she was several lengths below them with her head inclined to shore. More and more strain was put on the ropes, until they were as taut as iron bars. A moment later Tom and Hunting Dog seized two paddles held out to them, and the boat came gently in alongside. "Gosh!" Ben exclaimed, as he stepped ashore, "it has taken as much out of me as working a windlass for a day. I am blamed if I did not think the hull boat was coming to pieces. I thought it was all over with us for sure, Harry; when she first felt the rope, the water came in right over the side." "It was touch and go, Ben; but there was a rock just outside you, and if we had not checked her a bit her head would have gone across it, and if it had, I would not have given a red cent for your lives." All day they toiled on foot, and by nightfall had made but four miles. Then they camped for the night among the rocks. The next four days were passed in similar labour. Two or three times they had to cross the torrent in order to get on to fallen rocks on the other side to that which they were following. These passages demanded the greatest caution. In each case there were rocks showing above water in the middle of the channel. One of these was chosen as most suited to their purpose, and by means of the ropes a canoe was sheered out to it. Its occupants then took their places on the rock, and in turn dropped the other boat down to the next suitable point, the process being repeated, step by step, until the opposite bank was reached. At the end of the fourth day the geological formation changed. The rock was softer, and the stream had worn a more even path for itself, and they decided to take to the boats again. There was no occasion for paddling now, it was only when a swell on the surface marked some hidden danger below that a stroke or two of the paddle was needed to sweep them clear of it. For four hours they were carried along at the rate of fully twelve miles an hour, and at the end of that time they shot out from between the overhanging walls into a comparatively broad valley. With a shout of delight they headed the boats for shore, and leapt out on to a flat rock a few inches above the water. "If we could go on at that pace right down we should not be long before we were out of the mountains," Tom said. "We could do with a bit slower, Tom; that is too fast to be pleasant. Just about half that would do--six miles an hour. Twelve hours a day would take us out of the cañons in a fortnight or so. We might do that safely, but we could not calculate on having such good luck as we have had to-day, when going along at twelve miles an hour. The pace for the last four days has been just as much too slow as this is too fast. Four miles a day working from morning till night is heart-breaking. In spite of our run to-day, we cannot have made much over a hundred miles since we started. Well, there is one comfort, we are in no great hurry. We have got just the boats for the work, and so far as we can see, we are likely to find plenty of food. A job like this isn't to be reckoned child's play. So far I consider we have had good luck; I shall be well content if it averages as well all the way down. The fear is we may get to falls where we can neither carry nor let the boats down. In that case we should have to get out of the canon somewhere, pack as much flour as we could carry, and make our way across country, though how far we might have to travel there is no knowing. I hope it mayn't come to that; but at any rate I would rather go through even worse places than that cañon above than have to quit the boats." "Right you are, Harry," Jerry agreed. "I would rather tote the canoe on my back all the way down to Mexico, than have to try and make my way over the bad lands to the hills. Besides, when we get a bit farther we shall be in the Navahoe country, and the Utes ain't a sarcumstance to them. The Ute ain't much of a fighter anyway. He will kill white men he finds up in his hills, 'cause he don't want white men there, but he has to be five or six to one before he will attack him. The Navahoe kills the white man 'cause he is a white man, and 'cause he likes killing. He is a fighter, and don't you forget it. If it had been Navahoes instead of Utes that had caught us up in the hills, you may bet your bottom dollar our scalps would be drying in their lodges now." "That is so, Jerry," Ben put in. "Besides, the Navahoes and the Apaches have got no fear of white men. They have been raiding Mexico for hundreds of years, and man to man they can whip Mexikins out of their boots. I don't say as they haven't a considerable respect for western hunters; they have had a good many lessons that these can out-shoot them and out-fight them; still they ain't scared of them as plain Indians are. They are a bad lot, look at them which way you will, and I don't want to have to tramp across their country noways. It was pretty hard work carrying that boat along them rocks, but I would rather have to do so, right down to the plains, then get into a muss with the Navahoes." "How far does the Navahoe country come this way?" "There ain't no fence, Tom, I expect. They reckon as it's their country just as far as they like to come. They don't come up as far north as this, but where they ends and where the Utes begin no one knows but themselves; and I reckon it shifts according as the Navahoes are busy with the Mexicans in the south, or have got a quiet spell, and take it into their heads to hunt this way." For many days they continued their journey, sometimes floating quietly along a comparatively wide valley, sometimes carrying their boats past dangerous rapids, sometimes rushing along at great speed on the black, deep water, occasionally meeting with falls where everything had to be taken out of the canoes, and the boats themselves allowed to shoot over the falls with long ropes attached, by which they were drawn to shore lower down. It was seldom that they were without meat, as several big-horns and two bears were shot by the Indians. They had no doubt that they could have caught fish, but as a rule they were too tired when they arrived at their halting-place to do more than cook and eat their suppers before they lay down to rest. "I reckon it won't be very long before we come upon a Mexican village," Harry said one day, after they had been six weeks on their downward course. "I have heard there is one above the Grand Cañon." The scenery had varied greatly. In some of the valleys groves of trees bordered the river; sometimes not even a tuft of grass was to be seen. Occasionally the cliffs ran in an even line for many miles, showing that the country beyond was a level plateau, at other times rugged peaks and pinnacles resembling ruined castles, lighthouses, and churches could be seen. Frequently the cliffs rose three or four thousand feet in an almost unbroken line, but more often there were rounded terraces, where it would have been easy to ascend to the upper level. Everywhere the various strata were of different colours: soft grays and browns, orange, vermilion, purple, green, and yellow. They soon learned that when they passed through soft strata, the river ran quietly; where the rocks were hard there were falls and rapids; where the strata lay horizontal the stream ran smoothly, though often with great rapidity; where they dipped up stream there were dangerous rapids and falls. Since the start the river had been largely swollen by the junctions of other streams, and was much wider and deeper than it had been where they embarked; and even where the rapids were fiercest they generally found comparatively quiet water close to the bank on one side or the other. Twice they had had upsets, both the boats having been capsized by striking upon rocks but an inch or two below the surface of the water. Little harm was done, for the guns and all other valuable articles were lashed to the sides of the boats, while strips of hide, zigzagged across the ends of the canoes at short distances apart, prevented the blankets and rugs and other bulky articles from dropping out when the boat capsized. Since the river had become wider and the dangers less frequent, the boats always kept near each other. Upsets were therefore only the occasion for a hearty laugh; for it took but a few minutes to right the canoe, bale it out, and proceed on their way. Occasionally they had unpleasant visitors at their camp, and altogether they killed ten or twelve rattle-snakes. In some of the valleys they found the remains of the dwellings of a people far anterior to the present Indian races. Some of these ruins appeared to have been communal houses. At other points they saw cliff-dwellings in the face of the rock, with rough sculptures and hieroglyphics. The canons varied in length from ten to a hundred and fifty miles, the comparatively flat country between them varying equally in point of appearance and in the nature of the rocks. As they got lower they once or twice saw roughly-made rafts, composed of three or four logs of wood, showing where Indians had crossed the river. The journey so far had been much more pleasant than they had expected, for as the river grew wider the dangers were fewer and farther apart, and more easily avoided; and they looked forward to the descent of the Grand Cañon, from which they knew they could not be far distant, without much fear that it would prove impracticable.

17

THE GRAND CAÑON

Passing from a short cañon, the boats emerged into a valley with flat shores for some distance from the river. On the right was a wide side cañon, which might afford a passage up into the hills. Half a mile lower down there were trees and signs of cultivation; and a light smoke rose among them. At this, the first sign of human life they had seen since they took to the boats, all hands paddled rapidly. They were approaching the shore, when Leaping Horse said to Harry: "No go close. Stop in river and see, perhaps bad Indians. Leaping Horse not like smoke." Harry called to the other canoe, and they bore out into the stream again. The chief stood up in the boat, and after gazing at the shore silently for a moment said: "Village burnt. Burnt little time ago, post still burning." As he resumed his seat Harry stood up in turn. "That is so, chief. There have only been five or six huts; whether Indian or white, one can't tell now." Just at this moment an Indian appeared on the bank. As his eye fell on the boats he started. A moment later he raised a war-yell. "Navahoe," the chief said. "Navahoe war-party come down, kill people and burn village. Must row hard." The yell had been answered from the wood, and in two or three minutes as many score of Indians appeared on the banks. They shouted to the boats to come to shore, and as no attention was paid, some of them at once opened fire. The river was about a quarter of a mile wide, and although the shots splashed round them the boats were not long in reaching the farther bank, but not unharmed, for Ben had dropped his paddle and fallen back in the boat. "Is he badly hurt?" Harry asked anxiously, as the canoes drew alongside each other near the bank, and Sam turned round to look at his comrade. "He has finished his journey," Sam said in a hoarse voice. "He has gone down, and a better mate and a truer heart I never met. The ball has hit him in the middle of the forehead. It were to be, I guess, for it could only have been a chance shot at that distance." Exclamations of sorrow and fury broke from the others, and for a few minutes there was no thought of the Indians, whose bullets were still falling in the water, for the most part short of the boats. A sharp tap on the side of Harry's canoe, followed by a jet of water, roused them. "We mustn't stop here," Harry said, as Hunting Dog plugged the hole with a piece of dried meat, "or poor Ben won't be the only one." "Let us have a shot first," Jerry said. "Young Tom, do you take a shot with Plumb-centre. It is about four hundred and fifty yards as near as I can reckon, and she will carry pretty true that distance." "We will give them a shot all round," Harry said, as he took up his rifle. Six shots were discharged almost at the same moment. One of the Indians was seen to fall, the rest bounded away to a short distance from the bank. Then Hunting Dog at a word from the chief stepped into the other canoe. Keeping close under the bank they paddled down. The Indians had ceased firing, and had disappeared at a run. "What are they up to now, chief?" "Going down to mouth of cañon, river sure to be narrow; get there before us." "Wait, Jerry," Harry shouted to the other boat, which was some twenty yards ahead. "The chief thinks they have gone to cut us off at the head of the cañon, which is likely enough. I don't suppose it is fifty yards wide there, and they will riddle us if we try to get through in daylight. We had better stop and have a meal and talk it over." The boats were rowed ashore, and the men landed and proceeded to light a fire as unconcernedly as if no danger threatened them. Ben's death had cast a heavy gloom over them, and but few words were spoken, until the meal was cooked and eaten. "It is a dog-goned bad business," Jerry said. "I don't say at night as we mayn't get past them without being hit, but to go rushing into one of those cañons in the dark would be as bad as standing their fire, if not wuss. The question is--could we leave the boats and strike across?" "We could not strike across this side anyhow," Harry said. "There are no settlements west of the Colorado. We know nothing of the country, and it is a hundred to one we should all die of thirst even if we could carry enough grub to last us. If we land at all it must be on the other side, and then we could not reckon on striking a settlement short of two hundred miles, and two hundred miles across a country like this would be almost certain death." "As the Navahoes must have ridden down, Harry, there must be water. I reckon they came down that cañon opposite." "Navahoe on track in morning," the chief said quietly. "When they see we not go down river look for boat, find where we land and take up trail. Cañon very plain road. Some go up there straight, take all our scalps." No one spoke for a moment or two. What the Seneca said was so evident to them that it was useless to argue. "Well, chief, what do you advise yourself?" Harry asked at length. "Not possible go on foot, Harry. Country all rocks and cañons; cannot get through, cannot get water. Trouble with Navahoes too. Only chance get down in boat to-night. Keep close under this bank; perhaps Indians not see us, night dark." "Do you think they can cross over to this side?" "Yes, got canoe. Two canoes in village, Leaping Horse saw them on bank. When it gets dark, cross over." "We will get a start of them," Harry said. "Directly it is dark we can be off too. The shore is everywhere higher than our heads as we sit in the canoes, and we can paddle in the shadow without being seen by them on the other side, while they won't venture to cross till it is pitch dark. As the stream runs something like three miles an hour, I reckon that they are hardly likely to catch us. As for the rapids, they don't often begin until you are some little distance in. At any rate we shall not have to go far, for the red-skins will not dare to enter the cañon, so we can tie up till morning as soon as we are a short distance in. We have got to run the gauntlet of their fire, but after all that is better than taking our chances by leaving the boats. If we lie down when we get near them they may not see us at all; but if they do, a very few strokes will send us past them. At any rate there seems less risk in that plan than in any other." The others agreed. "Now, boys, let us dig a grave," he went on, as soon as the point was settled. "It is a sort of clay here and we can manage it, and it is not likely we shall find any place, when we are once in the cañon, where we can do it." They had neither picks nor shovels with them, for their mining tools had been left at the spot where they were at work, but with their axes and knives they dug a shallow grave, laid Ben's body in it, covered it up, and then rolled a number of boulders over it. Ben's death affected Tom greatly. They had lived together and gone through many perils and risks for nearly a year, and none had shown more unflagging good-humour throughout than the man who had been killed. That the boats might upset and all might perish together, was a thought that had often occurred to him as they made their way down the river, but that one should be cut off like this had never once been contemplated by him. Their lives from the hour they met on the Big Wind River had seemed bound up together, and this sudden loss of one of the party affected him greatly. The others went about their work silently and sadly, but they had been so accustomed to see life lost in sudden frays, and in one or other of the many dangers that miners and hunters are exposed to, that it did not affect them to the same extent as it did Tom. Except two or three men who remained on watch on the opposite bank, though carefully keeping out of rifle-range, they saw no signs of the Navahoes during the day. As soon as it became so dark that they were sure their movements could not be seen from the other side, they silently took their places in the boats, and pushed off into the current. For a quarter of an hour they lay in the canoes, then at a signal from Harry knelt up, took their paddles and began to row very quietly and cautiously, the necessity for dropping their paddles noiselessly into the water and for avoiding any splashing having been impressed on all before starting. "There is no occasion for haste," Harry said. "Long and gentle strokes of the paddle will take us down as fast as we need go. If those fellows do cross over, as I expect they will, they will find it difficult to travel over the rocks in the dark as fast as we are going now, and there is no fear whatever of their catching us if we go on steadily." After an hour's rowing they could make out a dark mass rising like a wall in front of them, and Harry passed the word back to the other canoe, which was just behind them, that they should now cease paddling, only giving a stroke occasionally to keep the head of the canoe straight, and to prevent the boat from drifting out from under the shelter of the bank, in the stillness of the night they could hear a low roaring, and knew that it was caused by a rapid in the canon ahead. Higher and higher rose the wall of rock, blotting out the stars in front of them till the darkness seemed to spread half-way over the sky. They could see that the boat was passing the shore more rapidly, as the river accelerated its course before rushing into the gorge. Suddenly there was a shout on the right, so close that Tom was startled, then there was a rifle-shot, and a moment later a wild outburst of yells and a dozen other shots. At the first shout the paddles dipped into the water, and at racing speed the boats shot along. Eight or ten more rifle-shots were fired, each farther behind them. "Anyone hurt?" Harry asked. There was a general negative. "I don't believe they really saw us," Harry said. "The first fellow may have caught sight of us, but I expect the others fired merely at random. Now let us row in and fasten up, for judging from that roaring there must be a big rapid close ahead." The boats were soon fastened up against the rocks, and the chief stepped ashore, saying: "Leaping Horse and Hunting Dog will watch. Navahoes may come down here. Don't think they will be brave enough to enter cañon, too dark to see. Still, better watch." "Just as you like, chief," Harry said, "but I have no belief that they will come down here in the dark; it would be as much as they would dare do in broad daylight. Besides, these rocks are steepish climbing anyway, and I should not like myself to try to get over them, when it is so dark that I can't see my own hand, except by putting it up between my eyes and the stars." "If it was not for that," Jerry said, "I would crawl along to the mouth and see if I couldn't get a shot at them varmint on the other side." "You would not find them there, Jerry. You may be sure that when they saw us go through they would know it was of no use waiting there any longer. They would flatter themselves that they had hit some of us, and even if they hadn't, it would not seem to matter a cent to them, as the evil spirit of the canon would surely swallow us up." "Well, they have been wrong in their first supposition, uncle," Tom said, "and I hope they will be equally wrong in the second." "I hope so, Tom. Now we may as well go to sleep. As soon as there is any light we must explore as far as we can go, for by the noise ahead it must be either a fall or a desperately bad rapid." When daylight broke, the whites found Hunting Dog sitting with his rifle across his knees on a rock above them. "Where is the chief?" Harry asked him. "Leaping Horse went up the rocks to see if Navahoes have gone." "Very well. Tell him when he comes back we have gone down to have a look at the rapid. Tom, you may as well stay here. There is plenty of drift-wood among those rocks, and we will breakfast before we start down. I reckon we shall not have much time for anything of that sort after we are once off." Tom was by no means sorry to be saved a heavy climb. He collected some wood and broke it up into suitable pieces, but at the suggestion of Hunting Dog waited for the chief's return before lighting it. The chief came down in a few minutes. "Navahoes all gone," he said briefly. "Then I can light a fire, chief?" Leaping Horse nodded, and Tom took out the tightly-fitting tin box in which he kept his matches. Each of the party carried a box, and to secure against the possibility of the matches being injured by the water in case of a capsize, the boxes were kept in deer's bladders tightly tied at the mouth. The fire was just alight when the others returned. "It is better ahead than we expected," Harry said; "the noise was caused by the echo from the smooth faces of the rocks. It is lucky we hauled in here last night, for these rocks end fifty yards on, and as far as we can see down, the water washes the foot of the wall on both sides. We were able to climb up from them on to a narrow ledge, parallel with the water, and went on to the next turn, but there was no change in the character of the river. So we shall make a fair start anyway." More wood was put on the fire, and in a quarter of an hour the kettle was boiling and slices of meat cooked. Half an hour later they took their places in the canoes and started. The cañon was similar to the one they had last passed; the walls were steep and high, but with irregular shelves running along them. Above these were steep slopes, running up to the foot of smooth perpendicular cliffs of limestone. The stream was very rapid, and they calculated that in the first half-hour they must have run six miles. Here the walls receded to a distance, and ledges of rock and hills of considerable heights intervened between the river and the cliffs. They checked the pace of their canoes just as they reached this opening, for a deep roar told of danger ahead. Fortunately there were rocks where they were able to disembark, and a short way below they found that a natural dam extended across the river. "There has been an eruption of trap here," Harry said, looking at the black rock on either side. "There has been a fissure, I suppose, and the lava was squeezed up through it. You see the river has cut a path for itself some hundreds of feet deep. It must have taken countless ages, Tom, to have done the work." Over this dam the water flowed swiftly and smoothly, and then shot down in a fall six feet high. Below for a distance of two or three hundred yards was a furious rapid, the water running among black rocks. With considerable difficulty they made a portage of the boats and stores to the lower end of the rapid. This transit occupied several hours, and they then proceeded on their way. Five more miles were passed; several times the boats were brought to the bank in order that falls ahead might be examined. These proved to be not too high to shoot, and the boats paddled over them. When they had first taken to the river they would never have dreamt of shooting such falls, but they had now become so expert in the management of the boats, and so confident in their buoyancy, that the dangers which would then have appalled them were now faced without uneasiness. They now came to a long rapid, presenting so many dangers that they deemed it advisable to let down the boats by lines. Again embarking they found that the wall of rocks closed in and they entered a narrow gorge, through which the river ran with great swiftness, touching the walls on each side. Great care was needed to prevent the boats being dashed against the rock, but they succeeded in keeping them fairly in the middle of the stream. After travelling four miles through this gorge it opened somewhat, and on one side was a strip of sand. "We will land there," Harry said. "It looks to me like granite ahead, and if it is we are in for bad times, sure." The boats were soon pulled up, and they proceeded to examine the cliffs below. Hitherto the danger had been in almost exact proportion to the hardness of the rock, and as they were entering a far harder rock than they had before encountered, greater difficulties than those they had surmounted were to be expected. They could not see a long distance down, but what they saw was enough to justify their worst anticipations. The cañon was narrower than any they had traversed, and the current extremely swift. There seemed but few broken rocks in the channel, but on either side the walls jutted out in sharp angles far into the river, with crags and pinnacles. "Waal, it is of no use looking at it," Jerry said after a pause. "It is certain we can't get along the sides, so there is nothing to do but to go straight at it; and the sooner it is over the better." Accordingly they returned to the boats, and soon darted at the speed of an arrow into the race. Bad as it was at starting it speedily became worse: ledges, pinnacles, and towers of rock rose above the surface of the stream breaking it into falls and whirlpools. Every moment it seemed to Tom that the boat must inevitably be dashed to pieces against one of these obstructions, for the light boats were whirled about like a feather on the torrent, and the paddlers could do but little to guide their course. The very strength of the torrent, however, saved them from destruction, the whirl from the rocks sweeping the boat's head aside when within a few feet of them, and driving it past the danger before they had time to realize that they had escaped wreck. Half an hour of this, and a side cañon came in. Down this a vast quantity of boulders had been swept, forming a dam across the river, but they managed to paddle into an eddy at the side, and to make a portage of the boats to the water below the dam, over which there was a fall of from thirty to forty feet high. Three more similar dams were met with. Over one the canoes were carried, but on the others there was a break in the boulder wall, and they were able to shoot the falls. After three days of incessant labour, they heard, soon after starting from their last halting-place, a roar even louder and more menacing than they had yet experienced. Cautiously they got as close as possible to the side, and paddling against the stream were able to effect a landing just above the rapid. On examining it they found that it was nearly half a mile long, and in this distance the water made a fall of some eighty feet, the stream being broken everywhere with ledges and jagged rocks, among which the waves lashed themselves into a white foam. It seemed madness to attempt such a descent, and they agreed that at any rate they would halt for the day. The rocks through which the cañon ran were fully a thousand feet high, but they decided that, great as the labour might be, it would be better to make a portage, if possible, rather than descend the cataract. "There is a gulch here running up on to the hill," Tom said. "Hunting Dog and I will start at once and see if it is possible to get up it, and if so how far it is to a place where we can get down again." Harry assented; Leaping Horse without a word joined the explorers, and they set off up the gulch. It was found that the ravine was steep, but not too steep to climb. When they were nearly at the top Hunting Dog pointed to the hillside above them, and they saw a big-horn standing at the edge of the rock. The three fired their rifles simultaneously, and the wild sheep made a spring into the air and then came tumbling down the side of the ravine. As fresh meat was beginning to run short this was a stroke of good fortune, and after reloading their guns they proceeded up the ravine until they reached the crest of the hill. The soil was disintegrated granite, and tufts of short grass grew here and there. After walking about a mile, parallel to the course of the river, they found that the ground descended again, and without much difficulty made their way down until they reached the foot of a little valley; following this they were soon standing by the side of the river. Above, its surface was as closely studded with rocks as was the upper cataract; below, there was another fall that looked impracticable, except that it seemed possible to pass along on the rocks by the side. It was getting dark by the time they rejoined their comrades. "Your report is not a very cheerful one," Harry said, "but at any rate there seems nothing else to be done than to make the portage. The meat you have got for us will re-stock our larder, and as it is up there we sha'n't have the trouble of carrying it over." The next day was a laborious one. One by one the canoes were carried over, but the operation took them from daybreak till dark. The next morning another journey was made to bring over the rugs and stores, and they were able in addition to these to carry down the carcass of the sheep, after first skinning it and cutting off the head with its great horns. Nothing was done for the rest of the day beyond trying whether another portage could be made. This was found to be impracticable, and there was nothing for them but to attempt the descent. They breakfasted as soon as day broke, carried the boats down over the boulder dam with which the rapids commenced, and put them into the water. For some little distance they were able to let them down by ropes, then the rocks at the foot of the cliffs came to an end. Fortunately the seven lariats furnished them with a considerable length of line, and in addition to these the two Indians had on their way down plaited a considerable length of rope, with thongs cut from the skins of the animals they had killed. The total available amount of rope was now divided into two lengths, the ends being fastened to each canoe. One of the boats with its crew on board was lowered to a point where the men were able to get a foothold on a ledge. As soon as they had done so the other boat dropped down to them, and the ropes were played out until they were in turn enabled to get a footing on a similar ledge or jutting rock, sometimes so narrow that but one man was able to stand. So alternately the boats were let down. Sometimes when no foothold could be obtained on the rock wall, the pinnacles and ledges in the stream were utilized. All the work had to be done by gesture, for the thunder of the waters was so tremendous that the loudest shout could not be heard a few yards away. Hour passed after hour. Their progress was extremely slow, as each step had to be closely considered and carried out with the greatest care. At last a terrible accident happened. Harry, Leaping Horse, and Tom were on a ledge. Below them was a fall of three feet, and in the foaming stream below it, rose several jagged rocks. Jerry's canoe was got safely down the fall, but in spite of the efforts of the rowers was carried against the outer side of one of these rocks. They made a great effort to turn the boat's head into the eddy behind it, but as the line touched the rock its sharp edge severed the rope like a knife, and the boat shot away down the rapid. Those on the ledge watched it with breathless anxiety. Two or three dangers were safely passed, then to their horror they saw the head of the canoe rise suddenly as it ran up a sunken ledge just under the water. An instant later the stern swept round, bringing her broadside on to the stream, and she at once capsized. "Quick!" Harry exclaimed, "we must go to their rescue. Keep close to the wall, chief, till we see signs of them. It is safest close in." In an instant they were in their places, and as they released the canoe she shot in a moment over the fall. For a short distance they kept her close to the side, but a projecting ledge threw the current sharply outwards, and the canoe shot out into the full force of the rapid. The chief knelt up in the bow paddle in hand, keeping a vigilant eye for rocks and ledges ahead, and often with a sharp stroke of the paddle, seconded by the effort of Harry in the stern, sweeping her aside just when Tom thought her destruction inevitable. Now she went headlong down a fall, then was caught by an eddy, and was whirled round and round three or four times before the efforts of the paddlers could take her beyond its influence. Suddenly a cry came to their ears. Just as they approached a rocky ledge some thirty feet long, and showing a saw-like edge a foot above the water, the chief gave a shout and struck his paddle into the water. "Behind the rock, Tom, behind the rock!" Harry exclaimed as he swept the stern round. Tom paddled with all his might, and the canoe headed up stream. Quickly as the movement was done, the boat was some twelve yards below the rock as she came round with her nose just in the lower edge of the eddy behind it, while from either side the current closed in on her. Straining every nerve the three paddlers worked as for life. At first Tom thought that the glancing waters would sweep her down, but inch by inch they gained, and drove the boat forward from the grasp of the current into the back eddy, until suddenly, as if released from a vice, she sprang forward. Never in his life had Tom exerted himself so greatly. His eyes were fixed on the rock in front of him, where Hunting Dog was clinging with one hand, while with the other he supported Jerry's head above water. He gave a shout of joy as the chief swept the head of the canoe round, just as it touched the rock, and laid her broadside to it. "Stick your paddle between two points of the rock, Tom," Harry shouted, "while the chief and I get them in. Sit well over on the other side of the boat." With considerable difficulty Jerry, who was insensible, was lifted into the boat. As soon as he was laid down Hunting Dog made his way hand over hand on the gunwale until close to the stern, where he swung himself into the boat without difficulty. "Have you seen Sam?" Harry asked. The young Indian shook his head. "Sam one side of the boat," he said, "Jerry and Hunting Dog the other. Boat went down that chute between those rocks above. Only just room for it. Jerry was knocked off by rock. Hunting Dog was near the stern, there was room for him. He caught Jerry's hunting-shirt, but could not hold on to boat. When came down here made jump at corner of rock. Could not hold on, but current swept him into eddy. Then swam here and held on, and kept calling. Knew his brothers would come down soon." "Here is a spare paddle," Harry said, as he pulled one out from below the network, "there is not a moment to lose. Keep your eyes open, chief." Again the boat moved down the stream. With four paddles going the steersman had somewhat more control over her, but as she flew down the seething water, glanced past rocks and sprang over falls, Tom expected her to capsize every moment. At last he saw below them a stretch of quiet water, and two or three minutes later they were floating upon it, and as if by a common impulse all ceased rowing. "Thanks be to God for having preserved us," Harry said reverently. "We are half-full of water; another five minutes of that work and it would have been all over with us. Do you see any signs of the canoe, chief?" The chief pointed to a ledge of rock extending out into the stream. "Canoe there," he said. They paddled across to it. After what the young Indian had said they had no hopes of finding Sam with it, but Harry gave a deep sigh as he stepped out on to the ledge. "Another gone," he said. "How many of us will get through this place alive? Let us carry Jerry ashore." There was a patch of sand swept up by the eddy below the rock, and here Jerry was taken out and laid down. He moaned as they lifted him. "Easy with him," Harry said. "Steady with that arm. I think he has a shoulder broken, as well as this knock on the head that has stunned him." As soon as he was laid down Harry cut open his shirt on the shoulder. "Broken," he said shortly. "Now, chief, I know that you are a good hand at this sort of thing. How had this better be bandaged?" "Want something soft first." Tom ran to the canoe, brought out the little canvas sack in which he carried his spare flannel shirt, and brought it to the chief. The latter tore off a piece of stuff and rolled it into a wad. "Want two pieces of wood," he said, holding his hands about a foot apart to show the length he required. Harry fetched a spare paddle, and split a strip off each side of the blade. The chief nodded as he took them. "Good," he said. He tore off two more strips of flannel and wrapped them round the splints, then with Harry's aid he placed the shoulder in its natural position, laid the wad of flannel on the top of it, and over this put the two splints. The whole was kept in its place by flannel bandages, and the arm was fastened firmly across the body, so that it could not be moved. Then the little keg of brandy was brought out of the canoe, a spoonful poured into the pannikin, with half as much water, and allowed to trickle between Jerry's lips, while a wad of wet flannel was placed on his head. "There is nothing more we can do for him at present," Harry said. "Now we will right the other boat, and get all the things out to dry." Three or four pounds of flour were found to be completely soaked with water, but the main store was safe, as the bag was sewn up in bear-skin. This was only opened occasionally to take out two or three days' supply, and then carefully closed again. On landing, Hunting Dog had at once started in search of drift-wood, and by this time a fire was blazing. A piece of bear's fat was placed in the frying-pan, and the wetted flour was at once fried into thin cakes, which were tough and tasteless; but the supply was too precious to allow of an ounce being wasted. Some slices of the flesh of the big-horn were cooked. "What is my white brother going to do?" the chief asked Harry. "There is nothing to do that I can see, chief, but to keep on pegging away. We agreed that it would be almost impossible to find our way over these barren mountains. That is not to be thought of, now that one of our number cannot walk. There is no choice left, we have got to go on." "Leaping Horse understand that," the chief said. "He meant would you take both canoes? One is big enough to take five." "Quite big enough, chief, but it would be deeper in the water, and the heavier it is the harder it will bump against any rock it meets; the lighter they are the better. You see, this other canoe, which I dare say struck a dozen times on its way down, shows no sign of damage except the two rents in the skin, that we can mend in a few minutes. Another thing is, two boats are absolutely necessary for this work of letting down by ropes, of which we may expect plenty more. If we had only one, we should be obliged to run every rapid. The only extra trouble that it will give us is at the portages. I think we had better stay here for two or three days, so as to give Jerry a chance of coming round. No doubt we could carry him over the portages just as we can carry the boats, but after such a knock on the head as he has had, it is best that he should be kept quiet for a bit. If his skull is not cracked he won't be long in getting round. He is as hard as nails, and will pull round in the tenth of the time it would take a man in the towns to get over such a knock. It is a pity the halt is not in a better place. There is not a shadow of a chance of finding game among these crags and bare rocks." From time to time fresh water was applied to the wad of flannel round Jerry's head. "Is there any chance, do you think, of finding poor Sam's body?" The chief shook his head. "No shores where it could be washed up, rocks tear it to pieces; or if it get in an eddy, might be there for weeks. No see Sam any more." The fire was kept blazing all night, and they took it by turns to sit beside Jerry and to pour occasionally a little brandy and water between his lips. As the men were moving about preparing breakfast the next morning Jerry suddenly opened his eyes. He looked at Tom, who was sitting beside him. "Time to get up?" he asked. "Why did you not wake me?" And he made an effort to move. Tom put his hand on him. "Lie still, Jerry. You have had a knock on the head, but you are all right now." The miner lay quiet. His eyes wandered confusedly over the figures of the others, who had, when they heard his voice, gathered round him. "What in thunder is the matter with me?" he asked. "What is this thing on my head? What is the matter with my arm, I don't seem able to move it?" "It is the knock you have had, Jerry," Harry said cheerfully. "You have got a bump upon your head half as big as a cocoa-nut, and you have damaged your shoulder. You have got a wet flannel on your head, and the chief has bandaged your arm. I expect your head will be all right in a day or two, but I reckon you won't be able to use your arm for a bit." Jerry lay quiet without speaking for a few minutes, then he said: "Oh, I remember now; we were capsized. I had hold of the canoe, and I remember seeing a rock just ahead. I suppose I knocked against it." "That was it, mate. Hunting Dog let go his hold and caught you, and managed to get into an eddy and cling to the rocks till we came down and took you on board." Jerry held out his hand to the Indian. "Thankee," he said. "I owe you one, Hunting Dog. If I ever get the chance you can reckon on me sure, whatever it is. But where is Sam? Why ain't he here?" "Sam has gone under, mate," Harry replied. "That chute you went down was only just wide enough for the boat to go through, and no doubt he was knocked off it at the same time as you were; but as the Indian was on your side, he saw nothing of Sam. I reckon he sank at once, just as you would have done if Hunting Dog hadn't been behind you." Jerry made no reply, but as he lay still, with his eyes closed, some big tears made their way through the lids and rolled down his bronzed face. The others thought it best to leave him by himself, and continued their preparations for breakfast.

18

BACK TO DENVER

"When are you going to make a start again?" Jerry asked, after drinking a pannikin of tea. "We are not going on to-day; perhaps not to-morrow. It will depend on how you get on." "I shall be a nuisance to you anyway," the miner said, "and it would be a dog-goned sight the best way to leave me here; but I know you won't do that, so it ain't no use my asking you. I expect I shall be all right to-morrow except for this shoulder, but just now my head is buzzing as if there was a swarm of wild bees inside." "You will be all the better when you have had a good sleep; I reckon we could all do a bit that way. Young Tom and Hunting Dog are going to try a bit of fishing with those hooks of yours. We talked about it when we started, you know, but we have not done anything until now. We want a change of food badly. We may be a month going down this cañon for anything I know, and if it keeps on like this there ain't a chance of seeing a head of game. It ought to be a good place for fish at the foot of the rapids--that is, if there are any fish here, and I reckon there should be any amount of them. If they do catch some, we will wait here till we can dry a good stock. We have nothing now but the dried flesh and some of the big-horn. There ain't above twenty pounds of flour left, and we could clear up all there is in the boat in a week. So you need not worry that you are keeping us." Half an hour later Hunting Dog and Tom put out in one of the canoes, and paddling to the foot of the rapids let the lines drop overboard, the hooks being baited with meat. It was not many minutes before the Indian felt a sharp pull. There was no occasion to play the fish, for the line was strong enough to hold a shark, and a trout of six pounds weight was soon laid in the bottom of the boat. "My turn now," Tom said; and the Indian with a smile took the paddle from his hand, and kept the boat up stream while Tom attended to the lines. Fish after fish was brought up in rapid succession, and when about mid-day a call from below told them that it was time for dinner, they had some thirty fish averaging five pounds' weight at the bottom of the boat. There was a shout of satisfaction from Harry as he looked down into the canoe, and even the chief gave vent to a grunt that testified his pleasure. "Hand me up four of them, Tom; I did not know how much I wanted a change of food till my eyes lit on those beauties. We saw you pulling them out, but I did not expect it was going to be as good as this." The fish were speedily split open, and laid on ramrods over the fire. "I reckon you will want another one for me," Jerry, who had been asleep since they started, remarked. "I don't know that I am good for one as big as those, but I reckon I can pick a bit anyhow." A small fish was put on with the others, and as soon as they were grilled, all set to at what seemed to Tom the best meal he had ever eaten in his life. He thought when he handed them to Harry that two would have been amply sufficient for them all, but he found no difficulty whatever in disposing of a whole one single-handed. "Now, Tom, the chief and I will take our turn while you and Hunting Dog prepare your catch. He will show you how to do it, it is simple enough. Cut off the heads, split and clean them, run a skewer through to keep them flat, and then lay them on that rock in the sun to dry. Or wait, I will rig up a line between two of the rocks for you to hang them on. There is not much wind, but what there is will dry them better than if they were laid flat." Jerry went off to sleep again as soon as the meal was finished, and the bandages round his head re-wetted. The paddle from which the strips had been cut furnished wood for the skewers, and in the course of half an hour the fish were all hanging on a line. Twenty two more were brought in at sunset. Some of these, after being treated like the others, were hung in the smoke of the fire, while the rest were suspended like the first batch. The next morning Jerry was able to move about, and the fishing went on all day, and by night a quantity, considered sufficient, had been brought ashore. "There are over four hundred pounds altogether," Harry said, "though by the time they are dried they won't be more than half that weight. Two pounds of dried fish a man is enough to keep him going, and they will last us twenty days at that rate, and it will be hard luck if we don't find something to help it out as we go down." They stopped another day to allow the drying to be completed. The fish were taken down and packed on board that evening, and at daylight they were afloat again. For the next ten days their labours were continuous. They passed several rapids as bad as the one that had cost them so dear; but as they gained experience they became more skilful in letting down the boats. Some days only two or three miles were gained, on others they made as much as twelve. At last they got out of the granite; beyond this the task was much easier, and on the fifteenth day after leaving their fishing-ground, they emerged from the cañon. By this time Jerry had perfectly recovered, and was with great difficulty persuaded to keep his arm bandaged. He had chafed terribly at first at his helplessness, and at being unable to take any share in the heavy labours of the others; but after the rapids were passed he was more contented, and sat quietly at the bottom of the boat smoking, while Harry and Tom paddled, the two Indians forming the crew of the other canoe. The diet of fish had been varied by bear's flesh, Leaping Horse having shot a large brown bear soon after they got through the rapids. A shout of joy was raised by the three whites as they issued from the gorge into a quiet valley, through which the river ran, a broad tranquil stream. Even the Indians were stirred to wave their paddles above their heads and to give a ringing whoop as their companions cheered. The boats were headed for the shore, and the camp was formed near a large clump of bushes. Their joy at their deliverance from the dangers of the cañon was dashed only by the thought of the loss of their two comrades. The next day three short cañons were passed through, but these presented no difficulties, and in the afternoon they reached the mouth of the Rio Virgen, and continuing their journey arrived five days later at Fort Mojarve. This was a rising settlement, for it was here that the traders' route between Los Angeles and Santa Fé crossed the Colorado. Their appearance passed almost unnoticed, for a large caravan had arrived that afternoon and was starting east the next morning. "We had best hold our tongues about it altogether," Harry said, as soon as he heard that the caravan was going on the next morning. "In the first place they won't believe us, and that would be likely to lead to trouble; and in the next place we should be worried out of our lives with questions. Besides, we have got to get a fresh outfit, for we are pretty near in rags, and to buy horses, food, and kit. We can leave the boats on the shore, no one is likely to come near them." "I will stop and look after them," Tom said. "There are the saddles, buffalo-robes, blankets, and ammunition. This shirt is in rags, and the last moccasins Hunting Dog made me are pretty nearly cut to pieces by the rocks. I would rather stay here and look after the boats than go into the village; besides, it will save you the trouble of carrying all these bags of gold about with you." Harry nodded, cut two of the little bags free from their lashings and dropped them into his pocket, and then went up to the Fort with Jerry and the Indians. Tom cut the other bags loose and put them on the ground beside him, threw a buffalo-robe over them, and then sat for some hours watching the quiet river and thinking over all they had gone through. It was almost dark when the others returned. "It has taken us some time, Tom," his uncle said as they threw some bundles down beside him; "the stores and clothes were easy enough, but we had a lot of trouble to find horses. However, we did not mind much what we paid for them, and the traders were ready to sell a few at the prices we offered. So we have got five riding horses and two pack-ponies, which will be enough for us. That bundle is your lot, riding breeches and boots, three pairs of stockings, two flannel shirts, a Mexican hat, and a silk neck handkerchief. We may as well change at once and go up to the village." The change was soon effected. Harry and Jerry Curtis had clothes similar to those they had bought for Tom, while the Indians wore over their shirts new deer-skin embroidered hunting-shirts, and had fringed Mexican leggings instead of breeches and boots. They, too, had procured Mexican sombreros. Taking their rifles and pistols, and hiding their stock of ammunition, the gold, and their buffalo-robes and blankets, they went up to the village. It was by this time quite dark: the houses were all lit up, and the drinking-shops crowded with the teamsters, who seemed bent on making a night of it, this being the last village through which they would pass until their arrival at Santa Fé. They slept as usual, wrapped up in their buffalo-robes by the side of the boats, as all agreed that this was preferable to a close room in a Mexican house. They were all a-foot as soon as daylight broke, and went up and breakfasted at a fonda, Tom enjoying the Mexican cookery after the simple diet he had been accustomed to. Then they went to the stable where the horses, which were strong serviceable-looking animals, had been placed, and put on their saddles and bridles. The pack-horses were then laden with flour, tea, sugar, bacon, and other necessaries. By the time all was ready the caravan was just starting. Harry had spoken the afternoon before to two of its leaders, and said that he and four companions would be glad to ride with them to Santa Fé. Permission was readily granted, the traders being pleased at the accession of five well-armed men; for although Indian raids were comparatively rare along this trail, there was still a certain amount of danger involved in the journey. Some hours were occupied in crossing the river in two heavy ferry-boats, and the process would have been still longer had not half the waggons been sent across on the previous afternoon. The long journey was made without incident, and no Indians were met with. A few deer were shot, but as it was now late in the autumn the scanty herbage on the plains was all withered up, and the game had for the most part moved away into deep valleys where they could obtain food. The tale of their passage of the cañons was told more than once, but although it was listened to with interest, Harry perceived that it was not really believed. That they had been hunting, had been attacked by Indians, had made canoes and passed through some of the cañons was credible enough, but that they should have traversed the whole of the lower course of the Colorado, seemed to the traders, who were all men experienced in the country, simply incredible. The party stopped at Santa Fé a few days, and then started north, travelling through the Mexican villages, and finally striking across to Denver. At Santa Fé they had converted the contents of their bags into money, which had been equally shared among them. The Indians were not willing to accept more than the recognized monthly pay, but Harry would not hear of it. "This has been no ordinary business, Leaping Horse," he said warmly; "we have all been as brothers together, and for weeks have looked death in the face every hour, and we must share all round alike in the gold we have brought back. Gold is just as useful to an Indian as it is to a white man, and when you add this to the hoard you spoke of, you will have enough to buy as many horses and blankets as you can use all your lifetime, and to settle down in your wigwam and take a wife to yourself whenever you choose. I fancy from what you said, Hunting Dog has his eye on one of the maidens of your tribe. Well, he can buy her father's favour now. The time is coming, chief, when the Indians of the plains will have to take to white men's ways. The buffaloes are fast dying out, and in a few years it will be impossible to live by hunting, and the Indians will have to keep cattle and build houses and live as we do. With his money Hunting Dog could buy a tidy ranche with a few hundred head of cattle. Of course, he can hunt as much as he likes so long as there is any game left, but he will find that as his cattle increase, he will have plenty to look after at home." "We will take the gold if my brother wishes it," the chief replied gravely. "He is wise, and though now it seems to Leaping Horse that red-skins have no need of gold, it may be that some day he and Hunting Dog may be glad that they have done as their brother wished." "Thank you, Leaping Horse. It will make my heart glad when I may be far away from you across the great salt water to know that there will always be comfort in my brother's wigwam." On arriving at Denver they went straight to the Empire. As they entered the saloon Pete Hoskings looked hard at them. "Straight Harry, by thunder!" he shouted; "and Jerry Curtis, and young Tom; though I would not have known him if he hadn't been with the others. Well, this air a good sight for the eyes, and to-morrow Christmas-day. I had begun to be afeard that something had gone wrong with you, I looked for news from you nigh three months ago. I got the message you sent me in the spring, and I have asked every old hand who came along east since the end of August, if there had been any news of you, and I began to fear that you had been rubbed out by the Utes." "We have had a near escape of it, Pete; but it is a long story. Can you put us all up? You know Leaping Horse, don't you? The other is his nephew." "I should think I do know Leaping Horse," Pete said warmly, and went across and shook the Indian's hand heartily. "I was looking at you three, and did not notice who you had with you. In that letter the chap brought me, you said that the chief was going with you, and Sam Hicks and Ben Gulston. I did not know them so well; that is, I never worked with them, though they have stopped here many a time." "They have gone under, Pete. Sam was drowned in the Colorado, Ben shot by the Navahoes. We have all had some close calls, I can tell you. Well now, can you put us up?" "You need not ask such a question as that, Harry," Pete said in an aggrieved tone, "when you know very well that if the place was chock-full, I would clear the crowd out to make room for you. There are three beds in the room over this that will do for you three; and there is a room beside it as Leaping Horse and his nephew can have, though I reckon they won't care to sleep on the beds." "No more shall we, Pete. We have been fifteen months and more sleeping in the open, and we would rather have our buffalo-robes and blankets than the softest bed in the world." "You must have had a cold time of it the last three months up in those Ute hills, where you said you were going." "We left there five months ago, Pete. We have been down as low as Fort Mojarve, and then crossed with a caravan of traders to Santa Fé." Pete began pouring out the liquor. "Oh, you won't take one, chief, nor the young brave. Yes; I remember you do not touch the fire-water, and you may be sure I won't press you. Well, luck to you all, and right glad I am to see you again. Ah! here is my bartender. Now we will get a good fire lit in another room and hurry up supper, and then we will talk it all over. You have put your horses up, I suppose?" "Yes; we knew you had no accommodation that way, Pete." The room into which Pete now led them was not his own sanctum, but one used occasionally when a party of miners coming in from the hills wanted to have a feast by themselves, or when customers wished to talk over private business. There was a table capable of seating some twelve people, a great stove, and some benches. A negro soon lighted a large fire; then, aided by a boy, laid the table, and it was not long before they sat down to a good meal. When it was over, Pete said: "Lend me a hand, Jerry, to push this table aside, then we will bring the benches round the stove and hear all about it. I told the bar-tender that I am not to be disturbed, and that if anyone wants to see me he is to say that he has got to wait till to-morrow, for that I am engaged on important business. Here are brandy and whisky, and tobacco and cigars, and coffee for the chief and his nephew." "I think you may say for all of us, Pete," Harry said. "After being a year without spirits, Jerry, Tom, and I have agreed to keep without them. We wouldn't say no to you when you asked us to take a drink, and we have not sworn off, but Jerry and I have agreed that we have both been all the better without them, and mean to keep to it; and as for Tom, he prefers coffee." "Do as you please," Pete said; "I am always glad to hear men say no. I have made a lot of money out of it, but I have seen so many fellows ruined by it that I am always pleased to see a man give up drink." "There is one thing, Pete," Tom said, "before we begin. We left our bundles of robes and blankets in the next room, if you don't mind I would a deal rather spread them out here--and I am sure the chief and Hunting Dog would--and squat down on them, instead of sitting on these benches. It is a long story uncle will have to tell you." "We will fetch ours too," Harry agreed. "Benches are all well enough for sitting at the table to eat one's dinner, but why a man should sit on them when he can sit on the ground is more than I can make out." Pete nodded. "I will have my rocking-chair in," he said, "and then we shall be fixed up for the evening." The arrangements were soon made; pipes were lighted; the landlord sat in his chair at some little distance back from the front of the stove; Tom and the two Indians sat on their rugs on one side; Harry and Jerry Curtis completed the semicircle on the other. "Well, in the first place, Pete," Harry began, "you will be glad to hear that we have struck it rich--the biggest thing I have ever seen. It is up in the Ute country. We have staked out a claim for you next our own. There are about five hundred pounds of samples lying at Fort Bridger, and a bit of the rock we crushed, panned out five hundred ounces to the ton." "You don't say!" Pete exclaimed. "If there is much of that stuff, Harry, you have got a bonanza." "There is a good bit of it anyhow, Pete. It is a true vein, and though it is not all like that, it keeps good enough. Fifty feet back we found it run twenty ounces. That is on the surface, we can't say how it goes down in depth. Where we struck it on the face it was about fourteen feet high, and the lode kept its width for that depth anyhow." "That air good enough," the landlord said. "Now, what do you reckon on doing?" "The place is among the hills, Pete, and the Utes are hostile, and went very nigh rubbing us all out. We reckon it ought to be worked by a party of thirty men at least. They ought to be well armed, and must build a sort of fort. I don't think the Utes would venture to attack them if they were of that strength. There is a little stream runs close to the vein, and if it were dammed up it would drive a couple of stamps, which, with a concentrator and tables and blankets, would be quite enough for such stuff as that. I reckon fifteen men will be quite enough to work, and to hold the fort. The other fifteen men would include three or four hunters, and the rest would go backwards and forwards to Bridger for supplies, and to take the gold down. They would be seven or eight days away at a time; and if there should be trouble with the red-skins they would always be back before those at the fort were really pressed. But we should not be alone long, the news that a rich thing had been struck would bring scores of miners up in no time. "We have taken up our own ten claims, which will include, of course, the rich part. Then we have taken up the next eight or ten claims for our friends. As I said, we put yours next to ours. We have not registered them yet, but that will be the first job; and of course you and the others will each have to put a man on your claims to hold them. The lode shows on the other side of the creek, though not so rich; still plenty good enough to work. But as we shall practically get all the water, the lode cannot be worked by anyone but ourselves. Still the gravel is rich all down the creek, as rich as anything I have seen in California, and will be sure to be taken up by miners as soon as we are at work. So there will be no real danger of trouble from the Indians then. What we propose is this. We don't what to sell out, we think it is good enough to hold, but we want to get a company to find the money for getting up the machinery, building a strong block-house with a palisade, laying in stores, and working the place. Jerry, Tom, and I would of course be in command, at any rate for the first year or so, when the rich stuff was being worked." "How much money do you think it will want, and what share do you think of giving, Harry?" "Well, I should say fifty thousand dollars, though I believe half that would be enough. Not a penny would be required after the first ton of rock goes through the stamps. But we should have to take the stamps and ironwork from the railway terminus to Bridger, and then down. We might calculate on a month or six weeks in getting up the fort, making the leat and water-wheel, putting up the machinery, and laying down the flumes. Say two months from the time we leave Bridger to the time we begin to work. There would be the pay of the men all that time, the cost of transporting stores, and all that sort of thing; so it would be better to say fifty thousand dollars. What share ought we to offer for that?" "Well, if you could bring that five hundredweight of stuff here and get it crushed up, and it turns out as good as you say, I could get you the money in twenty-four hours. I would not mind going half of it myself, and I should say that a quarter share would be more than good enough." "Well, we thought of a third, Pete." "Well, if you say a third you may consider that part of the business is done. You won't be able to apply for claims in the names of Sam and Ben, and if you did it would be no good, because they could not assign them over to the company. There are eight claims without them, and the one you have put down in my name is nine. Well, I can get say eleven men in this place, who will give you an assignment of their claims for five dollars apiece. That is done every day. I just say to them, I am registering a share in your name in the Tom Cat Mine, write an assignment to me of it and I am good for five dollars' worth of liquor, take it out as you like. The thing is as easy as falling off a log. Well, what are you thinking of doing next?" "We shall buy a light waggon and team to-morrow or next day and drive straight over to Bridger, then we shall go to Salt Lake City and register our claims at the mining-office there. We need not give the locality very precisely. Indeed, we could not describe it ourselves so that anyone could find it, and nobody would go looking for it before spring comes and the snow clears. Besides, there are scores of wild-cat claims registered every year. Until they turn out good no one thinks anything of them. When we have got that done we will go back to Bridger, and fetch the rock over here. We will write to-morrow to Pittsburg for the mining outfit, for all the ironwork of the stamps, the concentrator, and everything required, with axes, picks, and shovels, blasting tools and powder, to be sent as far as they have got the railway." "But they will want the money with the order, Harry," Pete said in a tone of surprise. "They will have the money. We washed the gravel for a couple of months before the Utes lit on us, and after buying horses and a fresh outfit for us all at Fort Mojarve, we have between us got something like five thousand dollars in gold and greenbacks." "Jee-hoshaphat!" Pete exclaimed; "that was good indeed for two months' work. Well, look here, there is no hurry for a few days about your starting back to Bridger. Here we are now, nearly at the end of December. It will take you a month to get there, say another fortnight to go on to Salt Lake City and register your claim and get back to Bridger, then it would be a month getting back here again; that would take you to the middle of March. Well, you see it would be pretty nigh the end of April before you were back at Bridger, then you would have to get your waggons and your men, and that would be too late altogether. "You have got to pick your miners carefully, I can tell you; and it is not a job to be done in a hurry. When they see what gold there is in the rock they will soon set to work washing the gravel, and the day they do they will chuck up your work altogether. I will tell you what I would rather do, and that is, pick up green hands from the east. There are scores of them here now; men who have come as far as this, and can't start west till the snows melt. You need not think anything more about the money. You tell me what you crushed is a fair sample of that five hundred pounds, and that is quite good enough for me, and the gravel being so rich is another proof of what the lode was when the stream cut through it. I can put the twenty-five thousand dollars down, and there are plenty of men here who will take my word for the affair and plank their money down too. If there weren't I would put a mortgage on my houses, so that matter is done. To-morrow I will get the men whose names you are to give in for a claim each; it will be time in another two months to begin to look about for some steady chaps from the east, farmers' sons and such like. That is, if you think that plan is a good one. I mean to see this thing through, and I shall go with you myself, and we three can do the blasting." "We shall be wanted to look after the stamps and pans," Harry said. "We had best get three or four old hands for the rock." "Yes, that is best," Pete said. "Between us it is hard if we can't lay our hands upon men we can trust, and who will give us their word to stay with us if we offer them six dollars a day." "We might offer them ten dollars," Harry said, "without hurting ourselves; but we can say six dollars to begin with, and put some more on afterwards." "There is old Mat Morgan," Jerry put in. "I don't know whether he is about here now. I would trust him. He is getting old for prospecting among the hills now, but he is as good a miner as ever swung a sledge-hammer, and as straight as they make them." "Yes, he is a good man," Pete agreed. And after some talk they settled upon three others, all of whom, Pete said, were either in the town or would be coming in shortly. "Now, you stop here for a week or two, or a month if you like, Harry, then you can go to Salt Lake City as you propose, and then go back to Bridger. If as you pass through you send me five-and-twenty pounds of that rock by express, it will make it easier for me to arrange the money affair. When you get back you might crush the rest up and send me word what it has panned out, then later on you can go down again to Salt Lake City and buy the waggons and flour and bacon, and take them back to Bridger. When March comes in, I will start from here with some waggons. We want them to take the machinery, and powder and tools, and the tea and coffee and things like that, of which we will make a list, on to Bridger, with the four men we pick out, if I can get them all; if not, some others in their place, and a score of young emigrants. I shall have no difficulty in picking out sober, steady chaps, for in a place like this I can find out about their habits before I engage them. However, there will be plenty of time to settle all those points. Now, let us hear all about your adventures. I have not heard about you since Tom left, except that he wrote me a short letter from Bridger saying that you had passed the winter up among the mountains by the Big Wind River. That you had had troubles with the Indians, and hadn't been able to do much trapping or looking for gold." "Well, we will tell it between us," Harry said, "for it is a long yarn." It was, indeed, past midnight before the story was all told. Long before it was finished the two Indians had taken up their rugs and gone up to their room, and although the other three had taken by turns to tell the tale of their adventures, they were all hoarse with speaking by the time they got through. Pete had often stopped them to ask question at various points where the narrators had been inclined to cut the story short. "That beats all," he said, when they brought it to an end. "Only to think that you have gone down the Grand Cañon. I would not have minded being with you when you were fighting the 'Rappahoes or the Utes, but I would not try going down the cañons for all the gold in California. Well, look here, boys, I know that what you tell me is gospel truth, and all the men who know you well, will believe every word you say, but I would not tell the tale to strangers, for they would look on you as the all-firedest liars in creation." "We have learnt that already, Pete," Harry laughed, "and we mean to keep it to ourselves, at any rate till we have got the mine at work. People may not believe the story of a man in a red shirt, and, mind you, I have heard a good many powerful lies told round a miner's fire, but when it is known we have got a wonderfully rich gold mine, I fancy it will be different. The men would say, if fellows are sharp enough to find a bonanza, it stands to reason they may be sharp enough to find their way down a cañon. Now, let us be off to bed, for the heat of the stove has made me so sleepy that for the last hour I have hardly been able to keep my eyes open, and have scarcely heard a word of what Jerry and Tom have been saying." They only remained a few days at Denver. After the life they had been leading they were very speedily tired of that of the town, and at the end of a week they started on horseback, with a light waggon drawn by a good team, to carry their stores for the journey and to serve as a sleeping-place. There had been no question about the Indians accompanying them, this was regarded as a matter of course. It was by no means a pleasant journey. They had frequent snow-storms and biting wind, and had sometimes to work for hours to get the waggon out of deep snow, which had filled up gullies and converted them into traps. After a stay of three days at Fort Bridger to rest the animals, they went on to Utah, having forwarded the sample of quartz to Pete Hoskings. A fortnight was spent at Salt Lake City. Waggons, bullocks, and stores were purchased, and Harry arranged with some teamsters to bring the waggons out to Fort Bridger as soon as the snow cleared from the ground.

19

A FORTUNE

On their return to Fort Bridger Harry and his companions pounded up the quartz that had been left there, and found that its average equalled that of the piece they had tried at the mine. The gold was packed in a box and sent to Pete Hoskings. A letter came back in return from him, saying that five of his friends had put in five thousand dollars each, and that he should start with the stores and machinery as soon as the track was clear of snow. The season was an early one, and in the middle of April he arrived with four large waggons and twenty active-looking young emigrants, and four miners, all of whom were known to Harry. There was a good deal of talk at Bridger about the expedition, and many offered to take service in it. But when Harry said that the lode they were going to prospect was in the heart of the Ute country, and that he himself had been twice attacked by the red-skins, the eagerness to accompany him abated considerably. The fact, too, that it was a vein that would have to be worked by machinery, was in itself sufficient to deter solitary miners from trying to follow it up. Scarce a miner but had located a score of claims in different parts of the country, and these being absolutely useless to them, without capital to work them with, they would gladly have disposed of them for a few dollars. It was not, therefore, worth while to risk a perilous journey merely on the chance of being able to find another vein in the neighbourhood of that worked by Harry and the men who had gone into it with him. There was, however, some surprise among the old hands when Pete Hoskings arrived with the waggons. "What! Have you cut the saloon, Pete, and are you going in for mining again?" one of them said as he alighted from his horse. Pete gave a portentous wink. "I guess I know what I am doing, Joe Radley. I am looking after the interests of a few speculators at Denver, who have an idea that they are going to get rich all of a sudden. I was sick of the city, and it just suited me to take a run and to get out of the place for a few months." "Do you think it is rich, Pete?" "One never can say," Hoskings replied with a grin. "We are not greenhorns any of us, and we know there is no saying how things are going to turn out. Straight Harry has had a run of bad luck for the last two years, and I am glad to give him a shoulder up, you know. I reckon he won't come badly off any way it turns out." It was not much, but it was quite enough to send a rumour round the fort that Pete Hoskings had been puffing up a wild-cat mine in Denver for the sake of getting Straight Harry appointed boss of the expedition to test it. Everything was ready at Bridger, and they delayed but twenty-four hours there. The teams had arrived from Salt Lake City with the stores a week before, and the eight waggons set off together. Pete, the three partners, the two Indians, and the four miners were all mounted. There were eight other horses ridden by as many of the young fellows Pete had brought with him, the rest walked on foot. They marched directly for the mine, as with such a force it was not necessary to make a detour over the bad lands. At the first halting-place some long cases Pete had brought with him were opened, and a musket handed to each of the emigrants, together with a packet of ammunition. "Now," Pete said, "if the Utes meddle with us we will give them fits. But I reckon they will know better than to interfere with us." The rate of progress with the heavy waggons was necessarily very much slower than that at which the party had travelled on their previous journey, and it was not until the afternoon of the eighth day after starting, that they came down into the valley. A halt was made at the former camping-place in the grove of trees, and the next morning Pete and the miners went up with Harry and his friends to choose a spot for the fort, and to examine the lode. As soon as the earth was scraped away from the spot from which the rock had been taken, exclamations of astonishment broke from the miners. They had been told by Pete that Harry had struck it rich, but all were astonished at the numerous particles and flakes of gold that protruded from the rock. Pete had forwarded early in the spring to Harry the list of the claimants to the mine, and the latter and Tom had ridden over to Salt Lake City a few days before the waggons came up from there to register the claims at the mining-office, and the first step was to stake out these claims upon the lode. "It doesn't run like this far," Harry said to the miners, "and I reckon that beyond our ground it doesn't run above two ounces to the ton, so I don't think it is worth while your taking up claims beyond. Of course, you can do so if you like, and we will allow you an hour off every few days during the season to work your claims enough to keep possession, and of an evening you can do a bit of washing down below. You will find it good-pay dirt everywhere. At least we did as far as we tried it." They now fixed on the site for the fort. It was upon the top of the bank, some twenty yards above the lode, and it was settled there should be a strong double palisade running down from it to the stream, so that in case of siege they could fetch water without being exposed to the bullets of an enemy taking post higher up the creek. Among the men from Denver were two or three experienced carpenters, and a blacksmith, for whose use a portable forge had been brought in the waggons. The party returned to breakfast, and as soon as this was over the teams were put in and the waggons were brought up and unloaded, the stores being protected from wet by the canvas that formed the tilts. Some of the men accustomed to the use of the axe had been left in the valley to fell trees, and as soon as the waggons were unloaded they were sent down to bring up timber. All worked hard, and at the end of the week a log-hut fifty feet long and twenty-five feet wide had been erected. The walls were five feet high, and the roof was formed of the trunks of young trees squared, and laid side by side. As rain fell seldom in that region it was not considered necessary to place shingles over them, as this could, in case of need, be done later on. The door opened out into the passage between the palisades down to the water, and the windows were all placed on the same side, loopholes being cut at short intervals round the other three sides. Another fortnight completed the preparations for work. The stamps were erected, with the water-wheel to work them; the stream dammed a hundred yards up, and a leat constructed to bring the water down to the wheel. The waggons were formed up in a square. In this the horses were shut every night, four of the men by turns keeping guard there. During the last few days the miners had been at work blasting the quartz, and as soon as the stamps and machinery were in position they were ready to begin. The men were all told off to various duties, some to carry the rock down to the stamps, others to break it up into convenient sizes; two men fed the stamps, others attended to the concentrator and blankets, supervised by Harry. It was the duty of some to take the horses down to the valley and guard them while they were feeding, and bring them back at night. Two men were to bake and cook, Pete Hoskings taking this special department under his care. Jerry worked with the miners, and Tom was his uncle's assistant. The stamps were to be kept going night and day, and each could crush a ton in twenty-four hours. To their great satisfaction each of the men was allowed one day a week to himself, during which he could prospect for other lodes or wash gravel as he pleased. The old cradle was found where it had been left, and as five of the men were off duty each day, they formed themselves into gangs and worked the cradle by turns, adding very considerably to the liberal pay they received. The two Indians hunted, and seldom returned without game of some sort or other. As the quicksilver in the concentrator was squeezed by Harry or Tom, and the blankets washed by them, none but themselves knew what the returns were. They and their partners were, however, more than satisfied with the result, for although the lode was found to pinch in as they got lower, it maintained for the first six weeks the extraordinary average of that they had first crushed. At the end of that time the Indians reported that they had seen traces of the Utes having visited the valley. The number of men who went down with the horses was at once doubled, one or other of the Indians staying down with them, preceding them in the morning by half an hour to see that the valley was clear. A week later the horses were seen coming back again a quarter of an hour after they had started. The men caught up their guns, which were always placed handy for them while at work, and ran out to meet the returning party. "What is it, Hunting Dog?" "A large war-party," the Indian replied. "Three hundred or more." The horses were driven into the inclosure, half the men took their places among the waggons, and the others, clustered round the hut, prepared to enter it as soon as the Indians made their appearance. The partners had already arranged what course to take if the Indians should come down on them, and were for all reasons most anxious that hostilities should if possible be avoided. Presently the Indians were seen approaching at a gallop. As soon as they caught sight of the log-house and the inclosure of waggons they reined in their horses. The men had been ordered to show themselves, and the sight of some forty white men all armed with rifles brought the Indians to a dead stand-still. Pete Hoskings went forward a little and waved a white cloth, and then Harry and the chief, leaving their rifles behind them stepped up to his side and held their arms aloft. There was a short consultation among the Indians, and then two chiefs dismounted, handed their rifles and spears to their men, and in turn advanced. Harry and Leaping Horse went forward until they met the chiefs halfway between the two parties. Harry began the conversation. "Why do my red brothers wish to fight?" he asked. "We are doing them no harm. We are digging in the hills. Why should we not be friends?" "The white men killed many of the Utes when they were here last year," one of the chiefs replied. "Why do they come upon the Utes' land?" "It was the fault of the Utes," Harry said. "The white men wished only to work in peace. The Utes tried to take their scalps, and the white men were forced against their will to fight. No one can be blamed for defending his life. We wish for peace, but, as the Utes can see, we are quite ready to defend ourselves. There are forty rifles loaded and ready, and, as you may see, a strong house. We have no fear. Last time we were but few, but the Utes found that it was not easy to kill us. Now we are many, and how many of the Utes would die before they took our scalps? Nevertheless we wish for peace. The land is the land of the Utes, and although we are strong and could hold it if we chose, we do not wish to take it by force from our red brothers. We are ready to pay for the right to live and work quietly. Let the chiefs go back to their friends and talk together, and say how many blankets and how many guns and what weight of ammunition and tobacco they will be content with. Then if they do not ask too much, the white men will, so long as they remain here, pay that amount each year in order that they may live in peace with the Utes." The two Indians glanced at each other. "My white brother is wise," one said. "Why did he not tell the Utes so last year?" "Because you never gave us time, chief. If you had done so we would have said the same to you then, and your young men would be with you now; but you came as enemies upon us, and when the rifle is speaking the voice is silent." "I will speak with my braves," the chief said gravely. And turning round they walked back to their party, while Harry and the chief returned to the huts. "What do you think, chief? Will it be peace?" Leaping Horse nodded. "Too many rifles," he said. "The Utes will know they could never take block-house." It was nearly two hours before the two Utes advanced as before, and Harry and the Seneca went out to meet them. "My white brother's words are good," the chief said. "The Utes are great warriors, but they do not wish to fight against the white men who come as friends. The chiefs have talked with their braves, and the hatchets will be buried. This is what the Utes ask that the white men who have taken their land shall pay them." Harry had arranged that the chief, who spoke the Ute language more perfectly than he did, should take charge of the bargaining. On the list being given Leaping Horse assumed an expression of stolid indifference. "The land must be very dear in the Ute country," he said. "Do my brothers suppose that the white men are mad that they ask such terms? Peace would be too dear if bought at such a price. They are willing to deal liberally with the Utes, but not to give as much as would buy twenty hills. They will give this." And he enumerated a list of articles, amounting to about one quarter of the Indians' demands. The bargaining now went on in earnest, and finally it was settled that a quantity of goods, amounting to about half the Indians' first demand, should be accepted, and both parties returned to their friends well satisfied. A certain amount of goods had been brought out with a view to such a contingency, and half the amount claimed was handed over to the Utes. They had, indeed, more than enough to satisfy the demands, but Leaping Horse had suggested to Harry that only a portion should be given, as otherwise the Indians might suppose that their wealth was boundless. It would be better to promise to deliver the rest in three months' time. A dozen of the principal men of the Utes came over. The goods were examined and accepted, the calumet of peace was smoked and a solemn covenant of friendship entered into, and by the next morning the Indians had disappeared. One end of the hut had been partitioned off for the use of the leaders of the party, and the gold obtained each day was carried by them there and deposited in a strong iron box, of which several had been brought by Pete Hoskings from Denver. The day after the Indians left, a waggon, was sent off under the escort of eight mounted labourers to Bridger, and this continued to make the journey backward and forward regularly with the boxes of gold, Jerry and Pete Hoskings taking it by turns to command the escort. Harry and Pete had had a talk with the officer in command at Bridger on the evening before they had started on the expedition. "You think you are going to send in a large quantity of gold?" the officer asked. "If the mines are such as we think, Major, we may be sending down two or three hundredweight a month." "Of course, the gold will be perfectly safe as long as it is in the fort, but if it gets known how much there is, you will want a strong convoy to take it across to the railway, and it would not be safe even then. Of course, the bulk is nothing. I should say at any rate you had better get it in here with as little fuss as possible." "If you will keep it here for awhile," Pete said, "we will think over afterwards how it is to be taken further." The officer nodded. "It mayn't turn out as difficult a business as you think," he said with a smile. "You are both old hands enough to know that mines very seldom turn out as rich as they are expected to do." "We both know that," Pete Hoskings agreed. "I dunno as I ever did hear of a mine that turned out anything nigh as good as it ought to have done from samples, but I reckon that this is going to be an exception." When within a few miles of the fort the escort always placed their rifles in the waggon and rode on some distance ahead of it, only one or two with their leader remaining by it. The boxes, which were of no great size, were covered by a sack or two thrown down in the corner of the waggon, and on its arrival in the fort it was taken first to the store, where a considerable quantity of provisions, flour, molasses, bacon, tea and sugar, currants and raisins, and other articles were purchased and placed in it. This was the ostensible purpose of the journey to the fort. Late in the evening Jerry or Pete, whichever happened to be the leader, and one of the men, carried the boxes across to the Major's quarters and stored them in a cellar beneath it. There was a real need of provisions at the mine, for the population of the valley rapidly increased as the season went on. The upper part of the bed of the stream had been staked out into claims, the miners and other men each taking up one, but below them the ground was of course open to all, and although not nearly so rich as the upper gravel it was good enough to pay fairly for working. A stout palisading now surrounded the ground taken up by the machinery and the mine itself, and no one except those engaged by the company were allowed to enter here. Considerable surprise was felt in the camp when the first two or three miners came up and staked out claims on the stream. "I wonder how they could have heard of it," Tom said to his uncle. "The fact that we are remaining out here is enough to show that we are doing something, anyhow. The men who go in are always strictly ordered to say no word about what our luck is, but the mere fact that they hold their tongues--and you may be sure they are questioned sharply--is enough to excite curiosity, and these men have come to find out and see what the country is like, and to prospect the hills round where we are working. You will see a lot of them here before long." As more came up it was determined to open a store. In the first place it furnished an explanation for the waggon going down so often, and in the second the fact that they were ready to sell provisions at cost prices would deter others from coming and setting up stores. There was no liquor kept on the mine, and Pete and Harry were very anxious that no places for its sale should be opened in the valley. During the winter and spring Tom had received several letters from his sisters. They expressed themselves as very grateful for the money that he and their uncle had sent on their return to Denver, but begged them to send no more, as the school was flourishing and they were perfectly able to meet all their expenses. "It is very good of you, Tom," Carry said. "Of course, we are all very pleased to know that you have been able to send the money, because it relieves our anxiety about you; but we really don't want it, and it makes us afraid that you are stinting yourself. Besides, even if you are not, it would be much better for you to keep the money, as you may find some opportunity of using it to your advantage, while here it would only lie in the bank and do no good. It would be different if we had nothing to fall back upon in case of anything happening, such as some of us getting ill, or our having a case of fever in the school, or anything of that sort, but as we have only used fifty pounds of mother's money we have plenty to go on with for a very long time; so that really we would very much rather you did not send us any over. Now that we know your address and can write to you at Fort Bridger, it seems to bring you close to us. But we have had two very anxious times; especially the first, when we did not hear of you for six months. The second time was not so bad, as you had told us that it might be a long time before we should hear, and we were prepared for it, but I do hope it will never be so long again." There had been some discussion as to whether the mine should be shut down in winter, but it was soon decided that work should go on regularly. Six more stamps were ordered to be sent from the east, with a steam-engine powerful enough to work the whole battery, and in September this and other machinery had reached the mine. Fresh buildings had been erected--a storehouse, a house for the officers, and a shed covering the whole of the machinery and yard. By the time this was all ready and in place the valley below was deserted, the gravel having been washed out to the bed-rock. No other lodes of sufficient richness to work had been discovered by the prospectors, and with winter at hand there was no inducement for them to stay longer there. Only two or three of the men at the mine wished to leave when their engagement for the season terminated. All had been well paid, and had in addition made money at gold-washing. Their food had been excellent, and their comforts attended to in all ways. Accordingly, with these exceptions all were ready to renew their engagements. An arrangement was made with the Major at Fort Bridger for an escort under a subaltern officer to proceed with two waggons with the treasure to Denver. Pete Hoskings and Jerry were to remain as managers of the mine throughout the winter. Harry and Tom had made up their minds to go to England and to return in the spring. The ore was now very much poorer than it had been at first. The lode had pinched out below and they had worked some distance along it. The falling off, however, was only relative; the mine was still an extraordinarily rich one, although it contained little more than a tenth of the gold that had been extracted from the first hundred and fifty tons crushed. None but Harry, Pete Hoskings, Jerry, and Tom had any idea of the amount of gold extracted in less than six months, although the miners were well aware that the amount must be very large. It was so indeed, for after repaying the amount expended in preliminary expenses, together with the new machinery, the wages of the men, provisions, and all outgoings, they calculated the treasure sent down to be worth one hundred and twenty-eight thousand pounds, while the mine if sold would fetch at least double that sum. After a hearty farewell to Pete and Jerry, Harry and Tom with the two Indians rode with the last waggon down to Bridger. The iron boxes had all been sewn up in deer-skins when they were sent down, and at night they were placed in the waggons by Harry and his companions. Over them were placed the provisions for the journey, as it was just as well that even the soldiers should not suspect the amount of treasure they were escorting. They encountered some severe snow-storms by the way, but reached Denver without incident. The place had wonderfully changed since Tom had arrived there more than two years before. It had trebled in size; broad streets and handsome houses had been erected, and the town had spread in all directions. They drove straight to the bank, to which Pete Hoskings had sent down a letter a fortnight before they had started, and the boxes were taken out of the waggon and carried down into the vaults of the bank. A handsome present was made to each of the soldiers of the escort, a brace of revolvers was given by Harry to the subaltern, and the handsomest watch and chain that could be purchased in Denver was sent by him to the Major, with an inscription expressing the thanks of the company to him for his kindness. "Well, Tom, I am thankful that that is off my mind," Harry said. "I have had a good many troubles in the course of my life, but this is the first time that money has ever been a care to me. Well, we are rich men, Tom, and we shall be richer, for the mine will run another two or three years before it finishes up the lode as far as we have traced it, and as we have now filed claims for a quarter of a mile farther back, it may be good for aught I know for another ten years. Not so good as it has been this year, but good enough to give handsome profits. Have you calculated what our share is?" "No, uncle. I know it must be a lot, but I have never thought about what each share will be." "Well, to begin with, a third of it goes to Pete Hoskings and his friends, that leaves eighty-five thousand. The remainder is divided into seven shares; I was to have two, the Indians three between them, you one, and Jerry one. His share is then about twelve thousand, which leaves seventy-three thousand between you and me. Of course, we shall divide equally." "No, indeed, uncle; that would be ridiculous. I have been of very little use through it all, and I certainly ought not to have as much as Jerry. You and the chief discovered it, and it was entirely owing to you that any of the rest of us have a share of the profits, and of course your arrangement with the two Indians is only because the chief is so fond of you." "Partly that, Tom; but chiefly because it is in accordance with red-skin customs. They are hunters, fighters, and guides, but they are not miners, and they never go in for shares in an enterprise of this sort. It went very much against the grain for Leaping Horse to take that three or four hundred pounds that came to him at the end of the last expedition, and he would be seriously offended if I were to press upon him more than his ordinary payment now; he would say that he has been simply hunting this year, that he has run no risks, and has had nothing to do with the mine. To-morrow morning we will go out to see what there is in the way of horse-flesh in Denver, and will buy him and Hunting Dog the two best horses in the town, whatever they may cost, with saddles, bridles, new blankets, and so on. If I can get anything special in the way of rifles I shall get a couple of them, and if not I shall get them in New York, and send them to him at Bridger. These are presents he would value infinitely more than all the gold we have stowed away in the bank to-day. He is going back to his tribe for the winter, and he and Hunting Dog will be at the mine before us next spring." In the morning Harry was two hours at the bank, where he saw the gold weighed out, and received a receipt for the value, which came to within a hundred pounds of what they had calculated, as the dust had been very carefully weighed each time it was sent off. In accordance with the arrangement he had made with Pete Hoskings and Jerry the amount of their respective shares was placed to their credit at the bank. Drawing a thousand pounds in cash, he received a draft for the rest upon a firm at New York, where he would be able to exchange it for one on London. He then inquired at the hotel as to who was considered to possess the best horses in the town, and as money was no object to him, he succeeded in persuading the owners to sell two splendid animals; these with the saddles were sent to the hotel. He then bought two finely finished Sharpe's rifles of long range, and two brace of silver-mounted revolvers. "Now, Tom," he said, "I shall give one of these outfits to the chief and you give the other to Hunting Dog; he has been your special chum since we started, and the presents will come better from you than from me. I expect them here in half an hour; I told them I should be busy all the morning." The two Indians were delighted with their presents, even the chief being moved out of his usual impassive demeanour. "My white brothers are too good. Leaping Horse knows that Straight Harry is his friend; he does not want presents to show him that; but he will value them because he loves his white brothers, even more than for themselves." As for Hunting Dog, he was for a long time incredulous that the splendid horse, the rifle and pistols could really be for him, and he was so exuberant in his delight that it was not until Leaping Horse frowned at him severely that he subsided into silent admiration of the gifts. "Here are papers, chief, that you and Hunting Dog had better keep: they are the receipts for the two horses, and two forms that I have had witnessed by a lawyer, saying that we have given you the horses in token of our gratitude for the services that you have rendered; possibly you may find them useful. You may fall in with rough fellows who may make a pretence that the horses have been stolen. Oh, yes! I know that you can hold your own; still, it may avoid trouble." They had now no further use for their horses, so these were sold for a few pounds. They purchased a stock of clothes sufficient only for their journey to England. "You may as well put your revolver in your pocket, Tom," Harry said as they prepared to start the next day. "I have sewn up the draft in the lining of my coat, but sometimes a train gets held up and robbed, and as we have six hundred pounds in gold and notes in our wallets, I certainly should not give it up without a fight." The Indians accompanied them to the station. "Now, chief, you take my advice and look out for a nice wife before next spring. You are forty now, and it is high time you thought of settling down." "Leaping Horse will think over it," the Seneca said gravely. "It may be that in the spring he will have a wigwam in the valley." A few minutes later the train started east, and five days later they reached New York. A steamer left the next day for England, and in this they secured two first-class berths; and although Tom had managed very well on his way out, he thoroughly enjoyed the vastly superior comfort of the homeward trip. They went straight through to Southampton, for, as Harry said, they could run up to London and get their clothes any day; and he saw that Tom was in a fever of excitement to get home. Harriet came to the door of the little house at Southsea when they knocked. She looked surprised at seeing two gentlemen standing there. In the two years and a half that had passed since Tom had left he had altered greatly. He had gone through much toil and hardship, and the bronze of the previous summer's sun was not yet off his cheeks; he had grown four or five inches, and the man's work that he had been doing had made almost a man of him. "Don't you know me, Harriet?" Tom said. The girl at once recognized the voice, and with a loud cry of delight threw her arms round his neck. The cry brought Carry out from the parlour. "Why, Harriet," she exclaimed, "have you gone mad?" "Don't you see it's Tom?" Harriet said, turning round, laughing and crying together. "It is Tom, sure enough, Carry; you need not look so incredulous; and this is Uncle Harry." There were a few minutes of wild joy, then they calmed down and assembled in the sitting-room. "It is lucky the girls have all gone home to dinner," Carry said, "or they would certainly have carried the news to their friends that we were all mad. It is a half-holiday too, nothing could be more fortunate. Now we want to hear everything. Tom's letters were so short and unsatisfactory, uncle, that he told us next to nothing, except that you had found a mine, and that you were both working there, and that it was satisfactory." "Well, my dears, that is the pith of the thing," Harry said. "The first thing for you to do is to send round notes to the mothers of these children saying that from unforeseen circumstances you have retired from the profession, and that the school has finally closed from this afternoon." There was a general exclamation from the girls: "What do you mean, uncle?" "I mean what I say, girls. Tom and I have made our fortunes, and there is no occasion for you to go on teaching any longer. We have not yet made any plans for the future, but at any rate the first step is, that there is to be no more teaching." "But are you quite, quite sure, uncle?" Carry said doubtfully. "We are getting on very nicely now, and it would be a pity to lose the connection." Harry and Tom both laughed. "Well, my girl," the former said, "that is of course a point to be thought of. But as Tom and I have over thirty-five thousand pounds apiece, and the mine will bring us in a good round sum for some years to come, I think we can afford to run the risk of the connection going." After that it was a long while before they settled down to talk quietly again. A week later they all went up to London for a month, while what Harry called "outfits" were purchased for the girls, as well as for him and Tom, and all the sights of London visited. Before their story came to an end, the grand consultation as to future plans had been held, and a handsome house purchased at Blackheath. Tom did not return to Utah in the spring; his uncle strongly advised him not to do so. "I shall go back myself, Tom; partly because I should feel like a fish out of water with nothing to do here, partly because I promised the chief to go back for a bit every year. I am beginning to feel dull already, and am looking forward to the trip across the water, but it will certainly be better for you to stay at home. You left school early, you see, and it would be a good thing for you to get a man to come and read with you for two or three hours a day for the next year or two. We have settled that the three younger girls are to go to school; and I don't see why you, Carry, and Janet, should not go, in the first place, for two or three months on to the Continent. They have had a dull life since you have been away, and the trip will be a treat for them, and perhaps do you some good also. It will be time enough to settle down to reading when you come back." The mine returned large profits that year, the increased amount stamped making up to some extent for the falling off in the value of the ore, and the shares of the various proprietors were more than half what they had been at the end of the first season's work. The third year it fell off considerably. There was a further decrease the year after, and the fifth year it barely paid its expenses, and it was decided to abandon it. Harry Wade went over every season for many years, but spent only the first at the mine. After that he went hunting expeditions with Leaping Horse, who, to his amusement, had met him at his first return to the mine with a pretty squaw, and Hunting Dog had also brought a wife with him. Two wigwams were erected that year near the mine, but after that they returned to their tribe, of which Leaping Horse became the leading chief. Tom's sisters all in due time married, each being presented on her wedding-day with a cheque for ten thousand pounds, as a joint present from her uncle and brother. Tom himself did not remain a bachelor, but six years after his return to England took a wife to himself, and the house at Blackheath was none too large for his family. Harry Wade's home is with Tom, and he is still hale and hearty. Up to the last few years he paid occasional visits to America, and stayed for a while with his red brother Leaping Horse, when they lamented together over the disappearance of game and the extinction of the buffalo. Hunting Dog had, at Harry's urgent advice, settled down in the ways of civilization, taking up a ranche and breeding cattle, of which he now owns a large herd. Jerry Curtis and Pete Hoskings made a journey together to Europe after the closing of the mine. They stayed for a month at Blackheath, and ten years later Tom received a lawyer's letter from Denver saying that Peter Hoskings was dead, and that he had left his large house and other property in Denver to Mr. Thomas Wade's children. Jerry still lives at the age of seventy-five in that city.

1

AN EXCURSION

"And we beseech Thee, O Lord, to give help and succour to Thy servants the people of Holland, and to deliver them from the cruelties and persecutions of their wicked oppressors; and grant Thy blessing, we pray Thee, upon the arms of our soldiers now embarking to aid them in their extremity." These were the words with which the Rev. John Vickars, rector of Hedingham, concluded the family prayers on the morning of 6th December, 1585. For twenty years the first portion of this prayer had been repeated daily by him, as it had been in tens of thousands of English households; for since the people of the Netherlands first rose against the Spanish yoke the hearts of the Protestants of England had beat warmly in their cause, and they had by turns been moved to admiration at the indomitable courage with which the Dutch struggled for independence against the might of the greatest power in Europe, and to horror and indignation at the pitiless cruelty and wholesale massacres by which the Spaniards had striven to stamp out resistance. From the first the people of England would gladly have joined in the fray, and made common cause with their co-religionists; but the queen and her counsellors had been restrained by weighty considerations from embarking in such a struggle. At the commencement of the war the power of Spain overshadowed all Europe. Her infantry were regarded as irresistible. Italy and Germany were virtually her dependencies, and England was but a petty power beside her. Since Agincourt was fought we had taken but little part in wars on the Continent. The feudal system was extinct; we had neither army nor military system; and the only Englishmen with the slightest experience of war were those who had gone abroad to seek their fortunes, and had fought in the armies of one or other of the continental powers. Nor were we yet aware of our naval strength. Drake and Hawkins and the other bucaneers had not yet commenced their private war with Spain, on what was known as the Spanish main--the waters of the West Indian Islands--and no one dreamed that the time was approaching when England would be able to hold her own against the strength of Spain on the seas. Thus, then, whatever the private sentiments of Elizabeth and her counsellors, they shrank from engaging England in a life and death struggle with the greatest power of the time; though as the struggle went on the queen's sympathy with the people of the Netherlands was more and more openly shown. In 1572 she was present at a parade of three hundred volunteers who mustered at Greenwich under Thomas Morgan and Roger Williams for service in the Netherlands. Sir Humphrey Gilbert, half-brother of Sir Walter Raleigh, went out a few months later with 1500 men, and from that time numbers of English volunteers continued to cross the seas and join in the struggle against the Spaniards. Nor were the sympathies of the queen confined to allowing her subjects to take part in the fighting; for she sent out large sums of money to the Dutch, and as far as she could, without openly joining them, gave them her aid. Spain remonstrated continually against these breaches of neutrality, while the Dutch on their part constantly implored her to join them openly; but she continued to give evasive answers to both parties until the assassination of William of Orange on 10th July, 1584, sent a thrill of horror through England, and determined the queen and her advisers to take a more decisive part in the struggle. In the following June envoys from the States arrived in London, and were received with great honour, and a treaty between the two countries was agreed upon. Three months later the queen published a declaration to her people and to Europe at large, setting forth the terrible persecutions and cruelties to which "our next neighbours, the people of the Low Countries," the special allies and friends of England, had been exposed, and stating her determination to aid them to recover their liberty. The proclamation concluded: "We mean not hereby to make particular profit to ourself and our people, only desiring to obtain, by God's favour, for the Countries, a deliverance of them from war by the Spaniards and foreigners, with a restitution of their ancient liberties and government." Sir Thomas Cecil was sent out at once as governor of Brill, and Sir Philip Sidney as governor of Flushing, these towns being handed over to England as guarantees by the Dutch. These two officers, with bodies of troops to serve as garrisons, took charge of their respective fortresses in November. Orders were issued for the raising of an army for service in the Low Countries, and Dudley, Earl of Leicester, was appointed by the queen to its command. The decision of the queen was received with enthusiasm in England as well as in Holland, and although the Earl of Leicester was not personally popular, volunteers flocked to his standard. Breakfast at Hedingham Rectory had been set at an earlier hour than usual on the 6th of December, 1585. There was an unusual stir and excitement in the village, for young Mr. Francis Vere, cousin of the Earl of Oxford, lord of Hedingham and of all the surrounding country, was to start that morning to ride to Colchester, there to join the Earl of Leicester and his following as a volunteer. As soon as breakfast was over young Geoffrey and Lionel Vickars, boys of fourteen and thirteen years old, proceeded to the castle close by, and there mounted the horses provided for them, and rode with Francis Vere to Colchester. Francis, who was at this time twenty-five years old, was accompanied by his elder brother, John, and his two younger brothers, Robert and Horace, and by many other friends; and it was a gay train that cantered down the valley of the Colne to Colchester. That ancient town was all astir. Gentlemen had ridden in from all the country seats and manors for many miles round, and the quiet streets were alive with people. At two o'clock in the afternoon news arrived that the earl was approaching, and, headed by the bailiffs of the town in scarlet gowns, the multitude moved out to meet the earl on the Lexden road. Presently a long train was seen approaching; for with Leicester were the Earl of Essex, Lords North and Audley, Sir William Russell, Sir Thomas Shirley, and other volunteers, to the number of five hundred horse. All were gaily attired and caparisoned, and the cortège presented a most brilliant appearance. The multitude cheered lustily, the bailiffs presented an address, and followed by his own train and by the gentlemen who had assembled to meet him, the earl rode into the town. He himself took up his abode at the house of Sir Thomas Lucas, while his followers were distributed among the houses of the townsfolk. Two hours after the arrival of the earl, the party from Hedingham took leave of Mr. Francis Vere. "Good-bye, lads," he said to the young Vickars. "I will keep my promise, never fear; and if the struggle goes on till you are old enough to carry arms, I will, if I am still alive, take you under my leading and teach you the art of war." Upon the following day the Earl of Leicester and his following rode to Manningtree, and took boat down the Stour to Harwich, where the fleet, under Admiral William Borough, was lying. Here they embarked, and on the 9th of December sailed for Flushing, where they were joined by another fleet of sixty ships from the Thames. More than a year passed. The English had fought sturdily in Holland. Mr. Francis Vere had been with his cousin, Lord Willoughby, who was in command of Bergen-op-Zoom, and had taken part in the first brush with the enemy, when a party of the garrison marched out and attacked a great convoy of four hundred and fifty waggons going to Antwerp, killed three hundred of the enemy, took eighty prisoners, and destroyed all their waggons except twenty-seven, which they carried into the town. Leicester provisioned the town of Grave, which was besieged by the Duke of Parma, the Spanish commander-in-chief. Axel was captured by surprise, the volunteers swimming across the moat at night, and throwing open the gates. Doesburg was captured, and Zutphen besieged. Parma marched to its relief, and, under cover of a thick fog, succeeded in getting close at hand before it was known that he was near. Then the English knights and volunteers, 200 in number, mounted in hot haste and charged a great Spanish column of 5000 horse and foot. They were led by Sir William Russell, under whom were Lords Essex, North, Audley, and Willoughby, behind the last of whom rode Francis Vere. For two hours this little band of horse fought desperately in the midst of the Spanish cavalry, and forced them at last to fall back, but were themselves obliged to retreat when the Spanish infantry came up and opened fire upon them. The English loss was 34 killed and wounded, while 250 of the Spaniards were slain, and three of their colours captured. Among the wounded on the English side was the very noble knight Sir Philip Sidney, who was shot by a musket-ball, and died three weeks afterwards. The successes of the English during these two years were counterbalanced by the cowardly surrender of Grave by its governor, and by the treachery of Sir William Stanley, governor of Deventer, and of Roland Yorke, who commanded the garrisons of the two forts known as the Zutphen Sconces. Both these officers turned traitors and delivered up the posts they commanded to the Spaniards. Their conduct not only caused great material loss to the allies, but it gave rise to much bad feeling between the English and Dutch, the latter complaining that they received but half-hearted assistance from the English. It was not surprising, however, that Leicester was unable to effect more with the little force under his command, for it was necessary not only to raise soldiers, but to invent regulations and discipline. The Spanish system was adopted, and this, the first English regular army, was trained and appointed precisely upon the system of the foe with whom they were fighting. It was no easy task to convert a body of brave knights and gentlemen and sturdy country men into regular troops, and to give them the advantages conferred by discipline and order. But the work was rendered the less difficult by the admixture of the volunteers who had been bravely fighting for ten years under Morgan, Rowland Williams, John Norris, and others. These had had a similar experience on their first arrival in Holland. Several times in their early encounters with the Spaniards the undisciplined young troops had behaved badly; but they had gained experience from their reverses, and had proved themselves fully capable of standing in line even against the splendid pikemen of Spain. While the English had been drilling and fighting in Holland things had gone on quietly at Hedingham. The village stands near the head waters of the Colne and Stour, in a rich and beautiful country. On a rising ground behind it stood the castle of the Veres, which was approached from the village by a drawbridge across the moat. There were few more stately piles in England than the seat of the Earl of Oxford. On one side of the great quadrangle was the gate-house and a lofty tower, on another the great hall and chapel and the kitchens, on a third the suites of apartments of the officials and retinue. In rear were the stables and granaries, the butts and tennis-court, beyond which was the court of the tournaments. In the centre of the quadrangle rose the great keep, which still stands, the finest relic of Norman civil architecture in England. It possessed great strength, and at the same time was richly ornamented with carving. The windows, arches, and fireplaces were decorated with chevron carvings. A beautiful spiral pattern enriched the doorway and pillars of the staircase leading to galleries cut in the thickness of the wall, with arched openings looking into the hall below. The outlook from the keep extended over the parishes of Castle Hedingham, Sybil Hedingham, Kirby, and Tilbury, all belonging to the Veres--whose property extended far down the pretty valley of the Stour--with the stately Hall of Long Melford, the Priory of Clare, and the little town of Lavenham; indeed the whole country was dotted with the farmhouses and manors of the Veres. Seven miles down the valley of the Colne lies the village of Earl's Colne, with the priory, where ten of the earls of Oxford lie buried with their wives. The parish church of Castle Hedingham stood at the end of the little village street, and the rectory of Mr. Vickars was close by. The party gathered at morning prayers consisted of Mr. Vickars and his wife, their two sons, Geoffrey and Lionel, and the maid-servants, Ruth and Alice. The boys, now fourteen and fifteen years old respectively, were strong-grown and sturdy lads, and their father had long since owned with a sigh that neither of them was likely to follow his profession and fill the pulpit at Hedingham Church when he was gone. Nor was this to be wondered at, for lying as it did at the entrance to the great castle of the Veres, the street of the little village was constantly full of armed men, and resounded with the tramp of the horses of richly-dressed knights and gay ladies. Here came great politicians, who sought the friendship and support of the powerful earls of Oxford, nobles and knights, their kinsmen and allies, gentlemen from the wide-spreading manors of the family, stout fighting-men who wished to enlist under their banner. At night the sound of music from the castle told of gay entertainments and festive dances, while by day parties of knights and ladies with dogs and falcons sallied out to seek sport over the wide domains. It could hardly be expected, then, that lads of spirit, brought up in the midst of sights and sounds like these, should entertain a thought of settling down to the tranquil life of the church. As long as they could remember, their minds had been fixed upon being soldiers, and fighting some day under the banner of the Veres. They had been a good deal in the castle; for Mr. Vickars had assisted Arthur Golding, the learned instructor to young Edward Vere, the 17th earl, who was born in 1550, and had succeeded to the title at the age of twelve, and he had afterwards been tutor to the earl's cousins, John, Francis, Robert, and Horace, the sons of Geoffrey, fourth son of the 15th earl. These boys were born in 1558, 1560, 1562, and 1565, and lived with their mother at Kirby Hall, a mile from the Castle of Hedingham. The earl was much attached to his old instructor, and when he was at the castle there was scarce a day but an invitation came down for Mr. Vickars and his wife to be present either at banquet or entertainment. The boys were free to come and go as they chose, and the earl's men-at-arms had orders to afford them all necessary teaching in the use of weapons. Mr. Vickars considered it his duty to accept the invitations of his friend and patron, but he sorely grudged the time so abstracted from his favourite books. It was, indeed, a relief to him when the earl, whose love of profusion and luxury made serious inroads even into the splendid possessions of the Veres, went up to court, and peace and quietness reigned in the castle. The rector was fonder of going to Kirby, where John, Geoffrey's eldest son, lived quietly and soberly, his three younger brothers having, when mere boys, embraced the profession of arms, placing themselves under the care of the good soldier Sir William Browne, who had served for many years in the Low Countries. They occasionally returned home for a time, and were pleased to take notice of the sons of their old tutor, although Geoffrey was six years junior to Horace, the youngest of the brothers. The young Vickars had much time to themselves, much more indeed than their mother considered to be good for them. After their breakfast, which was finished by eight o'clock, their father took them for an hour and heard the lessons they had prepared the day before, and gave them instruction in the Latin tongue. Then they were supposed to study till the bell rang for dinner at twelve; but there was no one to see that they did so, for their father seldom came outside his library door, and their mother was busy with her domestic duties and in dispensing simples to the poor people, who, now that the monasteries were closed, had no medical aid save that which they got from the wives of the gentry or ministers, or from the wise women, of whom there was generally one in every village. Therefore, after half an hour, or at most an hour, spent in getting up their tasks, the books would be thrown aside, and the boys be off, either to the river or up to the castle to practise sword-play with the men-at-arms, or to the butts with their bows, or to the rabbit-warren, where they had leave from the earl to go with their dogs whenever they pleased. Their long excursions were, however, generally deferred until after dinner, as they were then free until supper-time, and even if they did not return after that hour Mrs. Vickars did not chide them unduly, being an easy-going woman, and always ready to make excuses for them. There were plenty of fish in the river; and the boys knew the pools they loved best, and often returned with their baskets well filled. There were otters on its banks, too; but, though they sometimes chased these pretty creatures, Tan and Turk, their two dogs, knew as well as their masters that they had but small chance of catching them. Sometimes they would take a boat at the bridge and drop down the stream for miles, and once or twice had even gone down to Bricklesey [Footnote: Now Brightlingsea.] at the mouth of the river. This, however, was an expedition that they never performed alone, making it each time in charge of Master Lirriper, who owned a flat barge, and took produce down to Bricklesey, there to be transhipped into coasters bound for London. He had a married daughter there, and it was at her house the boys had slept when they went there; for the journey down and up again was too long to be performed in a single day. But this was not the only distant expedition they had made, for they had once gone down the Stour as far as Harwich with their father when he was called thither on business. To them Harwich with its old walls and the houses crowded up within them, and its busy port with vessels coming in and going out, was most delightful, and they always talked about that expedition as one of the most pleasant recollections of their lives. After breakfast was over on 1st of May, 1587, and they had done their lessons with their father, and had worked for an hour by themselves, the boys put by their books and strolled down the village to the bridge. There as usual stood their friend Master Lirriper with his hands deep in his pockets, a place and position in which he was sure to be found when not away in his barge. "Good-morning, Master Lirriper." "Good-morning, Master Geoffrey and Master Lionel." "So you are not down the river to-day?" "No, sir. I am going to-morrow, and this time I shall be away four or five days--maybe even a week." "Shall you?" the boys exclaimed in surprise. "Why, what are you going to do?" "I am going round to London in my nephew Joe Chambers' craft." "Are you really?" Geoffrey exclaimed. "I wish we were going with you. Don't you think you could take us, Master Lirriper?" The bargeman looked down into the water and frowned. He was slow of speech, but as the minutes went on and he did not absolutely refuse the boys exchanged glances of excitement and hope. "I dunno how that might be, young sirs," John Lirriper said slowly, after long cogitation. "I dus-say my nephew would have no objection, but what would parson say about it?" "Oh, I don't think he would object," Geoffrey said. "If you go up and ask him, Master Lirriper, and say that you will take care of us, you know, I don't see why he should say no." "Like enough you would be ill," John Lirriper said after another long pause. "It's pretty rough sometimes." "Oh, we shouldn't mind that," Lionel protested. "We should like to see the waves and to be in a real ship." "It's nothing much of a ship," the boatman said. "She is a ketch of about ten tons and carries three hands." "Oh, we don't care how small she is if we can only go in her; and you would be able to show us London, and we might even see the queen. Oh, do come up with us and ask father, Master Lirriper." "Perhaps parson wouldn't be pleased, young sirs, and might say I was putting wandering thoughts into your heads; and Mistress Vickars might think it a great liberty on my part." "Oh, no, she wouldn't, Master Lirriper. Besides, we will say we asked you." "But suppose any harm comes to you, what would they say to me then?" "Oh, there's no fear of any harm coming to us. Besides, in another year or two we mean to go over to the Low Countries and fight the Spaniards, and what's a voyage to London to that?" "Well, I will think about it," John Lirriper said cautiously. "No no, Master Lirriper; if you get thinking about it it will never be done. Do come up with us at once," and each of them got hold of one of the boatman's arms. "Well, the parson can but say no," he said, as he suffered himself to be dragged away. "And I don't say as it isn't reasonable that you should like to see something of the world, young sirs; but I don't know how the parson will take it." Mr. Vickars looked up irritably from his books when the servant came in and said that Master Lirriper wished to see him. "What does he want at this hour?" he said. "You know, Ruth, I never see people before dinner. Any time between that and supper I am at their service, but it's too bad being disturbed now." "I told him so, sir; but Master Geoffrey and Master Lionel were with him, and they said he wanted particular to see you, and they wanted particular too." The clergyman sighed as he put his book down. "If Geoffrey and Lionel have concerned themselves in the matter, Ruth, I suppose I must see the man; but it's very hard being disturbed like this. Well, Master Lirriper, what is it?" he asked, as the boatman accompanied by Geoffrey and Lionel entered the room. Master Lirriper twirled his hat in his hand. Words did not come easily to him at the best of times, and this was a business that demanded thought and care. Long before he had time to fix upon an appropriate form of words Geoffrey broke in: "This is what it is, father. Master Lirriper is going down the river to Bricklesey to-morrow, and then he is going on board his nephew's ship. She is a ketch, and she carries ten tons, though I don't know what it is she carries; and she's going to London, and he is going in her, and he says if you will let him he will take us with him, and will show us London, and take great care of us. It will be glorious, father, if you will only let us go." Mr. Vickars looked blankly as Geoffrey poured out his torrent of words. His mind was still full of the book he had been reading, and he hardly took in the meaning of Geoffrey's words. "Going in a ketch!" he repeated. "Going to catch something, I suppose you mean? Do you mean he is going fishing?" "No, father,--going in a ketch. A ketch is a sort of ship, father, though I don't quite know what sort of ship. What sort of ship is a ketch, Master Lirriper?" "A ketch is a two-masted craft, Master Geoffrey," John Lirriper said. "She carries a big mizzen sail." "There, you see, father," Geoffrey said triumphantly; "she carries a big mizzen sail. That's what she is, you see; and he is going to show us London, and will take great care of us if you will let us go with him." "Do you mean, Master Lirriper," Mr. Vickars asked slowly, "that you are going to London in some sort of ship, and want to take my sons with you?" "Well, sir, I am going to London, and the young masters seemed to think that they would like to go with me, if so be you would have no objection." "I don't know," Mr. Vicars said. "It is a long passage, Master Lirriper; and, as I have heard, often a stormy one. I don't think my wife--" "Oh, yes, father," Lionel broke in. "If you say yes, mother is sure to say yes; she always does, you know. And, you see, it will be a great thing for us to see London. Every one else seems to have seen London, and I am sure that it would do us good. And we might even see the queen." "I think that they would be comfortable, sir," John Lirriper put in. "You see, my nephew's wife is daughter of a citizen, one Master Swindon, a ship's chandler, and he said there would be a room there for me, and they would make me heartily welcome. Now, you see, sir, the young masters could have that room, and I could very well sleep on board the ketch; and they would be out of all sort of mischief there." "That would be a very good plan certainly, Master Lirriper. Well, well, I don't know what to say." "Say yes, father," Geoffrey said as he saw Mr. Vickars glance anxiously at the book he had left open. "If you say yes, you see it will be a grand thing for you, our being away for a week with nothing to disturb you." "Well, well," Mr. Vickars said, "you must ask your mother. If she makes no objection, then I suppose you can go," and Mr. Vickars hastily took up his book again. The boys ran off to the kitchen, where their mother was superintending the brewing of some broth for a sick woman down the village. "Mother!" Geoffrey exclaimed, "Master Lirriper's going to London in a ketch--a ship with a big mizzen sail, you know--and he has offered to take us with him and show us London. And father has said yes, and it's all settled if you have no objection; and of course you haven't." "Going to London, Geoffrey!" Mrs. Vicars exclaimed aghast. "I never heard of such a thing. Why, like enough you will be drowned on the way and never come back again. Your father must be mad to think of such a thing." "Oh, no, mother; I am sure it will do us a lot of good. And we may see the queen, mother. And as for drowning, why, we can both swim ever so far. Besides, people don't get drowned going to London. Do they Master Lirriper?" John was standing bashfully at the door of the kitchen. "Well, not as a rule, Master Geoffrey," he replied. "They comes and they goes, them that are used to it, maybe a hundred times without anything happening to them." "There! You hear that, mother? They come and go hundreds of times. Oh, I am sure you are not going to say no. That would be too bad when father has agreed to it. Now, mother, please tell Ruth to run away at once and get a wallet packed with our things. Of course we shall want our best clothes; because people dress finely in London, and it would never do if we saw the queen and we hadn't our best doublets on, for she would think that we didn't know what was seemly down at Hedingham." "Well, my dears, of course if it is all settled--" "Oh, yes, mother, it is quite all settled." "Then it's no use my saying anything more about it, but I think your father might have consulted me before he gave his consent to your going on such a hazardous journey as this. "He did want to consult you, mother. But then, you see, he wanted to consult his books even more, and he knew very well that you would agree with him; and you know you would too. So please don't say anything more about it, but let Ruth run upstairs and see to our things at once. There, you see, Master Lirriper, it is all settled. And what time do you start to-morrow? We will be there half an hour before, anyhow." "I shall go at seven from the bridge. Then I shall just catch the turn of the tide and get to Bricklesey in good time." "I never did see such boys," Mrs. Vickars said when John Lirriper had gone on his way. "As for your father, I am surprised at him in countenancing you. You will be running all sorts of risks. You may be drowned on the way, or killed in a street brawl, or get mixed up in a plot. There is no saying what may not happen. And here it is all settled before I have even time to think about it, which is most inconsiderate of your father." "Oh, we shall get back again without any harm, mother. And as to getting killed in a street brawl, Lionel and I can use our hangers as well as most of them. Besides, nothing of that sort is going to happen to us. Now, mother, please let Ruth go at once, and tell her to put up our puce doublets that we had for the jousting at the castle, and our red hose and our dark green cloth slashed trunks." "There is plenty of time for that, Geoffrey, as you are not going until to-morrow. Besides, I can't spare Ruth now, but she shall see about it after dinner." There was little sleep for the boys that night. A visit to London had long been one of their wildest ambitions, and they could scarcely believe that thus suddenly and without preparation it was about to take place. Their father had some time before promised that he would some day make request to one or other of the young Veres to allow them to ride to London in his suite, but the present seemed to them an even more delightful plan. There would be the pleasure of the voyage, and moreover it would be much more lively for them to be able to see London under the charge of John Lirriper than to be subject to the ceremonial and restraint that would be enforced in the household of the Veres. They were then at the appointed place a full hour before the time named, with wallets containing their clothes, and a basket of provisions that their mother had prepared for them. Having stowed these away in the little cabin, they walked up and down impatiently until Master Lirriper himself appeared. "You are up betimes, my young masters," the boatman said. "The church has not yet struck seven o'clock." "We have been here ever so long, Master Lirriper. We could not sleep much last night, and got up when it chimed five, being afraid that we might drop off to sleep and be late." "Well, we shall not be long before we are off. Here comes my man Dick, and the tide is just on the turn. The sky looks bright, and the weather promises well. I will just go round to the cottage and fetch up my things, and then we shall be ready." In ten minutes they pushed off from the shore. John and his man got out long poles shod with iron, and with these set to work to punt the barge along. Now that they were fairly on their way the boys quieted down, and took their seats on the sacks of flour with which the boat was laden, and watched the objects on the bank as the boat made her way quietly along. Halstead was the first place passed. This was the largest town near Hedingham, and was a place of much importance in their eyes. Then they passed Stanstead Hall and Earl's Colne on their right, Colne Wake on their left, and Chapel Parish on their right. Then there was a long stretch without any large villages, until they came in sight of the bridge above Colchester. A few miles below the town the river began to widen. The banks were low and flat, and they were now entering an arm of the sea. Half an hour later the houses and church of Bricklesey came in sight. Tide was almost low when they ran on to the mud abreast of the village, but John put on a pair of high boots and carried the boys ashore one after the other on his back, and then went up with them to the house where they were to stop for the night. Here, although not expected, they were heartily welcomed by John's daughter. "If father had told me that you had been coming, Masters Vickars, I would have had a proper dinner for you; but though he sent word yesterday morning that he should be over today, he did not say a word about your coming with them." "He did not know himself," Geoffrey said; "it was only settled at ten o'clock yesterday. But do not trouble yourself about the dinner. In the first place, we are so pleased at going that we don't care a bit what we eat, and in the second place we had breakfast on board the boat, and we were both so hungry that I am sure we could go till supper-time without eating if necessary." "Where are you going, father?" the young woman asked. "I am going to set about unloading the flour." "Why, it's only a quarter to twelve, and dinner just ready. The fish went into the frying-pan as you came up from the boat. You know we generally dine at half-past eleven, but we saw you coming at a distance and put it off. It's no use your starting now." "Well, I suppose it isn't. And I don't know what the young masters' appetite may be, but mine is pretty good, I can tell you." "I never knew it otherwise, father," the woman laughed, "Ah, here is my Sam. Sam, here's father brought these two young gentlemen. They are the sons of Mr. Vickars, the parson at Hedingham. They are going to stop here to-night, and are going with him in the _Susan_ to-morrow to London." "Glad to see you, young masters," Sam said. "I have often heard Ann talk of your good father. I have just been on board the _Susan_, for I am sending up a couple of score sides of bacon in her, and have been giving Joe Chambers, her master, a list of things he is to get there and bring down for me. Now then, girl, bustle about and get dinner on as soon as you can. We are half an hour late. I am sure the young gentlemen here must be hungry. There's nothing like being on the water for getting an appetite." A few minutes later a great dish of fish, a loaf of bread and some wooden platters, were placed on the table, and all set to at once. Forks had not yet come into use, and table-cloths were unknown, except among the upper classes. The boys found that in spite of their hearty breakfast their appetites were excellent. The fish were delicious, the bread was home-baked, and the beer from Colchester, which was already famous for its brewing. When they had finished, John Lirriper asked them if they would rather see what there was to be seen in the village, or go off to the ketch. They at once chose the latter alternative. On going down to the water's edge they found that the tide had risen sufficiently to enable Dick to bring the barge alongside the jetty. They were soon on board. "Which is the _Susan_, Master Lirriper?" "That's her lying out there with two others. She is the one lowest down the stream. We shall just fetch her comfortably."

2

A MEETING IN CHEPE.

A row of ten minutes took the boat with Master Lirriper and the two boys alongside the ketch. "How are you, Joe Chambers?" Master Lirriper hailed the skipper as he appeared on the deck of the _Susan_. "I have brought you two more passengers for London. They are going there under my charge." "The more the merrier, Uncle John," the young skipper replied. "There are none others going this journey, so though our accommodation is not very extensive, we can put them up comfortably enough if they don't mind roughing it." "Oh, we don't mind that," Geoffrey said, as they climbed on board; "besides, there seems lots of room." "Not so much as you think," the skipper replied. "She is a roomy craft is the _Susan_; but she is pretty nigh all hold, and we are cramped a little in the fo'castle. Still we can sleep six, and that's just the number we shall have, for we carry a man and a boy besides myself. I think your flour will about fill her up, Master Lirriper. We have a pretty full cargo this time." "Well, we shall soon see," John Lirriper said. "Are you ready to take the flour on board at once? Because, if so, we will begin to discharge." "Yes, I am quite ready. You told me you were going to bring forty sacks, and I have left the middle part of the hold empty for them. Sam Hunter's bacon will stow in on the top of your sacks, and just fill her up to the beams there, as I reckon. I'll go below and stow them away as you hand them across." In an hour the sacks of flour were transferred from the barge to the hold of the _Susan_, and the sides of bacon then placed upon them. "It's a pity we haven't all the rest of the things on board," the skipper said, "and then we could have started by this evening's tide instead of waiting till the morning. The wind is fair, and I hate throwing away a fair wind. There is no saying where it may blow to-morrow, but I shouldn't be at all surprised if it isn't round to the south, and that will be foul for us till we get pretty nigh up into the mouth of the river. However, I gave them till to-night for getting all their things on board, and must therefore wait." To the boys the _Susan_ appeared quite a large craft, for there was not water up at Hedingham for vessels of her size; and though they had seen ships at Harwich, they had never before put foot on anything larger than Master Lirriper's barge. The _Susan_ was about forty feet long by twelve feet beam, and drew, as her skipper informed them, near five feet of water. She was entirely decked. The cabin in the bows occupied some fourteen feet in length. The rest was devoted to cargo. They descended into the cabin, which seemed to them very dark, there being no light save what came down through the small hatchway. Still it looked snug and comfortable. There was a fireplace on one side of the ladder by which they had descended, and on this side there were two bunks, one above the other. On the other side there were lockers running along the entire length of the cabin. Two could sleep on these and two on the bunks above them. "Now, young masters, you will take those two bunks on the top there. John Lirriper and I will sleep on the lockers underneath you. The man and the boy have the two on the other side. I put you on the top because there is a side board, and you can't fall out if she rolls, and besides the bunks are rather wider than the lockers below. If the wind is fair you won't have much of our company, because we shall hold on till we moor alongside the wharves of London; but if it's foul, or there is not enough of it to take us against tide, we have to anchor on the ebb, and then of course we turn in." "How long do you take getting from here to London?" "Ah, that I can tell you more about when I see what the weather is like in the morning. With a strong fair wind I have done it in twenty-four hours, and again with the wind foul it has taken me nigh a week. Taking one trip with another I should put it at three days." "Well, now, we will be going ashore," John Lirriper said. "I will leave my barge alongside till tide turns, for I could not get her back again to the jetty so long as it is running in strong, so I will be off again in a couple of hours." So saying he hauled up the dingy that was towing behind the barge, and he and Dick rowed the two boys ashore. Then he walked along with them to a spot where several craft were hauled up, pointing out to them the differences in their rig and build, and explained their purpose, and gave them the names of the principal ropes and stays. "Now," he said, "it's getting on for supper-time, and it won't do to keep them waiting, for Ann is sure to have got some cakes made, and there's nothing puts a woman out more than people not being in to meals when they have got something special ready. After that I shall go out with Dick and bring the barge ashore. He will load her up to-morrow, and take her back single-handed; which can be done easy enough in such weather as this, but it is too much for one man if there is a strong wind blowing and driving her over to the one side or other of the river." As John Lirriper had expected, his daughter had prepared a pile of hot cakes for supper, and her face brightened up when she saw the party return punctually. The boys had been up early, and had slept but little the night before, and were not sorry at eight o'clock to lie down on the bed of freshly-cut rushes covered with home-spun sheets, for regular beds of feathers were still but little used in England. At five o'clock they were astir again, and their hostess insisted on their eating a manchet of bread with some cheese, washed down by a stoup of ale before starting. Dick had the boat at the jetty ready to row them off, and as soon as they were on board the _Susan_ preparations were made for a start. The mainsail was first hoisted, its size greatly surprising the boys; then the foresail and jib were got up, and lastly the mizzen. Then the capstan was manned, and the anchor slowly brought on board, and the sails being sheeted home, the craft began to steal through the water. The tide was still draining up, and she had not as yet swung. The wind was light, and, as the skipper had predicted, was nearly due south. As the ketch made its way out from the mouth of the river, and the wide expanse of water opened before them, the boys were filled with delight. They had taken their seats, one on each side of the skipper, who was at the tiller. "I suppose you steer by the compass, Master Chambers?" Geoffrey said. "Which is the compass? I have heard about it, always pointing to the north." "It's down below, young sir; I will show it you presently. We steer by that at night, or when it's foggy; but on a fine day like this there is no need for it. There are marks put up on all the sands, and we steer by them. You see, the way the wind is now we can lay our course for the Whittaker. That's a cruel sand, that is, and stretches out a long way from a point lying away on the right there. Once past that we bear away to the south-west, for we are then, so to speak, fairly in the course of the river. There is many a ship has been cast away on the Whittaker. Not that it is worse than other sands. There are scores of them lying in the mouth of the river, and if it wasn't for the marks there would be no sailing in or out." "Who put up the marks?" Lionel asked. "They are put up by men who make a business of it. There is one boat of them sails backwards and forwards where the river begins to narrow above Sheerness, and every ship that goes up or down pays them something according to her size. Others cruise about with long poles, putting them in the sands wherever one gets washed away. They have got different marks on them. A single cross-piece, or two cross-pieces, or a circle, or a diamond; so that each sand has got its own particular mark. These are known to the masters of all ships that go up and down the river, and so they can tell exactly where they are, and what course to take. At night they anchor, for there would be no possibility of finding the way up or down in the dark. I have heard tell from mariners who have sailed abroad that there ain't a place anywhere with such dangerous sands as those we have got here at the mouth of the Thames." In the first three or four hours' sail Geoffrey and Lionel acquired much nautical knowledge. They learned the difference between the mainmast and the mizzen, found that all the strong ropes that kept the masts erect and stiff were called stays, that the ropes that hoist sails are called halliards, and that sheets is the name given to the ropes that restrain the sails at the lower corner, and are used to haul them in more tightly when sailing close to the wind, or to ease them off when the wind is favourable. They also learned that the yards at the head of the main and mizzen sails are called gaffs, and those at the bottom, booms. "I think that's about enough for you to remember in one day, young masters," John Lirriper said. "You bear all that in your mind, and remember that each halliard and sheet has the name of the sail to which it is attached, and you will have learnt enough to make yourself useful, and can lend a hand when the skipper calls out, 'Haul in the jib-sheet,' or 'Let go the fore-halliards.' Now sit yourselves down again and see what is doing. That beacon you can just see right ahead marks the end of the Whittaker Spit. When we get there we shall drop anchor till the tide turns. You see we are going across it now; but when we round that beacon we shall have it dead against us, and the wind would be too light to take us against it even if it were not from the quarter it is. You see there are two or three other craft brought up there." "Where have they come from do you think, Master Lirriper?" "Well, they may have come out from Burnham, or they may have come down from London and be going up to Burnham or to Bricklesey when the tide turns. There is a large ship anchored in the channel beyond the Whittaker. Of course she is going up when tide begins to flow. And there are the masts of two vessels right over there. They are in another channel. Between us and them there is a line of sands that you will see will show above the water when it gets a bit lower. That is the main channel, that is; and vessels coming from the south with a large draught of water generally use that, while this is the one that is handiest for ships from the north. Small vessels from the south come in by a channel a good bit beyond those ships. That is the narrowest of the three; and even light draught vessels don't use it much unless the wind is favourable, for there is not much room for them to beat up if the wind is against them." "What is to beat up, Master Lirriper?" "Well, you will see about that presently. I don't think we shall be able to lay our course beyond the Whittaker. To lay our course means to steer the way we want to go; and if we can't do that we shall have to beat, and that is tedious work with a light wind like this." They dropped anchor off the beacon, and the captain said that this was the time to take breakfast. The lads already smelt an agreeable odour arising from the cabin forward, where the boy had been for some time busily engaged, and soon the whole party were seated on the lockers in the cabin devouring fried fish. "Master Chambers," Geoffrey said, "we have got two boiled pullets in our basket. Had we not better have them for dinner? They were cooked the evening before we came away, and I should think they had better be eaten now." "You had better keep them for yourselves, Master Geoffrey," the skipper said. "We are accustomed to living on fish, but like enough you would get tired of it before we got to London." But this the boys would not hear of, and it was accordingly arranged that the dinner should be furnished from the contents of the basket. As soon as tide turned the anchor was hove up and the _Susan_ got under way again. The boys soon learnt the meaning of the word beating, and found that it meant sailing backwards and forwards across the channel, with the wind sometimes on one side of the boat and sometimes on the other. Geoffrey wanted very much to learn why, when the wind was so nearly ahead, the boat advanced instead of drifting backwards or sideways. But this was altogether beyond the power of either Master Lirriper or Joe Chambers to explain. They said every one knew that when the sails were full a vessel went in the direction in which her head pointed. "It's just the same way with yourself, Master Geoffrey. You see, when you look one way that's the way you go. When you turn your head and point another way, of course you go off that way; and it's just the same thing with the ship." "I don't think it's the same thing, Master Lirriper," Geoffrey said puzzled. "In one case the power that makes one go comes from the inside, and so one can go in any direction one likes; in the other it comes from outside, and you would think the ship would have to go any way the wind pushes her. If you stand up and I give you a push, I push you straight away from me. You don't go sideways or come forward in the direction of my shoulder, which is what the ship does." John Lirriper took off his cap and scratched his head. "I suppose it is as you say, Master Geoffrey, though I never thought of it before. There is some reason, no doubt, why the craft moves up against the wind so long as the sails are full, instead of drifting away to leeward; though I never heard tell of it, and never heard anyone ask before. I daresay a learned man could tell why it is; and if you ask your good father when you go back I would wager he can explain it. It always seems to me as if a boat have got some sort of sense, just like a human being or a horse, and when she knows which way you wants her to go she goes. That's how it seems to me--ain't it, Joe?" "Something like that, uncle. Every one knows that a boat's got her humours, and sometimes she sails better than she does others; and each boat's got her own fancies. Some does their best when they are beating, and some are lively in a heavy sea, and seem as if they enjoy it; and others get sulky, and don't seem to take the trouble to lift their bows up when a wave meets them; and they groans and complains if the wind is too hard for them, just like a human being. When you goes to a new vessel you have got to learn her tricks and her ways and what she will do, and what she won't do, and just to humour her as you would a child, I don't say as I think she is actually alive; but every sailor will tell you that there is something about her that her builders never put there." "That's so," John Lirriper agreed. "Look at a boat that is hove up when her work's done and going to be broken up. Why, anyone can tell her with half an eye. She looks that forlorn and melancholy that one's inclined to blubber at the sight of her. She don't look like that at any other time. When she is hove up she is going to die, and she knows it." "But perhaps that's because the paint's off her sides and the ropes all worn and loose," Geoffrey suggested. But Master Lirriper waved the suggestion aside as unworthy even of an answer, and repeated, "She knows it. Anyone can see that with half an eye." Geoffrey and Lionel talked the matter over when they were sitting together on deck apart from the others. It was an age when there were still many superstitions current in the land. Even the upper classes believed in witches and warlocks, in charms and spells, in lucky and unlucky days, in the arts of magic, in the power of the evil eye; and although to the boys it seemed absurd that a vessel should have life, they were not prepared altogether to discredit an idea that was evidently thoroughly believed by those who had been on board ships all their lives. After talking it over for some time they determined to submit the question to their father on their return. It took them two more tides before they were off Sheerness. The wind was now more favourable, and having increased somewhat in strength, the _Susan_ made her way briskly along, heeling over till the water ran along her scuppers. There was plenty to see now, for there were many fishing-boats at work, some belonging, as Master Chambers told them, to the Medway, others to the little village of Leigh, whose church they saw at the top of the hill to their right. They met, too, several large craft coming down the river, and passed more than one, for the _Susan_ was a fast boat. "They would beat us," the skipper said when the boys expressed their surprise at their passing such large vessels, "if the wind were stronger or the water rough. We are doing our best, and if the wind rises I shall have to take in sail; while they could carry all theirs if it blew twice as hard. Then in a sea, weight and power tell; a wave that would knock the way almost out of us would hardly affect them at all." So well did the _Susan_ go along, that before the tide was much more than half done they passed the little village of Gravesend on their left, with the strong fort of Tilbury on the opposite shore, with its guns pointing on the river, and ready to give a good account of any Spaniard who should venture to sail up the Thames. Then at the end of the next reach the hamlet of Grays was passed on the right; a mile further Greenhithe on the left. Tide was getting slack now, but the _Susan_ managed to get as far as Purfleet, and then dropped her anchor. "This is our last stopping-place," Joe Chambers said. "The morning tide will carry us up to London Bridge." "Then you will not go on with to-night's tide?" Geoffrey asked. "No; the river gets narrower every mile, and I do not care to take the risk of navigating it after dark, especially as there is always a great deal of shipping moored above Greenwich. Tide will begin to run up at about five o'clock, and by ten we ought to be safely moored alongside near London Bridge. So we should not gain a great deal by going on this evening instead of to-morrow morning, and I don't suppose you are in a particular hurry." "Oh, no," Lionel said. "We would much rather go on in the morning, otherwise we should miss everything by the way; and there is the Queen's Palace at Greenwich that I want to see above all things." Within a few minutes of the hour the skipper had named for their arrival, the _Susan_ was moored alongside some vessels lying off one of the wharves above the Tower. The boys' astonishment had risen with every mile of their approach to the city, and they were perfectly astounded at the amount of shipping that they now beheld. The great proportion were of course coasters, like themselves, but there were many large vessels among them, and of these fully half were flying foreign colours. Here were traders from the Netherlands, with the flag that the Spaniards had in vain endeavoured to lower, flying at their mast-heads. Here were caravels from Venice and Genoa, laden with goods from the East. Among the rest Master Chambers pointed out to the lads the ship in which Sir Francis Drake had circumnavigated the world, and that in which Captain Stevens had sailed to India, round the Cape of Good Hope. There were many French vessels also in the Pool, and indeed almost every flag save that of Spain was represented. Innumerable wherries darted about among the shipping, and heavier cargo boats dropped along in more leisurely fashion. Across the river, a quarter of a mile above the point at which they were lying, stretched London Bridge, with its narrow arches and the houses projecting beyond it on their supports of stout timbers. Beyond, on the right, rising high above the crowded roofs, was the lofty spire of St. Paul's. The boys were almost awed by this vast assemblage of buildings. That London was a great city they had known, but they were not prepared for so immense a difference between it and the place where they had lived all their lives. Only with the Tower were they somewhat disappointed. It was very grand and very extensive, but not so much grander than the stately abode of the Veres as they had looked for. "I wouldn't change, if I were the earl, with the queen's majesty," Geoffrey said. "Of course it is larger than Hedingham, but not so beautiful, and it is crowded in by the houses, and has not like our castle a fair look-out on all sides. Why, there can be no hunting or hawking near here, and I can't think what the nobles can find to do all day." "Now, young sirs," Master Lirriper said, "if you will get your wallets we will go ashore at once." The boys were quite bewildered as they stepped ashore by the bustle and confusion. Brawny porters carrying heavy packages on their backs pushed along unceremoniously, saying from time to time in a mechanical sort of way, "By your leave, sir!" but pushing on and shouldering passers-by into the gutter without the smallest compunction. The narrowness and dinginess of the streets greatly surprised and disappointed the boys, who found that in these respects even Harwich compared favourably with the region they were traversing. Presently, however, after passing through several lanes and alleys, they emerged into a much broader street, alive with shops. The people who were walking here were for the most part well dressed and of quiet demeanour, and there was none of the rough bustle that had prevailed in the river-side lanes. "This is Eastchepe," their conductor said; "we have not far to go now. The street in which my friend dwells lies to the right, between this and Tower Street. I could have taken you a shorter way there, but I thought that your impressions of London would not be favourable did I take you all the way through those ill-smelling lanes." In a quarter of an hour they arrived at their destination, and entered the shop, which smelt strongly of tar; coils of rope of all sizes were piled up one upon another by the walls, while on shelves above them were blocks, lanterns, compasses, and a great variety of gear of whose use the boys were ignorant. The chandler was standing at his door. "I am right glad to see you, Master Lirriper," he said, "and have been expecting you for the last two or three days. My wife would have it that some evil must have befallen you; but you know what women are. They make little allowance for time or tide or distance, but expect that every one can so arrange his journeys as to arrive at the very moment when they begin to expect him. But who have you here with you?" "These are the sons of the worshipful Mr. Vickars, the rector of our parish, and tutor to the Earl of Oxford and several of the young Veres, his cousins--a wise gentleman and a kind one, and much loved among us. He has entrusted his two sons to me that I might show them somewhat of this city of yours. I said that I was right sure that you and your good dame would let them occupy the chamber you intended for me, while I can make good shift on board the _Susan_." "Nay, nay, Master Lirriper; our house is big enough to take in you and these two young masters, and Dorothy would deem it a slight indeed upon her hospitality were you not to take up your abode here too. You will be heartily welcome, young sirs, and though such accommodation as we can give you will not be equal to that which you are accustomed to, I warrant me that you will find it a pleasant change after that poky little cabin on board the _Susan_. I know it well, for I supply her with stores, and have often wondered how men could accustom themselves to pass their lives in places where there is scarce room to turn, to say nothing of the smell of fish that always hangs about it. But if you will follow me I will take you up to my good dame, to whose care I must commit you for the present, as my foreman, John Watkins, is down by the riverside seeing to the proper delivery of divers stores on board a ship which sails with the next tide for Holland. My apprentices, too, are both out, as I must own is their wont. They always make excuses to slip down to the river-side when there is aught doing, and I am far too easy with the varlets. So at present, you see, I cannot long leave my shop." So saying the chandler preceded them up a wide staircase that led from a passage behind the shop, and the boys perceived that the house was far more roomy and comfortable than they had judged from its outward appearance. Turning to the left when he reached the top of the stairs the chandler opened a door. "Dorothy," he said, "here is your kinsman, Master Lirriper, who has suffered none of the misadventures you have been picturing to yourself for the last two days, and he has brought with him these young gentlemen, sons of the rector of Hedingham, to show them something of London." "You are welcome, young gentlemen," Dame Dorothy said, "though why anyone should come to London when he can stay away from it I know not." "Why, Dorothy, you are always running down our city, though I know right well that were I to move down with you to your native Essex again you would very soon cry out for the pleasures of the town." "That would I not," she said. "I would be well contented to live in fresh country air all the rest of my life, though I do not say that London has not its share of pleasures also, though I care but little for them." "Ah, Master Lirriper," her husband said laughing, "you would not think, to hear her talk, that there is not a feast or a show that Dorothy would stay away from. She never misses an opportunity, I warrant you, of showing herself off in her last new kirtle and gown. But I must be going down; there is no one below, and if a customer comes and finds the shop empty he will have but a poor idea of me, and will think that I am away gossiping instead of attending to my business." "Are you hungry, young sirs?" the dame asked. "Because if so the maid shall bring up a manchet of bread and a cup of sack; if not, our evening meal will be served in the course of an hour." The boys both said that they were perfectly able to wait until the meal came; and Geoffrey added, "If you will allow us, mistress, as doubtless you have private matters to talk of with Master Lirriper, my brother and I will walk out for an hour to see something of the town." "Mind that you lose not your way," Master Lirriper said. "Do not go beyond Eastchepe, I beg you. There are the shops to look at there, and the fashions of dress and other matters that will occupy your attention well enough for that short time. To-morrow morning I will myself go with you, and we can then wander further abroad. I have promised your good father to look after you, you know; and it will be but a bad beginning if you meet with any untoward adventure upon this the first day of your arrival here." "We will not go beyond the limits of Eastchepe; and as to adventures, I can't see very well how any can befall us." "Oh, there are plenty of adventures to be met with in London, young sir; and I shall be well content if on the day when we again embark on board the _Susan_ none of them have fallen to your share." The two lads accordingly sallied out and amused themselves greatly by staring at the goods exhibited in the open shops. They were less surprised at the richness and variety of the silver work, at the silks from the East, the costly satins, and other stuffs, than most boys from the country would have been, for they were accustomed to the splendour and magnificence displayed by the various noble guests at the castle, and saw nothing here that surpassed the brilliant shows made at the jousting and entertainments at Hedingham. It was the scene that was novel to them: the shouts of the apprentices inviting attention to their employers' wares, the crowd that filled the street, consisting for the most part of the citizens themselves, but varied by nobles and knights of the court, by foreigners from many lands, by soldiers and men-at-arms from the Tower, by countrymen and sailors. Their amusement was sometimes turned into anger by the flippant remarks of the apprentices; these varlets, perceiving easily enough by the manner of their attire that they were from the country, were not slow, if their master happened for the moment to be absent, in indulging in remarks that set Geoffrey and Lionel into a fever to commit a breach of the peace. The "What do you lack, masters?" with which they generally addressed passers-by would be exchanged for remarks such as, "Do not trouble the young gentlemen, Nat. Do you not see they are up in the town looking for some of their master's calves?" or, "Look you, Philip, here are two rustics who have come up to town to learn manners." "I quite see, Geoffrey," Lionel said, taking his brother by the arm and half dragging him away as he saw that he was clenching his fist and preparing to avenge summarily one of these insults even more pointed than usual, "that Master Lirriper was not very far out, and there is no difficulty in meeting with adventures in the streets of London. However, we must not give him occasion on this our first stroll in the streets to say that we cannot be trusted out of his sight. If we were to try to punish these insolent varlets we should have them upon us like a swarm of bees, and should doubtless get worsted in the encounter, and might even find ourselves hauled off to the lock-up, and that would be a nice tale for Master Lirriper to carry back to Hedingham." "That is true enough, Lionel; but it is not easy to keep one's temper when one is thus tried. I know not how it is they see so readily that we are strangers, for surely we have mixed enough with the earl's family and friends to have rubbed off the awkwardness that they say is common to country folk; and as to our dress, I do not see much difference between its fashion and that of other people. I suppose it is because we look interested in what is going on, instead of strolling along like those two youths opposite with our noses in the air, as if we regarded the city and its belongings as infinitely below our regard. Well, I think we had best be turning back to Master Swindon's; it will not do to be late for our meal." "Well, young sirs, what do you think of our shops?" Dame Swindon asked as they entered. "The shops are well enough," Geoffrey replied; "but your apprentices seem to me to be an insolent set of jackanapes, who take strange liberties with passers-by, and who would be all the better for chastisement. If it hadn't been that Lionel and I did not wish to become engaged in a brawl, we should have given some of them lessons in manners." "They are free in speech," Dame Swindon said, "and are an impudent set of varlets. They have quick eyes and ready tongues, and are no respecters of persons save of their masters and of citizens in a position to lay complaints against them and to secure them punishment. They hold together greatly, and it is as well that you should not become engaged in a quarrel with them. At times they have raised serious tumults, and have even set not only the watch but the citizens at large at defiance. Strong measures have been several times taken against them; but they are a powerful body, seeing that in every shop there are one or more of them, and they can turn out with their clubs many thousand strong. They have what they call their privileges, and are as ready to defend them as are the citizens of London to uphold their liberties. Ordinances have been passed many times by the fathers of the city, regulating their conduct and the hours at which they may be abroad and the carrying of clubs and matters of this kind, but the apprentices seldom regard them, and if the watch arrest one for a breach of regulations, he raises a cry, and in two or three minutes a swarm of them collect and rescue the offender from his hands. Therefore it is seldom that the watch interferes with them." "It would almost seem then that the apprentices are in fact the masters," Geoffrey said. "Not quite as bad as that," Master Swindon replied. "There are the rules which they have to obey when at home, and if not they get a whipping; but it is difficult to keep a hand over them when they are abroad. After the shops are closed and the supper over they have from time immemorial the right to go out for two hours' exercise. They are supposed to go and shoot at the butts; but archery, I grieve to say, is falling into disrepute, and although many still go to the butts the practice is no longer universal. But here is supper." Few words were spoken during the meal. The foreman and the two apprentices came up and sat down with the family, and it was not until these had retired that the conversation was again resumed. "Where are you going to take them to-morrow, Master Lirriper?" "To-morrow we will see the city, the shops in Chepe, the Guildhall, and St. Paul's, then we shall issue out from Temple Bar and walk along the Strand through the country to Westminster and see the great abbey, then perhaps take a boat back. The next day, if the weather be fine, we will row up to Richmond and see the palace there, and I hope you will go with us, Mistress Dorothy; it is a pleasant promenade and a fashionable, and methinks the river with its boats is after all the prettiest sight in London." "Ah, you think there can be nothing pretty without water. That is all very well for one who is ever afloat, Master Lirriper; but give me Chepe at high noon with all its bravery of dress, and the bright shops, and the gallants of the court, and our own citizens too, who if not quite so gay in colour are proper men, better looking to my mind than some of the fops with their silver and satins." "That's right, Dorothy," her husband said; "spoken like the wife of a citizen." All these plans were destined to be frustrated. As soon as breakfast was over the next morning Master Lirriper started with the two boys, and they had but just entered Chepe-side when they saw two young men approaching. "Why, Lionel, here is Francis Vere!" Geoffrey exclaimed. "I thought he was across in Holland with the Earl of Leicester." They doffed their caps. Captain Vere, for such was now his rank, looked at them in surprise. "Why!" he exclaimed, "here are Mr. Vickars' two sons. How came you here, lads? Have you run away from home to see the wonders of London, or to list as volunteers for the campaigns against the Dons?" "I wish we were, Mr. Francis," Geoffrey said. "You promised when you were at Hedingham a year and a half since that you would some day take us to the wars with you, and our father, seeing that neither of us have a mind to enter the church, has quite consented that we shall become soldiers, the more so as there is a prospect of fighting for the persecuted Protestants of Holland. And oh, Mr. Francis, could it be now? You know we daily exercise with arms at the castle, and we are both strong and sturdy for our age, and believe me you should not see us flinch before the Spaniards however many of them there were." "Tut, tut!" Captain Vere laughed. "Here are young cockerels, Allen; what think you of these for soldiers to stand against the Spanish pikemen?" "There are many of the volunteers who are not very much older than they are," Captain Allen replied. "There are two in my company who must be between seventeen and eighteen." "Ah! but these boys are three years younger than that." "Would you not take us as your pages, Mr. Francis?" Lionel urged. "We would do faithful service, and then when we come to the age that you could enter us as volunteers we should already have learnt a little of war." "Well, well, I cannot stop to talk to you now, for I am on my way to the Tower on business. I am only over from Holland for a day or two with despatches from the Earl to Her Majesty's Council, and am lodging at Westminster in a house that faces the abbey. It is one of my cousin Edward's houses, and you will see the Vere cognizance over the door. Call there at one hour after noon, and I will have a talk with you; but do not buoy yourselves up with hopes as to your going with me." So saying, with a friendly nod of his head Francis Vere continued his way eastward. "What think you, Allen?" he asked his comrade as they went along. "I should like to take the lads with me if I could. Their father, who is the rector of Hedingham, taught my cousin Edward as well as my brothers and myself. I saw a good deal of the boys when I was at home. They are sturdy young fellows, and used to practise daily, as we did at their age, with the men-at-arms at the castle, and can use their weapons. A couple of years of apprenticeship would be good schooling for them. One cannot begin to learn the art of war too young, and it is because we have all been so ignorant of it that our volunteers in Holland have not done better." "I think, Vere, that they are too young yet to be enlisted as volunteers, although in another two years, perhaps, you might admit the elder of the two. But I see no reason why, if you are so inclined, you should not take them with you as pages. Each company has its pages and boys, and you might take these two for the special service of yourself and your officers. They would then be on pretty well the same footing as the five gentlemen volunteers you have already with you, and would be distinct from the lads who have entered as pages to the company. I suppose that you have not yet your full number of boys?" "No; there are fifteen boys allowed, one to each ten men, and I am several short of this number, and have already written my brother John to get six sturdy lads from among our own tenantry and to send them over in the first ship from Harwich. Yes, I will take these lads with me. I like their spirit, and we are all fond of their father, who is a very kindly as well as learned man." "I don't suppose he will thank you greatly, Francis," Captain Allen laughed. "His goodwife is more likely to be vexed than he is," Captain Vere said, "for it will give him all the more time for the studies in which he is wrapped up. Besides, it will be a real service to the boys. It will shorten their probation as volunteers, and they may get commissions much earlier than they otherwise would do. We are all mere children in the art of war; for truly before Roger Morgan first took out his volunteers to fight for the Dutch there was scarce a man in England who knew how to range a company in order. You and I learned somewhat of our business in Poland, and some of our leaders have also had a few lessons in the art of war in foreign countries, but most of our officers are altogether new to the work. However, we have good masters, and I trust these Spaniards may teach us how to beat them in time; but at present, as I said, we are all going to school, and the earlier one begins at school the sooner one learns its lessons. Besides, we must have pages, and it will be more pleasant for me having lads who belong in a sort of way to our family, and to whom, if I am disposed, I can talk of people at home. They are high-spirited and full of fun, and I should like to have them about me. But here we are at the Tower. We shall not be long, I hope, over the list of arms and munitions that the earl has sent for. When we have done we will take boat back to Westminster. Half an hour will take us there, as the tide will be with us."

3

IN THE LOW COUNTRY.

Master Lirriper had stood apart while the boys were conversing with Francis Vere. "What do you think, Master Lirriper?" Geoffrey exclaimed as they joined him. "We have asked Mr. Vere to take us with him as pages to the war in the Low Country, and though he said we were not to be hopeful about his reply, I do think he will take us. We are to go round to Westminster at one o'clock to see him again. What do you think of that?" "I don't know what to think, Master Geoffrey. It takes me all by surprise, and I don't know how I stand in the matter. You see, your father gave you into my charge, and what could I say to him if I went back empty-handed?" "But, you see, it is with Francis Vere," Geoffrey said. "If it had been with anyone else it would be different. But the Veres are his patrons, and he looks upon the earl, and Mr. Francis and his brothers, almost as he does on us; and, you know, he has already consented to our entering the army some day. Besides, he can't blame you; because, of course, Mr. Vere will write to him himself and say that he has taken us, and so you can't be blamed in the matter. My father would know well enough that you could not withstand the wishes of one of the Veres, who are lords of Hedingham and all the country round." "I should withstand them if I thought they were wrong," the boatman said sturdily, "and if I were sure that your father would object to your going; but that is what I am not sure. He may think it the best thing for you to begin early under the protection of Master Francis, and again he may think you a great deal too young for such wild work. He has certainly always let you have pretty much your own way, and has allowed you to come and go as you like, but this is a different business altogether. I am sorely bested as to what I ought to do." "Well, nothing is settled yet, Master Lirriper; and, besides, I don't see that you can help yourself in the matter, and if Mr. Vere says he will take us I suppose you can't carry us off by force." "It is Mistress Vickars that I am thinking of more than your father. The vicar is an easy-going gentleman, but Mistress Vickars speaks her mind, and I expect she will be in a terrible taking over it, and will rate me soundly; though, as you say, I do not see how I can help myself in the matter. Well now, let us look at the shops and at the Guildhall, and then we will make our way down to Westminster as we had proposed to do and see the abbey; by that time it will be near the hour at which you are to call upon Mr. Vere." But the sights that the boys had been so longing to see had for the time lost their interest in their eyes. The idea that it was possible that Mr. Vere would take them with him to fight against the cruel oppressors of the Low Country was so absorbing that they could think of nothing else. Even the wonders of the Guildhall and St. Paul's received but scant attention, and the armourers' shops, in which they had a new and lively interest, alone sufficed to detain them. Even the gibes of the apprentices fell dead upon their ears. These varlets might laugh, but what would they say if they knew that they were going to fight the Spaniards. The thought so altered them that they felt almost a feeling of pity for these lads, condemned to stay at home and mind their masters' shops. As to John Lirriper, he was sorely troubled in his mind, and divided between what he considered his duty to the vicar and his life-long respect and reverence towards the lords of Hedingham. The feudal system was extinct, but feudal ideas still lingered among the people. Their lords could no longer summon them to take the field, had no longer power almost of life and death over them, but they were still their lords, and regarded with the highest respect and reverence. The earls of Oxford were, in the eyes of the people of those parts of Essex where their estates lay, personages of greater importance than the queen herself, of whose power and attributes they had but a very dim notion. It was not so very long since people had risen in rebellion against the queen, but such an idea as that of rising against their lords had never entered the mind of a single inhabitant of Hedingham. However, Master Lirriper came to the conclusion that he was, as Geoffrey had said, powerless to interfere. If Mr. Francis Vere decided to take the boys with him, what could he do to prevent it? He could hardly take them forcibly down to the boat against their will, and even could he do so their father might not approve, and doubtless the earl, when he came to hear of it, would be seriously angry at this act of defiance of his kinsman. Still, he was sure that he should have a very unpleasant time with Mistress Vickars. But, as he reassured himself, it was, after all, better to put up with a woman's scolding than to bear the displeasure of the Earl of Oxford, who could turn him out of his house, ruin his business, and drive him from Hedingham. After all, it was natural that these lads should like to embark on this adventure with Mr. Francis Vere, and it would doubtless be to their interest to be thus closely connected with him. At any rate, if it was to be it was, and he, John Lirriper, could do nothing to prevent it. Having arrived at this conclusion he decided to make the best of it, and began to chat cheerfully with the boys. Precisely at the appointed hour John Lirriper arrived with the two lads at the entrance to the house facing the abbey. Two or three servitors, whose doublets were embroidered with the cognizance of the Veres, were standing in front of the door. "Why, it is Master Lirriper!" one of them said. "Why, what has brought you here? I did not know that your trips often extended to London." "Nor do they," John Lirriper said. "It was the wind and my nephew's craft the _Susan_ that brought me to London, and it is the will of Mr. Francis that these two young gentlemen should meet him here at one o'clock that has brought me to this door." "Captain Francis is in; for, you know, he is a captain now, having been lately appointed to a company in the Earl of Leicester's army. He returned an hour since, and has but now finished his meal. Do you wish to go up with these young masters, or shall I conduct them to him?" "You had best do that," John Lirriper answered. "I will remain here below if Captain Francis desires to see me or has any missive to intrust to me." The boys followed the servant upstairs, and were shown into a room where Francis Vere, his cousin the Earl of Oxford, and Captain Allen were seated at table. "Well, lads," the earl said, "so you want to follow my cousin Francis to the wars?" "That is our wish, my lord, if Captain Francis will be so good as to take us with him." "And what will my good tutor your father say to it?" the earl asked smiling. "I think, my lord," Geoffrey said boldly, "that if you yourself will tell my father you think it is for our good, he will say naught against it." "Oh, you want to throw the responsibility upon me, and to embroil me with your father and Mistress Vickars as an abettor of my cousin Francis in the kidnapping of children? Well, Francis, you had better explain to them what their duties will be if they go with you." "You will be my pages," Francis Vere said, "and will perform the usual duties of pages in good families when in the field. It is the duty of pages to aid in collecting firewood and forage, and in all other ways to make themselves useful. You will bear the same sort of relation to the gentlemen volunteers as they do towards the officers. They are aspirants for commissions as officers as you will be to become gentlemen volunteers. You must not think that your duties will be light, for they will not, and you will have to bear many discomforts and hardships. But you will be in an altogether different position from that of the boys who are the pages of the company. You will, apart from your duties, and bearing in mind the difference of your age, associate with the officers and the gentlemen volunteers on terms of equality when not engaged upon duty. On duty you will have to render the same strict and unquestionable obedience that all soldiers pay to those of superior rank. What say you? Are you still anxious to go? Because, if so, I have decided to take you." Geoffrey and Lionel both expressed their thanks in proper terms, and their earnest desire to accompany Captain Vere, and to behave in all ways conformably to his orders and instructions. "Very well, that is settled," Francis Vere said. "The earl is journeying down to Hedingham to-morrow, and has kindly promised to take charge of a letter from me to your father, and personally to assure him that this early embarkation upon military life would prove greatly to your advantage." "Supposing that you are not killed by the Spaniards or carried off by fever," the earl put in; "for although possibly that might be an advantage to humanity in general, it could scarcely be considered one to you personally." "We are ready to take our risk of that, my lord," Geoffrey said; "and are indeed greatly beholden both to Captain Francis for his goodness in taking us with him, and to yourself in kindly undertaking the mission of reconciling our father to our departure." "You have not told me yet how it is that I find you in London?" Francis Vere said. "We only came up for a week, sir, to see the town. We are in charge of Master Lirriper, who owns a barge on the river, and plies between Hedingham and Bricklesey, but who was coming up to London in a craft belonging to his nephew, and who took charge of us. We are staying at the house of Master Swindon, a citizen and ship-chandler." "Is Master Lirriper below?" "He is, sir." "Then in that case he had better go back to the house and bring your mails here. I shall sail from Deptford the day after to-morrow with the turn of tide. You had best remain here now. There will be many things necessary for you to get before you start. I will give instructions to one of my men-at-arms to go with you to purchase them." "I will take their outfit upon myself, Francis," the earl said. "My steward shall go out with them and see to it. It is the least I can do when I am abetting you in depriving my old tutor of his sons." He touched a bell and a servitor entered. "See that these young gentlemen are fed and attended to. They will remain here for the night. Tell Master Dotterell to come hither to me." The boys bowed deeply and retired. "It is all settled, Master Lirriper," they said when they reached the hall below. "We are to sail with Captain Francis the day after to-morrow, and you will be pleased to hear that the earl himself has taken charge of the matter, and will see our father and communicate the news to him." "That is a comfort indeed," John Lirriper said fervently; "for I would most as soon have had to tell him that the _Susan_ had gone down and that you were both drowned, as that I had let you both slip away to the wars when he had given you into my charge. But if the earl takes the matter in hand I do not think that even your lady mother can bear very heavily on me. And now, what is going to be done?" "We are to remain here in order that suitable clothes may be obtained for us by the time we sail. Will you bring down to-morrow morning our wallets from Master Swindon's, and thank him and his good dame for their hospitality, and say that we are sorry to leave them thus suddenly without having an opportunity of thanking them ourselves? We will write letters to-night to our father and mother, and give them to you to take with you when you return." John Lirriper at once took his departure, greatly relieved in mind to find that the earl himself had taken the responsibility upon his shoulders, and would break the news long before he himself reached Hedingham. A few minutes later a servitor conducted the boys to an apartment where a meal was laid for them; and as soon as this was over they were joined by the steward, who requested them to set out with him at once, as there were many things to be done and but short time for doing them. No difficulty in the way of time was, however, thrown in the way by the various tradesmen they visited, these being all perfectly ready to put themselves to inconvenience to do pleasure to so valuable a patron as the powerful Earl of Oxford. Three suits of clothes were ordered for each of them: the one such as that worn by pages in noble families upon ordinary occasions, another of a much richer kind for special ceremonies and gaieties, the third a strong, serviceable suit for use when actually in the field. Then they were taken to an armourer's where each was provided with a light morion or headpiece, breast-plate and backpiece, sword and dagger. A sufficient supply of under garments, boots, and other necessaries were also purchased; and when all was complete they returned highly delighted to the house. It was still scarce five o'clock, and they went across to the abbey and wandered for some time through its aisles, greatly impressed with its dignity and beauty now that their own affairs were off their mind. They returned to the house again, and after supper wrote their letters to their father and mother, saying that they hoped they would not be displeased at the step they had taken, and which they would not have ventured upon had they not already obtained their father's consent to their entering the army. They knew, of course, that he had not contemplated their doing so for some little time; but as so excellent an opportunity had offered, and above all, as they were going out to fight against the Spaniards for the oppressed people of the Low Countries, they hoped their parents would approve of the steps they had taken, not having had time or opportunity to consult them. At noon two days later Francis Vere with Captain Allen and the two boys took their seats in the stern of a skiff manned by six rowers. In the bow were the servitors of the two officers, and the luggage was stowed in the extreme stern. "The tide is getting slack, is it not?" Captain Vere asked the boatmen. "Yes, sir; it will not run up much longer. It will be pretty well slack-water by the time we get to the bridge." Keeping close to the bank the boat proceeded at a rapid pace. Several times the two young officers stood up and exchanged salutations with ladies or gentlemen of their acquaintance. As the boatman had anticipated, tide was slack by the time they arrived at London Bridge, and they now steered out into the middle of the river. "Give way, lads," Captain Allen said. "We told the captain we would not keep him waiting long after high-water, and he will be getting impatient if he does not see us before long." As they shot past the _Susan_ the boys waved their hands to Master Lirriper, who, after coming down in the morning and receiving their letters for their parents, had returned at once to the city and had taken his place on board the _Susan_, so as to be able to tell their father that he had seen the last of them. The distance between London Bridge and Deptford was traversed in a very short time. A vessel with her flags flying and her canvas already loosened was hanging to a buoy some distance out in the stream, and as the boat came near enough for the captain to distinguish those on board, the mooring-rope was slipped, the head sails flattened in, and the vessel began to swing round. Before her head was down stream the boat was alongside. The two officers followed by the boys ascended the ladder by the side. The luggage was quickly handed up, and the servitors followed. The sails were sheeted home, and the vessel began to move rapidly through the water. The boys had thought the _Susan_ an imposing craft, but they were surprised, indeed, at the space on board the _Dover Castle_. In the stern there was a lofty poop with spacious cabins. Six guns were ranged along on each side of the deck, and when the sails were got up they seemed so vast to the boys that they felt a sense of littleness on board the great craft. They had been relieved to find that Captain Vere had his own servitor with him; for in talking it over they had mutually expressed their doubt as to their ability to render such service as Captain Vere would be accustomed to. The wind was from the south-west, and the vessel was off Sheerness before the tide turned. There was, however, no occasion to anchor, for the wind was strong enough to take them against the flood. During the voyage they had no duties to perform. The ship's cook prepared the meals, and the officers' servants waited on them, the lads taking their meals with the two officers. Their destination was Bergen-op-Zoom, a town at the mouth of the Scheldt, of the garrison of which the companies of both Francis Vere and Captain Allen formed part. As soon as the low coasts of Holland came in sight the boys watched them with the most lively interest. "We are passing Sluys now," Captain Vere said. "The land almost ahead of us is Walcheren; and that spire belongs to Flushing. We could go outside and up the channel between the island and Beveland, and then up the Eastern Scheldt to Bergen-op-Zoom; but instead of that we shall follow the western channel, which is more direct." "It is as flat as our Essex coast," Geoffrey remarked. "Aye, and flatter; for the greater part of the land lies below the level of the sea, which is only kept out by great dams and dykes. At times when the rivers are high and the wind keeps back their waters they burst the dams and spread over a vast extent of country. The Zuider-Zee was so formed in 1170 and 1395, and covers a tract as large as the whole county of Essex. Twenty-six years later the river Maas broke its banks and flooded a wide district. Seventy-two villages were destroyed and 100,000 people lost their life. The lands have never been recovered; and where a fertile country once stood is now a mere swamp." "I shouldn't like living there," Lionel said. "It would be terrible, every time the rivers are full and the wind blows, to think that at any moment the banks may burst and the Hood come rushing over you." "It is all habit," Captain Vere replied; "I don't suppose they trouble themselves about it. But they are very particular in keeping their dykes in good repair. The water is one of the great defences of their country. In the first place there are innumerable streams to be crossed by an invader, and in the second, they can as a last resource cut the dykes and flood the country. These Dutchmen, as far as I have seen of them, are hard-working and industrious people, steady and patient, and resolved to defend their independence to the last. This they have indeed proved by the wonderful resistance they have made against the power of Spain. There, you see the ship's head has been turned and we shall before long be in the channel. Sluys lies up that channel on the right. It is an important place. Large vessels can go no further, but are unloaded there and the cargoes taken to Bruges and thence distributed to many other towns. They say that in 1468 as many as a hundred and fifty ships a day arrived at Sluys. That gives you an idea of the trade that the Netherlands carry on. The commerce of this one town was as great as is that of London at the present time. But since the troubles the trade of Sluys has fallen off a good deal." The ship had to anchor here for two or three hours until the tide turned, for the wind had fallen very light and they could not make head against the ebb. As soon as it turned they again proceeded on their way, dropping quietly up with the tide. The boys climbed up into the tops, and thence could see a wide extent of country dotted with villages stretching beyond the banks, which restricted their view from the decks. In five hours Bergen-op-Zoom came in sight, and they presently dropped anchor opposite the town. The boat was lowered, and the two officers with the lads were rowed ashore. They were met as they landed by several young officers. "Welcome back, Vere; welcome, Allen. You have been lucky indeed in having a few days in England, and getting a view of something besides this dreary flat country and its sluggish rivers. What is the last news from London?" "There is little news enough," Vere replied. "We were only four days in London, and were busy all the time. And how are things here? Now that summer is at hand and the country drying the Dons ought to be bestirring themselves." "They say that they are doing so," the officer replied. "We have news that the Duke of Parma is assembling his army at Bruges, where he is collecting the pick of the Spanish infantry with a number of Italian regiments which have joined him. He sent off the Marquess Del Vasto with the Sieur De Hautepenne towards Bois-le-Duc. General Count Hohenlohe, who, as you know, we English always call Count Holland, went off with a large force to meet him, and we heard only this morning that a battle has been fought, Hautepenne killed, and the fort of Crevecoeur on the Maas captured. From what I hear, some of our leaders think that it was a mistake so to scatter our forces, and if Parma moves forward from Bruges against Sluys, which is likely enough, we shall be sorely put to it to save the place." As they were talking they proceeded into the town, and presently reached the house where Francis Vere had his quarters. The officers and gentlemen volunteers of his company soon assembled, and Captain Vere introduced the two boys to them. "They are young gentlemen of good family," he said, "who will act as my pages until they are old enough to be enrolled as gentlemen volunteers. I commend them to your good offices. Their father is a learned and reverend gentleman who was my tutor, and also tutor to my cousin, the Earl of Oxford, by whom he is greatly valued. They are lads of spirit, and have been instructed in the use of arms at Hedingham as if they had been members of our family, I am sure, gentlemen volunteers, that you will receive them as friends. I propose that they shall take their meals with you, but of course they will lodge here with me and my officers; but as you are in the next house this will cause no inconvenience. I trust that we shall not remain here long, but shall soon be on the move. We have now been here seven months, and it is high time we were doing something. We didn't bargain to come over here and settle down for life in a dull Dutch town." In a few hours the boys found themselves quite at home in their new quarters. The gentlemen volunteers received them cordially, and they found that for the present their duties would be extremely light, consisting chiefly in carrying messages and orders; for as the officers had all servants of their own, Captain Vere dispensed with their attendance at meals. There was much to amuse and interest them in Bergen-op-Zoom. It reminded them to some extent of Harwich, with its narrow streets and quaint houses; but the fortifications were far stronger, and the number of churches struck them as prodigious. The population differed in no very large degree in dress from that of England, but the people struck them as being slower and more deliberate in their motions. The women's costumes differed much more widely from those to which they were accustomed, and their strange and varied head-dresses, their bright-coloured handkerchiefs, and the amount of gold necklaces and bracelets that they wore, struck them with surprise. Their stay in Bergen-op-Zoom was even shorter than they had anticipated, for three days after their arrival a boat came with a letter from Sir William Russell, the governor at Flushing. He said that he had just received an urgent letter from the Dutch governor of Sluys, saying that Parma's army was advancing from Bruges towards the city, and had seized and garrisoned the fort of Blankenburg on the sea-coast to prevent reinforcements arriving from Ostend; he therefore prayed the governor of Flushing to send off troops and provisions with all haste to enable him to resist the attack. Sir William requested that the governor of Bergen-op-Zoom would at once embark the greater portion of his force on board ship and send them to Sluys. He himself was having a vessel filled with grain for the use of the inhabitants, and was also sending every man he could spare from Flushing. In a few minutes all was bustle in the town. The trumpets of the various companies called the soldiers to arms, and in a very short time the troops were on their way towards the river. Here several ships had been requisitioned for the service; and as the companies marched down they were conducted to the ships to which they were allotted by the quarter-masters. Geoffrey and Lionel felt no small pride as they marched down with their troop. They had for the first time donned their steel-caps, breast and back pieces; but this was rather for convenience of carriage than for any present utility. They had at Captain Vere's orders left their ordinary clothes behind them, and were now attired in thick serviceable jerkins, with skirts coming down nearly to the knee, like those worn by the troops. They marched at the rear of the company, the other pages, similarly attired, following them. As soon as the troops were on board ship, sail was made, and the vessels dropped down the stream. The wind was very light, and it was not until thirty hours after starting that the little fleet arrived off Sluys. The town, which was nearly egg-shaped, lay close to the river, which was called the Zwin. At the eastern end, in the centre of a detached piece of water, stood the castle, connected with the town by a bridge of boats. The Zwin formed the defence on the north side, while the south and west were covered by a very wide moat along the centre of which ran a dyke, dividing it into two channels. On the west side this moat extended to the Zwin, and was crossed at the point of junction by the bridge leading to the west gate. The walls inclosed a considerable space, containing fields and gardens. Seven windmills stood on the ramparts. The tower of the town-hall, and those of the churches of Our Lady, St. John, and the Grey Friars rose high above the town. The ships from Flushing and Bergen-op-Zoom sailed up together, and the 800 men who landed were received with immense enthusiasm by the inhabitants, who were Protestants, and devoted to the cause of independence. The English were under the command of Sir Roger Williams, who had already seen so many years of service in the Low Countries; and under him were Morgan, Thomas Baskerville, and Huntley, who had long served with him. Roger Williams was an admirable man for service of this kind. He had distinguished himself by many deeds of reckless bravery. He possessed an inexhaustible fund of confidence and high spirits, and in his company it was impossible to feel despondent, however desperate the situation. The citizens placed their houses at the disposal of their new allies, handsome quarters were allotted to the officers, and the soldiers were all housed in private dwellings or the warehouses of the merchants. The inhabitants had already for some days been working hard at their defences, and the English at once joined them in their labours, strengthening the weak portions of the walls, mounting cannon upon the towers, and preparing in all ways to give a warm reception to the Spaniards. Captain Vere, his lieutenant and ensign and his two pages, were quartered in the house of a wealthy merchant, whose family did all in their power to make them comfortable. It was a grand old house, and the boys, accustomed as they were to the splendours of Hedingham Castle, agreed that the simple merchants of the Low Countries were far in advance of English nobles in the comforts and conveniences of their dwellings. The walls of the rooms were all heavily panelled; rich curtains hung before the casements. The furniture was not only richly carved, but comfortable. Heavy hangings before the doors excluded draughts, and in the principal apartments Eastern carpets covered the floors. The meals were served on spotless white linen. Rich plate stood on the sideboard, and gold and silver vessels of rare carved work from Italy glittered in the armoires. Above all, from top to bottom, the house was scrupulously clean. Not a particle of dust dimmed the brightness of the furniture, and even now, when the city was threatened with siege, the merchant's wife never relaxed her vigilance over the doings of her maids, who seemed to the boys to be perpetually engaged in scrubbing, dusting, and polishing. "Our mother prides herself on the neatness of her house," Geoffrey said; "but what would she say, I wonder, were she to see one of these Dutch households? I fear that the maids would have a hard time of it afterwards, and our father would be fairly driven out of his library." "It is all very well to be clean," Lionel said; "but I think they carry it too far here. Peace and quietness count for something, and it doesn't seem to me that Dutchmen, fond of it as they say they are, know even the meaning of the words as far as their homes are concerned. Why, it always seems to be cleaning day, and they must be afraid of going into their own houses with their boots on!" "Yes, I felt quite like a criminal to-day," Geoffrey laughed, "when I came in muddy up to the waist, after working down there by the sluices. I believe when the Spaniards open fire these people will be more distracted by the dust caused by falling tiles and chimneys than by any danger of their lives." Great difficulties beset the Duke of Parma at the commencement of the siege. Sluys was built upon the only piece of solid ground in the district, and it was surrounded by such a labyrinth of canals, ditches, and swamps, that it was said that it was almost as difficult to find Sluys as it was to capture it. Consequently, it was impossible to find ground solid enough for a camp to be pitched upon, and the first labour was the erection of wooden huts for the troops upon piles driven into the ground. These huts were protected from the fire of the defenders by bags of earth brought in boats from a long distance. The main point selected for the attack was the western gate; but batteries were also placed to play upon the castle and the bridge of boats connecting it with the town. "There is one advantage in their determining to attack us at the western extremity of the town," John Menyn, the merchant at whose house Captain Vere and his party were lodging, remarked when his guest informed him there was no longer any doubt as to the point at which the Spaniards intended to attack, "for they will not be able to blow up our walls with mines in that quarter." "How is that?" Francis Vere asked. "If you can spare half an hour of your time I will show you," the merchant said. "I can spare it now, Von Menyn," Vere replied; "for the information is important, whatever it may be." "I will conduct you there at once. There is no time like the present." "Shall we follow you, sir?" Geoffrey asked his captain. "Yes, come along," Vere replied. "The matter is of interest, and for the life of me I cannot make out what this obstacle can be of which our host speaks." They at once set out. John Menyn led them to a warehouse close to the western wall, and spoke a few words to its owner, who at once took three lanterns from the wall and lighted them, handing one to Vere, another to John Menyn, and taking the other himself; he then unlocked a massive door. A flight of steps leading apparently to a cellar were visible. He led the way down, the two men following, and the boys bringing up the rear. The descent was far deeper than they had expected, and when they reached the bottom they found themselves in a vast arched cellar filled with barrels. From this they proceeded into another, and again into a third. "What are these great magazines?" Francis Vere asked in surprise. "They are wine-cellars, and there are scores similar to those you see. Sluys is the centre of the wine trade of Flanders and Holland, and cellars like these extend right under the wall. All the warehouses along here have similar cellars. This end of the town was the driest, and the soil most easily excavated. That is why the magazines for wines are all clustered here. There is not a foot of ground behind and under the walls at this end that is not similarly occupied, and if the Spaniards try to drive mines to blow up the walls, they will simply break their way into these cellars, where we can meet them and drive them back again." "Excellent!" Francis Vere said. "This will relieve us of the work of countermining, which is always tiresome and dangerous, and would be specially so here, where we should have to dive under that deep moat outside your walls. Now we shall only have to keep a few men on watch in these cellars. They would hear the sound of the Spanish approaching, and we shall be ready to give them a warm reception by the time they break in. Are there communications between these cellars?" "Yes, for the most part," the wine merchant said. "The cellars are not entirely the property of us dealers in wine. They are constructed by men who let them, just as they would let houses. A merchant in a small way would need but one cellar, while some of us occupy twenty or more; therefore, there are for the most part communications, with doors, between the various cellars, so that they can be let off in accordance with the needs of the hirers." "Well, I am much obliged to you for telling me of this," Captain Vere said. "Williams and Morgan will be glad enough to hear that there is no fear of their being blown suddenly into the air while defending the walls, and they will see the importance of keeping a few trusty men on watch in the cellars nearest to the Spaniards. I shall report the matter to them at once. The difficulty," he added smiling, "will be to keep the men wakeful, for it seems to me that the very air is heavy with the fumes of wine."

4

THE SIEGE OF SLUYS.

Until the Spaniards had established their camp, and planted some of their batteries, there was but little firing. Occasionally the wall-pieces opened upon parties of officers reconnoitring, and a few shots were fired from time to time to harass the workmen in the enemy's batteries; but this was done rather to animate the townsmen, and as a signal to distant friends that so far matters were going on quietly, than with any hopes of arresting the progress of the enemy's works. Many sorties were made by the garrison, and fierce fighting took place, but only a score or two of men from each company were taken upon these occasions, and the boys were compelled to remain inactive spectators of the fight. In these sorties the Spanish works were frequently held for a few minutes, gabions thrown down, and guns overturned, but after doing as much damage as they could the assailants had to fall back again to the town, being unable to resist the masses of pikemen brought up against them. The boldness of these sorties, and the bravery displayed by their English allies, greatly raised the spirits of the townsfolk, who now organized themselves into companies, and undertook the work of guarding the less exposed portion of the wall, thus enabling the garrison to keep their whole strength at the points attacked. The townsmen also laboured steadily in adding to the defences; and two companies of women were formed, under female captains, who took the names of May in the Heart and Catherine the Rose. These did good service by building a strong fort at one of the threatened points, and this work was in their honour christened Fort Venus. "It is scarcely a compliment to Venus," Geoffrey laughed to his brother. "These square-shouldered and heavily-built women do not at all correspond with my idea of the goddess of love." "They are strong enough for men," Lionel said. "I shouldn't like one of those big fat arms to come down upon my head. No, they are not pretty; but they look jolly and good-tempered, and if they were to fight as hard as they work they ought to do good service." "There is a good deal of difference between them," Geoffrey said. "Look at those three dark-haired women with neat trim figures. They do not look as if they belonged to the same race as the others." "They are not of the same race, lad," Captain Vere, who was standing close by, said. "The big heavy women are Flemish, the others come, no doubt, from the Walloon provinces bordering on France. The Walloons broke off from the rest of the states and joined the Spanish almost from the first. They were for the most part Catholics, and had little in common with the people of the Low Country; but there were, of course, many Protestants among them, and these were forced to emigrate, for the Spanish allow no Protestants in the country under their rule. Alva adopted the short and easy plan of murdering all the Protestants in the towns he took; but the war is now conducted on rather more humane principles, and the Protestants have the option given them of changing their faith or leaving the country. "In this way, without intending it, the Spaniards have done good service to Holland, for hundreds of thousands of industrious people have flocked there for shelter from Antwerp, Ghent, Bruges, and other cities that have fallen into the hands of the Spaniards, thus greatly raising the population of Holland, and adding to its power of defence. Besides this, the presence of these exiles, and the knowledge that a similar fate awaits themselves if they fall again under the yoke of Spain, nerves the people to resist to the utmost. Had it not been for the bigotry of the Spanish, and the abominable cruelties practised by the Inquisition, the States would never have rebelled; and even after they did so, terms might easily have been made with them had they not been maddened by the wholesale massacres perpetrated by Alva. There, do you hear those women speaking? Their language is French rather than Flemish." Just as they were speaking a heavy roar of cannon broke out from the eastern end of the town. "They have opened fire on the castle!" Vere exclaimed. "Run, lads, quick! and summon the company to form in the market-place in front of our house. We are told off to reinforce the garrison of the castle in case of attack." The boys hurried away at the top of their speed. They had the list of all the houses in which the men of the company were quartered; and as the heavy roar of cannon had brought every one to their doors to hear what was going on, the company were in a very short time assembled. Francis Vere placed himself at their head, and marched them through the long streets of the town and out through the wall on to the bridge of boats. It was the first time the boys had been under fire; and although they kept a good countenance, they acknowledged to each other afterwards that they had felt extremely uncomfortable as they traversed the bridge with the balls whistling over their heads, and sometimes striking the water close by and sending a shower of spray over the troops. [Illustration: THE FOUR PAGES CARRY DOWN THE WOUNDED SOLDIER] They felt easier when they entered the castle and were protected by its walls. Upon these the men took their station. Those with guns discharged their pieces against the Spanish artillerymen, the pikemen assisted the bombardiers to work the cannon, and the officers went to and fro encouraging the men. The pages of the company had little to do beyond from time to time carrying cans of wine and water to the men engaged. Geoffrey and Lionel, finding that their services were not required by Captain Vere, mounted on to the wall, and sheltering themselves as well as they could behind the battlements, looked out at what was going on. "It doesn't seem to me," Geoffrey said, "that these walls will long withstand the balls of the Spanish. The battlements are already knocked down in several places, and I can hear after each shot strikes the walls the splashing of the brickwork as it falls into the water. See! there is Tom Carroll struck down with a ball. It's our duty to carry him away." They ran along the wall to the fallen soldier. Two other pages came up, and the four carried him to the top of the steps and then down into the court-yard, where a Dutch surgeon took charge of him. His shoulder had been struck by the ball, and the arm hung only by a shred of flesh. The surgeon shook his head. "I can do nothing for him," he said. "He cannot live many hours." Lionel had done his share in carrying the man down, but he now turned sick and faint. Geoffrey caught him by the arm. "Steady, old boy," he said; "it is trying at first, but we shall soon get accustomed to it. Here, take a draught of wine from this flask." "I am better now," Lionel said, after taking a draught of wine. "I felt as if I was going to faint, Geoffrey. I don't know why I should, for I did not feel frightened when we were on the wall." "Oh, it has nothing to do with fear; it is just the sight of that poor fellow's blood. There is nothing to be ashamed of in that. Why, I saw Will Atkins, who was one of the best fighters and single-stick players in Hedingham, go off in a dead swoon because a man he was working with crushed his thumb between two heavy stones. Look, Lionel, what cracks there are in the wall here. I don't think it will stand long. We had better run up and tell Captain Vere, for it may come toppling down with some of the men on it." Captain Vere on hearing the news ran down and examined the wall. "Yes," he said, "it is evidently going. A good earthwork is worth a dozen of these walls. They will soon have the castle about our ears. However, it is of no great importance to us. I saw you lads just now on the wall; I did not care about ordering you down at the time; but don't go up again except to help to carry down the wounded. Make it a rule, my boys, never to shirk your duty, however great the risk to life may be; but, on the other hand, never risk your lives unless it is your duty to do so. What is gallantry in the one case is foolishness in the other. Although you are but pages, yet it may well be that in such a siege as this you will have many opportunities of showing that you are of good English stock; but while I would have you shrink from no danger when there is a need for you to expose yourselves, I say also that you should in no way run into danger wantonly." Several times in the course of the afternoon the boys took their turn in going up and helping to bring down wounded men. As the time went on several yawning gaps appeared in the walls. The court-yard was strewn with fragments of masonry, and the pages were ordered to keep under shelter of the wall of the castle unless summoned on duty. Indeed, the court-yard had now become a more dangerous station than the wall itself; for not only did the cannon-shot fly through the breaches, but fragments of bricks, mortar, and rubbish flew along with a force that would have been fatal to anything struck. Some of the pages were big fellows of seventeen or eighteen years old, who had been serving for some years under Morgan and Williams, and would soon be transferred into the ranks. "I like not this sort of fighting," one of them said. "It is all very well when it comes to push of pike with the Spaniards, but to remain here like chickens in a coop while they batter away at us is a game for which I have no fancy. What say you, Master Vickars?" "Well, it is my first experience, Somers, and I cannot say that it is agreeable. I do not know whether I should like hand-to-hand fighting better; but it seems to me at present that it would be certainly more agreeable to be doing something than to be sitting here and listening to the falls of the pieces of masonry and the whistling of the balls. I don't see that they will be any nearer when they have knocked this place to pieces. They have no boats, and if they had, the guns on the city wall would prevent their using them; besides, when the bridge of boats is removed they could do nothing if they got here." Towards evening a council was held, all the principal officers being present, and it was decided to evacuate the castle. It could indeed have been held for some days longer, but it was plain it would at length become untenable; the bridge of boats had already been struck in several places, and some of the barges composing it had sunk level with the water. Were it destroyed, the garrison of the castle would be completely cut off, and as no great advantage was to be gained by holding the position, for it was evident that it was upon the other end of the town the main attack was to be made, it was decided to evacuate it under cover of night. As soon as it became dark this decision was carried into effect, and for hours the troops worked steadily, transporting the guns, ammunition, and stores of all kinds across from the castle to the town. Already communication with their friends outside had almost ceased, for the first operation of the enemy had been to block the approach to Sluys from the sea. Boats had been moored head and stern right across Zwin, and a battery erected upon each shore to protect them; but Captains Hart and Allen twice swam down to communicate with friendly vessels below the obstacle, carrying despatches with them from the governor to the States-General, and from Roger Williams to the English commanders, urging that no time should be lost in assembling an army to march to the relief of the town. Both contained assurances that the garrison would defend the place to the last extremity, but pointed out that it was only a question of time, and that the town must fall unless relieved. The Dutch garrison were 800 strong, and had been joined by as many English. Parma had at first marched with but 6000 men against the city, but had very speedily drawn much larger bodies of men towards him, and had, as Roger Williams states in a letter to the queen sent from Sluys at an early period of the siege, four regiments of Walloons, four of Germans, one of Italians, one of Burgundians, fifty-two companies of Spaniards, twenty-four troops of horse, and forty-eight guns. This would give a total of at least 17,000 men, and further reinforcements afterwards arrived. Against so overwhelming a force as this, it could not be hoped that the garrison, outnumbered by more than ten to one, could long maintain themselves, and the Duke of Parma looked for an easy conquest of the place. By both parties the possession of Sluys was regarded as a matter of importance out of all proportion to the size and population of the town; for at that time it was known in England that the King of Spain was preparing a vast fleet for the invasion of Britain, and Sluys was the nearest point to our shores at which a fleet could gather and the forces of Parma embark to join those coming direct from, Spain. The English, therefore, were determined to maintain the place to the last extremity, and while Parma had considered its capture as an affair of a few days only, the little garrison were determined that for weeks at any rate they would be able to prolong the resistance, feeling sure that before that time could elapse both the States and England, knowing the importance of the struggle, would send forces to their relief. The view taken as to the uselessness of defending the castle was fully justified, as the Spaniards on the following day removed the guns that they had employed in battering it, to their works facing the western gate, and fire was opened next morning. Under cover of this the Spanish engineers pushed their trenches up to the very edge of the moat, in spite of several desperate sorties by the garrison. The boys had been forbidden by Captain Vere to take their place with the company on the walls. "In time," he said, "as our force decreases, we shall want every one capable of handling arms to man the breaches, but at present we are not in any extremity; and none save those whom duty compels to be there must come under the fire of the Spaniards, for to do so would be risking life without gain." They had, however, made friends with the wine merchant whose cellars they had visited, and obtained permission from him to visit the upper storey of his warehouse whenever they chose. From a window here they were enabled to watch all that was taking place, for the warehouse was much higher than the walls. It was not in the direct line of fire of the Spanish batteries, for these were chiefly concentrated against the wall a little to their right. After heavy fighting the Spaniards one night, by means of boats from the Zwin, landed upon the dyke which divided the moat into two channels, and thus established themselves so close under the ramparts that the guns could not be brought to bear upon them. They proceeded to intrench themselves at once upon the dyke. The governor, Arnold Groenvelt, consulted with the English leaders, and decided that the enemy must be driven off this dyke immediately, or that the safety of the city would be gravely imperilled. They therefore assembled a force of four hundred men, sallied out of the south gate, where two bastions were erected on the dyke itself, and then advanced along it to the assault of the Spaniards. The battle was a desperate one, the English and Dutch were aided by their comrades on the wall, who shot with guns and arquebuses against the Spaniards, while the latter were similarly assisted by their friends along the outer edge of the moat, and received constant reinforcements by boats from their ships. The odds were too great for the assailants, who were forced at last to fall back along the dyke to the south gate and to re-enter the town. It was already five weeks since the English had arrived to take part in the defence, and the struggle now began upon a great scale--thirty cannon and eight culverins opening fire upon the walls. The heaviest fire was on St. James' day, the 25th of July, when 4000 shots were fired between three in the morning and five in the afternoon. While this tremendous cannonade was going on, the boys could not but admire the calmness shown by the population. Many of the shots, flying over the top of the walls, struck the houses in the city, and the chimneys, tiles, and masses of masonry fell in the streets. Nevertheless the people continued their usual avocations. The shops were all open, though the men employed served their customers with breast and back pieces buckled on, and their arms close at hand, so that they could run to the walls at once to take part in their defence did the Spaniards attempt an assault upon them. The women stood knitting at their doors, Frau Menyn looked as sharply after her maids as ever, and washing and scouring went on without interruption. "I believe that woman will keep those girls at work after the Spaniards have entered the city, and until they are thundering at the door," Lionel said. "Who but a Dutch woman would give a thought to a few particles of dust on her furniture when an enemy was cannonading the town?" "I think she acts wisely after all, Lionel. The fact that everything goes on as usual here and in other houses takes people's thoughts off the dangers of the position, and prevents anything like panic being felt." The lads spent the greater part of the day at their look-out, and could see that the wall against which the Spanish fire was directed was fast crumbling. Looking down upon it, it seemed deserted of troops, for it would be needlessly exposing the soldiers to death to place them there while the cannonade continued; but behind the wall, and in the street leading to it, companies of English and Dutch soldiers could be seen seated or lying on the ground. They were leaning out of the dormer-window in the high roof watching the Spanish soldiers in the batteries working their guns, when, happening to look round, they saw a crossbow protruded from a window of the warehouse to their right, and a moment afterwards the sharp twang of the bow was heard. There was nothing unusual in this; for although firearms were now generally in use the long-bow and the cross-bow had not been entirely abandoned, and there were still archers in the English army, and many still held that the bow was a far better weapon than the arquebus, sending its shafts well nigh as far and with a truer aim. "If that fellow is noticed," Geoffrey said, "we shall have the Spanish musketeers sending their balls in this direction. The governor has, I heard Captain Vere say, forbidden shooting from the warehouses, because he does not wish to attract the Spanish fire against them. Of course when the wall yields and the breach has to be defended the warehouses will be held, and as the windows will command the breach they will be great aids to us then, and it would be a great disadvantage to us if the Spaniards now were to throw shells and fire-balls into these houses, and so to destroy them before they make their attack. Nor can much good be gained, for at this distance a cross-bow would scarce carry its bolts beyond the moat." "Most likely the man is using the cross-bow on purpose to avoid attracting the attention of the Spaniards, Geoffrey. At this distance they could not see the cross-bow, while a puff of smoke would be sure to catch their eye." "There, he has shot again. I did not see the quarrell fall in the moat. See, one of the Spanish soldiers from that battery is coming forward. There, he has stooped and picked something up. Hallo! do you see that? He has just raised his arm; that is a signal, surely." "It certainly looked like it," Lionel agreed. "It was a sort of half wave of the hand. That is very strange!" "Very, Lionel; it looks to me very suspicious. It is quite possible that a piece of paper may have been tied round the bolt, and that someone is sending information to the enemy. This ought to be looked to." "But what are we to do, Geoffrey? Merely seeing a Spanish soldier wave his arm is scarcely reason enough for bringing an accusation against anyone. We are not even sure that he picked up the bolt; and even if he did, the action might have been a sort of mocking wave of the hand at the failure of the shooter to send it as far as the battery." "It might be, of course, Lionel. No, we have certainly nothing to go upon that would justify our making a report on the subject, but quite enough to induce us to keep a watch on this fellow, whoever he may be. Let us see, to begin with, if he shoots again." They waited for an hour, but the head of the cross-bow was not again thrust out of the window. "He may have ceased shooting for either of two reasons," Geoffrey said. "If he is a true man, because he sees that his bolts do not carry far enough to be of any use. If he is a traitor, because he has gained his object, and knows that his communication has reached his friends outside. We will go down now and inquire who is the occupier of the next warehouse." The merchant himself was not below, for as he did business with other towns he had had nothing to do since Sluys was cut off from the surrounded country; but one of his clerks was at work, making out bills and accounts in his office as if the thunder of the guns outside was unheard by him. The boys had often spoken to him as they passed in and out. "Who occupies the warehouse on the right?" Geoffrey asked him carelessly. "William Arnig," he replied. "He is a leading citizen, and one of the greatest merchants in our trade. His cellars are the most extensive we have, and he does a great trade in times of peace with Bruges, Ghent, Antwerp, and other towns." "I suppose he is a Protestant like most of the towns-people?" Geoffrey remarked. "No, he is a Catholic; but he is not one who pushes his opinions strongly, and he is well disposed to the cause, and a captain in one of the city bands. The Catholics and Protestants always dwell quietly together throughout the Low Countries, and would have no animosities against each other were it not for the Spaniards. Formerly, at least, this was the case; but since the persecutions we have Protestant towns and Catholic towns, the one holding to the States cause, the other siding with the Spaniards. Why do you ask?" "Oh, I hadn't heard the name of your next neighbour, and was wondering who he might be." The boys had now been nearly two months in Holland, and were beginning to understand the language, which is not difficult to acquire, and differed then even less than now from the dialect spoken in the eastern counties of England, between whom and Holland there had been for many generations much trade and intimate relations. "What had we better do next, Geoffrey?" Lionel asked as they left the warehouse. "I think that in the first place, Lionel, we will take our post at the window to-morrow, and keep a close watch all day to see whether this shooting is repeated. If it is, we had better report the matter to Captain Vere, and leave him to decide what should be done. I do not see that we could undertake anything alone, and in any case, you see, it would be a serious matter to lay an accusation against a prominent citizen who is actually a captain of one of the bands." Upon the following day they took their post again at the window, and after some hours watching saw three bolts fired from the next window. Watching intently, they saw the two first fall into the moat. They could not see where the other fell; but as there was no splash in the water, they concluded that it had fallen beyond it, and in a minute they saw a soldier again advance from the battery, pick up something at the edge of the water, raise his arm, and retire. That evening when Captain Vere returned from the ramparts they informed him of what they had observed. "Doubtless it is an act of treachery," he said, "and this merchant is communicating with the enemy. At the same time what you have seen, although convincing evidence to me, is scarce enough for me to denounce him. Doubtless he does not write these letters until he is ready to fire them off, and were he arrested in his house or on his way to the warehouse we might fail to find proofs of his guilt, and naught but ill-feeling would be caused among his friends. No, whatever we do we must do cautiously. Have you thought of any plan by which we might catch him in the act?" "If two or three men could be introduced into his warehouse, and concealed in the room from which he fires, they might succeed in catching him in the act, Captain Vere; but the room may be an empty one without any place whatever where they could be hidden, and unless they were actually in the room they would be of little good, for he would have time, if he heard footsteps, to thrust any letter he may have written into his mouth, and so destroy it before it could be seized." "That is so," Captain Vere agreed. "The matter seems a difficult one, and yet it is of the greatest importance to hinder communications with the Spaniards. To-night all the soldiers who can be spared, aided by all the citizens able to use matlock and pick, are to set to work to begin to raise a half-moon round the windmill behind the point they are attacking, so as to have a second line to fall back upon when the wall gives way, which it will do ere long, for it is sorely shaken and battered. It is most important to keep this from the knowledge of the Spaniards. Now, lads, you have shown your keenness by taking notice of what is going on, see if you cannot go further, and hit upon some plan of catching this traitor at his work. If before night we can think of no scheme, I must go to the governor and tell him frankly that we have suspicions of treachery, though we cannot prove them, and ask him, in order to prevent the possibility of our plans being communicated to the enemy, to place some troops in all the warehouses along that line, so that none can shoot therefrom any message to the Spaniards." Just as Captain Vere finished his supper, the boys came into the room again. "We have thought of a plan, sir, that might succeed, although it would be somewhat difficult. The dormer-window from which these bolts have been fired lies thirty or forty feet away from that from which we were looking. The roof is so steep that no one could hold a footing upon it for a moment, nor could a plank be placed upon which he could walk. The window is about twelve feet from the top of the roof. We think that one standing on the ledge of our window might climb on to its top, and once there swing a rope with a stout grapnel attached to catch on the ridge of the roof; then two or three men might climb up there and work themselves along, and then lower themselves down with a rope on to the top of the next window. They would need to have ropes fastened round their bodies, for the height is great, and a slip would mean death. "The one farthest out on the window could lean over when he hears a noise below him, and when he saw the cross-bow thrust from the window, could by a sudden blow knock it from the fellow's hand, when it would slide down the roof and fall into the narrow yard between the warehouse and the walls. Of course some men would be placed there in readiness to seize it, and others at the door of the warehouse to arrest the traitor if he ran down." "I think the plan is a good one, though somewhat difficult of execution," Captain Vere said. "But this enterprise on the roof would be a difficult one and dangerous, since as you say a slip would mean death." "Lionel and myself, sir, would undertake that with the aid of two active men to hold the ropes for us. We have both done plenty of bird-nesting in the woods of Hedingham, and are not likely to turn giddy." "I don't think it is necessary for more than one to get down on to that window," Captain Vere said. "Only one could so place himself as to look down upon the cross-bow. However, you shall divide the honour of the enterprise between you. You, as the eldest and strongest, Geoffrey, shall carry out your plan on the roof, while you, Lionel, shall take post at the door with four men to arrest the traitor when he leaves. I will select two strong and active men to accompany you, Geoffrey, and aid you in your attempt; but mind, before you try to get out of the window and to climb on to its roof, have a strong rope fastened round your body and held by the others; then in case of a slip, they can haul you in again. I will see that the ropes and grapnels are in readiness." The next morning early Geoffrey proceeded with the two men who had been selected to accompany him to his usual look-out. Both were active, wiry men, and entered fully into the spirit of the undertaking when Geoffrey explained its nature to them. They looked out of the dormer-window at the sharp roof slanting away in front of them and up to the ridge above. "I think, Master Vickars," one of them, Roger Browne by name, said, "that I had best go up first. I served for some years at sea, and am used to climbing about in dizzy places. It is no easy matter to get from this window-sill astride the roof above us, and moreover I am more like to heave the grapnel so that it will hook firmly on to the ridge than you are." "Very well, Roger. I should be willing to try, but doubtless you would manage it far better than I should. But before you start we will fasten the other rope round your body, as Captain Vere directed me to do. Then in case you slip, or anything gives way with your weight, we can check you before you slide far down below us." A rope was accordingly tied round the man's body under his arms. Taking the grapnel, to which the other rope was attached, he got out on to the sill. It was not an easy task to climb up on to the ridge of the dormer-window, and it needed all his strength and activity to accomplish the feat. Once astride of the ridge the rest was easy. At the first cast he threw the grapnel so that it caught securely on the top of the roof. After testing it with two or three pulls he clambered up, leaving the lower end of the rope hanging by the side of the window. As soon as he had gained this position Geoffrey, who was to follow him, prepared to start. According to the instructions Browne had given him he fastened the end of the rope which was round Browne's body under his own shoulders, then leaning over and taking a firm hold of the rope to which the grapnel was attached, he let himself out of the window. Browne hauled from above at the rope round his body, and he pulled himself with his hands by that attached to the grapnel, and presently reached the top. "I am glad you came first, Roger," he said. "I do not think I could have ever pulled myself up if you had not assisted me." He unfastened the rope, and the end was thrown down to the window, and Job Tredgold, the other man, fastened it round him and was hauled up as Geoffrey had been. "We will move along now to that stack of chimneys coming through the roof four feet below the ridge on the town side," Geoffrey said. "We can stand down there out of sight of the Spaniards. We shall be sure to attract attention sitting up here, and might have some bullets flying round our ears, besides which this fellow's friends might suspect our object and signal to him in some way. It is two hours yet to the time when we have twice seen him send his bolts across the moat." This was accordingly done, and for an hour and a half they sat down on the roof with their feet against the stack of chimneys. "It is time to be moving now," Geoffrey said at last. "I think the best way will be for me to get by the side of the dormer-window instead of above it. It would be very awkward leaning over there, and I should not have strength to strike a blow; whereas with the rope under my arms and my foot on the edge of the sill, which projects a few inches beyond the side of the window, I could stand upright and strike a downright blow on the cross-bow." "That would be the best way, I think," Roger Browne agreed; "and I will come down on to the top of the window and lean over. In the first place your foot might slip, and as you dangle there by the rope he might cut it and let you shoot over, or he might lean out and shoot you as you climb up the roof again; but if I am above with my pistol in readiness there will be no fear of accidents."

5

AN HEROIC DEFENCE.

The plan Roger Browne suggested was carried out. Geoffrey was first lowered to his place by the side of the window, and bracing himself against its side with a foot on the sill he managed to stand upright, leaning against the rope that Job Tredgold held from above. Job had instructions when Geoffrey lifted his arm to ease the rope a few inches so as to enable the lad to lean forward. After two or three attempts Geoffrey got the rope to the exact length which would enable him to look round the corner and to strike a blow with his right hand, in which he held a stout club. Roger Browne then descended by the aid of the other rope, and fastening it round his body lay down astride of the roof of the window with his head and shoulders over the end, and his pistol held in readiness. It seemed an age to Geoffrey before he heard the sound of a footstep in the loft beside him. He grasped his cudgel firmly and leaned slightly forward. For ten minutes there was quiet within, and Geoffrey guessed that the traitor was writing the missive he was about to send to the enemy; then the footstep approached the window, and a moment later a cross-bow was thrust out. A glance at it sufficed to show that the bolt was enveloped in a piece of paper wound round it and secured with a string. Steadying himself as well as he could Geoffrey struck with all his force down upon the cross-bow. The weapon, loosely held, went clattering down the tiles. There was an exclamation of surprise and fury from within the window, and at the same moment Job Tredgold, seeing that Geoffrey's attempt had been successful, hauled away at the rope and began to drag him backward up the tiles. The lad saw a man lean out of the window and look up at him, then a pistol was levelled; but the report came from above the window, and not from the threatening weapon. A sharp cry of pain was heard, as the pistol fell from the man's hand and followed the cross-bow down the roof. A few seconds later Geoffrey was hauled up to the ridge, where he was at once joined by Roger Browne. Shifting the ropes they moved along till above the window from which they had issued. Geoffrey was first lowered down. As soon as he had got in at the window he undid the rope and Job Tredgold followed him, while Roger Browne slid down by the rope attached to the grapnel; then they ran downstairs. As soon as they sallied out below they saw that Lionel and the men with him had captured a prisoner; and just as they joined the party the guard came round from the other side of the warehouse, bringing with them the cross-bow, its bolt, and the pistol. The prisoner, whose shoulder was broken by Roger Browne's shot, was at once taken to Captain Vere's quarters. That officer had just arrived from the walls, knowing the time at which the capture would probably be made. "So you have succeeded," he said. "Well done, lads; you have earned the thanks of all. We will take this man at once to the governor, who is at present at the town-hall." By the time they issued out quite a crowd had assembled, for the news that William von Arnig had been brought a prisoner and wounded to Captain Vere's quarters had spread rapidly. The crowd increased as they went along, and Captain Vere and his party had difficulty in making their way to the town-hall, many of the people exclaiming loudly against this treatment of one of the leading citizens. The governor was, when they entered, holding council with the English leader, Sir Roger Williams. "Why, what is this, Captain Vere?" he asked in surprise as that officer, accompanied by the two boys and followed by Roger Browne and Job Tredgold guarding the prisoner, entered. "I have to accuse this man of treacherously communicating with the enemy," Francis Vere said. "What?" Arnold de Groenvelt exclaimed in surprise. "Why, this is Mynheer von Arnig, one of our most worshipful citizens! Surely, Captain Vere, there must be some error here?" "I will place my evidence before you," Captain Vere said; "and it will be for you to decide upon it. Master Geoffrey Vickars, please to inform the governor what you know about this matter." Geoffrey then stated how he and his brother, being at the upper window of the warehouse, had on two days in succession seen a cross-bow discharged from a neighbouring window, and had noticed a Spanish soldier come out of a battery and pick up something which they believed to be the bolt, and how he and his brother had reported the circumstances to Captain Vere. That officer then took up the story, and stated that seeing the evidence was not conclusive, and it was probable that if an attempt was made to arrest the person, whomsoever he might be, who had used the cross-bow, any evidence of treasonable design might be destroyed before he was seized, he had accepted the offer of Master Vickars to climb the roof, lower himself to the window from which the bolt would be shot, and, if possible, strike it from the man's hands, so that it would fall down the roof to the court-yard below, where men were placed to seize it. Geoffrey then related how he, with the two soldiers guarding the prisoner, had scaled the roof and taken a position by the window; how he had seen the cross-bow thrust out, and had struck it from the hands of the man holding it; how the latter had leaned out, and would have shot him had not Roger Browne from his post above the window shot him in the shoulder. "Here are the cross-bow and pistol," Captain Vere said; "and this is the bolt as it was picked up by my men. You see, sir, there is a paper fastened round it. I know not its contents, for I judged it best to leave it as it was found until I placed it in your hands." The governor cut the string, unrolled the paper and examined it. It contained a statement as to the state of the wall, with remarks where it was yielding, and where the enemy had best shoot against it. It said that the defenders had in the night begun to form a half-moon behind it, and contained a sketch showing the exact position of the new work. "Gentlemen, what think you of this?" the governor asked the English officers. "There can be no doubt that it is a foul act of treachery," Williams said, "and the traitor merits death." "We will not decide upon it ourselves," the governor said. "I will summon six of the leading citizens, who shall sit as a jury with us. This is a grave matter, and touches the honour of the citizens as well as the safety of the town." In a few minutes the six citizens summoned arrived. The evidence was again given, and then the prisoner was asked what he had to say in his defence. "It is useless for me to deny it," he replied. "I am caught in the act, and must suffer for it. I have done my duty to the King of Spain, my sovereign; and I warn you he will take vengeance for my blood." "That we must risk," the governor said. "Now, gentlemen, you citizens of this town now attacked by the Spaniards, and you, sir, who are in command of the soldiers of the Queen of England, have heard the evidence and the answer the prisoner has made. What is your opinion thereon? Do you, Sir Roger Williams, being highest in rank and authority, first give your opinion." "I find that he is guilty of an act of gross treason and treachery. For such there is but one punishment--death." And the six citizens all gave the same decision. "You are found guilty of this foul crime," the governor said, "and are sentenced to death. In half an hour you will be hung in the market-place, as a punishment to yourself and a warning to other traitors, if such there be in this town of Sluys. As to you, young sirs, you have rendered a great service to the town, and have shown a discernment beyond your years. I thank you in the name of the city and of its garrison, and also in that of the States, whose servant I am." A guard of armed citizens were now called in, the prisoner was handed to them, and orders given to their officer to carry the sentence into effect. A statement of the crime of the prisoner, with the names of those who had acted as his judges, and the sentence, was then drawn out, signed by the governor, and ordered by him to be affixed to the door of the town-hall. The two lads, finding that they were no longer required, hastened back to their quarters, having no wish to be present at the execution of the unhappy wretch whose crime they had been the means of detecting. A few days later considerable portions of the battered wall fell, and shortly afterwards a breach of two hundred and fifty paces long was effected, and a bridge of large boats constructed by the enemy from the dyke to the foot of the rampart. This was not effected without terrible loss. Hundreds of the bravest Spanish soldiers and sailors were killed, and three officers who succeeded each other in command of the attack were badly wounded. The Spanish had laboured under great difficulties owing to the lack of earth to push their trenches forward to the edge of the moat, arising from the surrounding country being flooded. They only succeeded at last by building wooden machines of bullet-proof planks on wheels, behind each of which four men could work. When all was prepared the Spaniards advanced to the attack, rushing up the breach with splendid valour, headed by three of their bravest leaders; but they were met by the English and Dutch, and again and again hurled back. Day and night the fighting continued, the Spaniards occasionally retiring to allow their artillery to open fire again upon the shattered ruins. But stoutly as the defenders fought, step by step the Spaniards won their way forward until they had captured the breach and the west gate adjoining it, there being nothing now beyond the hastily-constructed inner work between them and the town. The finest regiment of the whole of the Spanish infantry now advanced to the assault, but they were met by the defenders--already sadly diminished in numbers, but firm and undaunted as ever,--and their pikes and their axes well supplied the place of the fallen walls. Assault after assault was met and repulsed, Sir Roger Williams, Thomas Baskerville, and Francis Vere being always in the thick of the fight. Baskerville was distinguished by the white plumes of his helmet, Vere by his crimson mantle; and the valour of these leaders attracted the admiration of the Duke of Parma himself, who watched the fight from the summit of the tower of the western gate. Francis Vere was twice wounded, but not disabled. Sir Roger Williams urged him to retire, but he replied that he would rather be killed ten times in a breach than once in a house. Day by day the terrible struggle continued. The Spaniards were able constantly to bring up fresh troops, but the defenders had no relief. They were reduced in numbers from 1600 to 700 men, and yet for eighteen days they maintained the struggle, never once leaving the breach. The pages brought their food to them, and when the attacks were fiercest joined in the defence, fighting as boldly and manfully as the soldiers themselves. Geoffrey and Lionel kept in close attendance upon Francis Vere, only leaving him to run back to their quarters and bring up the meals cooked for him and his two officers by Frau Menyn and her handmaids. Both kept close to him during the fighting. They knew that they were no match in strength for the Spanish pikemen; but they had obtained pistols from the armoury, and with these they did good service, several times freeing him from some of his assailants when he was sorely pressed. On one occasion when Francis Vere was smitten down by a blow from an axe, the boys rushed forward and kept back his assailants until some of the men of the company came to his aid. "You have done me brave service indeed," Captain Vere said to them when he recovered; for his helmet had defended him from serious injury, though the force of the blow had felled him. "It was a happy thought of mine when I decided to bring you with me. This is not the first time that you have rendered me good service, and I am sure you will turn out brave and valiant soldiers of the queen." When each assault ceased the weary soldiers threw themselves down behind the earthen embankment, and obtained such sleep as they could before the Spaniards mustered for fresh attack. When, after eighteen days' terrible fighting, the Duke of Parma saw that even his best troops were unable to break through the wall of steel, he desisted from the assault and began the slower process of mining. The garrison from their look-out beheld the soldiers crossing the bridge with picks and shovels, and prepared to meet them in this new style of warfare. Captain Uvedale was appointed to command the men told off for this duty, and galleries were run from several of the cellars to meet those of the enemy. As every man was employed either on the rampart or in mining, many of the pages were told off to act as watchers in the cellars, and to listen for the faint sounds that told of the approach of the enemy's miners. As the young Vickars were in attendance on the officers, they were exempted from this work; but they frequently went down into the cellars, both to watch the process of mining by their own men and to listen to the faint sounds made by the enemy's workmen. One day they were sitting on two wine-kegs, watching four soldiers at work at the end of a short gallery that had been driven towards the Spaniards. Suddenly there was an explosion, the miners were blown backwards, the end of the gallery disappeared, and a crowd of Walloon soldiers almost immediately afterwards rushed in. The boys sprang to their feet and were about to fly, when an idea occurred to Geoffrey. He seized a torch, and, standing by the side of a barrel placed on end by a large tier, shouted in Dutch, "Another step forward and I fire the magazine!" The men in front paused. Through the fumes of smoke they saw dimly the pile of barrels and a figure standing with a lighted torch close to one of them. A panic seized them, and believing they had made their way into a powder-magazine, and that in another instant there would be a terrible explosion, they turned with shouts of "A magazine! a magazine! Fly, or we are all dead men!" "Run, Lionel, and get help," Geoffrey said, and in two or three minutes a number of soldiers ran down into the cellar. The Walloons were not long before they recovered from their panic. Their officers knew that the wine-cellars of the city were in front of them, and reassured them as to the character of the barrels they had seen. They were, however, too late, and a furious conflict took place at the entrance into the cellar, but the enemy, able only to advance two or three abreast, failed to force their way in. Captain Uvedale and Francis Vere were soon on the spot, and when at last the enemy, unable to force an entrance, fell back, the former said, "This is just as I feared. You see, the Spaniards drove this gallery, and ceased to work immediately they heard us approaching them. We had no idea that they were in front of us, and so they only had to put a barrel of powder there and fire it as soon as there was but a foot or two of earth between us and them." "But how was it," Francis Vere asked, "that when they fired it they did not at once rush forward? They could have captured the whole building before we knew what had happened." "That I cannot tell," Captain Uvedale replied. "The four men at work must have been either killed or knocked senseless. We shall know better another time, and will have a strong guard in each cellar from which our mines are being driven." "If it please you, Captain Uvedale," Lionel said, "it was my brother Geoffrey who prevented them from advancing; for indeed several of them had already entered the cellar, and the gallery behind was full of them." "But how did he do that?" Captain Uvedale asked in surprise. Lionel related the ruse by which Geoffrey had created a panic in the minds of the Spaniards. "That was well thought of indeed, and promptly carried out!" Captain Uvedale exclaimed. "Francis, these pages of yours are truly promising young fellows. They detected that rascally Dutchman who was betraying us. I noticed them several times in the thick of the fray at the breach; and now they have saved the city by their quickness and presence of mind; for had these Spaniards once got possession of this warehouse they would have speedily broken a way along through the whole tier, and could then have poured in upon us with all their strength." "That is so, indeed," Francis Vere agreed. "They have assuredly saved the town, and there is the greatest credit due to them. I shall be glad, Uvedale, if you will report the matter to our leader. You are in command of the mining works, and it will come better from you than from me who am their captain." Captain Uvedale made his report, and both Sir Roger Williams and the governor thanked the boys, and especially Geoffrey, for the great service they had rendered. Very shortly the galleries were broken into in several other places, and the battle became now as fierce and continuous down in the cellars as it had before been on the breach. By the light of torches, in an atmosphere heavy with the fumes of gunpowder, surrounded by piled-up barrels of wine, the defenders and assailants maintained a terrible conflict, men staggering up exhausted by their exertion and by the stifling atmosphere while others took their places below, and so, night and day, the desperate struggle continued. All these weeks no serious effort had been made for the relief of the hardly beleaguered town. Captains Hall and Allen had several times swum down at night through the bridge of boats with letters from the governor entreating a speedy succour. The States had sent a fleet which sailed some distance up the Zwin, but returned without making the slightest effort to break through the bridge of boats. The Earl of Leicester had advanced with a considerable force from Ostend against the fortress of Blankenburg, but had retreated hastily as soon as Parma despatched a portion of his army against him; and so the town was left to its fate. The last letter that the governor despatched said that longer resistance was impossible. The garrison were reduced to a mere remnant, and these utterly worn out by constant fighting and the want of rest. He should ask for fair and honourable terms, but if these were refused the garrison and the whole male inhabitants in the city, putting the women and children in the centre, would sally out and cut their way through, or die fighting in the midst of the Spaniards. The swimmer who took the letter was drowned, but his body was washed ashore and the letter taken to the Duke of Parma. Three days afterwards a fresh force of the enemy embarked in forty large boats, and were about to land on an unprotected wharf by the river-side when Arnold de Groenvelt hung out the white flag. His powder was exhausted and his guns disabled, and the garrison so reduced that the greater portion of the walls were left wholly undefended. The Duke of Parma, who was full of admiration at the extraordinary gallantry of the defenders, and was doubtless also influenced by the resolution expressed in his letter by the governor, granted them most honourable terms. The garrison were to march out with all their baggage and arms, with matches lighted and colours displayed. They were to proceed to Breskans, and there to embark for Flushing. The life and property of the inhabitants were to be respected, and all who did not choose to embrace the Catholic faith were to be allowed to leave the town peaceably, taking with them their belongings, and to go wheresoever they pleased. When the gates were opened the garrison sallied out. The Duke of Parma had an interview with several of the leaders, and expressed his high admiration of the valour with which they had fought, and said that the siege of Sluys had cost him more men than he had lost in the four principal sieges he had undertaken in the Low Country put together. On the 4th of August the duke entered Sluys in triumph, and at once began to make preparations to take part in the great invasion of England for which Spain was preparing. After their arrival at Flushing Captains Vere, Uvedale, and others, who had brought their companies from Bergen-op-Zoom to aid in the defence of Sluys, returned to that town. The Earl of Leicester shortly afterwards resigned his appointment as general of the army. He had got on but badly with the States-General, and there was from the first no cordial cooperation between the two armies. The force at his disposal was never strong enough to do anything against the vastly superior armies of the Duke of Parma, who was one of the most brilliant generals of his age, while he was hampered and thwarted by the intrigues and duplicity of Elizabeth, who was constantly engaged in half-hearted negotiations now with France and now with Spain, and whose capricious temper was continually overthrowing the best-laid plans of her councillors and paralysing the actions of her commanders. It was not until she saw her kingdom threatened by invasion that she placed herself fairly at the head of the national movement, and inspired her subjects with her energy and determination. Geoffrey Vickars had been somewhat severely wounded upon the last day of the struggle in the cellar, a Spanish officer having beaten down his guard and cleft through his morion. Lionel was unwounded, but the fatigue and excitement had told upon him greatly, and soon after they arrived at Bergen Captain Vere advised both of them to return home for a few months. "There is nothing likely to be doing here until the spring. Parma has more serious matter in hand. They talk, you know, of invading England, and after his experience at Sluys I do not think he will be wasting his force by knocking their heads against stone walls. I should be glad if I could return too, but I have my company to look after and must remain where I am ordered; but as you are but volunteers and giving your service at your pleasure, and are not regularly upon the list of the pages of the company, I can undertake to grant you leave, and indeed I can see that you both greatly need rest. You have begun well and have both done good service, and have been twice thanked by the governor of Sluys and Sir Roger Williams. "You will do yourselves no good by being shut up through the winter in this dull town, and as there is a vessel lying by the quay which is to set sail to-morrow, I think you cannot do better than go in her. I will give you letters to my cousin and your father saying how well you have borne yourselves, and how mightily Sir Roger Williams was pleased with you. In the spring you can rejoin, unless indeed the Spaniards should land in England, which Heaven forfend, in which case you will probably prefer to ride under my cousin's banner at home." The boys gladly accepted Francis Vere's proposal. It was but three months since they had set foot in Holland, but they had gone through a tremendous experience, and the thought of being shut up for eight or nine months at Bergen-op-Zoom was by no means a pleasant one. Both felt worn-out and exhausted, and longed for the fresh keen air of the eastern coast. Therefore the next morning they embarked on board ship. Captain Vere presented them each with a handsome brace of pistols in token of his regard, and Captains Uvedale, Baskerville, and other officers who were intimate friends of Vere's, and had met them at his quarters, gave them handsome presents in recognition of the services they had rendered at Sluys. The ship was bound for Harwich, which was the nearest English port. Landing there, they took passage by boat to Manningtree and thence by horse home, where they astounded their father and mother by their sudden appearance. "And this is what comes of your soldiering," Mrs. Vickars said when the first greeting was over. "Here is Geoffrey with plasters all over the side of his head, and you, Lionel, looking as pale and thin as if you had gone through a long illness. I told your father when we heard of your going that you ought to be brought back and whipped; but the earl talked him over into writing to Captain Francis to tell him that he approved of this mad-brained business, and a nice affair it has turned out." "You will not have to complain of our looks, mother, at the end of a week or two," Geoffrey said. "My wound is healing fast, and Lionel only needs an extra amount of sleep for a time. You see, for nearly a month we were never in bed, but just lay down to sleep by the side of Captain Vere on the top of the ramparts, where we had been fighting all day." "It was a gallant defence," Mr. Vickars said, "and all England is talking of it. It was wonderful that 800 English and as many Dutchmen should hold a weak place for two months against full twelve times their number of Spaniards, led by the Duke of Parma himself, and there is great honour for all who took part in the defence. The governor and Sir Roger Williams especially mentioned Francis Vere as among the bravest and best of their captains, and although you as pages can have had nought to do with the fighting, you will have credit as serving under his banner." "I think, father," Geoffrey said, touching the plasters on his head, "this looks somewhat as if we had had something to do with the fighting, and here is a letter for you from Captain Vere which will give you some information about it." Mr. Vickars adjusted his horn spectacles on his face and opened the letter. It began: "My dear Master and Friend,--I have had no means of writing to you since your letter came to me, having had other matters in hand, and being cut off from all communication with England. I was glad to find that you did not take amiss my carrying off of your sons. Indeed that action has turned out more happily than might have been expected, for I own that they were but young for such rough service. "However, they have proved themselves valiant young gentlemen. They fought stoutly by my side during our long tussle with the Spaniards, and more than once saved my life by ridding me of foes who would have taken me at a disadvantage. Once, indeed, when I was down from a blow on the pate from a Spanish axe, they rushed forward and kept my assailants at bay until rescue came. They discovered a plot between a traitor in the town and the Spaniards, and succeeded in defeating his plans and bringing him to justice. "They were also the means of preventing the Spaniards from breaking into the great wine-cellars and capturing the warehouses, and for each of these services they received the thanks of the Dutch governor and of Sir Roger Williams, our leader. Thus, you see, although so young they have distinguished themselves mightily, and should aught befall me, there are many among my friends who will gladly take them under their protection and push them forward. I have sent them home for a time to have quiet and rest, which they need after their exertions, and have done this the more willingly since there is no chance of fighting for many months to come. I hope that before the Spaniards again advance against us I may have them by my side." "Well, well, this is wonderful," Mrs. Vickars said when her husband had finished reading the letter. "If they had told me themselves I should not have believed them, although they have never been given to the sin of lying; but since it is writ in Master Vere's own hand it cannot be doubted. And now tell us all about it, boys." "We will tell you when we have had dinner, mother. This brisk Essex air has given us both an appetite, and until that is satisfied you must excuse us telling a long story. Is the earl at the castle, father because we have two letters to him from Captain Francis--one, I believe, touching our affairs, and the other on private matters. We have also letters from him to his mother and his brother John, and those we had better send off at once by a messenger, as also the private letters to the earl." "That I will take myself," Mr. Vickars said. "I was just going up to him to speak about my parish affairs when you arrived." "You had better have your dinner first," Mrs. Vickars said decidedly. "When you once get with the earl and begin talking you lose all account of the time, and only last week kept dinner waiting for two hours. It is half-past eleven now, and I will hurry it on so that it will be ready a few minutes before noon." "Very well, my dear; but I will go out into the village at once and find a messenger to despatch to Cropping Hall with the letters to Dame Elizabeth and John Vere." The boys' story was not told until after supper, for as soon as dinner was over Mr. Vickars went up to the castle with the letters for the earl. The latter, after reading them, told him that his cousin spoke most highly of his two sons, and said they had been of great service, even as far as the saving of his life. The earl told Mr. Vickars to bring the boys up next day to see him in order that he might learn a full account of the fighting at Sluys, and that he hoped they would very often come in, and would, while they were at home, practise daily with his master of arms at the castle. "I know, Mr. Vickars, that you had hoped that one of them would enter the church; but you see that their tastes lie not in that direction, and it is evident that, as in the case of my cousin Francis, they are cut out for soldiers." "I am afraid so," Mr. Vickars said; "and I must let them have their own way, for I hold that none should be forced to follow the ministry save those whose natural bent lies that way." "I don't think they have chosen badly," the earl said. "My cousin Francis bids fair to make a great soldier, and as they start in life as his pages they will have every chance of getting on, and I warrant me that Francis will push their fortunes. Perhaps I may be able to aid them somewhat myself. If aught comes of this vapouring of the Spaniards, before the boys return to Holland, they shall ride with me. I am already arming all the tenantry and having them practised in warlike exercises, and in the spring I shall fit out two ships at Harwich to join the fleet that will put to sea should the Spaniards carry out their threats of invading us."

6

THE LOSS OF THE "SUSAN."

There were few people in Hedingham more pleased to see the two lads on their return than John Lirriper, to whom they paid a visit on the first day they went out. "I am glad to see you back, young masters; though, to say the truth, you are not looking nigh so strong and well as you did when I last parted from you." "We shall soon be all right again, John. We have had rather a rough time of it over there in Sluys." "Ah, so I have heard tell, Master Geoffrey. Your father read out from the pulpit a letter the earl had received from Captain Francis telling about the fighting, and it mentioned that you were both alive and well and had done good service; but it was only a short letter sent off in haste the day after he and the others had got out of the town. I was right glad when I heard it, I can tell you, for there had been nought talked of here but the siege; and though your lady mother has not said much to me, I always held myself ready to slip round the corner or into a house when I saw her come down the street, for I knew well enough what was in her mind. She was just saying to herself, 'John Lirriper, if it hadn't been for you my two boys would not be in peril now. If aught comes to them, it will be your doing.' And though it was not my fault, as far as I could see, for Captain Francis took you off my hands, as it were, and I had no more to say in the matter than a child, still, there it was, and right glad was I when I heard that the siege was over and you were both alive. "I had a bad time of it, I can tell you, when I first got back, young sirs, for your mother rated me finely; and though your father said it was not my fault in any way, she would not listen to him, but said she had given you into my charge, and that I had no right to hand you over to any others save with your father's permission--not if it were to the earl himself,--and for a long time after she would make as if she didn't see me if she met me in the street. When my wife was ill about that time she sent down broths and simples to her, but she sent them by one of the maids, and never came herself save when she knew I was away in my boat. "However, the day after the reading of that letter she came in and said she was sorry she had treated me hardly, and that she had known at heart all along that it was not altogether my fault, and asked my pardon as nice as if I had been the earl. Of course I said there was nothing to ask pardon for, and indeed that I thought it was only natural she should have blamed me, for that I had often blamed myself, though not seeing how I could have done otherwise. However, I was right glad when the matter was made up, for it is not pleasant for a man when the parson's wife sets herself against him." "It was certainly hard upon you, John," Geoffrey said; "but I am sure our mother does not in any way blame you now. You see, we brought home letters from Captain Vere, or rather Sir Francis, for he has been knighted now, and he was good enough to speak very kindly of what we were able to do in the siege. Mother did not say much, but I am sure that at heart she is very grateful, for the earl himself came down to the Rectory and spoke warmly about us, and said that he should always be our fast friend, because we had given his cousin some help when he was roughly pressed by the Spaniards. I hope we shall have another sail with you in a short time, for we are not going back to the Netherlands at present, as things are likely to be quiet there now. Although he did not say so, I think Sir Francis thought that we were over-young for such rough work, and would be more useful in a year's time; for, you see, in these sieges even pages have to take their share in the fighting, and when it comes to push of pike with the Spaniards more strength and vigour are needed than we possess at present. So we are to continue our practice at arms at the castle, and to take part in the drilling of the companies the earl is raising in case the Spaniards carry out their threat of invading England." Mrs. Vickars offered no objection whatever the first time Geoffrey asked permission to go down to Bricklesey with John Lirriper. "I have no objection, Geoffrey; and, indeed, now that you have chosen your own lives and are pages to Sir Francis Vere, it seems to me that in matters of this kind you can judge for yourself. Now that you have taken to soldiering and have borne your part in a great siege, and have even yourselves fought with the Spaniards, I deem it that you have got beyond my wing, and must now act in all small matters as it pleases you; and that since you have already run great danger of your lives, and may do so again ere long, it would be folly of me to try to keep you at my apron-strings and to treat you as if you were still children." So the two lads often accompanied John Lirriper to Bricklesey, and twice sailed up the river to London and back in Joe Chambers' smack, these jaunts furnishing a pleasant change to their work of practising with pike and sword with the men-at-arms at the castle, or learning the words of command and the work of officers in drilling the newly-raised corps. One day John Lirriper told them that his nephew was this time going to sail up the Medway to Rochester, and would be glad to take them with him if they liked it; for they were by this time prime favourites with the master of the _Susan_. Although their mother had told them that they were at liberty to go as they pleased, they nevertheless always made a point of asking permission before they went away. "If the wind is fair we shall not be long away on this trip, mother. Two days will take us up to Rochester; we shall be a day loading there, and shall therefore be back on Saturday if the wind serves, and may even be sooner if the weather is fine and we sail with the night tides, as likely enough we shall, for the moon is nearly full, and there will be plenty of light to keep our course free of the sands." The permission was readily given. Mrs. Vickars had come to see that it was useless to worry over small matters, and therefore nodded cheerfully, and said she would give orders at once for a couple of chickens to be killed and other provision prepared for their voyage. "I doubt you are going to have a rougher voyage than usual this time, young masters," John Lirriper said when the boat was approaching Bricklesey, "The sky looks wild, and I think there is going to be a break in the weather. However, the _Susan_ is a stout boat, and my nephew a careful navigator." "I should like a rough voyage for a change, John," Geoffrey said. "We have always had still water and light winds on our trips, and I should like a good blow." "Well, I think you will have one; though may be it will only come on thick and wet. Still I think there is wind in those clouds, and that if it does come it will be from the south-east, in which case you will have a sharp buffeting. But you will make good passage enough down to the Nore once you are fairly round the Whittaker." "Glad to see you, young masters," Joe Chambers said as the boat came alongside his craft. "You often grumbled at the light winds, but unless I am mistaken we shall be carrying double reefs this journey. What do you think, Uncle John?" "I have been saying the same, lad; still there is no saying. You will know more about it in a few hours' time." It was evening when the boys went on board the _Susan_, and as soon as supper was over they lay down, as she was to start at daybreak the next morning. As soon as they were roused by the creaking of the blocks and the sound of trampling of feet overhead they went up on deck. Day had just broken; the sky was overspread by dark clouds. "There is not much wind after all," Geoffrey said as he looked round. "No, it has fallen light during the last two hours," the skipper replied, "but I expect we shall have plenty before long. However, we could do with a little more now." Tide was half out when they started. Joe Chambers had said the night before that he intended to drop down to the edge of the sands and there anchor, and to make across them past the Whittaker Beacon into the channel as soon as there was sufficient water to enable him to do so. The wind was light, sometimes scarcely sufficient to belly out the sails and give the boat steerage way, at others coming in short puffs which heeled her over and made her spring forward merrily. Before long the wind fell lighter and lighter, and at last Joe Chambers ordered the oars to be got out. "We must get down to the edge of the Buxey," he said, "before the tide turns, or we shall have it against us, and with this wind we should never be able to stem it, but should be swept up the Crouch. At present it is helping us, and with a couple of hours' rowing we may save it to the Buxey." The boys helped at the sweeps, and for two hours the creaking of the oars and the dull flapping of the sail alone broke the silence of the calm; and the lads were by no means sorry when the skipper gave the order for the anchor to be dropped. "I should like to have got about half a mile further," he said; "but I can see by the landmarks that we are making no way now. The tide is beginning to suck in." "How long will it be before we have water enough to cross the Spit?" Lionel asked as they laid in the oars. "Well nigh four hours, Master Lionel. Then, even if it keeps a stark calm like this, we shall be able to get across the sands and a mile or two up the channel before we meet the tide. There we must anchor again till the first strength is past, and then if the wind springs up we can work along at the edge of the sands against it. There is no tide close in to the sands after the first two hours. But I still think this is going to turn into wind presently; and if it does it will be sharp and heavy, I warrant. It's either that or rain." The sky grew darker and darker until the water looked almost black under a leaden canopy. "I wish we were back into Bricklesey," Joe Chambers said. "I have been well-nigh fifteen years going backwards and forwards here, and I do not know that ever I saw an awkwarder look about the sky. It reminds me of what I have heard men who have sailed to the Indies say they have seen there before a hurricane breaks. If it was not that we saw the clouds flying fast overhead when we started, I should have said it was a thick sea fog that had rolled in upon us. Ah, there is the first drop. I don't care how hard it comes down so that there is not wind at the tail of it. A squall of wind before rain is soon over; but when it follows rain you will soon have your sails close-reefed. You had best go below or you will be wet through in a minute." The great drops were pattering down on the deck and causing splashes as of ink on the surface of the oily-looking water. Another half minute it was pouring with such a mighty roar on the deck that the boys below needed to shout to make each other heard. It lasted but five minutes, and then stopped as suddenly as it began. The lads at once returned to the deck. "So it is all over, Master Chambers." "Well the first part is over, but that is only a sort of a beginning. Look at that light under the clouds away to the south of east. That is where it is coming from, unless I am mistaken. Turn to and get the mainsail down, lads," for although after dropping anchor the head sails had been lowered, the main and mizzen were still on her. The men set to work, and the boys helped to stow the sail and fasten it with the tiers. Suddenly there was a sharp puff of wind. It lasted a few seconds only, then Joe Chambers pointed towards the spot whence a hazy light seemed to come. "Here it comes," he said. "Do you see that line of white water. That is a squall and no mistake. I am glad we are not under sail." There was a sharp, hissing sound as the line of white water approached them, and then the squall struck them with such force and fury that the lads instinctively grasped at the shrouds. The mizzen had brought the craft in a moment head-to-wind, and Joe Chambers and the two sailors at once lowered it and stowed it away. "Only put a couple of tiers on," the skipper shouted. "We may have to upsail again if this goes on." The sea got up with great rapidity, and a few minutes after the squall had struck them the _Susan_ was beginning to pitch heavily. The wind increased in force, and seemed to scream rather than whistle in the rigging. "The sea is getting up fast!" Geoffrey shouted in the skipper's ear as he took his place close to him. "It won't be very heavy yet," Joe Chambers replied; "the sands break its force. But the tide has turned now, and as it makes over the sand there will be a tremendous sea here in no time; that is if this wind holds, and it seems to me that it is going to be an unusual gale altogether." "How long will it be before we can cross the Spit?" "We are not going to cross to-day, that's certain," the skipper said. "There will be a sea over those sands that would knock the life out of the strongest craft that ever floated. No, I shall wait here for another hour or two if I can, and then slip my cable and run for the Crouch. It is a narrow channel, and I never care about going into it after dark until there is water enough for a craft of our draught over the sands. It ain't night now, but it is well nigh as dark. There is no making out the bearings of the land, and we have got to trust to the perches the fishermen put up at the bends of the channel. However, we have got to try it. Our anchors would never hold here when the sea gets over the sands, and if they did they would pull her head under water." In half an hour a sea had got up that seemed to the boys tremendous. Dark as it was they could see in various directions tracts of white water where the waves broke wildly over the sands. The second anchor had been let go some time before. The two cables were as taut as iron bars, and the boat was pulling her bows under every sea. Joe Chambers dropped a lead-line overboard and watched it closely. "We are dragging our anchors," he said. "There is nothing for it but to run." He went to the bow, fastened two logs of wood by long lines to the cables outside the bow, so that he could find and recover the anchors on his return, then a very small jib was hoisted, and as it filled two blows with an axe severed the cables inboard. The logs attached to them were thrown over, and the skipper ran aft and put up the helm as the boat's head payed off before the wind. As she did so a wave struck her and threw tons of water on board, filling her deck nearly up to the rails. It was well Joe had shouted to the boys to hold on, for had they not done so they would have been swept overboard. Another wave struck them before they were fairly round, smashing in the bulwark and sweeping everything before it, and the boys both thought that the _Susan_ was sinking under their feet. However she recovered herself. The water poured out through the broken bulwark, and the boat rose again on the waves as they swept one after another down upon her stern. The channel was well marked now, for the sands on either side were covered with breaking water. Joe Chambers shouted to the sailors to close-reef the mizzen and hoist it, so that he might have the boat better under control. The wind was not directly astern but somewhat on the quarter; and small as was the amount of sail shown, the boat lay over till her lee-rail was at times under water; the following waves yawing her about so much that it needed the most careful steering to prevent her from broaching to. "It seems to me as the wind is northering!" one of the men shouted. The skipper nodded and slackened out the sheet a bit as the wind came more astern. He kept his eyes fixed ahead of him, and the men kept gazing through the gloom. "There is the perch," one of them shouted presently, "just on her weather-bow!" The skipper nodded and held on the same course until abreast of the perch, which was only a forked stick. The men came aft and hauled in the mizzen sheet. Chambers put up the helm. The mizzen came across with a jerk, and the sheet was again allowed to run out. The jib came over with a report like the shot of a cannon, and at the same moment split into streamers. "Hoist the foresail!" the skipper shouted, and the men sprang forward and seized the halliards; but at this moment the wind seemed to blow with a double fury, and the moment the sail was set it too split into ribbons. "Get up another jib!" Joe Chambers shouted, and one of the men sprang below. In half a minute he reappeared with another sail. "Up with it quick, Bill. We are drifting bodily down on the sand." Bill hurried forward. The other hand had hauled in the traveller, to which the bolt-rope of the jib was still attached, and hauling on this had got the block down and in readiness for fastening on the new jib. The sheets were hooked on, and then while one hand ran the sail out with the out-haul to the bowsprit end, the other hoisted with the halliards. By this time the boat was close to the broken water. As the sail filled her head payed off towards it. The wind lay her right over, and before she could gather way there was a tremendous crash. The _Susan_ had struck on the sands. The next wave lifted her, but as it passed on she came down with a crash that seemed to shake her in pieces. Joe Chambers relaxed his grasp of the now useless tiller. "It is all over," he said to the boys. "Nothing can save her now. If she had been her own length farther off the sands she would have gathered way in time. As it is another ten minutes and she will be in splinters." She was now lying over until her masthead was but a few feet above water. The seas were striking her with tremendous force, pouring a deluge of water over her. "There is but one chance for you," he went on. "The wind is dead on the shore, and Foulness lies scarce three miles to leeward." [Illustration: "THE NEXT FEW MINUTES IT WAS A WILD STRUGGLE FOR LIFE"] He went into the cabin and fetched out a small axe fastened in the companion where it was within reach of the helmsman. Two blows cut the shrouds of the mizzen, a few vigorous strokes were given to the foot of the mast, and, as the boat lifted and crashed down again on the sand, it broke off a few inches above the deck. "Now, lads, I will lash you loosely to this. You can both swim, and with what aid it will give you may well reach the shore. There are scarce three feet of water here, and except where one or two deeps pass across it there is no more anywhere between this and the land. It will not be rough very far. Now, be off at once; the boat will go to pieces before many minutes. I and the two men will take to the mainmast, but I want to see you off first." Without hesitation the boys pushed off with the mast. As they did so a cataract of water poured over the smack upon them, knocking them for a moment under the surface with its force. For the next few minutes it was a wild struggle for life. They found at once that they were powerless to swim in the broken water, which, as it rushed across the sand, impelled alike by the rising tide behind it and the force of the wind, hurried them along at a rapid pace, breaking in short steep waves. They could only cling to the mast and snatch a breath of air from time to time as it rolled over and over. Had they not been able to swim they would very speedily have been drowned; but, accustomed as they were to diving, they kept their presence of mind, holding their breath when under water and breathing whenever they were above it with their faces to the land. It was only so that they could breathe, for the air was thick with spray, which was swept along with such force by the wind that it would have drowned the best swimmer who tried to face it as speedily as if he had been under water. After what seemed to them an age the waves became somewhat less violent, though still breaking in a mass of foam. Geoffrey loosed his hold of the spar and tried to get to his feet. He was knocked down several times before he succeeded, but when he did so found that the water was little more than two feet deep, although the waves rose to his shoulders. The soft mud under his feet rendered it extremely difficult to stand, and the rope which attached him to the spar, which was driving before him, added to the difficulty. He could not overtake the mast, and threw himself down again and swam to it. "Get up, Lionel!" he shouted; "we can stand here." But Lionel was too exhausted to be capable of making the effort. With the greatest difficulty Geoffrey raised him to his feet and supported him with his back to the wind. "Get your breath again!" he shouted. "We are over the worse now and shall soon be in calmer water. Get your feet well out in front of you, if you can, and dig your heels into the mud, then you will act as a buttress to me and help me to keep my feet." It was two or three minutes before Lionel was able to speak. Even during this short time they had been carried some distance forward, for the ground on which they stood seemed to be moving, and the force of the waves carried them constantly forward. "Feel better, old fellow?" Geoffrey asked, as he felt Lionel making an effort to resist the pressure of the water. "Yes, I am better now," Lionel said. "Well, we will go on as we are as long as we can; let us just try to keep our feet and give way to the sea as it takes us along. The quicker we go the sooner we shall be in shallower water; but the tide is rising fast, and unless we go on it will speedily be as bad here as it was where we started." As soon as Lionel had sufficiently recovered they again took to the spar; but now, instead of clasping it with their arms and legs, they lay with their chest upon it, and used their efforts only to keep it going before the wind and tide. Once they came to a point where the sand was but a few inches under water. Here they stood up for some minutes, and then again proceeded on foot until the water deepened to their waists. Their progress was now much more easy, for the high bank had broken the run of the surf. The water beyond it was much smoother, and they were able to swim, pushing the spar before them. "We are in deep water," Geoffrey said presently, dropping his feet. "It is out of my depth. Chambers said there was a deep channel across the sands not far from the island; so in that case the shore cannot be far away." In another quarter of an hour the water was again waist-deep. Geoffrey stood up. "I think I see a dark line ahead, Lionel; we shall soon be there." Another ten minutes and the water was not above their knees. They could see the low shore now at a distance of but a few hundred yards ahead, and untying the ropes under their arms they let the spar drift on, and waded forward until they reached the land. There was a long mud bank yet to cross, and exhausted as they were it took them a long time to do this; but at last they came to a sandy bank rising sharply some ten feet above the flat. They threw themselves down on this and lay for half an hour without a word being spoken. "Now, Lionel," Geoffrey said at last, raising himself to a sitting position, "we must make an effort to get on and find a shelter. There are people living in the island. I have heard that they are a wild set, making their living by the wrecks on these sands and by smuggling goods without paying dues to the queen. Still, they will not refuse us shelter and food, and assuredly there is nothing on us to tempt them to plunder us." He rose to his feet and helped Lionel up. Once on the top of the bank a level country stretched before them. The wind aided their footsteps, sweeping along with such tremendous force that at times they had difficulty in keeping their feet. As they went on they came upon patches of cultivated land, with hedgerows and deep ditches. Half a mile further they perceived a house. On approaching it they saw that it was a low structure of some size with several out-buildings. They made their way to it and knocked at the door. They knocked twice before it was opened, then some bolts were withdrawn. The door was opened a few inches. A man looked out, and seeing two lads opened it widely. "Well, who are you, and what do you want?" he asked roughly. "We have been wrecked in a storm on the sands. We were sailing from Bricklesey for Sheerness when the storm caught us." The man looked at them closely. Their pale faces and evidently exhausted condition vouched for the truth of their story. "The house is full," he said gruffly, "and I cannot take in strangers. You will find some dry hay in that out-house, and I will bring you some food there. When you have eaten and drunk you had best journey on." So saying he shut the door in their faces. "This is strange treatment," Geoffrey said. "I should not have thought a man would have refused shelter to a dog such a day as this. What do you say, Lionel, shall we go on?" "I don't think I can go any further until I have rested, Geoffrey," Lionel replied faintly. "Let us lie down in shelter if it is only for half an hour. After that, if the man brings us some food as he says, we can go on again." They went into the shed the man had pointed out. It was half full of hay. "Let us take our things off and wring them, Lionel, and give ourselves a roll in the hay to dry ourselves. We shall soon get warm after that." They stripped, wrung the water from their clothes, rolled themselves in the hay until they felt a glow of returning warmth, and then put on their clothes again. Scarcely had they done so when the man came in with a large tankard and two hunks of bread. "Here," he said, "drink this and then be off. We want no strangers hanging round here." At any other time the boys would have refused hospitality so cheerlessly offered, but they were too weak to resist the temptation. The tankard contained hot-spiced ale, and a sensation of warmth and comfort stole over them as soon as they had drunk its contents and eaten a few mouthfuls of bread. The man stood by them while they ate. "Are you the only ones saved from the wreck?" he asked. "I trust that we are not," Geoffrey replied. "The master of the boat tied us to a mast as soon as she struck, and he and the two men with him were going to try to get to shore in the same way." As soon as they had finished they stood up and handed the tankard to the man. "I am sorry I must turn you out," he said, as if somewhat ashamed of his want of courtesy. "Any other day it would be different, but to-day I cannot take anyone in." "I thank you for what you have given us," Geoffrey said. "Can you tell us which is the way to the ferry?" "Follow the road and it will take you there. About a couple of miles. You cannot mistake the way." Feeling greatly strengthened and refreshed the lads again started. "This is a curious affair," Geoffrey said, "and I cannot make out why they should not let us in. However, it does not matter much. I feel warm all over now, in spite of my wet clothes." "So do I," Lionel agreed. "Perhaps there were smugglers inside, or some fugitives from justice hiding there. Anyhow, I am thankful for that warm ale; it seems to have given me new life altogether." They had walked a quarter of a mile, when they saw four horsemen coming on the road. They were closely wrapped up in cloaks, and as they passed, with their heads bent down to meet the force of the gale and their broad-brimmed hats pulled low down over their eyes, the boys did not get even a glimpse of their features. "I wonder who they can be," Geoffrey said, looking after them. "They are very well mounted, and look like persons of some degree. What on earth can they be doing in such a wretched place as this? They must be going to that house we left, for I noticed the road stopped there." "It is curious, Geoffrey, but it is no business of ours." "I don't know that, Lionel. You know there are all sorts of rumours about of Papist plots, and conspirators could hardly choose a more out-of-the way spot than this to hold their meetings. I should not be at all surprised if there is some mischief on foot." Half a mile further three men on foot met them, and these, like the others, were closely wrapped up to the eyes. "They have ridden here," Geoffrey said after they had passed. "They have all high riding-boots on; they must have left their horses on the other side of the ferry. See, there is a village a short distance ahead. We will go in there and dry our clothes, and have a substantial meal if we can get it. Then we will talk this business over." The village consisted of a dozen houses only, but among them was a small public-house. Several men were sitting by the fire with pots of ale before them. "We have been wrecked on the coast, landlord, and have barely escaped with our lives. We want to dry our clothes and to have what food you can give us." "I have plenty of eggs," the landlord said, "and my wife will fry them for you; but we have no meat in the house. Fish and eggs are the chief food here. You are lucky in getting ashore, for it is a terrible gale. It is years since we have had one like it. As to drying your clothes, that can be managed easy enough. You can go up into my room and take them off, and I will lend you a couple of blankets to wrap yourselves in, and you can sit by the fire here until your things are dry." A hearty meal of fried eggs and another drink of hot ale completed the restoration of the boys. Their clothes were speedily dried, for the landlady had just finished baking her week's batch of bread, and half an hour in the oven completely dried the clothes. They were ready almost as soon as the meal was finished. Many questions were asked them as to the wreck, and the point at which they had been cast ashore. "It was but a short distance from a house at the end of this road," Geoffrey said. "We went there for shelter, but they would not take us in, though they gave us some bread and hot ale." Exclamations of indignation were heard among the men sitting round. "Ralph Hawker has the name of being a surly man," one said, "but I should not have thought that he would have turned a shipwrecked man from his door on such a day as this. They say he is a Papist, though whether he be or not I cannot say; but he has strange ways, and there is many a stranger passes the ferry and asks for his house. However, that is no affair of mine, though I hold there is no good in secret ways." "That is so," another said; "but it goes beyond all reason for a man to refuse shelter to those the sea has cast ashore such a day as this." As soon as they had finished their meal and again dressed themselves, the lads paid their reckoning and went out. Scarcely had they done so when two horsemen rode up, and, drawing rein, inquired if they were going right for the house of one Ralph Hawker. "It lies about a mile on," Geoffrey said. "You cannot miss the way; the road ends there." As he spoke a gust of wind of extra fury blew off one of the riders' hats. It was stopped by the wall of a house a few yards away. Geoffrey caught it and handed it to the horseman. With a word of thanks he pressed it firmly on his head, and the two men rode on. "Did you notice that?" Geoffrey asked his brother. "He has a shaven spot on the top of his head. The man is a Papist priest in disguise. There is something afoot, Lionel. I vote that we try and get to the bottom of it." "I am ready if you think so, Geoffrey. But it is a hazardous business, you know; for we are unarmed, and there are, we know, seven or eight of them at any rate." "We must risk that," Geoffrey said; "besides, we can run if we cannot fight. Let us have a try whatever comes of it."

7

None

A Popish Plot There was no one about, for the wind was blowing with such fury that few cared to venture out of doors, and the boys therefore started back along the road by which they had come, without being observed. "We had better strike off from the road," Geoffrey said, "for some more of these men may be coming along. Like enough someone will be on the watch at the house, so we had best make a long detour, and when we get near it come down on it from the other side. You know we saw no windows there." "That is all well enough," Lionel agreed; "but the question is, how are we to hear what they are saying inside? We are obliged to shout to catch each others' words now, and there is not the least chance of our hearing anything through the closed shutters." "We must wait till we get there, and then see what is to be done, Lionel. We managed to detect a plot at Sluys, and we may have the same luck here." After half an hour's brisk walking they again approached the house from the side at which they had before come upon it, and where, as Geoffrey observed, there were no windows; they made their way cautiously up to it, and then moved quietly round to the side. Here there were two windows on the ground floor. The shutters were closed, for glass was unknown except in the houses of the comparatively wealthy. Its place was taken by oiled paper, and this in bad weather was protected by outer shutters. Geoffrey stole out a few paces to look at the window above. "It is evidently a loft," he said as he rejoined Lionel. "You can see by the roof that the rooms they live in are entirely upon the ground floor. If we can get in there we might possibly hear what is going on below. The rooms are not likely to be ceiled, and there are sure to be cracks between the planks through which we can see what is going on below. The noise of the wind is so great there is little chance of their hearing us. Now, let us look about for something to help us to climb up." Lying by an out-house close by they found a rough ladder, composed of a single pole with bits of wood nailed on to it a foot apart. This they placed up against the door of the loft. They could see that this was fastened only by a hasp, with a piece of wood put through the staple. It had been arranged that Geoffrey only should go up, Lionel removing the pole when he entered, and keeping watch behind the out-house lest anyone should come round the house. Both had cut heavy sticks as they came along to give them some means of defence. Lionel stood at the pole, while Geoffrey climbed up, removed the piece of wood from the staple, and then holding the hasp to prevent the wind blowing in the door with a crash, entered the loft. A glance showed him that it extended over the whole of the house, and that it was entirely empty. He closed the door behind him, and jammed it with a couple of wedges of wood he had cut before mounting; then he lay down on the rough planks and began to crawl along. He saw a gleam of light at the further end, and felt sure that it proceeded from the room in which the party were assembled. Although he had little fear of being heard owing to the din kept up by the wind, he moved along with extreme care until he reached the spot whence the light proceeded. As he had anticipated, it was caused by lights in a room below streaming through the cracks between the rough planking. Rising on to his knees he looked round, and then crawled to a crack that appeared much wider than the rest, the boards being more than half an inch apart. Lying down over it, he was able to obtain a view of a portion of the room below. He could see a part of a long table, and looked down upon the heads of five men sitting on one side of it. He now applied his ear to the crevice. A man was speaking, and in the intervals between the gusts of wind which shook the house to its foundation, he could hear what was said. "It is no use hesitating any longer, the time for action has arrived--Jezebel must be removed--interests of our holy religion--little danger in carrying out the plan that has been proposed. Next time--Windsor--road passes through wood near Datchet--a weak guard overpowered--two told off to execute--free England from tyranny--glory and honour throughout Catholic world. England disorganized and without a head could offer no resistance--as soon as day fixed--meet at Staines at house of--final details and share each man is to--done, scatter through country, readiness for rising--Philip of Spain--" This was the last sentence Geoffrey caught, for when the speaker ceased a confused and general talk took place, and he could only catch a word here and there without meaning or connection. He therefore drew quietly back to the door of the loft and opened it. He thought first of jumping straight down, but in that case he could not have fastened the door behind him. He therefore made a sign to Lionel, who was anxiously peering round the corner of the out-house. The pole was placed into position, and pulling the door after him and refastening the latch he made his way down to the ground, replaced the pole at the place from which they had taken it, and then retired in the direction from which they had come. "Well, what have you heard, Geoffrey?" Lionel asked. "Was it worth the risk you have run?" "Well worth it, Lionel. I could only hear a little of what was said, but that was quite enough to show that a plot is on foot to attack and kill the queen the next time she journeys to Windsor. The conspirators are to hide in a wood near Datchet." "You don't say so, Geoffrey. That is important news indeed. What are we to do next?" "I have not thought yet," Geoffrey replied. "I should say, though, our best plan would be to make our way back as quickly as we can by Burnham and Maldon round to Hedingham. The earl was going up to London one day this week, we may catch him before he starts; if not, we must, of course, follow him. But at any rate it is best to go home, for they will be in a terrible fright, especially if Joe Chambers or one of the men take the news to Bricklesey of the loss of the _Susan_, for it would be quickly carried up to Hedingham by John Lirriper or one or other of the boatmen. No day seems to be fixed, and the queen may not be going to Windsor for some little time, so the loss of a day will not make any difference. As we have money in our pockets we can hire horses at Burnham to take us to Maldon, and get others there to carry us home." An hour's walking took them to the ferry. It was now getting dusk, and they had come to the conclusion as they walked that it would be too late to attempt to get on that night beyond Burnham. The storm was as wild as ever, and although the passage was a narrow one it was as much as the ferryman could do to row the boat across. "How far is it from here to Burnham?" "About four miles; but you won't get to Burnham to-night." "How is that?" Geoffrey asked. "You may get as far as the ferry, but you won't get taken over. There will be a big sea in the Crouch, for the wind is pretty nigh straight up it; but you will be able to sleep at the inn this side. In the morning, if the wind has gone down, you can cross; if not, you will have to go round by the bridge, nigh ten miles higher up." This was unpleasant news. Not that it made any difference to them whether they slept on one side of the river or the other, but if the wind was too strong to admit of a passage in the morning, the necessity for making a detour would cost them many hours of valuable time. There was, however, no help for it, and they walked to Criksey Ferry. The little inn was crowded, for the ferry had been stopped all day, and many like themselves had been compelled to stop for a lull in the wind. Scarcely had they entered when their names were joyously shouted out. "Ah, Masters Vickars, right glad am I to see you. We feared that surf had put an end to you. We asked at the ferry, but the man declared that no strange lads had crossed that day, and we were fearing we should have a sad tale to send to Hedingham by John Lirriper." "We are truly glad to see you, Joe," Geoffrey said, as they warmly shook Joe Chambers and the two sailors by the hand. "How did you get ashore?" "On the mainmast, and pretty nigh drowned we were before we got there. I suppose the tide must have taken us a bit further up than it did you. We got here well nigh two hours ago, though we got a good meal and dried our clothes at a farmhouse." "We got a meal, too, soon after we landed," Geoffrey said; "but we did not dry our clothes till we got to a little village. I did not ask its name. I am awfully sorry, Joe, about the _Susan_." "It is a bad job, but it cannot be helped, Master Geoffrey. I owned a third of her, and two traders at Bricklesey own the other shares. Still I have no cause to grumble. I have laid by more than enough in the last four years to buy a share in another boat as good as she was. You see, a trader ain't like a smack. A trader's got only hull and sails, while a smack has got her nets beside, and they cost well nigh as much as the boat. Thankful enough we are that we have all escaped with our lives; and now I find you are safe my mind feels at rest over it." "Do you think it will be calm enough to cross in the morning, Joe?" "Like enough," the sailor replied; "a gale like this is like to blow itself out in twenty-four hours. It has been the worst I ever saw. It is not blowing now quite so hard as it did, and by the morning I reckon, though there may be a fresh wind, the gale will be over." The number of travellers were far too great for the accommodation of the inn; and with the exception of two or three of the first arrivals all slept on some hay in one of the barns. The next morning, although the wind was still strong, the fury of the gale had abated. The ferryman, however, said the water was so rough he must wait for a time before they crossed. But when Geoffrey offered him a reward to put their party on shore at once, he consented to do so, Joe Chambers and the two sailors assisting with the oars; and as the ferry-boat was large and strongly built, they crossed without further inconvenience than the wetting of their jackets. Joe Chambers, who knew the town perfectly, at once took them to a place where they were able to hire a couple of horses, and on these rode to Maldon, some nine miles away. Here they procured other horses, and it was not long after midday when they arrived at Hedingham. Mrs. Vickars held up her hands in astonishment at their shrunken garments; but her relief from the anxiety she had felt concerning what had befallen them during the gale was so great that she was unable to scold. "We will tell you all about it, mother, afterwards," Geoffrey said, as he released himself from her embrace. "We have had a great adventure, and the _Susan_ has been wrecked. But this is not the most important matter. Father, has the earl started yet?" "He was to have gone this morning, Geoffrey, but the floods are likely to be out, and the roads will be in such a state that I have no doubt he has put off his journey." "It is important that we should see him at once, father. We have overheard some people plotting against the queen's life, and measures must be taken at once for her safety. We will run up and change our things if you will go with us to see him. If you are there he will see you whatever he is doing, while if we go alone there might be delay." Without waiting for an answer the boys ran upstairs and quickly returned in fresh clothes. Mr. Vickars was waiting for them with his hat on. "You are quite sure of what you are saying, Geoffrey?" he observed as they walked towards the castle. "Remember, that if it should turn out an error, you are likely to come to sore disgrace instead of receiving commendation for your interference. Every one has been talking of plots against the queen for some time, and you may well have mistaken the purport of what you have heard." "There is no mistake, father, it is a real conspiracy, though who are those concerned in it I know not. Lionel and I are not likely to raise a false alarm about nothing, as you will say yourself when you hear the story I have to tell the earl." They had by this time entered the gates of the castle. "The earl has just finished dinner," one of the attendants replied in answer to the question of Mr. Vickars. "Will you tell him that I wish to see him on urgent business?" In two or three minutes the servant returned and asked the clergyman to follow him. The earl received him in his private chamber, for the castle was full with guests. "Well, dominie, what is it?" he asked. "You want some help, I will be bound, for somebody ill or in distress. I know pretty well by this time the meaning of your urgent business." "It is nothing of that kind to-day," the clergyman replied; "it is, in fact, my sons who wish to see your lordship. I do not myself know the full purport of their story, save that it is something which touches the safety of the queen." The earl's expression at once changed. "Is that so, young sirs? This is a serious matter, you know; it is a grave thing to bring an accusation against anyone in matters touching the state." "I am aware that it is, my lord, and assuredly my brother and I would not lightly meddle with such matters; but I think that you will say this is a business that should be attended to. It happened thus, sir." He then briefly told how, that being out in a ketch that traded from Bricklesey, they were caught in the gale; that the vessel was driven on the sands, and they were cast ashore on a mast. He then related the inhospitable reception they had met with. "It seemed strange to us, sir, and contrary to nature, that anyone should refuse to allow two shipwrecked lads to enter the house for shelter on such a day; and it seemed well-nigh impossible that his tale of the place being too full to hold us could be true. However, we started to walk. On our way we met four horsemen going towards the house, closely muffled up in cloaks." "There was nothing very strange in that," the earl observed, "in such weather as we had yesterday." "Nothing at all, sir; we should not have given the matter one thought had it not been that the four men were very well mounted, and, apparently, gentlemen; and it was strange that such should have business in an out-of-the-way house in Foulness Island. A little further we met three men on foot. They were also wrapped up in cloaks; but they wore high riding-boots, and had probably left their horses on the other side of the ferry so as not to attract attention. A short time afterwards we met two more horsemen, one of whom asked us if he was going right for the house we had been at. As he was speaking a gust of wind blew off his hat. I fetched it and gave it to him, and as he stooped to put it on I saw that a tonsure was shaven on the top of his head. The matter had already seemed strange to us; but the fact that one of this number of men, all going to a lonely house, was a priest in disguise, seemed so suspicious that my brother and myself determined to try and get to the bottom of it." Geoffrey then related how they had gone back to the house and effected an entrance into the loft extending over it; how he had through the cracks in the boards seen a party of men gathered in one of the lower rooms, and then repeated word for word the scraps of conversation that he had overheard. The earl had listened with an expression of amused doubt to the early portion of the narrative; but when Geoffrey came to the part where accident had shown to him that one of these men proceeding towards this house was a disguised priest, his face became serious, and he listened with deep attention to the rest of the narrative. "Faith," he said, "this is a serious matter, and you have done right well in following up your suspicions, and in risking your lives, for they would assuredly have killed you had they discovered you. Mr. Vickars, your sons must ride with me to London at once. The matter is too grave for a moment's delay. I must lay it before Burleigh at once. A day's delay might be fatal." He rang a bell standing on the table. As soon as an attendant answered it he said, "Order three horses to be saddled at once; I must ride to London with these young gentlemen without delay. Order Parsons and Nichols to be ready in half an hour to set out with us. Have you had food, young sirs? for it seems you came hither directly you arrived." Finding that the boys had eaten nothing since they had left Maldon, he ordered food to be brought them, and begged them eat it while he explained to the countess and guests that sudden business that could not be delayed called him away to London. Half an hour later he started with the boys, the two servants following behind. Late that evening they arrived in London. It was too late to call on Lord Burleigh that night; but early the next morning the earl took the boys with him to the house of the great statesman. Leaving them in the ante-chamber he went in to the inner apartment, where the minister was at breakfast. Ten minutes later he came out, and called the boys in. "The Earl of Oxford has told me your story," Lord Burleigh said. "Tell it me again, and omit nothing; for things that seem small are often of consequence in a matter like this." Geoffrey again repeated his story, giving full details of all that had taken place from the time of their first reaching the house. Lord Burleigh then questioned him closely as to whether they had seen any of the faces of the men, and would recognise them again. "I saw none from my spying-place above, my lord," Geoffrey said. "I could see only the tops of their heads, and most of them still kept their hats on; nor did we see them as they passed, with the exception only of the man I supposed to be a priest. His face I saw plainly. It was smooth shaven; his complexion was dark, his eyebrows were thin and straight, his face narrow. I should take him for a foreigner--either a Spaniard or Italian." Lord Burleigh made a note of this description. "Thanks, young sirs," he said. "I shall, of course, take measures to prevent this plot being carried out, and shall inform her majesty how bravely you both risked your lives to discover this conspiracy against her person. The Earl of Oxford informs me that you are pages of his cousin, Captain Francis Vere, a very brave and valiant gentleman; and that you bore your part bravely in the siege of Sluys, but are at present at home to rest after your labours there, and have permission of Captain Vere to take part in any trouble that may arise here owing to the action of the Spaniards. I have now no further occasion for your services, and you can return with the earl to Hedingham, but your attendance in London will be needed when we lay hands upon these conspirators." The same day they rode back to Hedingham, but ten days later were again summoned to London. The queen had the day before journeyed to Windsor. Half an hour before she arrived at the wood near Datchet a strong party of her guard had suddenly surrounded it, and had found twelve armed men lurking there. These had been arrested and lodged in the Tower. Three of them were foreigners, the rest members of Catholic families known to be favourable to the Spanish cause. Their trial was conducted privately, as it was deemed advisable that as little should be made as possible of this and other similar plots against the queen's life that were discovered about this time. Geoffrey and Lionel gave their evidence before the council. As the only man they could have identified was not of the party captured, their evidence only went to show the motive of this gathering in the wood near Datchet. The prisoners stoutly maintained that Geoffrey had misunderstood the conversation he had partly overheard, and that their design was simply to make the queen a prisoner and force her to abdicate. Three of the prisoners, who had before been banished from the country and who had secretly returned, were sentenced to death; two of the others to imprisonment for a long term of years, the rest to banishment from England. After the trial was over Lord Burleigh sent for the boys, and gave them a very gracious message in the queen's name, together with two rings in token of her majesty's gratitude. Highly delighted with these honours they returned to Hedingham, and devoted themselves even more assiduously than before to exercises in arms, in order that they might some day prove themselves valiant soldiers of the queen.

8

THE SPANISH ARMADA.

The struggle that was at hand between Spain and England had long been foreseen as inevitable. The one power was the champion of Roman Catholicism, the other of Protestantism; and yet, although so much hung upon the result of the encounter, and all Europe looked on with the most intense interest, both parties entered upon the struggle without allies, and this entirely from the personal fault of the sovereigns of the two nations. Queen Elizabeth, by her constant intrigues, her underhand dealings with France and Spain, her grasping policy in the Netherlands, her meanness and parsimony, and the fact that she was ready at any moment to sacrifice the Netherlands to her own policy, had wholly alienated the people of the Low Country; for while their own efforts for defence were paralysed by the constant interference of Elizabeth, no benefit was obtained from the English army, whose orders were to stand always on the defensive--the queen's only anxiety appearing to be to keep her grasp upon the towns that had been handed over to her as the price of her alliance. Her own counsellors were driven to their wits' end by her constant changes of purpose. Her troops were starving and in rags from her parsimony, the fleet lay dismantled and useless from want of funds, and except such arming and drilling as took place at the expense of the nobles, counties, and cities, no preparation whatever was made to meet the coming storm. Upon the other hand, Philip of Spain, who might have been at the head of a great Catholic league against England, had isolated himself by his personal ambitions, Had he declared himself ready, in the event of his conquest of England, to place James of Scotland upon the throne, he would have had Scotland with him, together with the Catholics of England, still a powerful and important body. France, too, would have joined him, and the combination against Elizabeth and the Protestants of England would have been well-nigh irresistible. But this he could not bring himself to do. His dream was the annexation of England to Spain; and smarting as the English Catholics were under the execution of Mary of Scotland, their English spirit revolted against the idea of the rule of Spain, and the great Catholic nobles hastened, when the moment of danger arrived, to join in the defence of their country, while Scotland, seeing no advantage to be gained in the struggle, stood sullenly aloof, and France gave no aid to a project which was to result, if successful, in the aggrandizement of her already dangerously formidable neighbour. Thus England and Spain stood alone--Philip slowly but steadily preparing for the great expedition for the conquest of England, Elizabeth hesitating, doubtful; at one moment gathering seamen and arming her fleet, a month or two later discharging the sailors and laying up the ships. In the spring of 1587 Drake, with six vessels belonging to the crown and twenty-four equipped by merchants of London and other places, had seized a moment when Elizabeth's fickle mind had inclined to warlike measures, and knowing that the mood might last but a day, had slipped out of Plymouth and sailed for Spain a few hours before a messenger arrived with a peremptory order from Elizabeth against entering any Spanish port or offering violence to any Spanish town or ships. Although caught in a gale in the Channel, Drake held on, and, reaching Gibraltar on the 16th April, ascertained that Cadiz was crowded with transports and store-ships. Vice-admiral Burroughs, controller of the navy, who had been specially appointed to thwart Drake's plans, opposed any action being taken; but Drake insisted upon attack, and on the 19th the fleet stood in to Cadiz harbour. Passing through the fire of the batteries, they sank the only great ship of war in the roads, drove off the Spanish galleys, and seized the vast fleet of store-ships loaded with wine, corn, and provisions of all sorts for the use of the Armada. Everything of value that could be conveniently moved was transferred to the English ships, then the Spanish vessels were set on fire, their cables cut, and they were left to drift an entangled mass of flame. Drake took a number of prisoners, and sent a messenger on shore proposing to exchange them for such English seamen as were prisoners in Spain. The reply was there were no English prisoners in Spain; and as this was notoriously untrue, it was agreed in the fleet that all the Spaniards they might take in the future should be sold to the Moors, and the money reserved for the redeeming of such Englishmen as might be in captivity there or elsewhere. The English fleet then sailed for Cape St. Vincent, picking up on their way large convoys of store-ships all bound for the Tagus, where the Armada was collecting. These were all burned, and Drake brought up at Cape St. Vincent, hoping to meet there a portion of the Armada expected from the Mediterranean. As a harbour was necessary, he landed, stormed the fort at Faro, and took possession of the harbour there. The expected enemy did not appear, and Drake sailed up to the mouth of the Tagus, intending to go into Lisbon and attack the great Spanish fleet lying there under its admiral, Santa Cruz. That the force gathered there was enormous Drake well knew, but relying as much on the goodness of his cause as on the valour of his sailors, and upon the fact that the enemy would be too crowded together to fight with advantage, he would have carried out his plan had not a ship arrived from England with orders forbidding him to enter the Tagus. However, he lay for some time at the mouth of the river, destroying every ship that entered its mouth, and sending in a challenge to Santa Cruz to come out and fight. The Spanish admiral did not accept it, and Drake then sailed to Corunna, and there, as at Cadiz, destroyed all the ships collected in the harbour and then returned to England, having in the course of a few months inflicted an enormous amount of damage upon Spain, and having taken the first step to prove that England was the mistress of the sea. But while the little band of English had been defending Sluys against the army of the Duke of Parma, Philip had been continuing his preparations, filling up the void made by the destruction wrought by Drake, and preparing an Armada which he might well have considered to be invincible. Elizabeth was still continuing her negotiations. She was quite ready to abandon the Netherlands to Spain if she could but keep the towns she held there, but she could not bring herself to hand these over either to the Netherlands or to Spain. She urged the States to make peace, to which they replied that they did not wish for peace on such terms as Spain would alone grant; they could defend themselves for ten years longer if left alone; they did not ask for further help, and only wanted their towns restored to them. Had the Armada started as Philip intended in September, it would have found England entirely unprepared, for Elizabeth still obstinately refused to believe in danger, and the few ships that had been held in commission after Drake's return had been so long neglected that they could hardly keep the sea without repair; the rest lay unrigged in the Medway. But the delay gave England fresh time for preparation. Parma's army was lying in readiness for the invasion under canvas at Dunkirk, and their commander had received no information from Spain that the sailing of the Armada was delayed. The cold, wet, and exposure told terribly upon them, and of the 30,000 who were ready to embark in September not 18,000 were fit for service at the commencement of the year. The expenses of this army and of the Armada were so great that Philip was at last driven to give orders to the Armada to start. But fortune again favoured England. Had the fleet sailed as ordered on the 30th of January they would again have found the Channel undefended, for Elizabeth, in one of her fits of economy, had again dismantled half the fleet that had been got ready for sea, and sent the sailors to their homes. But the execution of Philip's orders was prevented by the sudden death of Santa Cruz. The Duke of Medina-Sidonia was appointed his successor, but as he knew nothing of the state of the Armada fresh delays became necessary, and the time was occupied by Elizabeth, not in preparing for the defence of the country, but in fresh negotiations for peace. She was ready to make any concessions to Spain, but Philip was now only amusing himself by deceiving her. Everything was now prepared for the expedition, and just as the fleet was ready to start, the negotiations were broken off. But though Elizabeth's government had made no preparations for the defence of the country, England herself had not been idle. Throughout the whole country men had been mustered, officered, and armed, and 100,000 were ready to move as soon as the danger became imminent. The musters of the Midland counties, 30,000 strong, were to form a separate army, and were to march at once to a spot between Windsor and Harrow. The rest were to gather at the point of danger. The coast companies were to fall back wherever the enemy landed, burning the corn and driving off the cattle, and avoiding a battle until the force of the neighbouring counties joined them. Should the landing take place as was expected in Suffolk, Kent, or Sussex, it was calculated that between 30,000 and 40,000 men would bar the way to the invaders before they reached London, while 20,000 men of the western counties would remain to encounter the Duke of Guise, who had engaged to bring across an army of Frenchmen to aid the Spaniards. Spain, although well aware of the strength of England on the sea, believed that she would have no difficulty with the raw English levies; but Parma, who had met the English at Sluys, had learnt to respect their fighting qualities, and in a letter to Philip gave the opinion that even if the Armada brought him a reinforcement of 6000 men he would still have an insufficient force for the conquest of England. He said, "When I shall have landed I must fight battle after battle. I shall lose men by wounds and disease, I must leave detachments behind me to keep open my communications, and in a short time the body of my army will become so weak that not only I may be unable to advance in the face of the enemy, and time may be given to the heretics and your majesty's other enemies to interfere, but there may fall out some notable inconvenience, with the loss of everything, and I be unable to remedy it." Unfortunately, the English fleet was far less prepared than the land forces. The militia had been easily and cheaply extemporized, but a fleet can only be prepared by long and painful sacrifices. The entire English navy contained but thirteen ships of over four hundred tons, and including small cutters and pinnaces there were but thirty-eight vessels of all sorts and sizes carrying the queen's flag. Fortunately, Sir John Hawkins was at the head of the naval administration, and in spite of the parsimony of Elizabeth had kept the fleet in a good state of repair and equipment. The merchant navy, although numerous, was equally deficient in vessels of any size. Philip had encouraged ship-building in Spain by grants from the crown, allowing four ducats a ton for every ship built of above three hundred tons burden, and six ducats a ton for every one above five hundred tons. Thus he had a large supply of great ships to draw upon in addition to those of the royal navy, while in England the largest vessels belonging to private owners did not exceed four hundred tons, and there were not more than two or three vessels of that size sailing from any port of the country. The total allowance by the queen for the repair of the whole of the royal navy, wages of shipwrights, clerks, carpenters, watchmen, cost of timber, and all other necessary dockyard expenses, was but £4000 a-year. In December the fleet was ready for sea, together with the contingent furnished by the liberality and patriotism of the merchants and citizens of the great ports. But as soon as it was got together half the crews collected and engaged at so great an expense were dismissed, the merchant ships released, and England open to invasion, and had Parma started in the vessels he had prepared, Lord Howard, who commanded the English navy, could not have fired a shot to have prevented his crossing. Well might Sir John Hawkins in his despair at Elizabeth's caprices exclaim: "We are wasting money, wasting strength, dishonouring and discrediting ourselves by our uncertain dallying." But though daily reports came from Spain of the readiness of the Armada to set sail, Elizabeth, even when she again permitted the navy to be manned, fettered it by allowing it to be provided with rations for only a month at a time, and permitting no reserves to be provided in the victualling stores; while the largest vessels were supplied with ammunition for only a day and a half's service, and the rest of the fleet with but enough for one day's service. The council could do nothing, and Lord Howard's letters prove that the queen, and she only, was responsible for the miserable state of things that prevailed. At last, in May, Lord Howard sailed with the fleet down Channel, leaving Lord Henry Seymour with three men-of-war and a squadron of privateers to watch Dunkirk. At Plymouth the admiral found Drake with forty ships, all except one raised and sent to sea at the expense of himself and the gentry and merchants of the west counties. The weather was wild, as it had been all the winter. Howard with the great ships lay at anchor in the Sound, rolling heavily, while the smaller craft went for shelter into the mouth of the river. There were but eighteen days' provisions on board; fresh supplies promised did not arrive, and the crews were put on half rations, and eked these out by catching fish. At last, when the supplies were just exhausted, the victualling ships arrived with one month's fresh rations, and a message that no more would be sent. So villainous was the quality of the stores that fever broke out in the fleet. It was not until the end of the month that Elizabeth would even permit any further preparations to be made, and the supplies took some time collecting. The crews would have been starved had not the officers so divided the rations as to make them last six weeks. The men died in scores from dysentery brought on by the sour and poisonous beer issued to them, and Howard and Drake ordered wine and arrow-root from the town for the use of the sick, and had to pay for it from their own pockets. But at last the Armada was ready for starting. Contingents of Spanish, Italians, and Portuguese were gathered together with the faithful from all countries--Jesuits from France; exiled priests, Irish and English; and many Catholic Scotch, English, and Irish noblemen and gentlemen. The six squadrons into which the fleet was divided contained sixty-five large war ships, the smallest of which was seven hundred tons. Seven were over one thousand, and the largest, an Italian ship, _La Regazona_, was thirteen hundred. All were built high like castles, their upper works musket-proof, their main timbers four or five feet thick, and of a strength it was supposed no English cannon could pierce. Next to the big ships, or galleons as they were called, were four galleasses, each carrying fifty guns and 450 soldiers and sailors, and rowed by 300 slaves. Besides these were four galleys, fifty-six great armed merchant ships, the finest Spain possessed, and twenty caravels or small vessels. Thus the fighting fleet amounted to 129 vessels, carrying in all 2430 cannon. On board was stored an enormous quantity of provisions for the use of the army after it landed in England, there being sufficient to feed 40,000 men for six months. There were on board 8000 sailors, 19,000 soldiers, 1000 gentlemen volunteers, 600 priests, servants, and miscellaneous officers, and 2000 galley slaves. This was indeed a tremendous array to meet the fleet lying off Plymouth, consisting of 29 queen's ships of all sizes, 10 small vessels belonging to Lord Howard and members of his family, and 43 privateers between 40 and 400 tons under Drake, the united crews amounting to something over 9000 men. The winter had passed pleasantly to Geoffrey and Lionel Vickars; the earl had taken a great fancy to them, and they had stayed for some time in London as members of his suite. When the spring came they had spoken about rejoining Francis Vere in Holland, but the earl had said that there was little doing there. The enmity excited by the conduct of Elizabeth prevented any co-operation between the Dutch and English; and indeed the English force was reduced to such straits by the refusal of the queen to furnish money for their pay, or to provide funds for even absolute necessaries, that it was wholly incapable of taking the field, and large numbers of the men returned to England. Had this treatment of her soldiers and sailors at the time when such peril threatened their country been occasioned by want of funds, some excuse would have been possible for the conduct of Elizabeth; but at the time there were large sums lying in the treasury, and it was parsimony and not incapacity to pay that actuated Elizabeth in the course she pursued. As the boys were still uneasy as to the opinion Francis Vere might form of their continued stay in England, they wrote to him, their letter being inclosed in one from the earl; but the reply set their minds at rest--"By all means stay in England," Captain Vere wrote, "since there is nothing doing here of any note or consequence, nor likely to be. We are simply idling out time in Bergen-op-Zoom, and not one of us but is longing to be at home to bear his part in the events pending there. It is hard, indeed, to be confined in this miserable Dutch town while England is in danger. Unfortunately we are soldiers and must obey orders; but as you are as yet only volunteers, free to act as you choose, it would be foolish in the extreme for you to come over to this dull place while there is so much going on in England. I have written to my cousin, asking him to introduce you to some of the country gentlemen who have fitted out a ship for service against the Spaniards, so that you may have a hand in what is going on." This the earl had done, and early in May they had journeyed down to Plymouth on horseback with a party of other gentlemen who were going on board the _Active_, a vessel of two hundred and fifty tons belonging to a gentleman of Devonshire, one Master Audrey Drake, a relation of Sir Francis Drake. The earl himself was with the party. He did not intend to go on board, for he was a bad sailor; and though ready, as he said, to do his share of fighting upon land, would be only an encumbrance on board a ship. He went down principally at the request of Cecil and other members of the council, who, knowing that he was a favourite of the queen, thought that his representations as to the state of the fleet might do more than they could do to influence her to send supplies to the distressed sailors. The earl visited the ships lying in the mouth of the Tamar, and three times started in a boat to go out to those in the Sound; but the sea was so rough, and he was so completely prostrated by sickness, that he had each time to put back. What he saw, however, on board the ships he visited, and heard from Lord Howard as to the state of those at sea, was quite sufficient. He at once expended a considerable amount of money in buying wine and fresh meat for the sick, and then hurried away to London to lay before the queen the result of his personal observations, and to implore her to order provisions to be immediately despatched to the fleet. But even the description given by one of her favourites of the sufferings of the seamen was insufficient to induce the queen to open her purse-strings, and the earl left her in great dudgeon; and although his private finances had been much straitened by his extravagance and love of display, he at once chartered a ship, filled her with provisions, and despatched her to Plymouth. Mr. Drake and the gentlemen with him took up their abode in the town until there should be need for them to go on board the _Active_, where the accommodation was much cramped, and life by no means agreeable; and the Vickars therefore escaped sharing the sufferings of those on board ship. At the end of May came the news that the Armada had sailed on the 19th, and high hopes were entertained that the period of waiting had terminated. A storm, however, scattered the great fleet, and it was not until the 12th of July that they sailed from the Bay of Ferrol, where they had collected after the storm. Never was there known a season so boisterous as the summer of 1588, and when off Ushant, in a south-west gale, four galleys were wrecked on the French coast, and the _Santa Anna_, a galleon of 800 tons, went down, carrying with her ninety seamen, three hundred soldiers, and 50,000 ducats in gold. After two days the storm abated, and the fleet again proceeded. At daybreak on the 20th the Lizard was in sight, and an English fishing-boat was seen running along their line. Chase was given, but she soon out-sailed her pursuers, and carried the news to Plymouth. The Armada had already been made out from the coast the night before, and beacon lights had flashed the news all over England. In every village and town men were arming and saddling and marching away to the rendezvous of the various corps. In Plymouth the news was received with the greatest rejoicing. Thanks to the care with which the provisions had been husbanded, and to the manner in which the officers and volunteers had from their private means supplemented the scanty stores, there was still a week's provisions on board, and this, it was hoped, would suffice for their needs. The scanty supply of ammunition was a greater source of anxiety; but they hoped that fresh supplies would be forthcoming, now that even the queen could no longer close her eyes to the urgent necessity of the case. As soon as the news arrived all the gentlemen in the town flocked on board the ships, and on the night of the 19th the queen's ships and some of the privateers went to moorings behind Ram Head, so that they could make clear to sea; and on the morning when the Spaniards sighted the Lizard, forty sail were lying ready for action under the headland. At three o'clock in the afternoon the look-out men on the hill reported a line of sails on the western horizon. Two wings were at first visible, which were gradually united as the topsails of those in the centre rose above the line of sea. As they arose it could be seen that the great fleet was sailing, in the form of a huge crescent, before a gentle wind. A hundred and fifty ships, large and small, were counted, as a few store-ships bound for Flanders had joined the Armada for protection. The _Active_ was one of the privateers that had late the evening before gone out to Earn Head, and just as it was growing dusk the anchors were got up, and the little fleet sailed out from the shelter of the land as the Armada swept along. The Spanish admiral at once ordered the fleet to lie-to for the night, and to prepare for a general action at daybreak, as he knew from a fisherman he had captured that the English fleet were at Plymouth. The wind was on shore, but all through the night Howard's and Drake's ships beat out from the Sound until they took their places behind the Spanish fleet, whose position they could perfectly make out by the light of the half-moon that rose at two in the morning. On board the English fleet all was confidence and hilarity. The sufferings of the last three months were forgotten. The numbers and magnitude of the Spanish ships counted as nothing. The sailors of the west country had met the Spaniards on the Indian seas and proved their masters, and doubted not for a moment that they should do so again. There was scarce a breath of air when day broke, but at eight o'clock a breeze sprang up from the west, and the Armada made sail and attempted to close with the English; but the low, sharp English ships sailed two feet to the one of the floating castles of Spain, and could sail close to the wind, while the Spanish ships, if they attempted to close-haul their sails, drifted bodily to leeward. Howard's flagship, the _Ark-Raleigh_, with three other English ships, opened the engagement by running down along their rear-line, firing into each galleon as they passed, then wearing round and repeating the manoeuvre. The great _San Matteo_ luffed out from the rest of the fleet and challenged them to board, but they simply poured their second broadside into her and passed on. The excellence of the manoeuvring of the English ships, and the rapidity and accuracy of their fire, astonished the Spaniards. Throughout the whole forenoon the action continued; the Spaniards making efforts to close, but in vain, the English ships keeping the weather-gage and sailing continually backwards and forwards, pouring in their broadsides. The height and size of the Spanish ships were against them; and being to leeward they heeled over directly they came up to the wind to fire a broadside, and their shots for the most part went far over their assailants, while they themselves suffered severely from the English fire. Miquel de Oquendo, who commanded one of the six Spanish squadrons, distinguished himself by his attempts to close with the English, and by maintaining his position in the rear of the fleet engaged in constant conflict with them. He was a young nobleman of great promise, distinguished alike for his bravery and chivalrous disposition; but he could do little while the wind remained in the west and the English held the weather-gage. So far only the ships that had been anchored out under Earn Head had taken part in the fight, those lying higher up in the Sound being unable to make their way out. At noon the exertions of their crews, who had from the preceding evening worked incessantly, prevailed, and they were now seen coming out from behind the headland to take part in the struggle. Medina-Sidonia signalled to his fleet to make sail up Channel, Martinez de Ricaldo covering the rear with the squadron of Biscay. He was vice-admiral of the fleet, and considered to be the best seaman Spain possessed now that Santa Cruz was dead. The wind was now rising. Lord Howard sent off a fast boat with letters to Lord Henry Seymour, telling him how things had gone so far, and bidding him be prepared for the arrival of the Spanish fleet in the Downs. As the afternoon went on the wind rose, and a rolling sea came in from the west. Howard still hung upon the Spanish rear, firing but seldom in order to save his powder. As evening fell, the Spanish vessels, huddled closely together, frequently came into collision with one another, and in one of these the _Capitana_, the flagship of the Andalusian division, commanded by Admiral Pedro de Valdez, had her bowsprit carried away, the foremast fell overboard, and the ship dropped out of her place. Two of the galleasses came to her assistance and tried to take her in tow, but the waves were running so high that the cable broke. Pedro de Valdez had been commander of the Spanish fleet on the coast of Holland, and knew the English Channel and the northern shores of France and Holland well. The duke therefore despatched boats to bring him off with his crew, but he refused to leave his charge. Howard, as with his ships he passed her, believed her to be deserted and went on after the fleet; but a London vessel kept close to her and exchanged shots with her all night, until Drake, who had turned aside to chase what he believed to be a portion of the Spanish fleet that had separated itself from the rest, but which turned out to be the merchant ships that had joined it for protection, came up, and the _Capitana_ struck her flag. Drake took her into Torbay, and there left her in the care of the Brixham fishermen, and taking with him Valdez and the other officers sailed away to join Lord Howard. The fishermen, on searching the ship, found some tons of gunpowder on board her. Knowing the scarcity of ammunition in the fleet they placed this on board the _Roebuck_, the fastest trawler in the harbour, and she started at once in pursuit of the fleet. The misfortune to the _Capitana_, was not the only one that befell the Spaniards. While Oquendo was absent from his galleon a quarrel arose among the officers, who were furious at the ill result of the day's fighting. The captain struck the master-gunner with a stick; the latter, a German, rushed below in a rage, thrust a burning fuse into a powder barrel, and sprang through a port-hole into the sea. The whole of the deck was blown up, with two hundred sailors and soldiers; but the ship was so strongly built that she survived the shock, and her mast still stood. The duke sent boats to learn what had happened. These carried off the few who remained unhurt, but there was no means of taking off the wounded. These, however, were treated kindly and sent on shore when the ship was picked up at daylight by the English, who, on rifling her, found to their delight that there were still many powder barrels on board that had escaped the explosion. The morning broke calm, and the wind, when it came, was from the east, which gave the Spaniards the advantage of position. The two fleets lay idle all day three or four miles apart, and the next morning, as the wind was still from the east, the Spaniards bore down upon Howard to offer battle. The English, however, headed out to sea. Encouraged by seeing their assailants avoid a pitched battle the Spaniards gave chase. The _San Marcos_, the fastest sailer in the fleet, left the rest behind, and when the breeze headed round at noon she was several miles to windward of her consorts, and the English at once set upon her. She fought with extreme courage, and defended herself single-handed for an hour and a half, when Oquendo came up to the rescue, and as the action off Plymouth had almost exhausted his stock of powder, and the Brixham sloop had not yet come up, Howard was obliged to draw off. The action of this day was fought off Portland. During the three days the British fleet had been to sea they had received almost hourly reinforcements. From every harbour and fishing port along the coast from Plymouth to the Isle of Wight vessels of all sizes, smacks, and boats put off, crowded with noblemen and gentlemen anxious to take part in the action, and their enthusiasm added to that of the weary and ill-fed sailors. At the end of the third day the English fleet had increased to a hundred sail, many of which, however, were of very small burden.

9

THE ROUT OF THE ARMADA.

The fight between the fleets had begun on Sunday morning, and at the end of the third day the strength of the Armada remained unbroken. The moral effect had no doubt been great, but the loss of two or three ships was a trifle to so large a force, and the spirit of the Spaniards had been raised by the gallant and successful defence the _San Marcos_ had made on the Tuesday afternoon. Wednesday was again calm. The magazines of the English ships were empty. Though express after express had been sent off praying that ammunition might be sent, none had arrived, and the two fleets lay six miles apart without action, save that the galleasses came out and skirmished for a while with the English ships. That evening, however, a supply of ammunition sufficient for another day's fighting arrived, and soon after daybreak the English fleet moved down towards the Armada, and for the first time engaged them at close quarters. The _Ark-Raleigh_, the _Bear_, the _Elizabeth Jones_, the _Lion_, and the _Victory_ bore on straight into the centre of the Spanish galleons, exchanging broadsides with each as they passed. Oquendo with his vessel was right in the course of the English flagship, and a collision took place, in which the _Ark-Raleigh's_ rudder was unshipped, and she became unmanageable. The enemy's vessels closed round her, but she lowered her boats, and these, in spite of the fire of the enemy, brought her head round before the wind, and she made her way through her antagonists and got clear. For several hours the battle continued. The Spanish fire was so slow, and their ships so unwieldy, that it was rarely they succeeded in firing a shot into their active foes, while the English shot tore their way through the massive timbers of the Spanish vessels, scattering the splinters thickly among the soldiers, who had been sent below to be out of harm's way; but beyond this, and inflicting much damage upon masts and spars, the day's fighting had no actual results. No captures were made by the English. The Spaniards suffered, but made no sign; nevertheless their confidence in their powers was shaken. Their ammunition was also running short, and they had no hope of refilling their magazines until they effected a junction with Parma. Their admiral that night wrote to him asking that two shiploads of shot and powder might be sent to him immediately. "The enemy pursue me," he said; "they fire upon me most days from morning till nightfall, but they will not close and grapple. I have given them every opportunity. I have purposely left ships exposed to tempt them to board, but they decline to do it; and there is no remedy, for they are swift and we are slow. They have men and ammunition in abundance." The Spanish admiral was unaware that the English magazines were even more empty than his own. On Friday morning Howard sailed for Dover to take in the supplies that were so sorely needed. The Earl of Sussex, who was in command of the castle, gave him all that he had, and the stores taken from the prizes came up in light vessels and were divided among the fleet, and in the evening the English fleet again sailed out and took up its place in the rear of the Armada. On Saturday morning the weather changed. After six days of calm and sunshine it began to blow hard from the west, with driving showers. The Spaniards, having no pilots who knew the coasts, anchored off Calais. The English fleet, closely watching their movements, brought up two miles astern. The Spanish admiral sent off another urgent letter to Parma at Dunkirk, begging him to send immediately thirty or forty fast gunboats to keep the English at bay. Parma had received the admiral's letters, and was perfectly ready to embark his troops, but could not do this as the admiral expected he would, until the fleet came up to protect him. The lighters and barges he had constructed for the passage were only fit to keep the sea in calm weather, and would have been wholly at the mercy of even a single English ship of war. He could not, therefore, embark his troops until the duke arrived. As to the gunboats asked for, he had none with him. But while the Spanish admiral had grave cause for uneasiness in the situation in which he found himself, Lord Howard had no greater reason for satisfaction. In spite of his efforts the enemy's fleet had arrived at their destination with their strength still unimpaired, and were in communication with the Duke of Parma's army. Lord Seymour had come up with a squadron from the mouth of the Thames, but his ships had but one day's provisions on board, while Drake and Howard's divisions had all but exhausted their supplies. The previous day's fighting had used up the ammunition obtained at Dover. Starvation would drive every English ship from the sea in another week at latest. The Channel would then be open for the passage of Parma's army. At five o'clock on Sunday evening a council of war was held in Lord Howard's cabin, and it was determined, that as it was impossible to attack the Spanish fleet where they lay at the edge of shallow water, an attempt must be made to drive them out into the Channel with fire-ships. Eight of the private vessels were accordingly taken, and such combustibles as could be found--pitch, tar, old sails, empty casks, and other materials--were piled into them. At midnight the tide set directly from the English fleet towards the Spaniards, and the fire-ships, manned by their respective crews, hoisted sail and drove down towards them. When near the Armada the crews set fire to the combustibles, and taking to their boats rowed back to the fleet. At the sight of the flames bursting up from the eight ships bearing down upon them, the Spaniards were seized with a panic. The admiral fired a gun as a signal, and all cut their cables and hoisted sail, and succeeded in getting out to sea before the fire-ships arrived. They lay-to six miles from shore, intending to return in the morning and recover their anchors; but Drake with his division of the fleet, and Seymour with the squadron from the Thames, weighed their anchors and stood off after them, while Howard with his division remained off Calais, where, in the morning, the largest of the four galleasses was seen aground on Calais Bar. Lord Howard wasted many precious hours in capturing her before he set off to join Drake and Seymour, who were thundering against the Spanish fleet. The wind had got up during the night, and the Spaniards had drifted farther than they expected, and when morning dawned were scattered over the sea off Gravelines. Signals were made for them to collect, but before they could do so Drake and Seymour came up and opened fire within pistol-shot. The English admiral saw at once that, with the wind rising from the south, if he could drive the unwieldy galleons north they would be cut off from Dunkirk, and would not be able to beat back again until there was a change of wind. All through the morning the English ships poured a continuous shower of shot into the Spanish vessels, which, huddled together in a confused mass, were unable to make any return whatever. The duke and Oquendo, with some of the best sailors among the fleet, tried to bear out from the crowd and get room to manoeuvre, but Drake's ships were too weatherly and too well handled to permit of this, and they were driven back again into the confused mass, which was being slowly forced towards the shoals and banks of the coasts. Howard came up at noon with his division, and until sunset the fire was maintained, by which time almost the last cartridge was spent, and the crews worn out by their incessant labour. They took no prizes, for they never attempted to board. They saw three great galleons go down, and three more drift away towards the sands of Ostend, where they were captured either by the English garrisoned there or by three vessels sent by Lord Willoughby from Flushing, under the command of Francis Vere. Had the English ammunition lasted but a few more hours the whole of the Armada would have been either driven ashore or sunk; but when the last cartridge had been burned the assailants drew off to take on board the stores which had, while the fighting was going on, been brought up by some provision ships from the Thames. But the Spaniards were in no condition to benefit by the cessation of the attack. In spite of the terrible disadvantages under which they laboured, they had fought with splendid courage. The sides of the galleons had been riddled with shot, and the splinters caused by the rending of the massive timbers had done even greater execution than the iron hail. Being always to leeward, and heeling over with the wind, the ships had been struck again and again below the water-line, and many were only kept from sinking by nailing sheets of lead over the shot-holes. Their guns were, for the most part, dismounted or knocked to pieces. Several had lost masts, the carnage among the crews was frightful, and yet not a single ship hauled down her colours. The _San Matteo_, which was one of those that grounded between Ostend and Sluys, fought to the last, and kept Francis Vere's three ships at bay for two hours, until she was at last carried by boarding. Left to themselves at the end of the day, the Spaniards gathered in what order they could, and made sail for the north. On counting the losses they found that four thousand men had been killed or drowned, and the number of wounded must have been far greater. The crews were utterly worn-out and exhausted. They had the day before been kept at work cleaning and refitting, and the fire-ships had disturbed them early in the night. During the engagement there had been no time to serve out food, and the labours of the long struggle had completely exhausted them. Worst of all, they were utterly disheartened by the day's fighting. They had been pounded by their active foes, who fired five shots to their one, and whose vessels sailed round and round them, while they themselves had inflicted no damage that they could perceive upon their assailants. The English admirals had no idea of the extent of the victory they had won. Howard, who had only come up in the middle of the fight, believed that they "were still wonderful great and strong," while even Drake, who saw more clearly how much they had suffered, only ventured to hope that some days at least would elapse before they could join hands with Parma. In spite of the small store of ammunition that had arrived the night before, the English magazines were almost empty; but they determined to show a good front, and "give chase as though they wanted nothing." When the morning dawned the English fleet were still to windward of the Armada, while to leeward were lines of white foam, where the sea was breaking on the shoals of Holland. It seemed that the Armada was lost. At this critical moment the wind suddenly shifted to the east. This threw the English fleet to leeward, and enabled the Spaniards to head out from the coast and make for the North Sea. The Spanish admiral held a council. The sea had gone down, and they had now a fair wind for Calais; and the question was put to the sailing-masters and captains whether they should return into the Channel or sail north round Scotland and Ireland, and so return to Spain. The former was the courageous course, but the spirit of the Spaniards was broken, and the vote was in favour of what appeared a way of escape. Therefore, the shattered fleet bore on its way north. On board the English fleet a similar council was being held, and it was determined that Lord Seymour's squadron should return to guard the Channel, lest Parma should take advantage of the absence of the fleet to cross from Dunkirk to England, and that Howard and Drake with their ninety ships should pursue the Spaniards; for it was not for a moment supposed that the latter had entirely abandoned their enterprise, and intended to return to Spain without making another effort to rejoin Parma. During the week's fighting Geoffrey and Lionel Vickars had taken such part as they could in the contest; but as there had been no hand-to-hand fighting, the position of the volunteers on board the fleet had been little more than that of spectators. The crews worked the guns and manoeuvred the sails, and the most the lads could do was to relieve the ship-boys in carrying up powder and shot, and to take round drink to men serving the guns. When not otherwise engaged they had watched with intense excitement the manoeuvres of their own ship and of those near them, as they swept down towards the great hulls, delivered their broadsides, and then shot off again before the Spaniards had had time to discharge more than a gun or two. The sails had been pierced in several places, but not a single shot had struck the hull of the vessel. In the last day's fighting, however, the _Active_ became entangled among several of the Spanish galleons, and being almost becalmed by their lofty hulls, one of them ran full at her, and rolling heavily in the sea, seemed as if she would overwhelm her puny antagonist. [Illustration: GEOFFREY CARRIED OVERBOARD BY THE FALLING MAST] Geoffrey was standing at the end of the poop when the mizzen rigging became entangled in the stern gallery of the Spaniard, and a moment later the mast snapped off, and as it fell carried him overboard. For a moment he was half-stunned, but caught hold of a piece of timber shot away from one of the enemy's ships, and clung to it mechanically. When he recovered and looked round, the _Active_ had drawn out from between the Spaniards, and the great galleon which had so nearly sunk her was close beside him. The sea was in a turmoil; the waves as they set in from the west being broken up by the rolling of the great ships, and torn by the hail of shot. The noise was prodigious, from the incessant cannonade kept up by the English ships and the return of the artillery on board the Armada, the rending of timber, the heavy crashes as the great galleons rolled against one another, the shouting on board the Spanish ships, the creaking of the masts and yards, and the flapping of the sails. On trying to strike out, Geoffrey found that as he had been knocked overboard he had struck his right knee severely against the rail of the vessel, and was at present unable to use that leg. Fearful of being run down by one of the great ships, and still more of being caught between two of them as they rolled, he looked round to try to get sight of an English ship in the throng. Then, seeing that he was entirely surrounded by Spaniards, he left the spar and swam as well as he could to the bow of a great ship close beside him, and grasping a rope trailing from the bowsprit, managed by its aid to climb up until he reached the bobstay, across which he seated himself with his back to the stem. The position was a precarious one, and after a time he gained the wooden carved work above, and obtained a seat there just below the bowsprit, and hidden from the sight of those on deck a few feet above him. As he knew the vessels were drifting to leeward towards the shoals, he hoped to remain hidden until the vessel struck, and then to gain the shore. Presently the shifting of the positions of the ships brought the vessel on which he was into the outside line. The shots now flew thickly about, and he could from time to time feel a jar as the vessel was struck. So an hour went on. At the end of that time he heard a great shouting on deck, and the sound of men running to and fro. Happening to look down he saw that the sea was but a few feet below him, and knew that the great galleon was sinking. Another quarter of an hour she was so much lower that he was sure she could not swim many minutes longer; and to avoid being drawn down with her he dropped into the water and swam off. He was but a short distance away when he heard a loud cry, and glancing over his shoulder saw the ship disappearing. He swam desperately, but was caught in the suck and carried under; but there was no great depth of water, and he soon came to the surface again. The sea was dotted with struggling men and pieces of wreckage. He swam to one of the latter, and held on until he saw some boats, which the next Spanish ship had lowered when she saw her consort disappearing, rowing towards them, and was soon afterwards hauled into one of them. He had closed his eyes as it came up, and assumed the appearance of insensibility, and he lay in the bottom of the boat immovable, until after a time he heard voices above, and then felt himself being carried up the ladder and laid down on the deck. He remained quiet for some time, thinking over what he had best do. He was certain that were it known he was English he would at once be stabbed and thrown overboard, for there was no hope of quarter; but he was for some time unable to devise any plan by which, even for a short time, to conceal his nationality. He only knew a few words of Spanish, and would be detected the moment he opened his lips. He thought of leaping up suddenly and jumping overboard; but his chance of reaching the English ships to windward would be slight indeed. At last an idea struck him, and sitting up he opened his eyes and looked round. Several other Spaniards who had been picked up lay exhausted on the deck near him. A party of soldiers and sailors close by were working a cannon. The bulwarks were shot away in many places, dead and dying men lay scattered about, the decks were everywhere stained with blood, and no one paid any attention to him until presently the fire began to slacken. Shortly afterwards a Spanish officer came up and spoke to him. Geoffrey rose to his feet, rubbed his eyes, yawned, and burst into an idiotic laugh. The officer spoke again but he paid no attention, and the Spaniard turned away, believing that the lad had lost his senses from fear and the horrors of the day. As night came on he was several times addressed, but always with the same result. When after dark food and wine were served out, he seized the portion offered to him, and hurrying away crouched under the shelter of a gun, and devoured it as if fearing it would be taken from him again. When he saw that the sailors were beginning to repair some of the most necessary ropes and stays that had been shot away, he pushed his way through them and took his share of the work, laughing idiotically from time to time. He had, when he saw that the galleon was sinking, taken off his doublet, the better to be able to swim, and in his shirt and trunks there was nothing to distinguish him from a Spaniard, and none suspected that he was other than he seemed to be--a ship's boy, who had lost his senses from fear. When the work was done, he threw himself on the deck with the weary sailors. His hopes were that the battle would be renewed in the morning, and that either the ship might be captured, or that an English vessel might pass so close alongside that he might leap over and swim to her. Great was his disappointment next day when the sudden change of wind gave the Spanish fleet the weather-gage, and enabled them to steer away for the north. He joined in the work of the crew, paying no attention whatever to what was passing around him, or heeding in the slightest the remarks made to him. Once or twice when an officer spoke to him sternly he gave a little cry, ran to the side, and crouched down as if in abject fear. In a very short time no attention was paid to him, and he was suffered to go about as he chose, being regarded as a harmless imbecile. He was in hopes that the next day the Spaniards would change their course and endeavour to beat back to the Channel, and was at once disappointed and surprised as they sped on before the south-westerly wind, which was hourly increasing in force. Some miles behind he could see the English squadron in pursuit; but these made no attempt to close up, being well contented to see the Armada sailing away, and being too straitened in ammunition to wish to bring on an engagement so long as the Spaniards were following their present course. The wind blew with ever-increasing force; the lightly ballasted ships made bad weather, rolling deep in the seas, straining heavily, and leaking badly through the opening seams and the hastily-stopped shot-holes. Water was extremely scarce, and at a signal from the admiral all the horses and mules were thrown overboard in order to husband the supply. Several of the masts, badly injured by the English shot, went by the board, and the vessels dropped behind crippled, to be picked up by the pursuing fleet. Lord Howard followed as far as the mouth of the Forth; and seeing that the Spaniards made no effort to enter the estuary, and his provisions being now well-nigh exhausted, he hove the fleet about and made back for the Channel, leaving two small vessels only to follow the Armada and watch its course, believing that it would make for Denmark, refit there, and then return to rejoin Parma. It was a grievous disappointment to the English to be thus forced by want of provisions to relinquish the pursuit. Had they been properly supplied with provisions and ammunition they could have made an end of the Armada; whereas, they believed that by allowing them now to escape the whole work would have to be done over again. They had sore trouble to get back again off the Norfolk coast. The wind became so furious that the fleet was scattered. A few of the largest ships reached Margate; others were driven into Harwich, others with difficulty kept the sea until the storm broke. It might have been thought that after such service as the fleet had rendered even Elizabeth might have been generous; but now that the danger was over, she became more niggardly than ever. No fresh provisions were supplied for the sick men, and though in the fight off the Dutch coast only some fifty or sixty had been killed, in the course of a very short time the crews were so weakened by deaths and disease that scarce a ship could have put to sea, however urgent the necessity. Drake and Howard spent every penny they could raise in buying fresh meat and vegetables, and in procuring some sort of shelter on shore for the sick. Had the men received the wages due to them they could have made a shift to have purchased what they so urgently required; but though the Treasury was full of money, not a penny was forthcoming until every item of the accounts had been investigated and squabbled over. Howard was compelled to pay from his private purse for everything that had been purchased at Plymouth, Sir John Hawkins was absolutely ruined by the demands made on him to pay for necessaries supplied to the fleet, and had the admirals and sailors of the fleet that saved England behaved like ignominious cowards, their treatment could not have been worse than that which they received at the hands of their sovereign. But while the English seamen were dying like sheep from disease and neglect, their conquered foes were faring no better. They had breathed freely for the first time when they saw the English fleet bear up; an examination was made of the provisions that were left, and the crews were placed on rations of eight ounces of bread, half a pint of wine, and a pint of water a day. The fleet was still a great one, for of the hundred and fifty ships which had sailed from Corunna, a hundred and twenty still held together. The weather now turned bitterly cold, with fog and mist, squalls and driving showers; and the vessels, when they reached the north coast of Scotland, lost sight of each other, and each struggled for herself in the tempestuous sea. A week later the weather cleared, and on the 9th of August Geoffrey looking round at daybreak saw fifteen other ships in sight. Among these were the galleons of Calderon and Ricaldo, the _Rita, San Marcos_, and eleven other vessels. Signals were flying from all of them, but the sea was so high that it was scarce possible to lower a boat. That night it again blew hard and the fog closed in, and in the morning Geoffrey found that the ship he was on, and all the others, with the exception of that of Calderon, were steering north; the intention of Ricaldo and De Leyva being to make for the Orkneys and refit there. Calderon had stood south, and had come upon Sidonia with fifty ships; and these, bearing well away to the west of Ireland, finally succeeded for the most part in reaching Spain, their crews reduced by sickness and want to a mere shadow of their original strength. The cold became bitter as De Leyva's ships made their way towards the Orkneys. The storm was furious, and the sailors, unaccustomed to the cold and weakened by disease and famine, could no longer work their ships, and De Leyva was obliged at last to abandon his intention and make south. One galleon was driven on the Faroe Islands, a second on the Orkneys, and a third on the Isle of Mull, where it was attacked by the natives and burned with almost every one on board. The rest managed to make the west coast of Ireland, and the hope that they would find shelter in Galway Bay, or the mouth of the Shannon, began to spring up in the breasts of the exhausted crews. The Irish were their co-religionists and allies, and had only been waiting for news of the success of the Armada to rise in arms against the English, who had but few troops there. Rumours of disaster had arrived, and a small frigate had been driven into Tralee Bay. The fears of the garrison at Tralee Castle overcame their feelings of humanity, and all on board were put to death. Two galleons put into Dingle, and landing begged for water; but the natives, deciding that the Spanish cause was a lost one, refused to give them a drop, seized the men who had landed in the boats, and the galleons had to put to sea again. Another ship of a thousand tons, _Our Lady of the Rosary_, was driven into the furious straits between the Blasket Islands and the coast of Kerry. Of her crew of seven hundred, five hundred had died. Before she got half-way through she struck among the breakers, and all the survivors perished save the son of the pilot, who was washed ashore lashed to a plank. Six others who had reached the mouth of the Shannon sent their boats ashore for water; but although there were no English there the Irish feared to supply them, even though the Spaniards offered any sum of money for a few casks. One of the ships was abandoned and the others put to sea, only to be dashed ashore in the same gale that wrecked _Our Lady of the Rosary_, and of all their crews only one hundred and fifty men were cast ashore alive. Along the coast of Connemara, Mayo, and Sligo many other ships were wrecked. In almost every case the crews who reached the shore were at once murdered by the native savages for the sake of their clothes and jewellery. Geoffrey had suffered as much as the rest of the crew on board the galleon in which he sailed. All were so absorbed by their own suffering and misery that none paid any attention to the idiot boy in their midst. He worked at such work as there was to do: assisted to haul on the ropes, to throw the dead overboard, and to do what could be done for the sick and wounded. Like all on board he was reduced almost to a skeleton, and was scarce able to stand. As the surviving ships passed Galway Bay, one of them, which was leaking so badly that she could only have been kept afloat a few hours in any case, entered it, and brought up opposite the town. Don Lewis of Cordova, who commanded, sent a party on shore, believing that in Galway, between which town and Spain there had always been close connections, they would be well received. They were, however, at once taken prisoners. An attempt was made to get up the anchors again, but the crew were too feeble to be able to do so, and the natives coming out in their boats, all were taken prisoners and sent on shore. Sir Richard Bingham, the governor of Connaught, arrived in a few hours, and at once despatched search parties through Clare and Connemara to bring all Spaniards cast ashore alive to the town, and sent his son to Mayo to fetch down all who landed there. But young Bingham's mission proved useless; every Spaniard who had landed had been murdered by the natives, well-nigh three thousand having been slain by the axes and knives of the savages who professed to be their co-religionists. Sir Richard Bingham was regarded as a humane man, but he feared the consequences should the eleven hundred prisoners collected at Galway be restored to health and strength. He had but a handful of troops under him, and had had the greatest difficulty in keeping down the Irish alone. With eleven hundred Spanish soldiers to aid them the task would be impossible, and accordingly he gave orders that all, with the exception of Don Lewis himself, and three or four other nobles, should be executed. The order was carried out; Don Lewis, with those spared, was sent under an escort to Dublin, but the others being too feeble to walk were killed or died on the way, and Don Lewis himself was the sole survivor out of the crews of a dozen ships. De Leyva, the most popular officer in the Armada, had with him in his ship two hundred and fifty young nobles of the oldest families in Spain. He was twice wrecked. The first time all reached the shore in safety, and were protected by O'Niel, who was virtually the sovereign of the north of Ulster. He treated them kindly for a time. They then took to sea again, but were finally wrecked off Dunluce, and all on board save five perished miserably. Over eight thousand Spaniards died on the Irish coast. Eleven hundred were put to death by Bingham, three thousand murdered by the Irish, the rest drowned; and of the whole Armada but fifty-four vessels, carrying between nine and ten thousand worn-out men, reached Spain, and of the survivors a large proportion afterwards died from the effects of the sufferings they had endured.

10

THE WAR IN HOLLAND.

In the confusion caused by the collision of the _Active_ with the Spanish galleon no one had noticed the accident which had befallen Geoffrey Vickars, and his brother's distress was great when, on the ship getting free from among the Spaniards, he discovered that Geoffrey was missing. He had been by his side on the poop but a minute before the mast fell, and had no doubt that he had been carried overboard by its wreck. That he had survived he had not the least hope, and when a week later the _Active_ on her way back towards the Thames was driven into Harwich, he at once landed and carried the sad news to his parents. England was wild with joy at its deliverance, but the household at Hedingham was plunged into deep sorrow. Weeks passed and then Lionel received a letter from Francis Vere saying that Parma's army was advancing into Holland, and that as active work was at hand he had best, if his intentions remained unchanged, join him without delay. He started two days later for Harwich, and thence took ship for Bergen-op-Zoom. Anchoring at Flushing, he learned that the Duke of Parma had already sat down in front of Bergen-op-Zoom, and had on the 7th attempted to capture Tholen on the opposite side of the channel, but had been repulsed by the regiment of Count Solms, with a loss of 400 men. He had then thrown up works against the water forts, and hot fighting had gone on, the garrison making frequent sallies upon the besiegers. The water forts still held out, and the captain therefore determined to continue his voyage into the town. The ship was fired at by the Spanish batteries, but passed safely between the water forts and dropped anchor in the port on the last day of September, Lionel having been absent from Holland just a year. He landed at once and made his way to the lodgings of Francis Vere, by whom he was received with great cordiality. "I was greatly grieved," he said after the first greetings, "to hear of your brother's death. I felt it as if he had been a near relative of my own. I had hoped to see you both; and that affair concerning which my cousin wrote to me, telling me how cleverly you had discovered a plot against the queen's life, showed me that you would both be sure to make your way. Your father and mother must have felt the blow terribly?" "They have indeed," Lionel said. "I do not think, however, that they altogether give up hope. They cling to the idea that he may have been picked up by some Spanish ship and may now be a prisoner in Spain." Francis Vere shook his head. "Of course, I know," Lionel went on, "their hope is altogether without foundation; for even had Geoffrey gained one of their ships, he would at once have been thrown overboard. Still I rather encouraged the idea, for it is better that hope should die out gradually than be extinguished at a blow; and slight though it was it enabled my father and mother to bear up better than they otherwise would have done. Had it not been for that I believe that my mother would have well nigh sunk beneath it. I was very glad when I got your letter, for active service will be a distraction to my sorrow. We have ever been together, Geoffrey and I, and I feel like one lost without him. You have not had much fighting here, I think, since I have been away?" "No, indeed; you have been far more lucky than I have," Francis Vere said. "With the exception of the fight with the _San Matteo_ I have been idle ever since I saw you, for not a shot has been fired here, while you have been taking part in the great fight for the very existence of our country. It is well that Parma has been wasting nine months at Dunkirk, for it would have gone hard with us had he marched hither instead of waiting there for the arrival of the Armada. Our force here has fallen away to well-nigh nothing. The soldiers could get no pay, and were almost starved; their clothes were so ragged that it was pitiful to see them. Great numbers have died, and more gone back to England. As to the Dutch, they are more occupied in quarrelling with us than in preparing for defence, and they would right willingly see us go so that we did but deliver Flushing and Brill and this town back again to them. I was truly glad when I heard that Parma had broken up his camp at Dunkirk when the Armada sailed away, and was marching hither. Now that he has come, it may be that these wretched disputes will come to an end, and that something like peace and harmony will prevail in our councils. He could not have done better, as far as we are concerned, than in coming to knock his head against these walls; for Bergen is far too strong for him to take, and he will assuredly meet with no success here such as would counterbalance in any way the blow that Spanish pride has suffered in the defeat of the Armada. I think, Lionel, that you have outgrown your pageship, and since you have been fighting as a gentleman volunteer in Drake's fleet you had best take the same rank here." The siege went on but slowly. Vigorous sorties were made, and the cavalry sometimes sallied out from the gates and made excursions as far as Wouw, a village three miles away, and took many prisoners. Among these were two commissaries of ordnance, who were intrusted to the safe keeping of the Deputy-Provost Redhead. They were not strictly kept, and were allowed to converse with the provost's friends. One of these, William Grimeston, suspected that one of the commissaries, who pretended to be an Italian, was really an English deserter who had gone over with the traitor Stanley; and in order to see if his suspicions were correct, pretended that he was dissatisfied with his position and would far rather be fighting on the other side. The man at once fell into the trap, acknowledged that he was an Englishman, and said that if Grimeston and Redhead would but follow his advice they would soon become rich men, for that if they could arrange to give up one of the forts to Parma they would be magnificently rewarded. Redhead and Grimeston pretended to agree, but at once informed Lord Willoughby, who was in command, of the offer that had been made to them. They were ordered to continue their negotiations with the traitor. The latter furnished them with letters to Stanley and Parma, and with these they made their way out of the town at night to the Spanish camp. They had an interview with the duke, and promised to deliver the north water fort over to him, for which service Redhead was to receive 1200 crowns and Grimeston 700 crowns, and a commission in Stanley's regiment of traitors. Stanley himself entertained them in his tent, and Parma presented them with two gold chains. They then returned to Bergen and related all that had taken place to Lord Willoughby. The matter was kept a profound secret in the town, Francis Vere, who was in command of the north fort, and a few others only being made acquainted with what was going on. On the appointed night, 22d of October, Grimeston went out alone, Redhead's supposed share of the business being to open the gates of the fort. When Grimeston arrived at Parma's camp he found that the Spaniards had become suspicious. He was bound and placed in charge of a Spanish captain, who was ordered to stab him at once if there was any sign of treachery. It was a dark night; the tide was out, for the land over which the Spaniards had to advance was flooded at other times. The attacking column consisted of three thousand men, including Stanley's regiment; and a number of knights and nobles accompanied it as volunteers. As they approached the forts--Grimeston in front closely guarded by the Spanish captain--it was seen by the assailants that Redhead had kept his word: the drawbridge across the moat was down and the portcullis was up. Within the fort Lord Willoughby, Vere, and two thousand men were waiting them. When about fifty had crossed the drawbridge the portcullis was suddenly let fall and the drawbridge hauled up. As the portcullis thundered down Grimeston tripped up the surprised Spaniard, and, leaping into the water, managed to make his way to the foot of the walls. A discharge of musketry and artillery from the fort killed a hundred and fifty of the attacking party, while those who had crossed the drawbridge were all either killed or taken prisoners. But the water in the moat was low. The Spaniards gallantly waded across and attacked the palisades, but were repulsed in their endeavour to climb them. While the fight was going on the water in the moat was rising, and scores were washed away and drowned as they attempted to return. Parma continued the siege for some little time, but made no real attempt to take the place after having been repulsed at the north fort; and on the 12th of November broke up his camp and returned to Brussels. After the siege was over Lord Willoughby knighted twelve of his principal officers, foremost among whom was Francis Vere, who was now sent home with despatches by his general, and remained in England until the end of January, when he was appointed sergeant-major-general of the forces, a post of great responsibility and much honour, by Lord Willoughby, with the full approval of the queen's government. He was accompanied on his return by his brother Robert. A month after Sir Francis Vere's return Lord Willoughby left for England, and the whole burden of operations in the field fell upon Vere. His first trouble arose from the mutinous conduct of the garrison of Gertruydenberg. This was an important town on the banks of the old Maas, and was strongly fortified, one side being protected by the Maas while the river Douge swept round two other sides of its walls. Its governor, Count Hohenlohe, had been unpopular, the troops had received no pay, and there had been a partial mutiny before the siege of Bergen-op-Zoom began. This was appeased by the appointment of Sir John Wingfield, Lord Willoughby's brother-in-law, as its governor. In the winter the discontent broke out again. The soldiers had been most unjustly treated by the States, and there were long arrears of pay, and at first Sir John Wingfield espoused the cause of the men. Sir Francis Vere tried in vain to arrange matters. The Dutch authorities would not pay up the arrears, the men would not return to their duty until they did so, and at last became so exasperated that they ceased to obey their governor and opened communications with the enemy. Prince Maurice, who was now three and twenty years old, and devoted to martial pursuits and the cause of his countrymen, after consultation with Sir Francis Vere, laid siege to the town and made a furious assault upon it on the water side. But the Dutch troops, although led by Count Solms and Count Philip of Nassau, were repulsed with great loss. The prince then promised not only a pardon, but that the demands of the garrison should be complied with; but it was too late, and four days later Gertruydenberg was delivered up by the mutineers to the Duke of Parma, the soldiers being received into the Spanish service, while Wingfield and the officers were permitted to retire. The States were furious, as this was the third city commanded by Englishmen that had been handed over to the enemy. The bad feeling excited by the treachery of Sir William Stanley and Roland Yorke at Deventer and Zutphen had died out after the gallant defence of the English at Sluys, but now broke out again afresh, and charges of treachery were brought not only against Wingfield but against many other English officers, including Sir Francis Vere. The queen, however, wrote so indignantly to the States that they had to withdraw their charges against most of the English officers. In May Lord Willoughby, who was still in London, resigned his command. A number of old officers of distinction who might have laid claims to succeed him, among them Sir John Norris, Sir Roger Williams, Sir Thomas Wilford, Sir William Drury, Sir Thomas Baskerville, and Sir John Burrough, were withdrawn from the Netherlands to serve in France or Ireland, and no general-in-chief or lieutenant-general was appointed, Sir Francis Vere as sergeant-major receiving authority to command all soldiers already in the field or to be sent out during the absence of the general and lieutenant-general. His official title was Her Majesty's Sergeant-major in the Field. The garrisons in the towns were under the command of their own governors, and those could supply troops for service in the field according to their discretion. The appointment of so young a man as Sir Francis Vere to a post demanding not only military ability but great tact and diplomatic power, was abundant proof of the high estimate formed of him by the queen and her counsellors. The position was one of extreme difficulty. He had to keep on good terms with the queen and her government, with the government of the States, the English agent at the Hague, Prince Maurice in command of the army of the Netherlands, the English governors of the towns, and the officers or men of the force under his own command. Fortunately Barneveldt, who at that time was the most prominent man in the States, had a high opinion of Vere. Sir Thomas Bodley, the queen's agent, had much confidence in him, and acted with him most cordially, and Prince Maurice entertained a great respect for him, consulted him habitually in all military matters, and placed him in the position of marshal of the camp of the army of the Netherlands, in addition to his own command of the English portion of that army. Vere's first undertaking was to lead a force of 12,000 men, of whom half were English, to prevent Count Mansfeldt from crossing the Maas with an army of equal strength. Prince Maurice was present in person as general-in-chief. Intrenchments were thrown up and artillery planted; but just as Mansfeldt was preparing to cross his troops mutinied, and he was obliged to fall back. In October, with 900 of his own troops and twelve companies of Dutch horse, Sir Francis Vere succeeded in throwing a convoy of provisions into the town of Rheinberg, which was besieged by a large force of the enemy. As soon as he returned the States requested him to endeavour to throw in another convoy, as Count Mansfeldt was marching to swell the force of the besiegers, and after his arrival it would be well-nigh impossible to send further aid into the town. Vere took with him 900 English and 900 Dutch infantry, and 800 Dutch cavalry. The enemy had possession of a fortified country house called Loo, close to which lay a thick wood traversed only by a narrow path, with close undergrowth and swampy ground on either side. The enemy were in great force around Loo, and came out to attack the expedition as it passed through the wood. Sending the Dutch troops on first, Vere attacked the enemy vigorously with his infantry and drove them back to the inclosure of Loo. As soon as his whole force had crossed the wood, he halted them and ordered them to form in line of battle facing the wood through which they had just passed, and from which the enemy were now pouring out in great force. In order to give time to his troops to prepare for the action Vere took half his English infantry and advanced against them. They moved forward, and a stubborn fight took place between the pikemen. Vere's horse was killed, and fell on him so that he could not rise; but the English closed round him, and he was rescued with no other harm than a bruised leg and several pike-thrusts through his clothes. While the conflict between the pikemen was going on the English arquebusiers opened fire on the flank of the enemy, and they began to fall back. Four times they rallied and charged the English, but were at last broken and scattered through the wood. The cavalry stationed there left their horses and fled through the undergrowth. Pressing forward the little English force next fell upon twenty-four companies of Neapolitan infantry, who were defeated without difficulty. The four hundred and fifty Englishmen then joined the main force, which marched triumphantly with their convoy of provisions into Rheinberg, and the next morning fortunately turning thick and foggy the force made its way back without interruption by the enemy.

11

IN SPAIN.

Alone among the survivors of the great Spanish Armada, Geoffrey Vickars saw the coast of Ireland fade away from sight without a feeling of satisfaction or relief. His hope had been that the ship would be wrecked on her progress down the coast. He knew not that the wild Irish were slaying all whom the sea spared, and that ignorant as they were of the English tongue, he would undoubtedly have shared the fate of his Spanish companions. He thought only of the risk of being drowned, and would have preferred taking this to the certainty of a captivity perhaps for life in the Spanish prisons. The part that he had played since he had been picked up off Gravelines could not be sustained indefinitely. He might as well spend his life in prison, where at least there would be some faint hope of being exchanged, as wander about Spain all his life as an imbecile beggar. As soon, therefore, as he saw that the perils of the coast of Ireland were passed, and that the vessel was likely to reach Spain in safety, he determined that he would on reaching a port disclose his real identity. There were on board several Scotch and Irish volunteers, and he decided to throw himself upon the pity of one of these rather than on that of the Spaniards. He did not think that in any case his life was in danger. Had he been detected when first picked up, or during the early part of the voyage, he would doubtless have been thrown overboard without mercy; but now that the passions of the combatants had subsided, and that he had been so long among them, and had, as he believed, won the good-will of many by the assistance he had rendered to the sick and wounded, he thought that there was little fear of his life being taken in cold blood. One of the Irish volunteers, Gerald Burke by name, had for a long time been seriously ill, and Geoffrey had in many small ways shown him kindness as he lay helpless on the deck, and he determined finally to confide in him. Although still very weak, Burke was now convalescent, and was sitting alone by the poop-rail gazing upon the coast of Spain with eager eyes, when Geoffrey, under the pretext of coiling down a rope, approached him. The young man nodded kindly to him. "Our voyage is nearly over, my poor lad," he said in Spanish, "and your troubles now will be worse than mine. You have given me many a drink of water from your scanty supply, and I wish that I could do something for you in return; but I know that you do not even understand what I say to you." "Would you give me an opportunity of speaking to you after nightfall, Mr. Burke," Geoffrey said in English, "when no one will notice us speaking?" The Irishman gave a start of astonishment at hearing himself addressed in English. "My life is in your hands, sir; pray, do not betray me," Geoffrey said rapidly as he went on coiling down the rope. "I will be at this place an hour after nightfall," the young Irishman replied when he recovered from his surprise. "Your secret will be safe with me." At the appointed time Geoffrey returned to the spot. The decks were now deserted, for a drizzling rain was falling, and all save those on duty had retired below, happy in the thought that on the following morning they would be in port. "Now, tell me who you are," the young Irishman began. "I thought you were a Spanish sailor, one of those we picked up when the Spanish galleon next to us foundered." Geoffrey then told him how he had been knocked off an English ship by the fall of a mast, had swum to the galleon and taken refuge beneath her bowsprit until she sank, and how, when picked up and carried on to the Spanish ship, he feigned to have lost his senses in order to conceal his ignorance of Spanish. "I knew," he said, "that were I recognized as English at the time I should at once be killed, but I thought that if I could conceal who I was for a time I should simply be sent to the galleys, where I have heard that there are many English prisoners working." "I think death would have been preferable to that lot," Mr. Burke said. "Yes, sir; but there is always the hope of escape or of exchange. When you spoke kindly to me this afternoon I partly understood what you said, for in this long time I have been on board I have come to understand a little Spanish, and I thought that maybe you would assist me in some way." "I would gladly do so, though I regard Englishmen as the enemies of my country; but in what way can I help you? I could furnish you with a disguise, but your ignorance of Spanish would lead to your detection immediately." "I have been thinking it over, sir, and it seemed to me that as there will be no objection to my landing to-morrow, thinking as they do that I have lost my senses, I might join you after you once got out of the town. I have some money in my waistbelt, and if you would purchase some clothes for me I might then join you as your servant as you ride along. At the next town you come to none would know but that I had been in your service during the voyage, and there would be nothing strange in you, an Irish gentleman, being accompanied by an Irish servant who spoke but little Spanish. I would serve you faithfully, sir, until perhaps some opportunity might occur for my making my escape to England." "Yes, I think that might be managed," the young Irishman said. "When I land to-morrow I will buy some clothes suitable for a serving-man. I do not know the names of the hotels on shore, so you must watch me when I land and see where I put up. Come there in the evening at nine o'clock. I will issue out and give you the bundle of clothes, and tell you at what hour in the morning I have arranged to start. I will hire two horses; when they come round to the door, join me in front of the hotel and busy yourself in packing my trunks on the baggage mules. When you have done that, mount the second horse and ride after me; the people who will go with us with the horses will naturally suppose that you have landed with me. Should any of our shipmates here see us start, it is not likely that they will recognize you. If they do so, I need simply say that as you had shown me such kindness on board ship I had resolved to take you with me to Madrid in order to see if anything could be done to restore you to reason. However, it is better that you should keep in the background as much as possible. I will arrange to start at so early an hour in the morning that none of those who may land with me from the ship, and may put up at the same inn, are likely to be about." The next morning the vessel entered port. They were soon surrounded by boats full of people inquiring anxiously for news of other ships, and for friends and acquaintances on board. Presently large boats were sent off by the authorities, and the disembarkation of the sick and the helpless began. This indeed included the greater portion of the survivors, for there were but two or three score on board who were capable of dragging themselves about, the rest being completely prostrate by disease, exhaustion, hunger, and thirst. Geoffrey was about to descend into one of the boats, when the officer in command said roughly: "Remain on board and do your work, there is no need for your going into the hospital." One of the ship's officers, however, explained that the lad had altogether lost his senses, and was unable either to understand when spoken to or to reply to questions. Consequently he was permitted to take his place in the boat. As soon as he stepped ashore he wandered away among the crowd of spectators. A woman, observing his wan face and feeble walk, called him into her house, and set food and wine before him. He made a hearty meal, but only shook his head when she addressed him, and laughed childishly and muttered his thanks in Spanish when she bestowed a dollar upon him as he left. He watched at the port while boat-load after boat-load of sick came ashore, until at last one containing the surviving officers and gentlemen with their baggage reached the land. Then he kept Gerald Burke in sight until he entered an inn, followed by two men carrying his baggage. Several times during the day food and money were offered him, the inhabitants being full of horror and pity at the sight of the famishing survivors of the crew of the galleon. At nine o'clock in the evening Geoffrey took up his station near the door of the inn. A few minutes later Gerald Burke came out with a bundle. "Here are the clothes," he said. "I have hired horses for our journey to Madrid. They will be at the door at six o'clock in the morning. I have arranged to travel by very short stages, for at first neither you nor I could sit very long upon a horse; however, I hope we shall soon gain strength as we go." Taking the bundle, Geoffrey walked a short distance from the town and lay down upon the ground under some trees. The night was a warm one, and after the bitter cold they had suffered during the greater part of the voyage, it felt almost sultry to him. At daybreak in the morning he rose, put on the suit of clothes Gerald Burke had provided, washed his face in a little stream, and proceeded to the inn. He arrived there just as the clocks were striking six. A few minutes later two men with two horses and four mules came up to the door, and shortly afterwards Gerald Burke came out. Geoffrey at once joined him; the servants of the inn brought out the baggage, which was fastened by the muleteers on to two of the animals. Gerald Burke mounted one of the horses and Geoffrey the other, and at once rode on, the muleteers mounting the other two mules and following with those carrying the baggage. "That was well managed," Gerald Burke said as they rode out of the town. "The muleteers can have no idea that you have but just joined me, and there is little chance of any of my comrades on board ship overtaking us, as all intend to stop for a few days to recruit themselves before going on. If they did they would not be likely to recognize you in your present attire, or to suspect that my Irish servant is the crazy boy of the ship." After riding at an easy pace for two hours, they halted under the shade of some trees. Fruit, bread, and wine were produced from a wallet on one of the mules, and they sat down and breakfasted. After a halt of an hour they rode on until noon, when they again halted until four in the afternoon, for the sun was extremely hot, and both Gerald Burke and Geoffrey were so weak they scarce could sit their horses. Two hours further riding took them to a large village, where they put up at the inn. Geoffrey now fell into his place as Mr. Burke's servant--saw to the baggage being taken inside, and began for the first time to try his tongue at Spanish. He got on better than he had expected; and as Mr. Burke spoke with a good deal of foreign accent, it did not seem in any way singular to the people of the inn that his servant should speak but little of the language. Quietly they journeyed on, doing but short distances for the first three or four days, but as they gained strength pushing on faster, and by the time they reached Madrid both were completely recovered from the effects of their voyage. Madrid was in mourning, for there was scarce a family but had lost relations in the Armada. Mr. Burke at once took lodgings and installed Geoffrey as his servant. He had many friends and acquaintances in the city, where he had been residing for upwards of a year previous to the sailing of the Armada. For some weeks Geoffrey went out but little, spending his time in reading Spanish books and mastering the language as much as possible. He always conversed in that language with Mr. Burke, and at the end of six weeks was able to talk Spanish with some fluency. He now generally accompanied Mr. Burke if he went out, following him in the streets and standing behind his chair when he dined abroad. He was much amused at all he saw, making many acquaintances among the lackeys of Mr. Burke's friends, dining with them downstairs after the banquets were over, and often meeting them of an evening when he had nothing to do, and going with them to places of entertainment. In this way his knowledge of Spanish improved rapidly, and although he still spoke with an accent he could pass well as one who had been for some years in the country. He was now perfectly at ease with the Spanish gentlemen of Mr. Burke's acquaintance. It was only when Irish and Scotch friends called upon his master that he feared awkward questions, and upon these occasions he showed himself as little as possible. When alone with Gerald Burke the latter always addressed Geoffrey as a friend rather than as a servant, and made no secret with him as to his position and means. He had been concerned in a rising in Ireland, and had fled the country, bringing with him a fair amount of resources. Believing that the Armada was certain to be crowned with success, and that he should ere long be restored to his estates in Ireland, he had, upon his first coming to Spain, spent his money freely. His outfit for the expedition had made a large inroad upon his store, and his resources were now nearly at an end. "What is one to do, Geoffrey? I don't want to take a commission in Philip's army, though my friends could obtain one for me at once; but I have no desire to spend the rest of my life in the Netherlands storming the towns of the Dutch burghers." "Or rather trying to storm them," Geoffrey said, smiling; "there have not been many towns taken of late years." "Nor should I greatly prefer to be campaigning in France," Gerald went on, paying no attention to the interruption. "I have no love either for Dutch Calvinists or French Huguenots; but I have no desire either to be cutting their throats or for them to be cutting mine. I should like a snug berth under the crown here or at Cadiz, or at Seville; but I see no chance whatever of my obtaining one. I cannot take up the trade of a footpad, though disbanded soldiers turned robbers are common enough in Spain. What is to be done?" "If I am not mistaken," Geoffrey said with a smile, "your mind is already made up. It is not quite by accident that you are in the gardens of the Retiro every evening, and that a few words are always exchanged with a certain young lady as she passes with her duenna." "Oh! you have observed that," Gerald Burke replied with a laugh. "Your eyes are sharper than I gave you credit for, Master Geoffrey. Yes, that would set me on my legs without doubt, for Donna Inez is the only daughter and heiress of the Marquis of Ribaldo; but you see there is a father in the case, and if that father had the slightest idea that plain Gerald Burke was lifting his eyes to his daughter it would not be many hours before Gerald Burke had several inches of steel in his body." "That I can imagine," Geoffrey said, "since it is, as I learn from my acquaintances among the lackeys, a matter of common talk that the marquis intends to marry her to the son of the Duke of Sottomayor." "Inez hates him," Gerald Burke said. "It is just like my ill-luck, that instead of being drowned as most of the others were, he has had the luck to get safely back again. However, he is still ill, and likely to be so for some time. He was not so accustomed to starving as some of us, and he suffered accordingly. He is down at his estates near Seville." "But what do you think of doing?" Geoffrey asked. "That is just what I am asking you." "It seems to me, certainly," Geoffrey went on, "that unless you really mean to run off with the young lady--for I suppose there is no chance in the world of your marrying her in any other way--it will be better both for you and her that you should avoid for the future these meetings in the gardens or elsewhere, and cast your thoughts in some other direction for the bettering of your fortunes." "That is most sage advice, Geoffrey," the young Irishman laughed, "and worthy of my father-confessor; but it is not so easy to follow. In the first place, I must tell you that I do not regard Inez as in any way a step to fortune, but rather as a step towards a dungeon. It would be vastly better for us both if she were the daughter of some poor hidalgo like myself. I could settle down then with her, and plant vines and make wine, and sell what I don't drink myself. As it is, I have the chance of being put out of the way if it is discovered that Inez and I are fond of each other; and in the next place, if we do marry I shall have to get her safely out of the kingdom, or else she will have to pass the rest of her life in a convent, and I the rest of mine in a prison or in the galleys; that is if I am not killed as soon as caught, which is by far the most likely result. Obnoxious sons-in-law do not live long in Spain. So you see, Geoffrey, the prospect is a bad one altogether; and if it were not that I dearly love Inez, and that I am sure she will be unhappy with Philip of Sottomayor, I would give the whole thing up, and make love to the daughter of some comfortable citizen who would give me a corner of his house and a seat at his table for the rest of my days." "But, seriously--" Geoffrey began. "Well, seriously, Geoffrey, my intention is to run away with Inez if it can be managed; but how it is to be managed at present I have not the faintest idea. To begin with, the daughter of a Spanish grandee is always kept in a very strong cage closely guarded, and it needs a very large golden key to open it. Now, as you are aware, gold is a very scarce commodity with me. Then, after getting her out, a lavish expenditure would be needed for our flight. We should have to make our way to the sea-coast, to do all sorts of things to throw dust into the eyes of our pursuers, and to get a passage to some place beyond the domains of Philip, which means either to France, England, or the Netherlands. Beyond all this will be the question of future subsistence until, if ever, the marquis makes up his mind to forgive his daughter and take her to his heart again, a contingency, in my opinion, likely to be extremely remote." "And what does the Lady Inez say to it all?" Geoffrey asked. "The Lady Inez has had small opportunity of saying anything on the subject, Geoffrey. Here in Spain there are mighty few opportunities for courtship. With us at home these matters are easy enough, and there is no lack of opportunity for pleading your suit and winning a girl's heart if it is to be won; but here in Spain matters are altogether different, and an unmarried girl is looked after as sharply as if she was certain to get into some mischief or other the instant she had an opportunity. She is never suffered to be for a moment alone with a man; out of doors or in she has always a duenna by her side; and as to a private chat, the thing is simply impossible." "Then how do you manage to make love?" Geoffrey asked. "Well, a very little goes a long way in Spain. The manner of a bow, the wave of a fan, the dropping of a glove or flower, the touch of a hand in a crowded room-each of these things go as far as a month's open love-making in Ireland." "Then how did you manage with the duenna so as to be able to speak to her in the gardens'!" "Well, in the first place, I made myself very attentive to the duenna; in the second place, the old lady is devout, and you know Ireland is the land of saints, and I presented her with an amulet containing a paring of the nail of St. Patrick." Geoffrey burst into a laugh, in which the Irishman joined. "Well, if it was not really St. Patrick's," the latter went on, "it came from Ireland anyhow, which is the next best thing. Then in the third place, the old lady is very fond of Inez; and although she is as strict as a dragon, Inez coaxed her into the belief that there could not be any harm in our exchanging a few words when she was close by all the time to hear what was said. Now, I think you know as much as I do about the matter, Geoffrey. You will understand that a few notes have been exchanged, and that Inez loves me. Beyond that everything is vague and uncertain, and I have not the slightest idea what will come of it." Some weeks passed and nothing was done. The meetings between Gerald Burke and Inez in the Gardens of the Retiro had ceased a day or two afterwards, the duenna having positively refused to allow them to continue, threatening Inez to inform her father of them unless she gave them up. Gerald Burke's funds dwindled rapidly, although he and Geoffrey lived in the very closest way. "What in the world is to be done, Geoffrey? I have only got twenty dollars left, which at the outside will pay for our lodgings and food for another month. For the life of me I cannot see what is to be done when that is gone, unless we take to the road." Geoffrey shook his head. "As far as I am concerned," he said, "as we are at war with Spain, it would be fair if I met a Spanish ship at sea to capture and plunder it, but I am afraid the laws of war do not justify private plunder. I should be perfectly ready to go out and take service in a vineyard, or to earn my living in any way if it could be managed." "I would rob a cardinal if I had the chance," Gerald Burke said, "and if I ever got rich would restore his money four-fold and so obtain absolution; only, unfortunately, I do not see my way to robbing a cardinal. As to digging in the fields, Geoffrey, I would rather hang myself at once. I am constitutionally averse to labour, and if one once took to that sort of thing there would be an end to everything." "It is still open to you," Geoffrey said, "to get your friends to obtain a commission for you." "I could do that," Gerald said moodily, "but of all things that is what I should most hate." "You might make your peace with the English government and get some of your estates back again." "That I will not do to feed myself," Gerald Burke said firmly. "I have thought that if I ever carry off Inez I might for her sake do so, for I own that now all hope of help from Spain is at an end, our cause in Ireland is lost, and it is no use going on struggling against the inevitable; but I am not going to sue the English government as a beggar for myself. No doubt I could borrow small sums from Irishmen and Scotchmen here, and hold on for a few months; but most of them are well-nigh as poor as I am myself, and I would not ask them. Besides, there would be no chance of my repaying them; and, if I am to rob anyone, I would rather plunder these rich dons than my own countrymen." "Of one thing I am resolved," Geoffrey said, "I will not live at your expense any longer, Gerald. I can speak Spanish very fairly now, and can either take service in some Spanish family or, as I said, get work in the field." Gerald laughed. "My dear Geoffrey, the extra expenses caused by you last week were, as far as I can calculate, one penny for bread and as much for fruit; the rest of your living was obtained at the expense of my friends." "At any rate," Geoffrey said smiling, "I insist that my money be now thrown into the common fund. I have offered it several times before, but you always said we had best keep it for emergency. I think the emergency has come now, and these ten English pounds in my belt will enable us to take some step or other. The question is, what step? They might last us, living as we do, for some three or four months, but at the end of that time we should be absolutely penniless; therefore now is the time, while we have still a small stock in hand, to decide upon something." "But what are we to decide upon?" Gerald Burke asked helplessly. "I have been thinking it over a great deal," Geoffrey said, "and my idea is that we had best go to Cadiz or some other large port. Although Spain is at war both with England and the Netherlands, trade still goes on in private ships, and both Dutch and English vessels carry on commerce with Spain; therefore it seems to me that there must be merchants in Cadiz who would be ready to give employment to men capable of speaking and writing both in Spanish and English, and in my case to a certain extent in Dutch. From there, too, there might be a chance of getting a passage to England or Holland. If we found that impossible owing to the vessels being too carefully searched before sailing, we might at the worst take passage as sailors on board a Spanish ship bound for the Indies, and take our chance of escape or capture there or on the voyage. That, at least, is what I planned for myself." "I think your idea is a good one, Geoffrey. At any rate to Cadiz we will go. I don't know about the mercantile business or going as a sailor, but I could get a commission from the governor there as well as here in Madrid; but at any rate I will go. Donna Inez was taken last week by her father to some estates he has somewhere between Seville and Cadiz, in order, I suppose, that he may be nearer Don Philip, who is, I hear, at last recovering from his long illness. I do not know that there is the slightest use in seeing her again, but I will do so if it be possible; and if by a miracle I could succeed in carrying her off, Cadiz would be a more likely place to escape from than anywhere. "Yes, I know. You think the idea is a mad one, but you have never been in love yet. When you are you will know that lovers do not believe in the word 'impossible.' At any rate, I mean to give Inez the chance of determining her own fate. If she is ready to risk everything rather than marry Don Philip, I am ready to share the risk whatever it may be." Accordingly on the following day Gerald Burke disposed of the greater part of his wardrobe and belongings, purchased two ponies for a few crowns, and he and Geoffrey, with a solitary suit of clothes in a wallet fastened behind the saddle, started for their journey to Cadiz. They mounted outside the city, for Gerald shrank from meeting any acquaintances upon such a sorry steed as he had purchased; but once on their way his spirits rose. He laughed and chatted gaily, and spoke of the future as if all difficulties were cleared away. The ponies, although rough animals, were strong and sturdy, and carried their riders at a good pace. Sometimes they travelled alone, sometimes jogged along with parties whom they overtook by the way, or who had slept in the same posadas or inns at which they had put up for the night. Most of these inns were very rough, and, to Geoffrey, astonishingly dirty. The food consisted generally of bread and a miscellaneous olio or stew from a great pot constantly simmering over the fire, the flavour, whatever it might be, being entirely overpowered by that of the oil and garlic that were the most marked of its constituents. Beds were wholly unknown at these places, the guests simply wrapping themselves in their cloaks and lying down on the floor, although in a few exceptional cases bundles of rushes were strewn about to form a common bed. But the travelling was delightful. It was now late in the autumn, and when they were once past the dreary district of La Mancha, and had descended to the rich plains of Cordova, the vintage was in full progress and the harvest everywhere being garnered in. Their mid-day meal consisted of bread and fruit, costing but the smallest coin, and eaten by the wayside in the shade of a clump of trees. They heard many tales on their way down of the bands of robbers who infested the road, but having taken the precaution of having the doubloons for which they had exchanged Geoffrey's English gold sewn up in their boots, they had no fear of encountering these gentry, having nothing to lose save their wallets and the few dollars they had kept out for the expenses of their journey. The few jewels that Gerald Burke retained were sewn up in the stuffing of his saddle. After ten days' travel they reached Seville, where they stayed a couple of days, and where the wealth and splendour of the buildings surprised Geoffrey, who had not visited Antwerp or any of the great commercial centres of the Netherlands. "It is a strange taste of the Spanish kings," he observed to Gerald Burke, "to plant their capital at Madrid in the centre of a barren country, when they might make such a splendid city as this their capital. I could see no charms whatever in Madrid. The climate was detestable, with its hot sun and bitter cold winds. Here the temperature is delightful; the air is soft and balmy, the country round is a garden, and there is a cathedral worthy of a capital." "It seems a strange taste," Gerald agreed; "but I believe that when Madrid was first planted it stood in the midst of extensive forests, and that it was merely a hunting residence for the king." "Then, when the forests went I would have gone too," Geoffrey said. "Madrid has not even a river worthy of the name, and has no single point to recommend it, as far as I can see, for the capital of a great empire. If I were a Spaniard I should certainly take up my residence in Seville." Upon the following morning they again started, joining, before they had ridden many miles, a party of three merchants travelling with their servants to Cadiz. The merchants looked a little suspiciously at first at the two young men upon their rough steeds; but as soon as they discovered from their first salutations that they were foreigners, they became more cordial, and welcomed this accession of strength to their party, for the carrying of weapons was universal, and the portion of the road between Seville and Cadiz particularly unsafe, as it was traversed by so many merchants and wealthy people. The conversation speedily turned to the disturbed state of the roads. "I do not think," one of the merchants said, "that any ordinary band of robbers would dare attack us," and he looked round with satisfaction at the six armed servants who rode behind them. "It all depends," Gerald Burke said, with a sly wink at Geoffrey, "upon what value the robbers may place upon the valour of your servants. As a rule serving-men are very chary of their skins, and I should imagine that the robbers must be pretty well aware of that fact. Most of them are disbanded soldiers or deserters, and I should say that four of them are more than a match for your six servants. I would wager that your men would make but a very poor show of it if it came to fighting." "But there are our three selves and you two gentlemen," the merchant said in a tone of disquiet. "Well," Gerald rejoined, "I own that from your appearance I should not think, worshipful sir, that fighting was altogether in your line. Now, my servant, young as he is, has taken part in much fighting in the Netherlands, and I myself have had some experience with my sword; but if we were attacked by robbers we should naturally stand neutral. Having nothing to defend, and having no inclination whatever to get our throats cut in protecting the property of others, I think that you will see for yourselves that that is reasonable. We are soldiers of fortune, ready to venture our lives in a good service, and for good pay, but mightily disinclined to throw them away for the mere love of fighting."

12

RECRUITING THEIR FUNDS.

As soon as Gerald Burke began conversing with the merchants, Geoffrey fell back and took his place among their servants, with whom he at once entered into conversation. To amuse himself he continued in the same strain that he had heard Gerald adopt towards the merchants, and spoke in terms of apprehension of the dangers of the journey, and of the rough treatment that had befallen those who had ventured to offer opposition to the robbers. He was not long in discovering, by the anxious glances they cast round them, and by the manner of their questions, that some at least of the party were not to be relied upon in case of an encounter. He was rather surprised at Gerald remaining so long in company with the merchants, for their pace was a slow one, as they were followed by eight heavily-laden mules, driven by two muleteers, and it would have been much pleasanter, he thought, to have trotted on at their usual pace. About midday, as they were passing along the edge of a thick wood, a party of men suddenly sprang out and ordered them to halt. Geoffrey shouted to the men with him to come on, and drawing his sword dashed forward. Two of the men only followed him. The others hesitated, until a shot from a musket knocked off one of their hats, whereupon the man and his comrades turned their horses' heads and rode off at full speed. The merchants had drawn their swords, and stood on the defensive, and Geoffrey on reaching them was surprised to find that Gerald Burke was sitting quietly on his horse without any apparent intention of taking part in the fight. "Put up your sword, Geoffrey," he said calmly; "this affair is no business of ours. We have nothing to lose, and it is no business of ours to defend the money-bags of these gentlemen." The robbers, eight in number, now rushed up. One of the merchants, glancing round, saw that two of their men only had come up to their assistance. The muleteers, who were probably in league with the robbers, had fled, leaving their animals standing in the road. The prospect seemed desperate. One of the merchants was an elderly man, the others were well on middle age. The mules were laden with valuable goods, and they had with them a considerable sum of money for making purchases at Cadiz. It was no time for hesitation. "We will give you five hundred crowns if you will both aid us to beat off these robbers." "It is a bargain," Gerald replied. "Now, Geoffrey, have at these fellows!" Leaping from their ponies they ranged themselves by the merchants just as the robbers attacked them. Had it not been for their aid the combat would have been a short one; for although determined to defend their property to the last, the traders had neither strength nor skill at arms. One was unhorsed at the first blow, and another wounded; but the two servants, who had also dismounted, fought sturdily, and Gerald and Geoffrey each disposed of a man before the robbers, who had not reckoned upon their interference, were prepared to resist their attack. The fight did not last many minutes. The traders did their best, and although by no means formidable opponents, distracted the attention of the robbers, who were startled by the fall of two of their party. Geoffrey received a sharp cut on the head, but at the same moment ran his opponent through the body, while Gerald Burke cut down the man opposed to him. The other four robbers, seeing they were now outnumbered, at once took to their heels. "By St. Jago!" one of the traders said, "you are stout fighters, young men, and have won your fee well. Methought we should have lost our lives as well as our goods, and I doubt not we should have done so had you not ranged yourselves with us. Now, let us bandage up our wounds, for we have all received more or less hurt." When the wounds, some of which were serious, were attended to, the fallen robbers were examined. Three of them were dead; but the man last cut down by Gerald Burke seemed likely to recover. "Shall we hang him upon a tree as a warning to these knaves, or shall we take him with us to the next town and give him in charge of the authorities there?" one of the traders asked. "If I were you I would do neither," Gerald said, "but would let him go free if he will tell you the truth about this attack. It will be just as well for you to get to the bottom of this affair, and find out whether it is a chance meeting, or whether any of your own people have been in league with him." "That is a good idea," the trader agreed, "and I will carry it out," and going up to the man, who had now recovered his senses, he said to him sternly: "We have made up our minds to hang you; but you may save your life if you will tell us how you came to set upon us. Speak the truth and you shall go free, otherwise we will finish with you without delay." The robber, seeing an unexpected chance of escape from punishment, at once said that the captain of their band, who was the man Geoffrey had last run through, came out from Seville the evening before, and told him that one Juan Campos, with whom he had long had intimate relations, and who was clerk to a rich trader, had, upon promise that he should receive one-fifth of the booty taken, informed him that his master with two other merchants was starting on the following morning for Cadiz with a very valuable lot of goods, and twenty-five thousand crowns, which they intended to lay out in the purchase of goods brought by some galleons that had just arrived from the Indies. He had arranged to bribe his master's two servants to ride away when they attacked the gang, and also to settle with the muleteers so that they should take no part in the affair. They had reckoned that the flight of two of the servants would probably affect the others, and had therefore expected the rich booty to fall into their hands without the trouble of striking a blow for it. "It is well we followed your suggestion," one of the traders said to Gerald. "I had no suspicion of the honesty of my clerk, and had we not made this discovery he would doubtless have played me a similar trick upon some other occasion. I will ride back at once, friends, for if he hears of the failure of the attack he may take the alarm and make off with all he can lay his hands upon. Our venture was to be in common. I will leave it to you to carry it out, and return and dismiss Campos and the two rascally servants." The three traders went apart and consulted together. Presently the eldest of the party returned to the young men. "We have another five days' journey before us," he said, "and but two servants upon whom we can place any reliance. We have evidence of the unsafety of the roads, and, as you have heard, we have a large sum of money with us. You have already more than earned the reward I offered you, and my friends have agreed with me that if you will continue to journey with us as far as Cadiz, and to give us the aid of your valour should we be again attacked, we will make the five hundred crowns a thousand. It is a large sum, but we have well-nigh all our fortunes at stake, and we feel that we owe you our lives as well as the saving of our money." "We could desire nothing better," Gerald replied, "and will answer with our lives that your goods and money shall arrive safely at Cadiz." The traders then called up their two serving-men, and told them that on their arrival at Cadiz they would present them each with a hundred crowns for having so stoutly done their duty. The employer of the treacherous clerk then turned his horse's head and rode back towards Seville, while the others prepared to proceed on their way. The two muleteers had now come out from among the bushes, and were busy refastening the bales on the mules, the ropes having become loosened in the struggles of the animals while the fight was going on. The merchants had decided to say nothing to the men as to the discovery that they were in league with the robbers. "Half these fellows are in alliance with these bands, which are a scourge to the country," one of the traders said. "If we were to inform the authorities at the next town, we should, in the first place, be blamed for letting the wounded man escape, and secondly we might be detained for days while investigations are going on. In this country the next worse thing to being a prisoner is to be a complainant. Law is a luxury in which the wealthy and idle can alone afford to indulge." As soon, therefore, as the baggage was readjusted the party proceeded on their way. "What do you think of that, Geoffrey?" Gerald Burke asked as he rode for a short distance by the side of his supposed servant. "It is magnificent," Geoffrey replied; "and it seems to me that the real road to wealth in Spain is to hire yourself out as a guard to travellers." "Ah, you would not get much if you made your bargain beforehand. It is only at a moment of urgent danger that fear will open purse-strings widely. Had we bargained beforehand with these traders we might have thought ourselves lucky if we had got ten crowns apiece as the price of our escort to Cadiz, and indeed we should have been only too glad if last night such an offer had been made to us; but when a man sees that his property and life are really in danger he does not stop to haggle, but is content to give a handsome percentage of what is risked for aid to save the rest." "Well, thank goodness, our money trouble is at an end," Geoffrey said; "and it will be a long time before we need have any anxiety on that score." "Things certainly look better," Gerald said laughing; "and if Inez consents to make a runaway match of it with me I sha'n't have to ask her to pay the expenses." Cadiz was reached without further adventure. The merchants kept their agreement honourably, and handed over a heavy bag containing a thousand crowns to Gerald on their arrival at that city. They had upon the road inquired of him the nature of his business there. He had told them that he was at present undecided whether to enter the army, in which some friends of his had offered to obtain him a commission, or to join in an adventure to the Indies. They had told him they were acquainted with several merchants at Cadiz who traded both with the east and west, and that they would introduce him to them as a gentleman of spirit and courage, whom they might employ with advantage upon such ventures; and this promise after their arrival there they carried out. "Now, Geoffrey," Gerald said as they sat together that evening at a comfortable inn, "we must talk over matters here. We have five hundred crowns apiece, and need not trouble any longer as to how we are to support life. Your great object, of course, is to get out of this country somehow, and to make your way back to England. My first is to see Inez and find out whether she will follow my fortunes or remain to become some day Marchesa of Sottomayor. If she adopts the former alternative I have to arrange some plan to carry her off and to get out of the country, an operation in which I foresee no little difficulty. Of course if we are caught my life is forfeited, there is no question about that. The question for us to consider is how we are to set about to carry out our respective plans." "We need only consider your plan as far as I can see," Geoffrey said. "Of course I shall do what I can to assist you, and if you manage to get off safely with the young lady I shall escape at the same time." "Not at all," Burke said; "you have only to wait here quietly until you see an opportunity. I will go with you to-morrow to the merchants I was introduced to to-day, and say that I am going away for a time and shall be obliged if they will make you useful in any way until I return. In that way you will have a sort of established position here, and can wait until you see a chance of smuggling yourself on board some English or Dutch vessel. Mine is a very different affair. I may talk lightly of it, but I am perfectly aware that I run a tremendous risk, and that the chances are very strongly against me." "Whatever the chances are," Geoffrey said quietly, "I shall share them with you. Your kindness has saved me from what at best might have been imprisonment for life, and not improbably would have been torture and death at the hands of the Inquisition, and I am certainly not going to withdraw myself from you now when you are entering upon what is undoubtedly a very dangerous adventure. If we escape from Spain we escape together; if not, whatever fate befalls you I am ready to risk." "Very well; so be it, Geoffrey," Gerald Burke said, holding out his hand to him. "If your mind is made up I will not argue the question with you, and indeed I value your companionship and aid too highly to try to shake your determination. Let us then at once talk over what is now our joint enterprise. Ribaldo estate lies about half-way between this and Seville, and we passed within a few miles of it as we came hither. The first thing, of course, will be to procure some sort of disguise in which I can see Inez and have a talk with her. Now, it seems to me, for I have been thinking the matter over in every way as we rode, that the only disguise in which this would be possible would be that of a priest or monk." Geoffrey laughed aloud. "You would in the first place have to shave off your moustachios, Gerald, and I fear that even after you had done so there would be nothing venerable in your appearance; and whatever the mission with which you might pretend to charge yourself, your chances of obtaining a private interview with the lady would be slight." "I am afraid that I should lack the odour of sanctity, Geoffrey; but what else can one do? Think it over, man. The way in which you played the idiot when you were picked out of the water shows that you are quick at contriving a plan." "That was a simple business in comparison to this," Geoffrey replied. "However, you are not pressed for time, and I will think it over to-night and may light upon some possible scheme, for I own that at present I have not the least idea how the matter is to be managed." As in the morning there were several other travellers taking breakfast in the same room, the conversation was not renewed until Gerald Burke strolled out, followed at a respectful distance by Geoffrey, who still passed as his servant, and reached a quiet spot on the ramparts. Here Geoffrey joined him, and they stood for some minutes looking over the sea. "What a magnificent position for a city!" Geoffrey said at last. "Standing on this rocky tongue of land jutting out at the entrance to this splendid bay it ought to be impregnable, since it can only be attacked on the side facing that sandy isthmus. What a number of ships are lying up the bay, and what a busy scene it is with the boats passing and repassing! Though they must be two miles away I fancy I can hear the shouts of the sailors." "Yes, it is all very fine," Gerald said; "but I have seen it several times before. Still, I can make allowances for you. Do you see that group of small ships a mile beyond the others? Those are the English and Dutchmen. They are allowed to trade, but as you see they are kept apart, and there are three war galleys lying close to them. No one is allowed to land, and every boat going off is strictly examined, and all those who go on board have to show their permits from the governor to trade; so, you see, the chance of getting on board one of them is slight indeed. Higher up the bay lies Puerto de Santa Maria, where a great trade is carried on, and much wine shipped; though more comes from Jeres, which lies up the river. You know we passed through it on our way here. "Yes, this is a splendid position for trade, and I suppose the commerce carried on here is larger than in any port in Europe; though Antwerp ranked as first until the troubles began in the Netherlands. But this ought to be first. It has all the trade of the Atlantic sea-board, and standing at the mouth of the Mediterranean commands that also; while all the wealth of the New World pours in here. That is great already; there is no saying what it will be in the future, while some day the trade from the far East should flow in here also by vessels trading round the south of Africa. "Cadiz has but one fault: the space on which it stands is too small for a great city. You see how close the houses stand together, and how narrow are the streets. It cannot spread without extending beyond the rock over the sands, and then its strength would be gone, and it would be open to capture by an enterprising enemy having command of the sea. There now, having indulged your humour, let us return to more important matters. Have you thought over what we were talking about last night?" "I have certainly thought it over," Geoffrey said; "but I do not know that thinking has resulted in much. The only plan that occurs to me as being at all possible is this. You were talking in joke at Madrid of turning robber. Would it be possible, think you, to get together a small band of men to aid you in carrying off the young lady, either from the grounds of her father's house or while journeying on the road? You could then have your talk with her. If you find her willing to fly with you, you could leave the men you have engaged and journey across the country in some sort of disguise to a port. If she objected, you could conduct her back to the neighbourhood of the house and allow her to return. There is one difficulty: you must, of course, be prepared with a priest, so that you can be married at once if she consents to accompany you." Gerald Burke was silent for some time. "The scheme seems a possible one," he said at last; "it is the question of the priest that bothers me. You know, both in Seville and Cadiz there are Irish colleges, and at both places there are several priests whom I knew before they entered the Church, and who would, I am sure, perform the service for me on any ordinary occasion; but it is a different thing asking them to take a share in such a business as this, for they would render themselves liable to all sorts of penalties and punishments from their superiors. However, the difficulty must be got over somehow, and at any rate the plan seems to promise better than anything I had thought of. The first difficulty is how to get the ruffians for such a business. I cannot go up to the first beetle-browed knave I meet in the street and say to him, Are you disposed to aid me in the abduction of a lady?" "No," Geoffrey laughed; "but fortunately you have an intermediary ready at hand." "How so?" Gerald exclaimed in surprise. "Why, how on earth can you have an acquaintance with any ruffians in Cadiz?" "Not a very intimate acquaintance, Gerald; but if you take the trouble to go into the court-yard of the inn when we get back you will see one of those rascally muleteers who were in league with the robbers who attacked us on the way. He was in conversation when we came out with a man who breakfasted with us, and was probably bargaining for a load for his mules back to Seville. I have no doubt that through him you might put yourself into communication with half the cutthroats of the town." "That is a capital idea, Geoffrey, and I will have a talk with the man as soon as we get back; for if he is not still there, I am sure to be able to learn from some of the men about the stables where to find him." "You must go very carefully to work, Gerald," Geoffrey said. "It would never do to let any of the fellows know the exact object for which you engaged them, for they might be sure of getting a far larger sum from the marquis for divulging your plans to carry off his daughter than you could afford to pay them for their services." "I quite see that, and will be careful." On their return to the inn Gerald Burke at once made inquiries as to the muleteer, and learned that he would probably return in an hour to see if a bargain could be made with a trader for the hire of his mules back to Seville. Gerald waited about until the man came. "I want to have a talk with you, my friend," he said. The muleteer looked at him with a suspicious eye. "I am busy," he said in a surly tone; "I have no time to waste." "But it would not be wasting it if it were to lead to your putting a dozen crowns in your pocket." "Oh, if it is to lead to that, señor, I can spare an hour, for I don't think that anything is likely to come out of the job I came here to try to arrange." "We will walk away to a quieter place," Gerald said. "There are too many people about here for us to talk comfortably. The ramparts are but two or three minutes' walk; we can talk there without interruption." When they arrived upon the ramparts Gerald commenced the conversation. "I think you were foolish, my friend, not to have taken us into your confidence the other day before that little affair. You could have made an opportunity well enough. We stopped to luncheon; if you had drawn me aside, and told me frankly that some friends of yours were about to make an attack upon the traders, and that you would guarantee that they would make it worth my while-" "What do you mean by saying my friends, or that I had any knowledge of the affair beforehand?" the man asked furiously. "I say so," Gerald replied, "because I had it on excellent authority. The wounded robber made a clean breast of the whole affair, and of your share in it, as well as that of the rascally clerk of one of the traders. If it had not been for me the merchants would have handed you over to the magistrates at the place where we stopped that night; but I dissuaded them, upon the ground that they would have to attend as witnesses against you, and that it was not worth their while to lose valuable time merely for the pleasure of seeing you hung. However, all this is beside the question. What I was saying was, it is a pity you did not say to me frankly: Your presence here is inopportune; but if you will stand apart if any unexpected affair takes place, you will get say two thousand crowns out of the twenty-five thousand my friends are going to capture. Had you done that, you see, things might have turned out differently." "I did not know," the muleteer stammered. "No, you did not know for certain, of course, that I was a soldier of fortune; but if you had been sharp you might have guessed it. However, it is too late for that now. Now, what I wanted to ask you was if you could get me half a dozen of your friends to take service under me in a little adventure I have to carry out. They will be well paid, and I do not suppose they will have much trouble over it." "And what would you pay me, cabbalero?" the muleteer asked humbly; for he had been greatly impressed with the valour displayed by the young Irishman and his servant in the fray, and thought that he intended to get together a company for adventures on the road, in which case he might be able to have some profitable dealings with him in the future. "I will give you twenty crowns," Gerald replied; "and considering that you owe your life to my interposition, I think that you ought not to haggle about terms." "The party who attacked us," the muleteer said, "lost their captain and several of their comrades in that fray, and would I doubt not gladly enter into your service, seeing that they have received such proof of your worship's valour." "Where could I see them?" Gerald asked. "I think that they will be now in Jeres, if that would suit you, señor; but if not I could doubtless find a party of men in this town equally ready for your business." "Jeres will do very well for me," Gerald said; "I shall be travelling that way and will put up at the Fonda where we stopped as we came through. When are you starting?" "It depends whether I make my bargain with a man at your hotel," the muleteer replied; "and this I doubt not I shall do, for with the twenty crowns your honour is going to give me I shall not stand out for terms. He is travelling with clothes from Flanders, and if your worship thought--" "No," Gerald said. "I do not wish to undertake any adventures of that sort until I have a band properly organized, and have arranged hiding-places and methods of getting rid of the booty. I will go back with you to the inn, and if you strike your bargain you can tell me as you pass out of the gate what evening you will meet me at Jeres." On arriving at the inn Gerald lounged at the gate of the court-yard until the muleteer came out. "I will meet your worship on the fifth night from this at Jeres." "Very well; here are five crowns as an earnest on our bargain. If you carry it out well I shall very likely forget to deduct them from the twenty I promised you. Do not be surprised if you find me somewhat changed in appearance when you meet me there." At the appointed time the muleteer with his train of animals entered the court-yards of the Fonda at Jeres. Gerald was standing on the steps of the inn. He had altered the fashion of his hair, had fastened on large bushy eyebrows which he had obtained from a skilful perruquier in Cadiz, and a moustache of imposing size turned up at the tips; he wore high buff leather boots, and there was an air of military swagger about him, and he was altogether so changed that at the first glance the muleteer failed to recognize him. As soon as the mules were unburdened, Gerald found an opportunity of speaking with him. "I will go round at once," the man said, "to the place where I shall certainly obtain news of my friends if they are here. I told your honour that they might be here, but they may have gone away on some affair of business, and may be on the road or at Seville. They always work between this town and Seville." "I understand that you may not meet them to-night; if not, I will meet you again in Seville. How long will you be finding out about them?" "I shall know in half an hour, señor; if they are not here I shall be back here in less than an hour, but if I find them I shall be detained longer in order to talk over with them the offer your worship makes." "Very well; in an hour you will find me in the street opposite the inn. I shall wait there until you come. If all is well make a sign and I will follow you. Do not mention to them that I have in any way disguised myself. Our acquaintance was so short that I don't fancy they had time to examine me very closely; and I have my own reasons for wishing that they should not be acquainted with my ordinary appearance, and have therefore to some extent disguised myself." "I will say nothing about it," the muleteer replied. "Your worship can depend upon my discretion." "That is right," Gerald said. "We may have future dealings together, and I can reward handsomely those I find trustworthy and punish those who in the slightest degree disobey my orders." In an hour and a half the muleteer returned, made a signal to Gerald and passed on. The latter joined him at a short distance from the hotel. "It is all settled, señor. I found the men much dispirited at the loss of their captain and comrades; and when I proposed to them to take service under the cabbalero who wrought them such mischief the other day, they jumped at the idea, saying that under such a valiant leader there was no fear of the failure of any enterprise they might undertake." A quarter of an hour's walking took them to a small inn of villainous appearance in one of the smallest lanes of the town. Gerald was wrapped from head to foot in his cloak, and only his face was visible. He had a brace of pistols in his belt, and was followed at a short distance, unnoticed by the muleteer, by Geoffrey, who had arranged to keep close to the door of any house he entered, and was to be in readiness to rush in and take part in the fray if he heard the sound of firearms within. Gerald himself had not at first entertained any idea of treachery; but Geoffrey had pointed out that it was quite possible that the robbers and the muleteer had but feigned acquiescence in his proposals in order to get him into their power, and take revenge for the loss of their captain and comrades, and of the valuable booty which had so unexpectedly slipped through their fingers owing to his intervention. The appearance of the six ruffians gathered in the low room, lighted by a wretched lamp, was not very assuring, and Gerald kept his hand on the butt of one of his pistols. The four robbers who had been engaged in the fray, however, saluted him respectfully, and the other two members of the band, who had been absent on other business, followed their example. They had heard from those present of the extraordinary valour with which the two travelling companions of the trader had thrown themselves into the fray, and had alone disposed of their four comrades, and being without a leader, and greatly disheartened by their ill-luck, they were quite ready to forgive the misfortunes Gerald had brought upon them, and to accept such a redoubtable swordsman as their leader. Gerald began the conversation. "You have heard," he said, "from our friend here of the offer I make you. I desire a band of six men on whom I can rely for an adventure which promises large profit. Don't suppose that I am going to lead you to petty robberies on the road, in which, as you learned to your cost the other day, one sometimes gets more hard knocks than profit. Such adventures may do for petty knaves, but they are not suited to me. The way to get wealthy is to strike at the rich. My idea is to establish some place in an out-of-the-way quarter where there is no fear of prying neighbours, and to carry off and hide there the sons and daughters of wealthy men and put them to ransom. In the first instance I am going to undertake a private affair of my own; and as you will really run no risk in the matter, for I shall separate myself from you after making my capture, I shall pay you only an earnest-money of twenty crowns each. In future affairs we shall act upon the principle of shares. I shall take three shares, a friend who works with me will take two shares, and you shall take one share apiece. The risk will really be entirely mine, for I shall take charge of the captives we make at our rendezvous. You, after lending a hand in the capture, will return here and hold yourself in readiness to join me, and carry out another capture as soon as I have made all the necessary arrangements. Thus, if by any chance we are tracked, I alone and my friend will run the risk of capture and punishment. In that way we may, in the course of a few months, amass a much larger booty than we should in a lifetime spent in these wretched adventures upon travellers. "Now, it is for you to say whether these terms will suit you, and whether you are ready to follow my orders and obey me implicitly. The whole task of making the necessary arrangements, or finding out the habits of the families one of whose members we intend carrying off, of bribing nurses or duennas, will be all my business. You will simply have to meet when you are summoned to aid in the actual enterprise, and then, when our captive is safely housed, to return here or scatter where you will and live at ease until again summoned. The utmost fidelity will be necessary. Large rewards will in many cases be offered for the discovery of the missing persons, and one traitor would bring ruin upon us all; therefore it will be absolutely necessary that you take an oath of fidelity to me, and swear one and all to punish the traitor with death. Do you agree to my proposal?" There was a unanimous exclamation of assent. The plan seemed to offer probabilities of large booty with a minimum of trouble and risk. One or two suggested that they should like to join in the first capture on the same terms as the others, but Gerald at once pronounced this to be impossible. "This is my own affair," he said, "and money is not now my object. As you will only be required to meet at a given hour some evening, and to carry off a captive who will not be altogether unwilling to come, there will be little or no risk in the matter, and twenty crowns will not be bad pay for an evening's work. After that you will, as I have said, share in the profits of all future captures we may undertake." The band all agreed, and at once took solemn oaths of fidelity to their new leader, and swore to punish by death any one of their number who should betray the secrets of the body. "That is well," Gerald said when the oaths had been taken. "It may be a week before you receive your first summons. Here are five crowns apiece for your expenses up to that time. Let one of you be in front of the great church as the clock strikes eight morning and evening. Do not wait above five minutes; if I am coming I shall be punctual. In the meantime take counsel among yourselves as to the best hiding-place that can be selected. Between you you no doubt know every corner and hole in the country. I want a place which will be at once lonely and far removed from other habitations, but it must be at the same time moderately comfortable, as the captives we take must have no reason to complain of their treatment while in my hands. Think this matter over before I again see you." Gerald then joined Geoffrey outside, and found that the latter was beginning to be anxious at his long absence. After a few words saying that everything had been successfully arranged, the two friends returned together to their inn.

13

THE FESTA AT SEVILLE.

And now, Gerald, that you have made your arrangements for the second half of the plan, how are you going to set about the first? because you said that you intended to give Donna Inez the option of flying with you or remaining with her father." "So I do still. Before I make any attempt to carry her off I shall first learn whether she is willing to run the risks." "But how are you going to set about it? You may be quite sure that she never goes outside the garden without having her duenna with her. If there is a chapel close by, doubtless she will go there once a day; and it seems to me that this would be the best chance of speaking to her, for I do not see how you can possibly introduce yourself into the grounds." "That would be quite out of the question, in daylight at any rate, Geoffrey. I do not suppose she ever goes beyond the terrace by the house. But if I could communicate with her she might slip out for a few minutes after dark, when the old lady happened to be taking a nap. The question is how to get a letter into her hands." "I think I might manage that, Gerald. It is not likely that the duenna ever happened to notice me. I might therefore put on any sort of disguise as a beggar and take my place on the road as she goes to chapel, and somehow or other get your note into her hand. I have hoard Spanish girls are very quick at acting upon the smallest sign, and if I can manage to catch her eye for a moment she may probably be ingenious enough to afford me an opportunity of passing the note to her." "That might be done," Gerald agreed. "We will at once get disguises. I will dress myself as an old soldier, with one arm in a sling and a patch over my eye; you dress up in somewhat the same fashion as a sailor boy. It is about twelve miles from here to Ribaldo's place. We can walk that easily enough, dress ourselves up within a mile or two of the place, and then go on and reconnoitre the ground." "I should advise you to write your note before you start; it may be that some unexpected opportunity for handing it to her may present itself." "I will do that; but let us sally out first and pick up two suits at some dealer in old clothes. There will be sure to be two or three of these in the poorer quarter." The disguises were procured without difficulty, and putting them in a small wallet they started before noon on their walk. In four hours they reached the boundary of the Marquis of Ribaldo's estate. Going into a wood they assumed the disguises, packed their own clothes in a wallet, and hid this away in a clump of bushes. Then they again started-Gerald Burke with his arm in a sling and Geoffrey limping along with the aid of a thick stick he had cut in the wood. On arriving at the village, a quarter of a mile from the gates of the mansion, they went into a small wine-shop and called for two measures of the cheapest wine and a loaf of bread. Here they sat for some time, listening to the conversation of the peasants who frequented the wine-shop. Sometimes a question was asked of the wayfarers. Gerald replied, for his companion's Spanish although fluent was not good enough to pass as that of a native. He replied to the question as to where they had received their hurts that they were survivors of the Armada, and grumbled that it was hard indeed that men who had fought in the Netherlands and had done their duty to their country should be turned adrift to starve. "We have enough to pay for our supper and a night's lodging," he said, "but where we are going to take our meal tomorrow is more than I can say, unless we can meet with some charitable people." "If you take your place by the roadside to-morrow morning," one of the peasants said, "you may obtain charity from Donna Inez de Ribaldo. She comes every morning to mass here; and they say she has a kind heart, which is more than men give her father the marquis the credit of possessing. We have not many poor round here, for at this time of year all hands are employed in the vineyards, therefore there is the more chance of your obtaining a little help." "Thank you; I will take your advice," Gerald said. "I suppose she is sure to come?" "She is sure enough; she never misses when she is staying here." That night the friends slept on a bundle of straw in an outhouse behind the wine-shop, and arranged everything; and upon the following morning took their seats by the roadside near the village. The bell of the chapel was already sounding, and in a few minutes they saw two ladies approaching, followed at a very short distance by a serving-man. They had agreed that the great patch over Gerald's eye, aided by the false moustachios, so completely disguised his appearance that they need have no fear of his being recognized; and it was therefore decided he should do the talking. As Donna Inez came up he commenced calling out: "Have pity, gracious ladies, upon two broken-down soldiers. We have gone through all the dangers and hardships of the terrible voyage of the great Armada. We served in the ship _San Josef_ and are now broken-down, and have no means of earning our living." Gerald had somewhat altered his natural voice while speaking, but Geoffrey was watching Donna Inez closely, and saw her start when he began to speak; and when he said they had been on board the _San Josef_ a flush of colour came across her face. "We must relieve these poor men," she said to the duenna; "it is pitiful to see them in such a state." "We know not that their tale is true," the duenna replied sharply. "Every beggar in our days pretends to be a broken-down soldier." At this moment Donna Inez happened to glance at Geoffrey, who raised his hand to his face and permitted a corner of a letter to be momentarily seen. "An impostor!" Gerald cried in a loud voice. "To think that I, suffering from my terrible wounds, should be taken as an impostor," and with a hideous yell he tumbled down as if in a fit, and rolled over and over on the ground towards the duenna. Seized with alarm at his approach, she turned and ran a few paces backward. As she did so Geoffrey stepped up to Inez and held out the note, which she took and concealed instantly in her dress. "There is nothing to be alarmed at," she cried to the duenna. "The poor man is doubtless in a fit. Here, my poor fellow, get aid for your comrade," and taking out her purse she handed a dollar to Geoffrey, and then joining the duenna proceeded on her way. Geoffrey knelt beside his prostrate companion and appeared to be endeavouring to restore him, until the ladies and their servant were out of sight. [Illustration: GEOFFREY GIVES INEZ HER LOVER'S NOTE] "That was well managed," Gerald Burke said, sitting up as soon as a turn of the road hid them from view. "Now we shall have our answer to-morrow. Thank goodness there is no occasion for us to remain any longer in these garments!" They went to the wood and resumed their usual attire, and then walked to a large village some four miles away, and putting up at the principal inn remained there until early the next morning; then they walked back to the village they had left on the previous day and posted themselves in a thicket by the roadside, so that they could see passers-by without being themselves observed. "My fate will soon be decided now," Gerald said. "Will she wear a white flower or not?" "I am pretty sure that she will," Geoffrey said. "She would not have started and coloured when she recognized your voice if she did not love you. I do not think you need be under much uneasiness on that score." In half an hour the ladies again came along, followed as before by their servants. Donna Inez wore a bunch of white flowers in her dress. "There is my answer," Gerald said. "Thank heaven! she loves me, and is ready to fly with me, and will steal out some time after dark to meet me in the garden." As there was no occasion for him to stay longer, Geoffrey returned to the village where they slept the night before, and accounted for his companion's absence by saying that he had been detained on business and would probably not return until late at night, as he would not be able to see the person with whom he had affairs to transact until late. It was past ten o'clock when Gerald Burke returned. "It is all arranged, Geoffrey. I hid in the garden close by the terrace as soon as it became dark. An hour later she came out and sauntered along the terrace until I softly called her name; then she came to me. She loves me with all her heart, and is ready to share my fate whatever it may be. Her father only two days ago had ordered her to prepare for her marriage with Don Philip, and she was in despair until she recognized my voice yesterday morning. She is going with her father to a grand festa at Seville next Wednesday. They will stop there two nights--the one before the festa and the one after. I told her that I could not say yet whether I should make the attempt to carry her off on her journey or after her return here, as that must depend upon circumstances. At any rate, that gives us plenty of time to prepare our plans. To-morrow we will hire horses and ride to Seville, and I will there arrange with one of my friends at the Irish College to perform the ceremony. However, we will talk it all over to-morrow as we ride. I feel as sleepy as a dog now after the day's excitement." Upon the road next day they agreed that if possible they would manage to get Inez away in Seville itself. Owing to the large number of people who would be attracted there to witness the grand procession and high mass at the cathedral, the streets would be crowded, and it might be possible for Inez to slip away from those with her. If this could be managed it would be greatly preferable to the employment of the men to carry her off by force. Therefore they agreed that the band should be posted so that the party could be intercepted on its way back; but that this should be a last resource, and that if possible Inez should be carried off in Seville itself. On reaching Seville they put up at an inn. Gerald at once proceeded to the Irish College. Here he inquired for a young priest, who had been a near neighbour of his in Ireland and a great friend of his boyhood. He was, he knew, about to return home. He found that he was at the moment away from Seville, having gone to supply the place of a village curé who had been taken suddenly ill. This village was situated, he was told, some six miles south-east of the town. It was already late in the afternoon, but time was precious; and Gerald, hiring a fresh horse, rode out at once to the village. His friend was delighted to see him, for they had not met since Gerald passed through Seville on his way to join the Armada at Cadiz, and the young priest had not heard whether he had escaped the perils of the voyage. "It is lucky you have come, Gerald," he said when the first greetings were over, "for I am going to return to Ireland in a fortnight's time. I am already appointed to a charge near Cork, and am to sail in a Bristol ship which is expected in Cadiz about that time. Is there any chance of my meeting you there?" "An excellent chance, Denis, though my route is not as clearly marked out as yours is. I wish to heaven that I could go by the same ship. And that leads to what I have come to see you about," and he then told his friend the service he wished him to render. "It is rather a serious business, Gerald; and a nice scrape I should get in if it were found out that I had solemnized the marriage of a young lady under age without the consent of her father, and that father a powerful nobleman. However, I am not the man to fail you at a pinch, and if matters are well managed there is not much risk of its being found out that I had a hand in it until I am well away, and once in Ireland no one is likely to make any great fuss over my having united a runaway pair in Spain. Besides, if you and the young lady have made up your minds to run away, it is evidently necessary that you should be married at once; so my conscience is perfectly clear in the business. And now, what is your plan?" "The only part of my plan that is settled is to bring her here and marry her. After that I shall have horses ready, and we will ride by unfrequented roads to Malaga or some other port and take a passage in a ship sailing say to Italy, for there is no chance of getting a vessel hence to England. Once in Italy there will be no difficulty in getting a passage to England. I have with me a young Englishman, as staunch a friend as one can need. I need not tell you all about how I became acquainted with him; but he is as anxious to get out of Spain as I am, and that is saying no little." "It seems rather a vague plan, Gerald. There is sure to be a great hue and cry as soon as the young lady is found to be missing. The marquis is a man of great influence, and the authorities will use every effort to enable him to discover her." "You see, Denis, they will have no reason for supposing that I have had any hand in the matter, and therefore no special watch will be set at the ports. The duenna for her own sake is not likely to say a word about any passages she may have observed between us at Madrid, and she is unaware that there have been any communications with her since." "I suppose you will at once put on disguises, Gerald." "Yes, that will of course be the first thing." "If you dress her as a young peasant woman of the better class and yourself as a small cultivator, I will mention to my servant that I am expecting my newly-married niece and her husband to stay with me for a few days. The old woman will have no idea that I, an Irishman, would not have a Spanish niece, and indeed I do not suppose that she has any idea that I am not a Spaniard. I will open the church myself and perform the service late in the evening, so that no one will be aware of what is going on. Of course I can put up your friend too. Then you can stay quietly here as long as you like." "That will do admirably, Denis; but I think we had best go on the next morning," Gerald said, "although it will be a day or two before there is anything like an organized pursuit. It will be supposed that she is in Seville, and inquiries will at first be confined to that town. If she leaves a note behind saying that she is determined even to take the veil rather than marry the man her father has chosen for her, that will cause additional delay. It will be supposed that she is concealed in the house of some friend, or that she has sought a refuge in a nunnery, and at any rate there is not likely to be any search over the country for some days, especially as her father will naturally be anxious that what he will consider an act of rebellion on the part of his daughter shall not become publicly known." "All this, of course, is if we succeed in getting her clear away during the fête. If we have to fall back on the other plan I was talking of and carry her off by force on the way home, the search will be immediate and general. In that case nothing could be better than your plan that we should stop here quietly for a few days with you. They will be searching for a band of robbers and will not dream of making inquiry for the missing girl in a quiet village like this." "Well, we will leave that open, Gerald. I shall let it be known that you are expected, and whenever you arrive you will be welcome." As soon as the point was arranged Gerald again mounted his horse and returned to Seville. There upon the following morning he engaged a lodging for the three days of the festa in a quiet house in the outskirts of the town, and they then proceeded to purchase the various articles necessary for their disguise and that of Inez. The next morning they started on their return to Jeres. Here Gerald made arrangements with the band to meet him in a wood on the road to Cadiz at eight in the morning on the day following the termination of the festa at Seville. One of the party was to proceed on that day to the house among the hills they had fixed upon as their hiding-place, and to get provisions and everything requisite for the reception of their captive. They received another five crowns each, the remaining fifteen was to be paid them as soon as they arrived with their captive at the house. The party remained in ignorance as to the age and sex of the person they were to carry off, and had little curiosity as to the point, as they regarded this but a small adventure in comparison to the lucrative schemes in which they were afterwards to be sharers. These arrangements made, Gerald and Geoffrey returned to Seville, and reached that city on the eve of the commencement of the festa, and took up their abode at the lodging they had hired. On the following morning they posted themselves in the street by which the party they expected would arrive. Both were attired in quiet citizen dress, and Gerald retained his formidable moustachios and bushy eyebrows. In two or three hours a coach accompanied by four lackeys on horseback came up the street, and they saw that it contained the Marquis of Ribaldo, his daughter, and her duenna. They followed a short distance behind it until it entered the courtyard of a stately mansion, which they learnt on inquiry from a passer-by belonged to the Duke of Sottomayor. The streets were already crowded with people in holiday attire, the church bells were ringing, and flags and decorations of all kinds waved along the route that was to be followed by the great procession. The house did not stand on this line, and it was necessary therefore for its inmates to pass through the crowd either to the cathedral or to the balcony of the house from which they might intend to view the procession pass. Half an hour after the arrival of the coach, the marquis and his daughter, accompanied by Don Philip de Sottomayor, sallied out, escorted by six armed lackeys, and took their way towards the cathedral. They had, however, arrived very late, and the crowd had already gathered so densely that even the efforts of the lackeys and the angry commands of the marquis and Don Philip failed to enable them to make a passage. Very slowly indeed they advanced some distance into the crowd, but each moment their progress became slower. Gerald and Geoffrey had fallen in behind them and advanced with them as they worked themselves in the crowd. Angry at what they considered the impertinence of the people for refusing to make way for them, the nobles pressed forward and engaged in an angry controversy with those in front, who urged, and truly, that it was simply impossible for them to make a way, so wedged in were they by the people on all sides. The crowd, neither knowing nor caring who were those who thus wished to take precedence of the first comers, began to jeer and laugh at the angry nobles, and when these threatened to use force threatened in return. As soon as her father had left her side, Gerald, who was immediately behind Inez, whispered in her ear, "Now is the time, Inez. Go with my friend; I will occupy the old woman." "Keep close to me, señora, and pretend that you are ill," Geoffrey said to her, and without hesitation Inez turned and followed him, drawing her mantilla more closely over her face. "Let us pass, friends," Geoffrey said as he elbowed his way through those standing behind them, "the lady needs air," and by vigorous efforts he presently arrived at the outskirts of the crowd, and struck off with his charge in the direction of their lodging. "Gerald Burke will follow us as soon as he can get out," he said. "Everything is prepared for you, señora, and all arrangements made." "Who are you, sir?" the girl asked. "I do not recall your face, and yet I seem to have seen it before." "I am English, señora, and am a friend of Gerald Burke's. When in Madrid I was disguised as his servant; for as an Englishman and a heretic it would have gone hard with me had I been detected." There wore but few people in the streets through which they passed, the whole population having flocked either to the streets through which the procession was to pass, or to the cathedral or churches it was to visit on its way. Gerald had told Inez at their interview that, although he had made arrangements for carrying her off by force on the journey to or from Seville, he should, if possible, take advantage of the crowd at the function to draw her away from her companions. She had, therefore, put on her thickest lace mantilla, and this now completely covered her face from the view of passers-by. Several times she glanced back. "Do not be uneasy about him, señora," Geoffrey said. "He will not try to extricate himself from the crowd until you are discovered to be missing, as to do so would be to attract attention. As soon as your loss is discovered he will make his way out, and will then come on at the top of his speed to the place whither I am conducting you, and I expect that we shall find him at the door awaiting us." A quarter of an hour's walk took them to the lodging, and Inez gave a little cry of joy as the door was opened to them by Gerald himself. "The people of the house are all out," he said, after their first greeting. "In that room you will find a peasant girl's dress. Dress yourself as quickly as you can; we shall be ready for you in attire to match. You had best do up your own things into a bundle, which I will carry. If they were left here they might, when the news of your being missing gets abroad, afford a clue to the manner of your escape. I will tell you all about the arrangements we have made as we go along." "Have you arranged--" and she hesitated. "Yes, an Irish priest, who is an old friend of mine, will perform the ceremony this evening." A few minutes later two seeming peasants and a peasant girl issued out from the lodging. The two men carried stout sticks with bundles slung over them. "Be careful of that bundle," Inez said, "for there are all my jewels in it. After what you had said I concealed them all about me. They are my fortune, you know. Now, tell me how you got on in the crowd." "I first pushed rather roughly against the duenna, and then made the most profuse apologies, saying that it was shameful people should crowd so, and that they ought at once to make way for a lady who was evidently of high rank. This mollified her, and we talked for three or four minutes; and in the meantime the row in front, caused by your father and the lackeys quarrelling with the people, grew louder and louder. The old lady became much alarmed, and indeed the crowd swayed about so that she clung to my arm. Suddenly she thought of you, and turning round gave a scream when she found you were missing. 'What is the matter?' I asked anxiously. 'The young lady with me! She was here but an instant ago!' (She had forgotten you for fully five minutes.) 'What can have become of her?' "I suggested that no doubt you were close by, but had got separated from her by the pressure of the crowd. However, she began to squall so loudly that the marquis looked round. He was already in a towering rage, and he asked angrily,' What are you making all this noise about?' and then looking round exclaimed, 'Where is Inez?' 'She was here a moment since!' the old lady exclaimed, 'and now she has got separated from me.' Your father looked in vain among the crowd, and demanded whether anyone had seen you. Someone said that a lady who was fainting had made her way out five minutes before. The marquis used some strong language to the old lady, and then informed Don Philip what had happened, and made his way back out of the crowd with the aid of the lackeys, and is no doubt inquiring for you in all the houses near; but, as you may imagine, I did not wait. I followed close behind them until they were out of the crowd, and then slipped away, and once round the corner took to my heels and made my way back, and got in two or three minutes before you arrived." The two young men talked almost continuously during their walk to the village in order to keep up the spirits of Donna Inez, and to prevent her from thinking of the strangeness of her position and the perils that lay before them before safety could be obtained. Only once she spoke of the future. "Is it true, Gerald, that there are always storms and rain in your country, and that you never see the sun, for so some of those who were in the Armada have told me?" "It rains there sometimes, Inez, I am bound to admit; but it is often fine, and the sun never burns one up as it does here. I promise you you will like it, dear, when you once become accustomed to it." "I do not think I shall," she said, shaking her head; "I am accustomed to the sun, you know. But I would rather be with you even in such an island as they told me of than in Spain with Don Philip." The village seemed absolutely deserted when they arrived there, the whole population having gone over to Seville to take part in the great fête. Father Denis received his fair visitor with the greatest kindness. "Here, Catherine," he cried to his old servant, "here are the visitors I told you I expected. It is well that we have the chambers prepared, and that we killed that capon this morning." That evening Gerald Burke and Inez de Ribaldo were married in the little church, Geoffrey Vickars being the only witness. The next morning there was a long consultation over their plans. "I could buy you a cart in the village and a pair of oxen, and you could drive to Malaga," the priest said, "but there would be a difficulty about changing your disguises after you had entered the town. I think that the boldest plan will be the safest one. I should propose that you should ride as a well-to-do trader to Malaga, with your wife behind you on a pillion, and your friend here as your servant. Lost as your wife was in the crowd at the fête, it will be a long time before the fact that she has fled will be realized. For a day or two the search will be conducted secretly, and only when the house of every friend whom she might have visited has been searched will the aid of the authorities be called in, and the poorer quarters, where she might have been carried by two or three ruffians who may have met her as she emerged in a fainting condition, as is supposed, from the crowd, be ransacked. I do not imagine that any search will be made throughout the country round for a week at least, by which time you will have reached Malaga, and, if you have good fortune, be on board a ship." This plan was finally agreed to. Gerald and his friend at once went over to Seville and purchased the necessary dresses, together with two strong horses and equipments. It was evening before their return to the village. Instead of entering it at once they rode on a mile further, and fastened the horses up in a wood. Gerald would have left them there alone, but Geoffrey insisted on staying with them for the night. "I care nothing about sleeping in the open air, Gerald, and it would be folly to risk the success of our enterprise upon the chance of no one happening to come through the wood, and finding the animals before you return in the morning. We had a hearty meal at Seville, and I shall do very well until morning." Gerald and his wife took leave of the friendly priest at daybreak the next morning, with the hope that they would very shortly meet in Ireland. They left the village before anyone was stirring. The peasant clothes had been left behind them. Gerald carried two valises, the one containing the garments in which Inez had fled, the other his own attire-Geoffrey having resumed the dress he had formerly worn as his servant. On arriving at the wood the party mounted, and at once proceeded on their journey. Four days' travel took them to Malaga, where they arrived without any adventure whatever. Once or twice they met parties of rough-looking men; but travelling as they did without baggage animals, they did not appear promising subjects for robbery, and the determined appearance of master and man, each armed with sword and pistols, deterred the fellows from an attempt which promised more hard knocks than plunder. After putting up at an inn in Malaga, Gerald went down at once to the port to inquire for a vessel bound for Italy. There were three or four such vessels in the harbour, and he had no difficulty in arranging for a passage to Naples for himself, his wife, and servant. The vessel was to sail on the following morning, and it was with a deep feeling of satisfaction and relief that they went on board her, and an hour later were outside the port. "It seems marvellous to me," Gerald said, as he looked back upon the slowly-receding town, "that I have managed to carry off my prize with so little difficulty. I had expected to meet with all sorts of dangers, and had I been the peaceful trader I looked, our journey could not be more uneventful." "Perhaps you are beginning to think that the prize is not so very valuable after all," Inez said, "since you have won it so easily." "I have not begun to think so yet," Gerald laughed happily. "At any rate I shall wait until I get you home before such ideas begin to occur to me." "Directly I get to Ireland," Inez said, "I shall write to my father and tell him that I am married to you, and that I should never have run away had he not insisted on my marrying a man I hated. I shall, of course, beg him to forgive me; but I fear he never will." "We must hope that he will, Inez, and that he will ask you to come back to Spain sometimes. I do not care for myself, you know, for as I have told you my estate in Ireland is amply large enough for my wants; but I shall be glad, for your sake, that you should be reconciled to him." Inez shook her head. "You do not know my father, Gerald. I would never go back to Spain again--not if he promised to give me his whole fortune. My father never forgives; and were he to entice me back to Spain, it would be only to shut me up and to obtain a dispensation from Rome annulling the marriage, which he would have no difficulty in doing. No, you have got me, and will have to keep me for good. I shall never return to Spain, never. Possibly when my father hears from me he may send me over money to make me think he has forgiven me, and to induce me some day or other to come back to visit him, and so get me into his power again; but that, Gerald, he shall never do."

14

THE SURPRISE OF BREDA.

Lionel Vickars had, by the beginning of 1590, come to speak the Dutch language well and fluently. Including his first stay in Holland he had now been there eighteen months, and as he was in constant communication with the Dutch officers and with the population, he had constant occasion for speaking Dutch, a language much more akin to English than any other continental tongue, and indeed so closely allied to the dialect of the eastern counties of England, that the fishermen of our eastern ports had in those days little difficulty in conversing with the Hollanders. He was one day supping with Sir Francis Vere when Prince Maurice and several of his officers were also there. The conversation turned upon the prospects of the campaign of the ensuing spring. Lionel, of course, took no part in it, but listened attentively to what was being said, and was very pleased to find that the period of inactivity was drawing to an end, and that their commanders considered that they had now gathered a force of sufficient strength to assume the offensive. [Illustration: BREDA 1590.] "I would," Prince Maurice said, "that we could gain Breda. The city stands like a great sentinel against every movement towards Flanders, and enables the Spaniards to penetrate at all times towards the heart of our country; but I fear that it is altogether beyond our means. It is one of the strongest cities in the Netherlands, and my ancestors, who were its lords, little thought that they were fortifying and strengthening it in order that it might be a thorn in the side of their country. I would give much, indeed, to be able to wrest it from the enemy; but I fear it will be long before we can even hope for that. It could withstand a regular siege by a well-provided army for months; and as to surprise, it is out of the question, for I hear that the utmost vigilance is unceasingly maintained." A few days after this Lionel was talking with Captain de Heraugière, who had also been at the supper. He had taken part in the defence of Sluys, and was one of the officers with whom Lionel was most intimate. "It would be a rare enterprise to surprise Breda," Captain de Heraugière said; "but I fear it is hopeless to think of such a thing." "I do not see why it should be," Lionel said. "I was reading when I was last at home about our wars with the Scotch, and there were several cases in which very strong places that could not have been carried by assault were captured suddenly by small parties of men who disguised themselves as waggoners, and hiding a score or two of their comrades in a waggon covered with firewood, or sacks of grain, boldly went up to the gates. When there they cut the traces of their horses so that the gates could not be closed, or the portcullis lowered, and then falling upon the guards, kept them at bay until a force, hidden near the gates, ran up and entered the town. I see not why a similar enterprise should not be attempted at Breda." "Nor do I," Captain Heraugière said; "the question is how to set about such a scheme." "That one could not say without seeing the place," Lionel remarked. "I should say that a plan of this sort could only be successful after those who attempted it had made themselves masters of all particulars of the place and its ways. Everything would depend upon all going smoothly and without hitches of any kind. If you really think of undertaking such an adventure, Captain Heraugière, I should be very glad to act under you if Sir Francis Vere will give me leave to do so; but I would suggest that the first step should be for us to go into Breda in disguise. We might take in a waggon-load of grain for sale, or merely carry on our backs baskets with country produce, or we could row up in a boat with fish." "The plan is certainly worth thinking of," Captain Heraugière said. "I will turn it over in my mind for a day, and will then talk to you again. It would be a grand stroke, and there would be great honour to be obtained; but it will not do for me to go to Prince Maurice and lay it before him until we have a plan completely worked out, otherwise we are more likely to meet with ridicule than praise." The following day Captain Heraugière called at Lionel's lodgings. "I have lain awake all night thinking of our scheme," he said, "and have resolved to carry out at least the first part of it--to enter Breda and see what are the prospects of success, and the manner in which the matter had best be set about. I propose that we two disguise ourselves as fishermen, and going down to the river between Breda and Willemstad bargain with some fishermen going up to Breda with their catch for the use of their boat. While they are selling the fish we can survey the town and see what is the best method of introducing a force into it. When our plan is completed we will go to Voorne, whither Prince Maurice starts to-morrow, and lay the matter before him." "I will gladly go with you to Breda," Lionel said, "and, as far as I can, aid you there; but I think that it would be best that you only should appear in the matter afterwards. I am but a young volunteer, and it would be well that I did not appear at all in the matter, which you had best make entirely your own. But I hope, Captain Heraugière, that should the prince decide to adopt any plan you may form, and intrust the matter to you, that you will take me with you in your following." "That I will assuredly," Captain Heraugière said, "and will take care that if it should turn out successful your share in the enterprise shall be known." "When do you think of setting about it?" Lionel asked. "Instantly. My company is at Voorne, and I should return thither with the prince to-day. I will at once go to him and ask for leave to be absent on urgent affairs for a week. Do you go to Sir Francis Vere and ask for a similar time. Do not tell him, if you can help it, the exact nature of your enterprise. But if you cannot obtain leave otherwise, of course you must do so. I will be back here in two hours' time. We can then at once get our disguises, and hire a craft to take us to Willemstad." Lionel at once went across to the quarters of Sir Francis Vere. "I have come, Sir Francis, to ask for a week's leave of absence." "That you can have, Lionel. What, are you going shooting ducks on the frozen meres?" "No, Sir Francis. I am going on a little expedition with Captain Heraugière, who has invited me to accompany him. We have an idea in our heads that may perhaps be altogether useless, but may possibly bear fruit. In the first case we would say nothing about it, in the second we will lay it before you on our return." "Very well," Sir Francis said with a smile. "You showed that you could think at Sluys, and I hope something may come of this idea of yours, whatever it may be." At the appointed time Captain Heraugière returned, having obtained leave of absence from the prince. They at once went out into the town and bought the clothes necessary for their disguise. They returned with these to their lodgings, and having put them on went down to the wharf, where they had no difficulty in bargaining with the master of a small craft to take them to Willemstad, as the Spaniards had no ships whatever on the water between Rotterdam and Bergen-op-Zoom. The boat was to wait three days for them at that town, and to bring them back to Rotterdam. As there was no reason for delay they at once went on board and cast off. The distance was but thirty miles, and just at nightfall they stepped ashore at the town of Willemstad. The next morning they had no difficulty in arranging with a fisherman who was going up to Breda with a cargo of fish to take the place of two of his boatmen at the oars. "We want to spend a few hours there," Captain Heraugière said, "and will give you five crowns if you will leave two of your men here and let us take their places." "That is a bargain," the man said at once; "that is, if you can row, for we shall scarce take the tide up to the town, and must keep on rowing to get there before the ebb begins." "We can row, though perhaps not so well as your own men. You are, I suppose, in the habit of going there, and are known to the guards at the port? They are not likely, I should think, to notice that you haven't got the same crew as usual?" "There is no fear of that, and if they did I could easily say that two of my men were unable to accompany me to-day, and that I have hired fresh hands in their places." Two of the men got out. Captain Heraugière and Lionel Vickars took their places, and the boat proceeded up the river. The oars were heavy and clumsy, and the new-comers were by no means sorry when, after a row of twelve miles, they neared Breda. "What are the regulations for entering Breda?" Captain Heraugière asked as they approached the town. "There are no particular regulations," the master of the boat said, "save that on entering the port the boat is searched to see that it contains nothing but fish. None are allowed to enter the gates of the town without giving their names, and satisfying the officer on guard that they have business in the place." An officer came on board as the boat ran up alongside the quay and asked a few questions. After assisting in getting the basket of fish on shore Captain Heraugière and Lionel sauntered away along the quay, leaving the fishermen to dispose of their catch to the townspeople, who had already begun to bargain for them. The river Mark flowed through the town, supplying its moats with water. Where it left the town on the western side was the old castle, with a moat of its own and strong fortified lines. Within was the quay, with an open place called the fish-market leading to the gates of the new castle. There were 600 Spanish infantry in the town and 100 in the castle, and 100 cavalry. The governor of Breda, Edward Lanzavecchia, was absent superintending the erection of new fortifications at Gertruydenberg, and in his absence the town was under the command of his son Paolo. Great vigilance was exercised. All vessels entering port were strictly examined, and there was a guard-house on the quay. Lying by one of the wharves was a large boat laden with peat, which was being rapidly unloaded, the peat being sold as soon as landed, as fuel was very short in the city. "It seems to me," Lionel said as they stood for a minute looking on, "that this would be just the thing for us. If we could make an arrangement with the captain of one of these peat-boats we might hide a number of men in the hold and cover them with peat. A place might be built large enough, I should think, to hold seventy or eighty men, and yet be room for a quantity of peat to be stowed over them." "A capital idea," Captain Heraugière said. "The peat comes from above the town. We must find out where the barges are loaded, and try to get at one of the captains." After a short walk through the town they returned to the boat. The fisherman had already sold out his stock, and was glad at seeing his passengers return earlier than he expected; but as the guard was standing by he rated them severely for keeping him waiting so long, and with a muttered excuse they took their places in the boat and rowed down the river. "I want you to put us ashore on the left bank as soon as we are out of sight of the town," Captain Heraugière said. "As it will be heavy work getting your boat back with only two of you, I will give you a couple of crowns beyond the amount I bargained with you for." "That will do well enough," the man said. "We have got the tide with us, and can drop down at our leisure." As soon as they were landed they made a wide detour to avoid the town, and coming down again upon the river above it, followed its banks for three miles, when they put up at a little inn in the small village of Leur on its bank. They had scarcely sat down to a meal when a man came in and called for supper. The landlord placed another plate at the table near them, and the man at once got into conversation with them, and they learnt that he was master of a peat-boat that had that morning left Breda empty. "We were in Breda ourselves this morning," Captain Heraugière said, "and saw a peat-boat unloading there. There seemed to be a brisk demand for the fuel." "Yes; it is a good trade at present," the man said. "There are only six of us who have permits to enter the port, and it is as much as we can do to keep the town supplied with fuel; for, you see, at any moment the river may be frozen up, so the citizens need to keep a good stock in hand. I ought not to grumble, since I reap the benefit of the Spanish regulations; but all these restrictions on trade come mighty hard upon the people of Breda. It was not so in the old time." After supper was over Captain Heraugière ordered a couple of flasks of spirits, and presently learned from the boatman that his name was Adrian Van de Berg, and that he had been at one time a servant in the household of William of Orange. Little by little Captain Heraugière felt his way, and soon found that the boatman was an enthusiastic patriot. He then confided to him that he himself was an officer in the State's service, and had come to Breda to ascertain whether there was any possibility of capturing the town by surprise. "We hit on a plan to-day," he said, "which promises a chance of success; but it needs the assistance of one ready to risk his life." "I am ready to risk my life in any enterprise that has a fair chance of success," the boatman said, "but I do not see how I can be of much assistance." "You can be of the greatest assistance if you will, and will render the greatest service to your country if you will join in our plan. What we propose is, that we should construct a shelter of boards four feet high in the bottom of your boat, leading from your little cabin aft right up to the bow. In this I calculate we could stow seventy men; then the peat could be piled over it, and if you entered the port somewhat late in the afternoon you could manage that it was not unladen so as to uncover the roof of our shelter before work ceased for the night. Then we could sally out, overpower the guard on the quay, make for one of the gates, master the guard there, and open it to our friends without." "It is a bold plan and a good one," Van de Berg said, "and I am ready to run my share of the risk with you. I am so well known in Breda that they do not search the cargo very closely when I arrive, and I see no reason why the party hidden below should not escape observation. I will undertake my share of the business if you decide to carry it out. I served the prince for fifteen years, and am ready to serve his son. There are plenty of planks to be obtained at a place three miles above here, and it would not take many hours to construct the false deck. If you send a messenger here giving me two days' notice, it shall be built and the peat stowed on it by the time you arrive." It was late at night before the conversation was concluded, and the next morning Captain Heraugière and Lionel started on their return, struck the river some miles below Breda, obtained a passage over the river in a passing boat late in the afternoon, and, sleeping at Willemstad, went on board their boat next morning and returned to Rotterdam. It was arranged that Lionel should say nothing about their journey until Captain Heraugière had opened the subject to Prince Maurice. "You are back before your time," Sir Francis Vere said when Lionel reported himself for duty. "Has anything come of this project of yours, whatever it may be?" "We hope so, sir. Captain Heraugière will make his report to Prince Maurice. He is the leader of the party, and therefore we thought it best that he should report to Prince Maurice, who, if he thinks well of it, will of course communicate with you." The next day a message arrived from Voorne requesting Sir Francis Vere to proceed thither to discuss with the prince a matter of importance. He returned after two days' absence, and presently sent for Lionel. "This is a rare enterprise that Captain Heraugière has proposed to the prince," he said, "and promises well for success. It is to be kept a profound secret, and a few only will know aught of it until it is executed. Heraugière is of course to have command of the party which is to be hidden in the barge, and is to pick out eighty men from the garrisons of Gorcum and Lowesteyn. He has begged that you shall be of the party, as he says that the whole matter was in the first case suggested to him by you. The rest of the men and officers will be Dutch." A fortnight later, on the 22nd of February, Sir Francis Vere on his return from the Hague, where Prince Maurice now was, told Lionel that all was arranged. The message had come down from Van de Berg that the hiding place was constructed. They were to join Heraugière the next day. On the 24th of February the little party started. Heraugière had chosen young, active, and daring men. With him were Captains Logier and Fervet, and Lieutenant Held. They embarked on board a vessel, and were landed near the mouth of the Mark, as De Berg was this time going to carry the peat up the river instead of down, fearing that the passage of seventy men through the country would attract attention. The same night Prince Maurice, Sir Francis Vere, Count Hohenlohe, and other officers sailed to Willemstad, their destination having been kept a strict secret from all but those engaged in the enterprise. Six hundred English troops, eight hundred Dutch, and three hundred cavalry had been drawn from different garrisons, and were also to land at Willemstad. When Heraugière's party arrived at the point agreed on at eleven o'clock at night, Van de Berg was not there, nor was the barge; and angry and alarmed at his absence they searched about for him for hours, and at last found him in the village of Terheyde. He made the excuse that he had overslept himself, and that he was afraid the plot had been discovered. As everything depended upon his co-operation, Heraugière abstained from the angry reproaches which the strange conduct of the man had excited; and as it was now too late to do anything that night, a meeting was arranged for the following evening, and a message was despatched to the prince telling him that the expedition was postponed for a day. On their return, the men all gave free vent to their indignation. "I have no doubt," Heraugière said, "that the fellow has turned coward now that the time has come to face the danger. It is one thing to talk about a matter as long as it is far distant, but another to look it in the face when it is close at hand. I do not believe that he will come to-morrow." "If he does not he will deserve hanging," Captain Logier said; "after all the trouble he has given in getting the troops together, and after bringing the prince himself over." "It will go very near hanging if not quite," Heraugière muttered. "If he thinks that he is going to fool us with impunity, he is mightily mistaken. If he is a wise man he will start at daybreak, and get as far away as he can before night-fall if he does not mean to come." The next day the party remained in hiding in a barn, and in the evening again went down to the river. There was a barge lying there laden high with turf. A general exclamation of satisfaction broke from all when they saw it. There were two men on it. One landed and came to meet them. "Where is Van de Berg?" Captain Heraugière asked as he came up. "He is ill and unable to come, but has sent you this letter. My brother and myself have undertaken the business." The letter merely said that the writer was too ill to come, but had sent in his place his two nephews, one or other of whom always accompanied him, and who could be trusted thoroughly to carry out the plan. The party at once went on board the vessel, descended into the little cabin aft, and then passed through a hole made by the removal of two planks into the hold that had been prepared for them. Heraugière remained on deck, and from time to time descended to inform those below of the progress being made. It was slow indeed, for a strong wind laden with sleet blew directly down the river. Huge blocks of ice floated down, and the two boatmen with their poles had the greatest difficulty in keeping the boat's head up the stream. At last the wind so increased that navigation became impossible, and the barge was made fast against the bank. From Monday night until Thursday morning the gale continued. Progress was impossible, and the party cramped up in the hold suffered greatly from hunger and thirst. On Thursday evening they could sustain it no longer and landed. They were for a time scarce able to walk, so cramped were their limbs by their long confinement, and made their way up painfully to a fortified building called Nordand, standing far from any other habitations. Here they obtained food and drink, and remained until at eleven at night one of the boatmen came to them with news that the wind had changed, and was now blowing in from the sea. They again took their places on board, but the water was low in the river, and it was difficult work passing the shallows, and it was not until Saturday afternoon that they passed the boom below the town and entered the inner harbour. An officer of the guard came off in a boat and boarded the barge. The weather was so bitterly cold that he at once went into the little cabin and there chatted with the two boatmen. Those in the hold could hear every word that was said, and they almost held their breath, for the slightest noise would betray them. After a while the officer got into his boat again, saying he would send some men off to warp the vessel into the castle dock, as the fuel was required by the garrison there. As the barge was making its way towards the water-gate, it struck upon a hidden obstruction in the river and began to leak rapidly. The situation of those in the hold was now terrible, for in a few minutes the water rose to their knees, and the choice seemed to be presented to them of being drowned like rats there, or leaping overboard, in which case they would be captured and hung without mercy. The boatmen plied the pumps vigorously, and in a short time a party of Italian soldiers arrived from the shore and towed the vessel into the inner harbour, and made her fast close to the guard-house of the castle. A party of labourers at once came on board and began to unload the turf; the need of fuel both in the town and castle being great, for the weather had been for some time bitterly cold. A fresh danger now arose. The sudden immersion in the icy water in the close cabin brought on a sudden inclination to sneeze and cough. Lieutenant Held, finding himself unable to repress his cough, handed his dagger to Lionel Vickars, who happened to be sitting next to him, and implored him to stab him to the heart lest his cough might betray the whole party; but one of the boatmen who was standing close to the cabin heard the sounds, and bade his companion go on pumping with as much noise and clatter as possible, while he himself did the same, telling those standing on the wharf alongside that the boat was almost full of water. The boatmen behaved with admirable calmness and coolness, exchanging jokes with acquaintances on the quay, keeping up a lively talk, asking high prices for their peat, and engaging in long and animated bargains so as to prevent the turf from being taken too rapidly ashore. At last, when but a few layers of turf remained over the roof of the hold, the elder brother told the men unloading that it was getting too dark, and he himself was too tired and worn-out to attend to things any longer. He therefore gave the men some money and told them to go to the nearest public-house to drink his health, and to return the first thing in the morning to finish unloading. The younger of the two brothers had already left the boat. He made his way through the town, and started at full speed to carry the news to Prince Maurice that the barge had arrived safely in the town, and the attempt would be made at midnight; also of the fact they had learned from those on the wharf, that the governor had heard a rumour that a force had landed somewhere on the coast, and had gone off again to Gertruydenberg in all haste, believing that some design was on foot against that town. His son Paolo was again in command of the garrison. A little before midnight Captain Heraugière told his comrades that the hour had arrived, and that only by the most desperate bravery could they hope to succeed, while death was the certain consequence of failure. The band were divided into two companies. He himself with one was to attack the main guardhouse; the other, under Fervet, was to seize the arsenal of the fortress. Noiselessly they stole out from their hiding-place, and formed upon the wharf within the inclosure of the castle. Heraugière moved straight upon the guard-house. The sentry was secured instantly; but the slight noise was heard, and the captain of the watch ran out but was instantly cut down. Others came out with torches, but after a brief fight were driven into the guard-house; when all were shot down through the doors and windows. Captain Fervet and his band had done equally well. The magazine of the castle was seized, and its defenders slain. Paolo Lanzavecchia made a sally from the palace with a few of his adherents, but was wounded and driven back; and the rest of the garrison of the castle, ignorant of the strength of the force that had thus risen as it were from the earth upon them, fled panic-stricken, not even pausing to destroy the bridge between the castle and the town. Young Paolo Lanzavecchia now began a parley with the assailants; but while the negotiations were going on Hohenlohe with his cavalry came up--having been apprised by the boatman that the attempt was about to be made--battered down the palisade near the water-gate, and entered the castle. A short time afterwards Prince Maurice, Sir Francis Vere, and other officers arrived with the main body of the troops. But the fight was over before even Hohenlohe arrived; forty of the garrison being killed, and not a single man of the seventy assailants. The burgomaster, finding that the castle had fallen, and that a strong force had arrived, then sent a trumpeter to the castle to arrange for the capitulation of the town, which was settled on the following terms:--All plundering was commuted for the payment of two months' pay to every soldier engaged in the affair. All who chose might leave the city, with full protection to life and property. Those who were willing to remain were not to be molested in their consciences or households with regard to religion. The news of the capture of Breda was received with immense enthusiasm throughout Holland. It was the first offensive operation that had been successfully undertaken, and gave new hope to the patriots. Parma was furious at the cowardice with which five companies of foot and one of horse--all picked troops--had fled before the attack of seventy Hollanders. Three captains were publicly beheaded in Brussels and a fourth degraded to the ranks, while Lanzavecchia was deprived of the command of Gertruydenberg. For some months before the assault upon Breda the army of Holland had been gaining vastly in strength and organization. Prince Maurice, aided by his cousin Lewis William, stadholder of Friesland, had been hard at work getting it into a state of efficiency. Lewis William, a man of great energy and military talent, saw that the use of solid masses of men in the field was no longer fitted to a state of things when the improvements in firearms of all sorts had entirely changed the condition of war. He therefore reverted to the old Roman methods, and drilled his soldiers in small bodies; teaching them to turn and wheel, advance or retreat, and perform all sorts of manoeuvres with regularity and order. Prince Maurice adopted the same plan in Holland, and the tactics so introduced proved so efficient that they were sooner or later adopted by all civilized nations. At the time when William of Orange tried to relieve the hard-pressed city of Haarlem, he could with the greatest difficulty muster three or four thousand men for the purpose. The army of the Netherlands was now 22,000 strong, of whom 2000 were cavalry. It was well disciplined, well equipped, and regularly paid, and was soon to prove that the pains bestowed upon it had not been thrown away. In the course of the eighteen years that had followed the capture of Brill and the commencement of the struggle with Spain, the wealth and prosperity of Holland had enormously increased. The Dutch were masters of the sea-coast, the ships of the Zeelanders closed every avenue to the interior, and while the commerce of Antwerp, Ghent, Bruges, and the other cities of the provinces that remained in the hands of the Spaniards was for the time destroyed, and their population fell off by a half, Holland benefited in proportion. From all the Spanish provinces men of energy and wealth passed over in immense numbers to Holland, where they could pursue their commerce and industries--free from the exactions and cruelty under which they had for so many years groaned. The result was that the cities of Holland increased vastly in wealth and population, and the resources at the disposal of Prince Maurice enormously exceeded those with which his father had for so many years sustained the struggle. For a while after the capture of Breda there was breathing time in Holland, and Maurice was busy in increasing and improving his army. Parma was fettered by the imperious commands of Philip, who had completely crippled him by withdrawing a considerable number of his troops for service in the war which he was waging with France. But above all, the destruction of the Armada, and with it of the naval supremacy of Spain, had changed the situation. Holland was free to carry on her enterprises by sea, and had free communication and commerce with her English ally, while communication between Spain and the Netherlands was difficult. Reinforcements could no longer be sent by sea, and had to be sent across Europe from Italy. Parma was worn out by exertions, disappointment, and annoyance, and his health was seriously failing; while opposed to him were three young commanders--Maurice, Lewis William, and Francis Vere--all men of military genius and full of confidence and energy.

15

A SLAVE IN BARBARY.

The _Tarifa_ had left port but a few hours when a strong wind rose from the north, and rapidly increased in violence until it was blowing a gale. "Inez is terribly ill," Gerald said when he met Geoffrey on deck the following morning. "I believe at the present moment she would face her father and risk everything if she could but be put on shore." "I can well imagine that. However, she will think otherwise to-morrow or next day. I believe these Mediterranean storms do not last long. There is no fear of six weeks of bad weather such as we had when we were last afloat together." "No. I have just been speaking to the captain. He says they generally blow themselves out in two or three days; but still, even that is not a pleasant look-out. These vessels are not like your English craft, which seem to be able to sail almost in the eye of the wind. They are lubberly craft, and badly handled; and if this gale lasts for three days we shall be down on the Barbary coast, and I would rather risk another journey through Spain than get down so near the country of the Moors." "I can understand that," Geoffrey agreed. "However, I see there are some thirty soldiers forward on their way to join one of the regiments in Naples, so we ought to be able to beat off any corsair that might come near us. "Yes; but if we got down on their coast we might be attacked by half a dozen of them," Gerald said. "However, one need not begin to worry one's self at present; the gale may abate within a few hours." At the end of the second day the wind went down suddenly; and through the night the vessel rolled heavily, for the sea was still high, and there was not a breath of wind to fill her sails and steady her. By the morning the sea had gone down, but there was still an absence of wind. "We have had a horrible night," Gerald remarked, "but we may think ourselves fortunate indeed," and he pointed to the south, where the land was plainly visible at a distance of nine or ten miles. "If the gale had continued to blow until now we should have been on shore long before this." "We are too near to be pleasant," Geoffrey said, "for they can see us as plainly as we can see the land. It is to be hoped that a breeze may spring up from the south before long and enable us to creep off the land. Unless I am greatly mistaken I can see the masts of some craft or other in a line with those white houses over there." "I don't see them," Gerald replied, gazing intently in the direction in which Geoffrey pointed. "Let us go up to the top, Gerald; we shall see her hull from there plainly enough." On reaching the top Gerald saw at once that his friend's eyes had not deceived him. "Yes, there is a vessel there sure enough, Geoffrey. I cannot see whether she has one or two masts, for her head is in this direction." "That is not the worst of it," Geoffrey said, shading his eyes and gazing intently on the distant object. "She is rowing; I can see the light flash on her oars every stroke. That is a Moorish galley, and she is coming out towards us." "I believe you are right," Gerald replied after gazing earnestly for some time. "Yes, I saw the flash of the oars then distinctly." They at once descended to the deck and informed the captain of what they had seen. He hastily mounted to the top. "There is no mistake about it," he said after looking intently for a short time; "it is one of the Barbary corsairs, and she is making out towards us. The holy saints preserve us from these bloodthirsty infidels." "The saints will do their work if we do ours," Gerald remarked; "and we had best do as large a share as possible. What is the number of your crew, captain?" "Nineteen men altogether." "And there are thirty soldiers, and six male passengers in the cabin," Gerald said; "so we muster fifty-four. That ought to be enough to beat off the corsair." On returning to the deck the captain informed the officer in charge of the troops on board that a Moorish pirate was putting off towards them, and that unless the wind came to their aid there was no chance of escaping a conflict with her. "Then we must fight her, captain," the officer, who was still a youth, said cheerfully. "I have thirty men, of whom at least half are veterans. You have four cannon on board, and there are the crew and passengers." "Fifty-four in all," Gerald said. "We ought to be able to make a good fight of it." Orders were at once given, soldiers and crew were mustered and informed of the approaching danger. "We have got to fight, men, and to fight hard," the young officer said; "for if we are beaten you know the result--either our throats will be cut or we shall have to row in their galleys for the rest of our lives. So there is not much choice." In an hour the corsair was half-way between the coast and the vessel. By this time every preparation had been made for her reception. Arms had been distributed among the crew and such of the passengers as were not already provided, the guns had been cast loose and ammunition brought up, cauldrons of pitch were ranged along the bulwarks and fires lighted on slabs of stone placed beneath them. The coppers in the galley were already boiling. "Now, captain," the young officer said, "do you and your sailors work the guns and ladle out the pitch and boiling water, and be in readiness to catch up their pikes and axes and aid in the defence if the villains gain a footing on the deck. I and my men and the passengers will do our best to keep them from climbing up." The vessel was provided with sweeps, and the captain had in the first place proposed to man them; but Gerald pointed out that the corsair would row three feet to their one, and that it was important that all should be fresh and vigorous when the pirates came alongside. The idea had consequently been abandoned, and the vessel lay motionless in the water while the corsair was approaching. Inez, who felt better now that the motion had subsided, came on deck as the preparations were being made. Gerald told her of the danger that was approaching. She turned pale. "This is dreadful, Gerald. I would rather face death a thousand times than be captured by the Moors." "We shall beat them off, dear, never fear. They will not reckon upon the soldiers we have on board, and will expect an easy prize. I do not suppose that, apart from the galley-slaves, they have more men on board than we have, and fighting as we do for liberty, each of us ought to be equal to a couple of these Moorish dogs. When the conflict begins you must go below." "I shall not do that," Inez said firmly. "We will share the same fate whatever it may be, Gerald; and remember that whatever happens I will not live to be carried captive among them. I will stab myself to the heart if I see that all is lost." "You shall come on deck if you will, Inez, when they get close alongside. I do not suppose there will be many shots fired--they will be in too great a hurry to board; but as long as they are shooting you must keep below. After that come up if you will. It would make a coward of me did I know that a chance shot might strike you." "Very well, then, Gerald, to please you I will go down until they come alongside, then come what will I shall be on deck." As the general opinion on board was that the corsairs would not greatly outnumber them, while they would be at a great disadvantage from the lowness of their vessel in the water, there was a general feeling of confidence, and the approach of the enemy was watched with calmness. When half a mile distant two puffs of smoke burst out from the corsair's bows. A moment later a shot struck the ship, and another threw up the water close to her stern. The four guns of the _Tarifa_ had been brought over to the side on which the enemy was approaching, and these were now discharged. One of the shots carried away some oars on the starboard side of the galley, another struck her in the bow. There was a slight confusion on board; two or three oars were shifted over from the port to the starboard side, and she continued her way. The guns were loaded again, bags of bullets being this time inserted instead of balls. The corsairs fired once more, but their shots were unanswered; and with wild yells and shouts they approached the motionless Spanish vessel. "She is crowded with men," Gerald remarked to Geoffrey. "She has far more on board than we reckoned on." "We have not given them a close volley yet," Geoffrey replied. "If the guns are well aimed they will make matters equal." [Illustration: GEOFFREY FALLS INTO THE HANDS OF THE CORSAIRS] The corsair was little more than her own length away when the captain gave the order, and the four guns poured their contents upon her crowded decks. The effect was terrible. The mass of men gathered in her bow in readiness to board as soon as she touched the _Tarifa_ were literally swept away. Another half minute she was alongside the Spaniard, and the Moors with wild shouts of vengeance tried to clamber on board. But they had not reckoned upon meeting with more than the ordinary crew of a merchant ship. The soldiers discharged their arquebuses, and then with pike and sword opposed an impenetrable barrier to the assailants, while the sailors from behind ladled over the boiling pitch and water through intervals purposely left in the line of the defenders. The conflict lasted but a few minutes. Well-nigh half the Moors had been swept away by the discharge of the cannon, and the rest, but little superior in numbers to the Spaniards, were not long before they lost heart, their efforts relaxed, and shouts arose to the galley-slaves to row astern. "Now, it is our turn!" the young officer cried. "Follow me, my men; we will teach the dogs a lesson." As he spoke he sprang from the bulwark down upon the deck of the corsair. Geoffrey, who was standing next to him, followed his example, as did five or six soldiers. They were instantly engaged in a hand-to-hand fight with the Moors. In the din and confusion they heard not the shouts of their comrades. After a minute's fierce fighting, Geoffrey, finding that he and his companions were being pressed back, glanced round to see why support did not arrive, and saw that there were already thirty feet of water between the two vessels. He was about to spring overboard, when the Moors made a desperate rush, his guard was beaten down, a blow from a Moorish scimitar fell on his head, and he lost consciousness. It was a long time before he recovered. The first sound he was aware of was the creaking of the oars. He lay dreamily listening to this, and wondering what it meant, until the truth suddenly flashed across him. He opened his eyes and looked round. A heavy weight lay across his legs, and he saw the young Spanish officer lying dead there. Several other Spaniards lay close by, while the deck was strewn with the corpses of the Moors. He understood at once what had happened. The vessels had drifted apart just as he sprang on board, cutting off those who had boarded the corsair from all assistance from their friends, and as soon as they had been overpowered the galley had started on her return to the port from which she had come out. "At any rate," he said to himself, "Gerald and Inez are safe; that is a comfort, whatever comes of it." It was not until the corsair dropped anchor near the shore that the dispirited Moors paid any attention to those by whom their deck was cumbered. Then the Spaniards were first examined. Four, who were dead, were at once tossed overboard. Geoffrey and two others who showed signs of life were left for the present, a bucket of water being thrown over each to revive them. The Moorish wounded and the dead were then lowered into boats and taken on shore for care or burial. Then Geoffrey and the two Spaniards were ordered to rise. All three were able to do so with some difficulty, and were rowed ashore. They were received when they landed by the curses and execrations of the people of the little town, who would have torn them to pieces had not their captors marched them to the prison occupied by the galley-slaves when on shore, and left them there. Most of the galley-slaves were far too exhausted by their long row, and too indifferent to aught but their own sufferings, to pay any attention to the new-comers. Two or three, however, came up to them and offered to assist in bandaging their wounds. Their doublets had already been taken by their captors; but they now tore strips off their shirts, and with these staunched the bleeding of their wounds. "It was lucky for you that five or six of our number were killed by that discharge of grape you gave us," one of them said, "or they would have thrown you overboard at once. Although, after all, death is almost preferable to such a life as ours." "How long have you been here?" Geoffrey asked. "I hardly know," the other replied; "one almost loses count of time here. But it is somewhere about ten years. I am sturdy, you see. Three years at most is the average of our life in the galleys, though there are plenty die before as many months have passed. I come of a hardy race. I am not a Spaniard. I was captured in an attack on a town in the West Indies, and had three years on board one of your galleys at Cadiz. Then she was captured by the Moors, and here I have been ever since." "Then you must be an Englishman!" Geoffrey exclaimed in that language. The man stared at him stupidly for a minute, and then burst into tears. "I have never thought to hear my own tongue again, lad," he said, holding out his hand. "Aye, I am English, and was one of Hawkins' men. But how come you to be in a Spanish ship? I have heard our masters say, when talking together, that there is war now between the English and Spaniards; that is, war at home. There has always been war out on the Spanish Main, but they know nothing of that." "I was made prisoner in a fight we had with the great Spanish Armada off Gravelines," Geoffrey said. "We heard a year ago from some Spaniards they captured that a great fleet was being prepared to conquer England; but no news has come to us since. We are the only galley here, and as our benches were full, the prisoners they have taken since were sent off at once to Algiers or other ports, so we have heard nothing. But I told the Spaniards that if Drake and Hawkins were in England when their great fleet got there, they were not likely to have it all their own way. Tell me all about it, lad. You do not know how hungry I am for news from home." Geoffrey related to the sailor the tale of the overthrow and destruction of the Armada, which threw him into an ecstasy of satisfaction. "These fellows," he said, pointing to the other galley-slaves, "have for the last year been telling me that I need not call myself an Englishman any more, for that England was only a part of Spain now. I will open their eyes a bit in the morning. But I won't ask you any more questions now; it is a shame to have made you talk so much after such a clip as you have had on the head." Geoffrey turned round on the sand that formed their only bed, and was soon asleep, the last sound he heard being the chuckling of his companion over the discomfiture of the Armada. In the morning the guard came in with a great dish filled with a sort of porridge of coarsely-ground grain, boiled with water. In a corner of the yard were a number of calabashes, each composed of half a gourd. The slaves each dipped one of these into the vessel, and so eat their breakfast. Before beginning Geoffrey went to a trough, into which a jet of water was constantly falling from a small pipe, bathed his head and face, and took a long drink. "We may be thankful," the sailor, who had already told him that his name was Stephen Boldero, said, "that someone in the old times laid on that water. If it had not been for that I do not know what we should have done, and a drink of muddy stuff once or twice a day is all we should have got. That there pure water is just the saving of us." "What are we going to do now?" Geoffrey asked. "Does the galley go out every day?" "Bless you, no; sometimes not once a month; only when a sail is made out in sight, and the wind is light enough to give us the chance of capturing her. Sometimes we go out on a cruise for a month at a time; but that is not often. At other times we do the work of the town, mend the roads, sweep up the filth, repair the quays; do anything, in fact, that wants doing. The work, except in the galleys, is not above a man's strength. Some men die under it, because the Spaniards lose heart and turn sullen, and then down comes the whip on their backs, and they break their hearts over it; but a man as does his best, and is cheerful and willing, gets on well enough except in the galleys. "That is work; that is. There is a chap walks up and down with a whip, and when they are chasing he lets it fall promiscuous, and even if you are rowing fit to kill yourself you do not escape it; but on shore here if you keep up your spirits things ain't altogether so bad. Now I have got you here to talk to in my own lingo I feel quite a different man. For although I have been here ten years, and can jabber in Spanish, I have never got on with these fellows; as is only natural, seeing that I am an Englishman and know all about their doings in the Spanish Main, and hate them worse than poison. Well, our time is up, so I am off. I do not expect they will make you work till your wounds are healed a bit." This supposition turned out correct, and for the next week Geoffrey was allowed to remain quietly in the yard when the gang went out to their work. At the end of that time his wound had closed, and being heartily sick of the monotony of his life, he voluntarily fell in by the side of Boldero when the gang was called to work. The overseer was apparently pleased at this evidence of willingness on the part of the young captive, and said something to him in his own tongue. This his companion translated as being an order that he was not to work too hard for the present. "I am bound to say, mate, that these Moors are, as a rule, much better masters than the Spaniards. I have tried them both, and I would rather be in a Moorish galley than a Spanish one by a long way, except just when they are chasing a ship, and are half wild with excitement. These Moors are not half bad fellows, while it don't seem to me that a Spaniard has got a heart in him. Then again, I do not think they are quite so hard on Englishmen as they are on Spaniards; for they hate the Spaniards because they drove them out of their country. Once or twice I have had a talk with the overseer when he has been in a special good humour, and he knows we hate the Spaniards as much as they do, and that though they call us all Christian dogs, our Christianity ain't a bit like that of the Spaniards. I shall let him know the first chance I have that you are English too, and I shall ask him to let you always work by the side of me." As Stephen Boldero had foretold, Geoffrey did not find his work on shore oppressively hard. He did his best, and as he and his companion always performed a far larger share of work than that done by any two of the Spaniards, they gained the good-will of their overlooker, who, when a fortnight later the principal bey of the place sent down a request for two slaves to do some rough work in his garden, selected them for the work. "Now we will just buckle to, lad," Stephen Boldero said. "This bey is the captain of the corsair, and he can make things a deal easier for us if he chooses; so we will not spare ourselves. He had one of the men up there two years ago, and kept him for some months, and the fellow found it so hard when he came back here again that he pined and died off in no time." A guard took them to the bey's house, which stood on high ground behind the town. The bey came out to examine the men chosen for his work. "I hear," he said, "that you are both English, and hate the Spaniards as much as we do. Well, if I find you work well, you will be well treated; if not, you will be sent back at once. Now, come with me, and I shall show you what you have to do." The high wall at the back of the garden had been pulled down, and the bey intended to enlarge the inclosure considerably. "You are first," he said, "to dig a foundation for the new wall along that line marked out by stakes. When that is done you will supply the masons with stone and mortar. When the wall is finished the new ground will all have to be dug deeply and planted with shrubs, under the superintendence of my gardener. While you are working here you will not return to the prison, but will sleep in that out-house in the garden." "You shall have no reason to complain of our work," Boldero said. "We Englishmen are no sluggards, and we do not want a man always looking after us as those lazy Spaniards do." As soon as they were supplied with tools Geoffrey and his companion set to work. The trench for the foundations had to be dug three feet deep; and though the sun blazed fiercely down upon them, they worked unflinchingly. From time to time the bey's head servant came down to examine their progress, and occasionally watched them from among the trees. At noon he bade them lay aside their tools and come into the shed, and a slave boy brought them out a large dish of vegetables, with small pieces of meat in it. "This is something like food," Stephen said as he sat down to it. "It is ten years since such a mess as this has passed my lips. I do not wonder that chap fell ill when he got back to prison if this is the sort of way they fed him here." That evening the Moorish overseer reported to the bey that the two slaves had done in the course of the day as much work as six of the best native labourers could have performed, and that without his standing over them or paying them any attention whatever. Moved by the report, the bey himself went down to the end of the garden. "It is wonderful," he said, stroking his beard. "Truly these Englishmen are men of sinews. Never have I seen so much work done by two men in a day. Take care of them, Mahmoud, and see that they are well fed; the willing servant should be well cared for." The work went steadily on until the wall was raised, the ground dug, and the shrubs planted. It was some months before all this was done, and the two slaves continued to attract the observation and good-will of the bey by their steady and cheerful labour. Their work began soon after sunrise, and continued until noon. Then they had three hours to themselves to eat their mid-day meal and dose in the shed, and then worked again until sunset. The bey often strolled down to the edge of the trees to watch them, and sometimes even took guests to admire the way in which these two Englishmen, although ignorant that any eyes were upon them, performed their work. His satisfaction was evinced by the abundance of food supplied them, their meal being frequently supplemented by fruit and other little luxuries. Severely as they laboured, Geoffrey and his companion were comparatively happy. Short as was the time that the former had worked with the gang, he appreciated the liberty he now enjoyed, and especially congratulated himself upon being spared the painful life of a galley-slave at sea. As to Boldero, the change from the prison with the companions he hated, its degrading work, and coarse and scanty food, made a new man of him. He had been but two-and-twenty when captured by the Spaniards, and was now in the prime of life and strength. The work, which had seemed very hard to Geoffrey at first, was to him but as play, while the companionship of his countryman, his freedom from constant surveillance, the absence of all care, and the abundance and excellence of his food, filled him with new life; and the ladies of the boy's household often sat and listened to the strange songs that rose from the slaves toiling in the garden. As the work approached its conclusion Geoffrey and his companion had many a talk over what would next befall them. There was one reason only that weighed in favour of the life with the slave-gang. In their present position there was no possibility whatever, so far as they could discern, of effecting their escape; whereas, as slaves, should the galley in which they rowed be overpowered by any ship it attacked, they would obtain their freedom. The chance of this, however, was remote, as the fast-rowing galleys could almost always make their escape should the vessel they attacked prove too strong to be captured. When the last bed had been levelled and the last shrub planted the superintendent told them to follow him into the house, as the bey was desirous of speaking with them. They found him seated on a divan. "Christians," he said, "I have watched you while you have been at work, and truly you have not spared yourselves in my service, but have laboured for me with all your strength, well and willingly. I see now that it is true that the people of your nation differ much from the Spaniards, who are dogs. "I see that trust is to be placed in you, and were you but true believers I would appoint you to a position where you could win credit and honour. As it is, I cannot place you over believers in the prophet; but neither am I willing that you should return to the gang from which I took you. I will, therefore, leave you free to work for yourselves. There are many of my friends who have seen you labouring, and will give you employment. It will be known in the place that you are under my protection, and that any who insult or ill-treat you will be severely punished. Should you have any complaint to make, come freely to me and I will see that justice is done you. "This evening a crier will go through the place proclaiming that the two English galley-slaves have been given their freedom by me, and will henceforth live in the town without molestation from anyone, carrying on their work and selling their labour like true believers. The crier will inform the people that the nation to which you belong is at war with our enemies the Spaniards, and that, save as to the matter of your religion, you are worthy of being regarded as friends by all good Moslems. My superintendent will go down with you in the morning. I have ordered him to hire a little house for you and furnish it with what is needful, to recommend you to your neighbours, and to give you a purse of piastres with which to maintain yourselves until work comes to you." Stephen Boldero expressed the warmest gratitude, on the part of his companion and himself, to the bey for his kindness. "I have done but simple justice," the bey said, "and no thanks are necessary. Faithful work should have its reward, and as you have done to me so I do to you." The next morning as they were leaving, a female slave presented them with a purse of silver, the gift of the bey's wife and daughters, who had often derived much pleasure from the songs of the two captives. The superintendent conducted them to a small hut facing the sea. It was furnished with the few articles that were, according to native ideas, necessary for comfort. There were cushions on the divan of baked clay raised about a foot above the floor, which served as a sofa during the day and as a bed at night. There was a small piece of carpet on the floor and a few cooking utensils on a shelf, and some dishes of burnt clay; and nothing more was required. There was, however, a small chest, in which, after the superintendent had left, they found two sets of garments as worn by the natives. "This is a comfort indeed," Geoffrey said. "My clothes are all in rags, and as for yours the less we say about them the better. I shall feel like a new man in these things." "I shall be glad myself," Stephen agreed, "for the clothes they give the galley-slaves are scarce decent for a Christian man to wear. My consolation has been that if they had been shocked by our appearance they would have given us more clothes; but as they did not mind it there was no reason why I should. Still it would be a comfort to be cleanly and decent again." For the first few days the natives of the place looked askance at these Christians in their midst, but the bey's orders had been peremptory that no insults should be offered to them. Two days after their liberation one of the principal men of the place sent for them and employed them in digging the foundations for a fountain, and a deep trench of some hundred yards in length for the pipe for bringing water to it. After that they had many similar jobs, receiving always the wages paid to regular workmen, and giving great satisfaction by their steady toil. Sometimes when not otherwise engaged they went out in boats with fishermen, receiving a portion of the catch in payment of their labours. So some months passed away. Very frequently they talked over methods of Escape. The only plan that seemed at all possible was to take a boat and make out to sea; but they knew that they would be pursued, and if overtaken would revert to their former life at the galleys, a change which would be a terrible one indeed after the present life of freedom and independence. They knew, too, that they might be days before meeting with a ship, for all traders in the Mediterranean hugged the northern shores as much as possible in order to avoid the dreaded corsairs, and there would be a far greater chance of their being recaptured by one of the Moorish cruisers than of lighting upon a Christian trader. "It is a question of chance," Stephen said, "and when the chance comes we will seize it; but it is no use our giving up a life against which there is not much to be said, unless some fair prospect of escape offers itself to us."

16

THE ESCAPE.

"In one respect," Geoffrey said, as they were talking over their chance of escape, "I am sorry that the bey has behaved so kindly to us." "What is that?" Stephen Boldero asked in surprise. "Well, I was thinking that were it not for that we might manage to contrive some plan of escape in concert with the galley-slaves, get them down to the shore here, row off to the galley, overpower the three or four men who live on board her, and make off with her. Of course we should have had to accumulate beforehand a quantity of food and some barrels of water, for I have noticed that when they go out they always take their stores on board with them, and bring on shore on their return what has not been consumed. Still, I suppose that could be managed. However, it seems to me that our hands are tied in that direction by the kindness of the bey. After his conduct to us it would be ungrateful in the extreme for us to carry off his galley." "So it would, Geoffrey. Besides I doubt whether the plan would succeed. You may be sure the Spaniards are as jealous as can be of the good fortune that we have met with, and were we to propose such a scheme to them the chances are strongly in favour of one of them trying to better his own position by denouncing us. I would only trust them as far as I can see them. No, if we ever do anything it must be done by ourselves. There is no doubt that if some night when there is a strong wind blowing from the south-east we were to get on board one of these fishing-boats, hoist a sail, and run before it, we should not be far off from the coast of Spain before they started to look for us. But what better should we be there? We can both talk Spanish well enough, but we could not pass as Spaniards. Besides, they would find out soon enough that we were not Catholics, and where should we be then? Either sent to row in their galleys or clapped into the dungeons of the Inquisition, and like enough burnt alive at the stake. That would be out of the frying-pan into the fire with vengeance." "I think we might pass as Spaniards," Geoffrey said; "for there is a great deal of difference between the dialects of the different provinces, and confined as you have been for the last ten years with Spanish sailors you must have caught their way of talking. Still, I agree with you it will be better to wait for a bit longer for any chance that may occur rather than risk landing in Spain again, where even if we passed as natives we should have as hard work to get our living as we have here, and with no greater chance of making our way home again." During the time that they had been captives some three or four vessels had been brought in by the corsair. The men composing the crews had been either sold as slaves to Moors or Arabs in the interior or sent to Algiers, which town lay over a hundred miles to the east. They were of various nationalities, Spanish, French, and Italian, as the two friends learned from the talk of the natives, for they always abstained from going near the point where the prisoners were landed, as they were powerless to assist the unfortunate captives in any way, and the sight of their distress was very painful to them. One day, however, they learned from the people who were running down to the shore to see the captives landed from a ship that had been brought in by the corsair during the night, that there were two or three women among the captives. This was the first time that any females had been captured since their arrival at the place, for women seldom travelled far from their homes in those days except the wives of high officials journeying in great ships that were safe from the attack of the Moorish corsairs. "Let us go down and see them," Boldero said. "I have not seen the face of a white woman for nine years." "I will go if you like," Geoffrey said. "They will not guess that we are Europeans, for we are burnt as dark as the Moors." They went down to the landing-place. Eight men and two women were landed from the boat. These were the sole survivors of the crew. "They are Spaniards," Boldero said. "I pity that poor girl. I suppose the other woman is her servant." The girl, who was about sixteen years of age, was very pale, and had evidently been crying terribly. She did not seem to heed the cries and threats with which the townspeople as usual assailed the newly-arrived captives, but kept her eyes fixed upon one of the captives who walked before her. "That is her father, no doubt," Geoffrey said. "It is probably her last look at him. Come away, Stephen; I am awfully sorry we came here. I shall not be able to get that girl's face out of my mind for I don't know how long." Without a word they went back to their hut. They had no particular work that day. Geoffrey went restlessly in and out, sometimes pacing along the strand, sometimes coming in and throwing himself on the divan. Stephen Boldero went on quietly mending a net that had been damaged the night before, saying nothing, but glancing occasionally with an amused look at his companion's restless movements, Late in the afternoon Geoffrey burst out suddenly: "Stephen, we must try and rescue that girl somehow from her fate." "I supposed that was what it was coming to," Boldero said quietly. "Well, let me hear all about it. I know you have been thinking it over ever since morning. What are your ideas?" "I do not know that I have any ideas beyond getting her and her father down to a boat and making off." "Well, you certainly have not done much if you haven't got farther than that," Stephen said drily. "Now, if you had spent the day talking it over with me instead of wandering about like one out of his mind, we should have got a great deal further than that by this time. However, I have been thinking for you. I know what you young fellows are. As soon as I saw that girl's face and looked at you I was dead certain there was an end of peace and quietness, and that you would be bent upon some plan of getting her off. It did not need five minutes to show that I was right; and I have been spending my time thinking, while you have thrown yours away in fidgeting. "Well, I think it is worth trying. Of course it will be a vastly more difficult job getting the girl and her father away than just taking a boat and sailing off as we have often talked of doing. Then, on the other hand, it would altogether alter our position afterwards. By his appearance and hers I have no doubt he is a well-to-do trader, perhaps a wealthy one. He walked with his head upright when the crowd were yelling and cursing, and is evidently a man of courage and determination. Now, if we had reached the Spanish coast by ourselves we should have been questioned right and left, and, as I have said all along, they would soon have found that we were not Spaniards, for we could not have said where we came from, or given our past history, or said where our families lived. But it would be altogether different if we landed with them. Every one would be interested about them. We should only be two poor devils of sailors who had escaped with them, and he would help to pass it off and get us employment; so that the difficulty that has hitherto prevented us from trying to escape is very greatly diminished. Now, as to getting them away. Of course she has been taken up to the bey's, and no doubt he will send her as a present to the bey of Algiers. I know that is what has been done several times before when young women have been captured. "I have been thinking it over, and I do not see a possibility of getting to speak to her as long as she is at the bey's. I do not see that it can be done anyhow. She will be indoors most of the time, and if she should go into the garden there would be other women with her. Our only plan, as far as I can see at present, would be to carry her off from her escort on the journey. I do not suppose she will have more than two, or at most three, mounted men with her, and we ought to be able to dispose of them. As to her father, the matter is comparatively easy. We know the ways of the prison, and I have no doubt we can get him out somehow; only there is the trouble of the question of time. She has got to be rescued and brought back and hidden somewhere till nightfall, he has got to be set free the same evening, and we have to embark early enough to be well out of sight before daylight; and maybe there will not be a breath of wind stirring. It is a tough job, Geoffrey, look at it which way you will." "It is a tough job," Geoffrey agreed. "I am afraid the escort would be stronger than you think. A present of this kind to the bey is regarded as important, and I should say half a dozen horsemen at least will be sent with her. In that case an attempt at rescue would be hopeless. We have no arms, and if we had we could not kill six mounted men; and if even one escaped, our plans would be all defeated. The question is, would they send her by land? It seems to me quite as likely that they might send her by water." "Yes, that is likely enough, Geoffrey. In that case everything would depend upon the vessel he sent her in. If it is the great galley there is an end of it; if it is one of their little coasters it might be managed. We are sure to learn that before long. The bey might keep her for a fortnight or so, perhaps longer, for her to recover somewhat from her trouble and get up her good looks again, so as to add to the value of the present. If she were well and bright she would be pretty enough for anything. In the meantime we can arrange our plans for getting her father away. Of course if she goes with a big escort on horseback, or if she goes in the galley, there is an end of our plans. I am ready to help you, Geoffrey, if there is a chance of success; but I am not going to throw away my life if there is not, and unless she goes down in a coaster there is an end of the scheme." "I quite agree to that," Geoffrey replied; "we cannot accomplish impossibilities." They learned upon the following day that three of the newly-arrived captives were to take the places of the galley-slaves who had been killed in the capture of the Spanish ship, which had defended itself stoutly, and that the others were to be sold for work in the interior. "It is pretty certain," Boldero said, "that the trader will not be one of the three chosen for the galley. The work would break him down in a month. That makes that part of the business easier, for we can get him away on the journey inland, and hide him up here until his daughter is sent off." Geoffrey looked round the bare room. "Well, I do not say as how we could hide him here," Boldero said in answer to the look, "but we might hide him somewhere among the sand-hills outside the place, and take him food at night." "Yes, we might do that," Geoffrey agreed. "That could be managed easily enough, I should think, for there are clumps of bushes scattered all over the sand-hills half a mile back from the sea. The trouble will be if we get him here, and find after all that we cannot rescue his daughter." "That will make no difference," Boldero said. "In that case we will make off with him alone. Everything else will go on just the same. Of course, I should be very sorry not to save the girl; but, as far as we are concerned, if we save the father it will answer our purpose." Geoffrey made no reply. Just at that moment his own future was a very secondary matter, in comparison, to the rescue of this unhappy Spanish girl. Geoffrey and his companion had been in the habit of going up occasionally to the prison. They had won over the guard by small presents, and were permitted to go in and out with fruit and other little luxuries for the galley-slaves. They now abstained from going near the place, in order that no suspicion might fall upon them after his escape of having had any communication with the Spanish trader. Shortly after the arrival of the captives two merchants from the interior came down, and Geoffrey learned that they had visited the prison, and had made a bargain with the bey for all the captives except those transferred to the galley. The two companions had talked the matter over frequently, and had concluded it was best that only one of them should be engaged in the adventure, for the absence of both might be noticed. After some discussion it was agreed that Geoffrey should undertake the task, and that Boldero should go alone to the house where they were now at work, and should mention that his friend was unwell, and was obliged to remain at home for the day. As they knew the direction in which the captives would be taken Geoffrey started before daybreak, and kept steadily along until he reached a spot where it was probable they would halt for the night. It was twenty miles away, and there was here a well of water and a grove of trees. Late in the afternoon he saw the party approaching. It consisted of the merchants, two armed Arabs, and the five captives, all of whom were carrying burdens. They were crawling painfully along, overpowered by the heat of the sun, by the length of the journey, and by the weight they carried. Several times the Arabs struck them heavily with their sticks to force them to keep up. Geoffrey retired from the other side of the clump of trees, and lay down in a depression of the sand-hills until darkness came on, when he again entered the grove, and crawling cautiously forward made his way close up to the party. A fire was blazing, and a meal had been already cooked and eaten. The traders and the two Arabs were sitting by the fire; the captives were lying extended on the ground. Presently, at the command of one of the Arabs, they rose to their feet and proceeded to collect some more pieces of wood for the fire. As they returned the light fell on the gray hair of the man upon whom Geoffrey had noticed that the girl's eyes were fixed. He noted the place where he lay down, and had nothing to do now but to wait until the party were asleep. He felt sure that no guard would be set, for any attempt on the part of the captives to escape would be nothing short of madness. There was nowhere for them to go, and they would simply wander about until they died of hunger and exhaustion, or until they were recaptured, in which case they would be almost beaten to death. In an hour's time the traders and their men lay down by the fire, and all was quiet. Geoffrey crawled round until he was close to the Spaniard. He waited until he felt sure that the Arabs were asleep, and then crawled up to him. The man started as he touched him. "Silence, señor," Geoffrey whispered in Spanish; "I am a friend, and have come to rescue you." "I care not for life; a few days of this work will kill me, and the sooner the better. I have nothing to live for. They killed my wife the other day, and my daughter is a captive in their hands. I thank you, whoever you are, but I will not go." "We are going to try to save your daughter too," Geoffrey whispered; "we have a plan for carrying you both off." The words gave new life to the Spaniard. "In that case, sir, I am ready. Whoever you are whom God has sent to my aid I will follow you blindly, whatever comes of it." Geoffrey crawled away a short distance, followed by the Spaniard. As soon as they were well beyond the faint light now given out by the expiring fire they rose to their feet, and gaining the track took their way on the backward road. As soon as they were fairly away, Geoffrey explained to the Spaniard who he was, and how he had undertaken to endeavour to rescue him. The joy and gratitude of the Spaniard were too deep for words, and he uttered his thanks in broken tones. When they had walked about a mile Geoffrey halted. "Sit down here," he said. "I have some meat and fruit here and a small skin of water. We have a long journey before us, for we must get near the town you left this morning before daybreak, and you must eat to keep up your strength." "I did not think," the Spaniard said, "when we arrived at the well, that I could have walked another mile had my life depended upon it. Now I feel a new man, after the fresh hope you have given me. I no longer feel the pain of my bare feet or the blisters the sun has raised on my naked back. I am struggling now for more than life--for my daughter. You shall not find me fail, sir." All night they toiled on. The Spaniard kept his promise, and utterly exhausted as he was, and great as was the pain in his limbs, held on bravely. With the first dawn of morning they saw the line of the sea before them. They now turned off from the track, and in another half hour the Spaniard took shelter in a clump of bushes in a hollow, while Geoffrey, having left with him the remainder of the supply of provisions and water, pursued his way and reached the hut just as the sun was shining in the east, and without having encountered a single person. "Well, have you succeeded?" Boldero asked eagerly, as he entered. "Yes; I have got him away. He is in hiding within a mile of this place. He kept on like a hero. I was utterly tired myself, and how he managed to walk the distance after what he had gone through in the day is more than I can tell. His name is Mendez. He is a trader in Cadiz, and owns many vessels. He was on his way to Italy, with his wife and daughter, in one of his own ships, in order to gratify the desire of his wife to visit the holy places at Rome. She was killed by a cannon-shot during the fight, and his whole heart is now wrapped up in his daughter. And now, Stephen, I must lie down and sleep. You will have to go to work alone to-day again, and can truly say that I am still unfit for labour." Four days later it became known in the little town that a messenger had arrived from the merchant who bought the slaves from the bey, saying that one of them had made his escape from their first halting-place. "The dog will doubtless die in the desert," the merchant wrote; "but if he should find his way down, or you should hear of him as arriving at any of the villages, I pray you to send him up to me with a guard. I will so treat him that it will be a lesson to my other slaves not to follow his example." Every evening after dark Geoffrey went out with a supply of food and water to the fugitive. For a week he had no news to give him as to his daughter; but on the eighth night he said that he and his companion had that morning been sent by the bey on board the largest of the coasting vessels in the port, with orders to paint the cabins and put them in a fit state for the reception of a personage of importance. "This is fortunate, indeed," Geoffrey went on. "No doubt she is intended for the transport of your daughter. Her crew consists of a captain and five men, but at present they are living ashore; and as we shall be going backwards and forwards to her, we ought to have little difficulty in getting on board and hiding away in the hold before she starts. I think everything promises well for the success of our scheme." The bey's superintendent came down the next day to see how matters were going on on board the vessel. The painting was finished that evening, and the next day two slaves brought down a quantity of hangings and cushions, which Geoffrey and his companion assisted the superintendent to hang up and place in order. Provisions and water had already been taken on board, and they learnt that the party who were to sail in her would come off early the next morning. At midnight Geoffrey, Boldero, and the Spaniard came down to the little port, embarked in a fisherman's boat moored at the stairs, and noiselessly rowed off to the vessel. They mounted on to her deck barefooted. Boldero was the last to leave the boat, giving her a vigorous push with his foot in the direction of the shore, from which the vessel was but some forty yards away. They descended into the hold, where they remained perfectly quiet until the first light of dawn enabled them to see what they were doing, and then moved some baskets full of vegetables, and concealed themselves behind them. A quarter of an hour later they heard a boat come alongside, and the voices of the sailors. Then they heard the creaking of cordage as the sails were let fall in readiness for a start. Half an hour later another boat came alongside. There was a trampling of feet on the deck above them, and the bey's voice giving orders. A few minutes later the anchor was raised, there was more talking on deck, and then they heard a boat push off, and knew by the rustle of water against the planks beside them that the vessel was under way. The wind was light and the sea perfectly calm, and beyond the slight murmur of the water, those below would not have known that the ship was in motion. It was very hot down in the hold, but fortunately the crew had not taken the trouble to put on the hatches, and at times a faint breath of air could be felt below. Geoffrey and his companion talked occasionally in low tones; but the Spaniard was so absorbed by his anxiety as to the approaching struggle, and the thought that he might soon clasp his daughter to his arms, that he seldom spoke. No plans could be formed as to the course they were to take, for they could not tell whether those of the crew off duty would retire to sleep in the little forecastle or would lie down on deck. Then, too, they were ignorant as to the number of men who had come on board with the captive. The overseer had mentioned the day before that he was going, and it was probable that three or four others would accompany him. Therefore they had to reckon upon ten opponents. Their only weapons were three heavy iron bolts, some two feet long. These Boldero had purchased in exchange for a few fish, when a prize brought in was broken up as being useless for the purposes of the Moors. "What I reckon is," he said, "that you and I ought to be able to settle two apiece of these fellows before they fairly know what is happening. The Don ought very well to account for another. So that only leaves five of them; and five against three are no odds worth speaking of, especially when the five are woke up by a sudden attack, and ain't sure how many there are against them. I don't expect much trouble over the affair." "I don't want to kill more of the poor fellows than I can help," Geoffrey said. "No more do I; but you see it's got to be either killing or being killed, and I am perfectly certain which I prefer. Still, as you say, if the beggars are at all reasonable I ain't for hurting them, but the first few we have got to hit hard. When we get matters a little even, we can speak them fair." The day passed slowly, and in spite of their bent and cramped position Geoffrey and Stephen Boldero dozed frequently. The Spaniard never closed an eye. He was quite prepared to take his part in the struggle; and as he was not yet fifty years of age, his assistance was not to be despised. But the light-hearted carelessness of his companions, who joked under their breath, and laughed and eat unconcernedly with a life-and-death struggle against heavy odds before them, surprised him much. As darkness came on the party below became wakeful. Their time was coming now, and they had no doubt whatever as to the result. Their most formidable opponents would be the men who had come on board with the bey's superintendent, as these, no doubt, would be fully armed. As for the sailors, they might have arms on board, but these would not be ready to hand, and it was really only with the guards they would have to deal. "I tell you what I think would be a good plan, Stephen," Geoffrey said suddenly. "You see, there is plenty of spare line down here; if we wait until they are all asleep we can go round and tie their legs together, or put ropes round their ankles and fasten them to ring-bolts. If we could manage that without waking them, we might capture the craft without shedding any blood, and might get them down into the hold one after the other." "I think that is a very good plan," Stephen agreed. "I do not like the thought of knocking sleeping men on the head any more than you do; and if we are careful, we might get them all tied up before an alarm is given. There, the anchor has gone down. I thought very likely they would not sail at night. That is capital. You may be sure that they will be pretty close inshore, and they probably will have only one man on watch; and as likely as not not even one, for they will not dream of any possible danger." For another two hours the sound of talk on deck went on, but at last all became perfectly quiet. The party below waited for another half hour, and then noiselessly ascended the ladder to the deck, holding in one hand a cudgel, in the other a number of lengths of line cut about six feet long. Each as he reached the deck lay down flat. The Spaniard had been told to remain perfectly quiet while the other two went about their task. First they crawled aft, for the bey's guards would, they knew, be sleeping at that end, and working together they tied the legs of these men without rousing them. The ropes could not be tightly pulled, as this would at once have disturbed them. They were therefore fastened somewhat in the fashion of manacles, so that although the men might rise to their feet they would fall headlong the moment they tried to walk. In addition other ropes were fastened to these and taken from one man to another. Then their swords were drawn from the sheaths and their knives from their sashes. The operation was a long one, as it had to be conducted with the greatest care and caution. They then crept back to the hatchway and told the Spaniard that the most formidable enemies had been made safe. "Here are a sword and a knife for you, señor; and now as we are all armed I consider the ship as good as won, for the sailors are not likely to make much resistance by themselves. However, we will secure some of them. The moon will be up in half an hour, and that will be an advantage to us." The captain and three of the sailors were soon tied up like the others. Two men were standing in the bow of the vessel leaning against the bulwarks, and when the moon rose it could be seen by their attitude that both were asleep. "Now, we may as well begin," Geoffrey said. "Let us take those two fellows in the bow by surprise. Hold a knife to their throats, and tell them if they utter the least sound we will kill them. Then we will make them go down into the forecastle and fasten them there." "I am ready," Stephen said, and they stole forward to the two sleeping men. They grasped them suddenly by the throat and held a knife before their eyes, Boldero telling them in a stern whisper that if they uttered a cry they would be stabbed to the heart. Paralysed by the sudden attack they did not make the slightest struggle, but accompanied their unknown assailants to the forecastle and were there fastened in. Joined now by the Spaniard, Geoffrey and his companion went aft and roused one of the sleepers there with a threat similar to that which had silenced the sailors. He was, however, a man of different stuff. He gave a loud shout and grappled with Boldero, who struck him a heavy blow with his fist in the face, and this for a moment silenced him; but the alarm being given, the superintendent and the two men struggled to their feet, only however to fall prostrate as soon as they tried to walk. "Lie quiet and keep silence!" Boldero shouted in a threatening voice. "You are unarmed and at our mercy. Your feet are bound and you are perfectly helpless. We do not wish to take your lives, but unless you are quiet we shall be compelled to do so." The men had discovered by this time that their arms had gone, and were utterly disconcerted by the heavy and unexpected fall they had just had. Feeling that they were indeed at the mercy of their captors, they lay quiet. "Now then," Boldero went on, "one at a time. Keep quiet, you rascals there!" he broke off, shouting to the sailors who were rolling and tumbling on the deck forward, "or I will cut all your throats for you. Now then, Geoffrey, do you and the señor cut the rope that fastens that man on the port side to his comrades. March him to the hatchway and make him go down into the hold. Keep your knives ready and kill him at once if he offers the slightest resistance." One by one the superintendent, the three guards, the captain and sailors were all made to descend into the hold, and the hatches were put over it and fastened down. "Now, señor," Geoffrey said, "we can spare you." The Spaniard hurried to the cabin, opened the door, and called out his daughter's name. There was a scream of delight within as Dolores Mendez, who had been awakened by the tumult, recognized her father's voice, and leaping up from her couch threw herself into his arms. Geoffrey and his companion now opened the door of the forecastle and called the two sailors out. "Now," Boldero said, "if you want to save your lives you have got to obey our orders. First of all fall to work and get up the anchor, and then shake out the sails again. I will take the helm, Geoffrey, and do you keep your eye on these two fellows. There is no fear of their playing any tricks now that they see they are alone on deck, but they might, if your back were turned, unfasten the hatches. However, I do not think we need fear trouble that way, as for ought they know we may have cut the throats of all the others." A few minutes later the vessel was moving slowly through the water with her head to the north-west. "We must be out of sight of land if we can by the morning," Stephen said, when Geoffrey two hours later came to take his place at the helm; "at any rate until we have passed the place we started from. Once beyond that it does not matter much; but it will be best either to keep out of sight of land altogether, or else to sail pretty close to it, so that they can see the boat is one of their own craft. We can choose which we will do when we see which way the breeze sets in in the morning." It came strongly from the south, and they therefore determined to sail direct for Carthagena.

17

A SPANISH MERCHANT.

As soon as the sails had been set, and the vessel was under way, the Spaniard came out from the cabin. "My daughter is attiring herself, señor," he said to Stephen Boldero, for Geoffrey was at the time at the helm. "She is longing to see you, and to thank you for the inestimable services you have rendered to us both. But for you I should now be dying or dead, my daughter a slave for life in the palace of the bey. What astonishes us both is, that such noble service should have been rendered to us by two absolute strangers, and not strangers only, but by Englishmen--a people with whom Spain is at war--and who assuredly can have no reason to love us. How came you first to think of interesting yourself on our behalf?" "To tell you the truth, señor," Stephen Boldero said bluntly, "it was the sight of your daughter and not of yourself that made us resolve to save you if possible, or rather, I should say, made my friend Geoffrey do so. After ten years in the galleys one's heart gets pretty tough, and although even I felt a deep pity for your daughter, I own it would never have entered my mind to risk my neck in order to save her. But Geoffrey is younger and more easily touched, and when he saw her as she landed pale and white and grief-stricken, and yet looking as if her own fate touched her less than the parting from you, my good friend Geoffrey Vickars was well-nigh mad, and declared that in some way or other, and at whatever risk to ourselves, you must both be saved. In this matter I have been but a passive instrument in his hands; as indeed it was only right that I should be, seeing that he is of gentle blood and an esquire serving under Captain Vere in the army of the queen, while I am but a rough sailor. What I have done I have done partly because his heart was in the matter, partly because the adventure promised, if successful, to restore me to freedom, and partly also, señor, for the sake of your brave young daughter." "Ah, you are modest, sir," the Spaniard said. "You are one of those who belittle your own good deeds. I feel indeed more grateful than I can express to you as well as to your friend." The merchant's daughter now appeared at the door of the cabin. Her father took her hand and led her up to Boldero. "This, Dolores, is one of the two Englishmen who have at the risk of their lives saved me from death and you from worse than death. Thank him, my child, and to the end of your life never cease to remember him in your prayers." "I am glad to have been of assistance, señora," Boldero said as the girl began to speak; "but as I have just been telling your father, I have played but a small part in the business, it is my friend Don Geoffrey Vickars who has been the leader in the matter. He saw you as you landed at the boat, and then and there swore to save you, and all that has been done has been under his direction. It was he who followed and rescued your father, and I have really had nothing to do with the affair beyond hiding myself in the hole and helping to tie up your Moors." "Ah, sir," the girl said, laying her hands earnestly upon the sailor's shoulder, "it is useless for you to try to lessen the services you have rendered us. Think of what I was but an hour since--a captive with the most horrible of all fates before me, and with the belief that my father was dying by inches in the hands of some cruel task-master, and now he is beside me and I am free. This has been done by two strangers, men of a nation which I have been taught to regard as an enemy. It seems to me that no words that I can speak could tell you even faintly what I feel, and it is God alone who can reward you for what you have done." Leaving Boldero the Spaniard and his daughter went to the stern, where Geoffrey was standing at the helm. "My daughter and I have come to thank you, señor, for having saved us from the worst of fates and restored us to each other. Your friend tells me that it is to you it is chiefly due that this has come about, for that you were so moved to pity at the sight of my daughter when we first landed, that you declared at once that you would save her from her fate at whatever risk to yourself, and that since then he has been but following your directions." "Then if he says that, señor, he belies himself. I was, it is true, the first to declare that we must save your daughter at any cost if it were possible to do so; but had I not said so, I doubt not he would have announced the same resolution. Since then we have planned every thing together; and as he is older and more experienced than I am, it was upon his opinion that we principally acted. We had long made up our minds to escape when the opportunity came. Had it not been that we were stirred into action by seeing your daughter in the hands of the Moors, it might have been years before we decided to run the risks. Therefore if you owe your freedom to us, to some extent we owe ours to you; and if we have been your protectors so far, we hope that when we arrive in Spain you will be our protectors there, for to us Spain is as much an enemy's country as Barbary." "That you can assuredly rely upon," the trader replied. "All that I have is at your disposal." For an hour they stood talking. Dolores said but little. She had felt no shyness with the stalwart sailor, but to this youth who had done her such signal service she felt unable so frankly to express her feelings of thankfulness. By morning the coast of Africa was but a faint line on the horizon, and the ship was headed west. Except when any alteration of the sails was required, the two Moors who acted as the crew were made to retire into the forecastle, and were there fastened in, Geoffrey and Boldero sleeping by turns. After breakfast the little party gathered round the helm, and at the request of Juan Mendez, Geoffrey and Stephen both related how it befell that they had become slaves to the Moors. "Your adventures are both singular," the trader said when they had finished. "Yours, Don Geoffrey, are extraordinary. It is marvellous that you should have been picked up in that terrible fight, and should have shared in all the perils of that awful voyage back to Spain without its being ever suspected that you were English. Once landed in the service as you say of Señor Burke, it is not so surprising that you should have gone freely about Spain. But your other adventures are wonderful, and you and your friend were fortunate indeed in succeeding as you did in carrying off the lady he loved; and deeply they must have mourned your supposed death on the deck of the Moorish galley. And now tell me what are your plans when you arrive in Spain?" "We have no fixed plans, save that we hope some day to be able to return home," Geoffrey said. "Stephen here could pass well enough as a Spaniard when once ashore without being questioned, and his idea is, if there is no possibility of getting on board an English or Dutch ship at Cadiz, to ship on board a Spaniard, and to take his chance of leaving her at some port at which she may touch. As for myself, although I speak Spanish fluently, my accent would at once betray me to be a foreigner. But if you will take me into your house for a time until I can see a chance of escaping, my past need not be inquired into. You could of course mention, were it asked, that I was English by birth, but had sailed in the Armada with my patron, Mr. Burke, and it would be naturally supposed that I was an exile from England." "That can certainly be managed," the trader said. "I fear that it will be difficult to get you on board a ship either of your countrymen or of the Hollanders; these are most closely watched lest fugitives from the law or from the Inquisition should escape on board them. Still, some opportunity may sooner or later occur; and the later the better pleased shall I be, for it will indeed be a pleasure to me to have you with me." In the afternoon Geoffrey said to Stephen, "I have been thinking, Stephen, about the men in the hold, and I should be glad for them to return to their homes. If they go with us to Spain they will be made galley-slaves, and this I should not like, especially in the case of the bey's superintendent. The bey was most kind to us, and this man himself always spoke in our favour to him, and behaved well to us. I think, therefore, that out of gratitude to the bey we should let them go. The wind is fair, and there are, so far as I can see, no signs of any change of weather. By to-morrow night the coast of Spain will be in sight. I see no reason, therefore, why we should not be able to navigate her until we get near the land, when Mendez can engage the crew of some fishing-boat to take us into a port. If we put them into the boat with plenty of water and provisions, they will make the coast by morning; and as I should guess that we must at present be somewhere abreast of the port from which we started, they will not be very far from home when they land." "I have no objection whatever, Geoffrey. As you say we were not treated badly, at any rate from the day when the bey had us up to his house; and after ten years in the galleys, I do not wish my worst enemies such a fate. We must, of course, be careful how we get them into the boat." "There will be three of us with swords and pistols, and they will be unarmed," Geoffrey said. "We will put the two men now in the forecastle into the boat first, and let the others come up one by one and take their places. We will have a talk with the superintendent first, and give him a message to the bey, saying that we are not ungrateful for his kindness to us, but that of course we seized the opportunity that presented itself of making our escape, as he would himself have done in similar circumstances; nevertheless that as a proof of our gratitude to him, we for his sake release the whole party on board, and give them the means of safely returning." An hour later the boat, pulled by four oars, left the side of the ship with the crew, the superintendent and guards, and the two women who had come on board to attend upon Dolores upon the voyage. The next morning the vessel was within a few miles of the Spanish coast. An hour later a fishing-boat was hailed, and an arrangement made with the crew to take the vessel down to Carthagena, which was, they learned, some fifty miles distant. The wind was now very light, and it was not until the following day that they entered the port. As it was at once perceived that the little vessel was Moorish in rigging and appearance, a boat immediately came alongside to inquire whence she came. Juan Mendez had no difficulty in satisfying the officer as to his identity, he being well known to several traders in the town. His story of the attack upon his ship by Barbary pirates, its capture, and his own escape and that of his daughter by the aid of two Christian captives, excited great interest as soon as it became known in the town; for it was rare, indeed, that a captive ever succeeded in making his escape from the hands of the Moors. It had already been arranged that, in telling his story, the trader should make as little as possible of his companions' share in the business, so that public attention should not be attracted towards them. He himself with Dolores at once disembarked, but his companions did not come ashore until after nightfall. Stephen Boldero took a Spanish name, but Geoffrey retained his own, as the story that he was travelling as a servant with Mr. Burke, a well-known Irish gentleman who had accompanied the Armada, was sufficient to account for his nationality. Under the plea that he was anxious to return to Cadiz as soon as possible, Señor Mendez arranged for horses and mules to start the next morning. He had sent off two trunks of clothes to the ship an hour after he landed, and the two Englishmen therefore escaped all observation, as they wandered about for an hour or two after landing, and did not go to the inn where Mendez was staying until it was time to retire to bed. The next morning the party started. The clothes that Geoffrey was wearing were those suited to an employé in a house of business, while those of Boldero were such as would be worn by the captain or mate of a merchant vessel on shore. Both were supplied with arms, for although the party had nothing to attract the cupidity of robbers beyond the trunks containing the clothes purchased on the preceding day, and the small amount of money necessary for their travel on the road, the country was so infested by bands of robbers that no one travelled unarmed. The journey to Cadiz was, however, accomplished without adventure. The house of Señor Mendez was a large and comfortable one. Upon the ground floor were his offices and store-rooms. He himself and his family occupied the two next floors, while in those above his clerks and employés lived. His unexpected return caused great surprise, and in a few hours a number of acquaintances called to hear the story of the adventures through which he had passed, and to condole with him on the loss of his wife. At his own request Stephen Boldero had been given in charge of the principal clerk, and a room assigned to him in the upper story. "I shall be much more comfortable," he said, "among your people, Don Mendez. I am a rough sailor, and ten years in the galleys don't improve any manners a man may have had. If I were among your friends I would be out of place and uncomfortable, and should always have to be bowing and scraping and exchanging compliments, and besides they would soon find out that my Spanish was doubtful. I talk a sailor's slang, but I doubt if I should understand pure Spanish. Altogether, I should be very uncomfortable, and should make you uncomfortable, and I would very much rather take my place among the men that work for you until I can get on board a ship again." Geoffrey was installed in the portion of the house occupied by the merchant, and was introduced by him to his friends simply as the English gentleman who had rescued him and his daughter from the hands of the Moors, it being incidentally mentioned that he had sailed in the Armada, and that he had fallen into the hands of the corsairs in the course of a voyage made with his friend Mr. Burke to Italy. He at once took his place as a friend and assistant of the merchant; and as the latter had many dealings with Dutch and English merchants, Geoffrey was able to be of considerable use to him in his written communications to the captains of the various vessels of those nationalities in the port. "I think," the merchant said to him a fortnight after his arrival in Cadiz, "that, if it would not go against your conscience, it would be most advisable that you should accompany me sometimes to church. Unless you do this, sooner or later suspicion is sure to be roused, and you know that if you were once suspected of being a heretic, the Inquisition would lay its hands upon you in no time." "I have no objection whatever," Geoffrey said. "Were I questioned I should at once acknowledge that I was a Protestant; but I see no harm in going to a house of God to say my prayers there, while others are saying theirs in a different manner. There is no church of my own religion here, and I can see no harm whatever in doing as you suggest." "I am glad to hear that that is your opinion," Señor Mendez said, "for it is the one point concerning which I was uneasy. I have ordered a special mass at the church of St. Dominic to-morrow, in thanksgiving for our safe escape from the hands of the Moors, and it would be well that you should accompany us there." "I will do so most willingly," Geoffrey said. "I have returned thanks many times, but shall be glad to do so again in a house dedicated to God's service." Accordingly the next day Geoffrey accompanied Don Mendez and his daughter to the church of St. Dominic, and as he knelt by them wondered why men should hate each other because they differed as to the ways and methods in which they should worship God. From that time on he occasionally accompanied Señor Mendez to the church, saying his prayers earnestly in his own fashion, and praying that he might some day be restored to his home and friends. He and the merchant had frequently talked over all possible plans for his escape, but the extreme vigilance of the Spanish authorities with reference to the English and Dutch trading ships seemed to preclude any possibility of his being smuggled on board. Every bale and package was closely examined on the quay before being sent off. Spanish officials were on board from the arrival to the departure of each ship, and no communication whatever was allowed between the shore and these vessels, except in boats belonging to the authorities, every paper and document passing first through their hands for examination before being sent on board. The trade carried on between England, Holland, and Spain at the time when these nations were engaged in war was a singular one; but it was permitted by all three countries, because the products of each were urgently required by the others. It was kept within narrow limits, and there were frequent angry complaints exchanged between the English government and that of Holland, when either considered the other to be going beyond that limit. Geoffrey admitted to himself that he might again make the attempt to return to England, by taking passage as before in a ship bound for Italy, but he knew that Elizabeth was negotiating with Philip for peace, and thought that he might as well await the result. He was, indeed, very happy at Cadiz, and shrank from the thought of leaving it. Stephen Boldero soon became restless, and at his urgent request Juan Mendez appointed him second mate on board one of his ships sailing for the West Indies, his intention being to make his escape if an opportunity offered; but if not, he preferred a life of activity to wandering aimlessly about the streets of Cadiz. He was greatly grieved to part from Geoffrey, and promised that, should he ever reach England, he would at once journey down to Hedingham, and report his safety to his father and mother. "You will do very well here, Master Geoffrey," he said. "You are quite at home with all the Spaniards, and it will not be very long before you speak the language so well that, except for your name, none would take you for a foreigner. You have found work to do, and are really better off here than you would be starving and fighting in Holland. Besides," he said with a sly wink, "there are other attractions for you. Juan Mendez treats you as a son, and the señorita knows that she owes everything to you. You might do worse than settle here for life. Like enough you will see me back again in six months' time, for if I see no chance of slipping off and reaching one of the islands held by the bucaneers, I shall perforce return in the ship I go out in." At parting Señor Mendez bestowed a bag containing five hundred gold pieces upon Stephen Boldero as a reward for the service he had rendered him. Geoffrey missed him greatly. For eighteen months they had been constantly together, and it was the sailor's companionship and cheerfulness that had lightened the first days of his captivity; and had it not been for his advice and support he might now have been tugging at an oar in the bey's corsair galley. Ever since they had been at Cadiz he had daily spent an hour or two in his society; for when work was done they generally went for a walk together on the fortifications, and talked of England and discussed the possibility of escape. After his departure he was thrown more than before into the society of the merchant and his daughter. The feeling that Dolores had, when he first saw her, excited within him had changed its character. She was very pretty now that she had recovered her life and spirits, and she made no secret of the deep feeling of gratitude she entertained towards him. One day, three months after Stephen's departure, Señor Mendez, when they were alone together, broached the subject on which his thoughts had been turned so much of late. "Friend Geoffrey," he said, "I think that I am not mistaken in supposing that you have an affection for Dolores. I have marked its growth, and although I would naturally have rather bestowed her upon a countryman, yet I feel that you have a right to her as having saved her from the horrible fate that would have undoubtedly befallen her, and that it is not for me, to whom you have restored her, besides saving my own life, to offer any objection. As to her feelings, I have no doubt whatever. Were you of my religion and race, such a match would afford me the greatest happiness. As it is I regret it only because I feel that some day or other it will lead to a separation from me. It is natural that you should wish to return to your own country, and as this war cannot go on for ever, doubtless in time some opportunity for doing so will arrive. This I foresee and must submit to, but if there is peace I shall be able occasionally to visit her in her home in England. I naturally hope that it will be long before I shall thus lose her. She is my only child, and I shall give as her dower the half of my business, and you will join me as an equal partner. When the war is over you can, if you wish, establish yourself in London, and thence carry on and enlarge the English and Dutch trade of our house. I may even myself settle there. I have not thought this over at present, nor is there any occasion to do so. I am a wealthy man and there is no need for me to continue in business, and I am not sure when the time comes I shall not prefer to abandon my country rather than be separated from my daughter. At any rate for the present I offer you her hand and a share in my business." Geoffrey expressed in suitable terms the gratitude and delight he felt at the offer. It was contrary to Spanish notions that he should receive from Dolores in private any assurance that the proposal in which she was so largely concerned was one to which she assented willingly, but her father at once fetched her in and formally presented her to Geoffrey as his promised wife, and a month later the marriage was solemnized at the church of St. Dominic.

18

IVRY.

The day after the capture of Breda Sir Francis Vere sent for Lionel Vickars to his quarters. Prince Maurice and several of his principal officers were there, and the prince thanked him warmly for the share he had taken in the capture of the town. "Captain Heraugière has told me," he said, "that the invention of the scheme that has ended so well is due as much to you as to him, that you accompanied him on the reconnoitring expedition and shared in the dangers of the party in the barge. I trust Sir Francis Vere will appoint you to the first ensigncy vacant in his companies, but should there be likely to be any delay in this I will gladly give you a commission in one of my own regiments." "I have forestalled your wish, prince," Sir Francis said, "and have this morning given orders that his appointment shall be made out as ensign in one of my companies, but at present I do not intend him to join. I have been ordered by the queen to send further aid to help the King of France against the League. I have already despatched several companies to Brittany, and will now send two others. I would that my duties permitted me personally to take part in the enterprise, for the battle of the Netherlands is at present being fought on the soil of France; but this is impossible. Several of my friends, however, volunteers and others, will journey with the two companies, being desirous of fighting under the banner of Henry of Navarre. Sir Ralph Pimpernel, who is married to a French Huguenot lady and has connections at the French court, will lead them. I have spoken to him this morning, and he will gladly allow my young friend here to accompany him, I think that it is the highest reward I can give him, to afford him thus an opportunity of seeing stirring service; for I doubt not that in a very short time a great battle will be fought. We know that Alva has sent eighteen hundred of the best cavalry of Flanders to aid the League, and he is sure to have given orders that they are to be back again as soon as possible. How do you like the prospect, Lionel?" Lionel warmly expressed his thanks to Sir Francis Vere for his kindness, and said that nothing could delight him more than to take part in such an enterprise. "I must do something at any rate to prove my gratitude for your share in the capture of this city," Prince Maurice said; "and will send you presently two of the best horses of those we have found in the governor's stables, together with arms and armour suitable to your rank as an officer of Sir Francis Vere." Upon the following morning a party of ten knights and gentlemen, including Lionel Vickars, rode to Bergen-op-Zoom. The two companies, which were drawn from the garrison of that town, had embarked the evening before in ships that had come from England to transport them to France. Sir Ralph Pimpernel and his party at once went on board, and as soon as their horses were embarked the sails were hoisted. Four days' voyage took them to the mouth of the Seine, and they landed at Honfleur on the south bank of the river. There was a large number of ships in port, for the Protestant princes of Germany were, as well as England, sending aid to Henry of Navarre, and numbers of gentlemen and volunteers were flocking to his banners. For the moment Henry IV. represented in the eyes of Europe the Protestant cause. He was supported by the Huguenots of France and by some of the Catholic noblemen and gentry. Against him were arrayed the greater portion of the Catholic nobles, the whole faction of the Guises and the Holy League, supported by Philip of Spain. The party from Holland disembarked at mid-day on the 9th of March. Hearing rumours that a battle was expected very shortly to take place, Sir Ralph Pimpernel started at once with his mounted party for Dreux, which town was being besieged by Henry, leaving the two companies of foot to press on at their best speed behind him. The distance to be ridden was about sixty miles, and late at night on the 10th they rode into a village eight miles from Dreux. Here they heard that the Duke of Mayenne, who commanded the force of the League, was approaching the Seine at Mantes with an army of ten thousand foot and four thousand horse. "We must mount at daybreak, gentlemen," Sir Ralph Pimpernel said, "or the forces of the League will get between us and the king. It is evident that we have but just arrived in time, and it is well we did not wait for our foot-men." The next morning they mounted early and rode on to the royal camp near Dreux. Here Sir Ralph Pimpernel found Marshal Biron, a relation of his wife, who at once took him to the king. "You have just arrived in time, Sir Ralph," the king said when Marshal Biron introduced him, "for to-morrow, or at latest the day after, we are likely to try our strength with Mayenne. You will find many of your compatriots here. I can offer you but poor hospitality at present, but hope to entertain you rarely some day when the good city of Paris opens its gates to us." "Thanks, sire," Sir Ralph replied; "but we have come to fight and not to feast." "I think I can promise you plenty of that at any rate," the king said. "You have ten gentlemen with you, I hear, and also that there are two companies of foot from Holland now on their way up from Honfleur." "They landed at noon the day before yesterday, sire, and will probably be up to-morrow." "They will be heartily welcome, Sir Ralph. Since Parma has sent so large a force to help Mayenne it is but right that Holland, which is relieved of the presence of these troops, should lend me a helping hand." Quarters were found for the party in a village near the camp; for the force was badly provided with tents, the king's resources being at a very low ebb; he maintained the war, indeed, chiefly by the loans he received from England and Germany. The next day several bodies of troops were seen approaching the camp. A quarter of an hour later the trumpets blew; officers rode about, ordering the tents to be levelled and the troops to prepare to march. A messenger from Marshal Biron rode at full speed into the village, where many of the volunteers from England and Germany, besides the party of Sir Ralph Pimpernel, were lodged. "The marshal bids me tell you, gentlemen, that the army moves at once. Marshal D'Aumont has fallen back from Ivry; Mayenne is advancing. The siege will be abandoned at present, and we march towards Nonancourt, where we shall give battle to-morrow if Mayenne is disposed for it." The camps were struck and the waggons loaded, and the army marched to St. André, a village situated on an elevated plain commanding a view of all the approaches from the country between the Seine and Eure. "This is a fine field for a battle," Sir Ralph said, as the troops halted on the ground indicated by the camp-marshals. "It is splendid ground for cavalry to act, and it is upon them the brunt of the fighting will fall We are a little stronger in foot; for several companies from Honfleur, our own among them, have come up this morning, and I hear we muster twelve thousand, which is a thousand more than they say Mayenne has with him. But then he has four thousand cavalry to our three thousand; and Parma's regiments of Spaniards, Walloons, and Italian veterans are far superior troops to Henry's bands of riders, who are mostly Huguenot noblemen and gentlemen, with their armed retainers, tough and hardy men to fight, as they have shown themselves on many a field, but without any of the discipline of Parma's troopers. "If Parma himself commanded yonder army I should not feel confident of the result; but Mayenne, though a skilful general, is slow and cautious, while Henry of Navarre is full of fire and energy, and brave almost to rashness. We are to muster under the command of the king himself. He will have eight hundred horse, formed into six squadrons, behind him, and upon these will, I fancy, come the chief shock of the battle. He will be covered on each side by the English and Swiss infantry; in all four thousand strong. "Marshal Biron will be on the right with five troops of horse and four regiments of French infantry; while on the left will be the troops of D'Aumont, Montpensier, Biron the younger, D'Angoulême, and De Givry, supported in all by two regiments of French infantry, one of Swiss, and one of German. The marshal showed us the plan of battle last night in his tent. It is well balanced and devised." It was late in the evening before the whole of the force had reached the position and the tents were erected. One of these had been placed at the disposal of Sir Ralph's party. Sir Ralph and four of his companions had been followed by their mounted squires, and these collected firewood, and supplied the horses with forage from the sacks they carried slung from their saddles, while the knights and gentlemen themselves polished up their arms and armour, so as to make as brave a show as possible in the ranks of the king's cavalry. When they had eaten their supper Lionel Vickars strolled through the camp, and was amused at the contrast presented by the various groups. The troops of cavalry of the French nobles were gaily attired; the tents of the officers large and commodious, with rich hangings and appointments. The sound of light-hearted laughter came from the groups round the camp-fires, squires and pages moved about thickly, and it was evident that comfort, and indeed luxury, were considered by the commanders as essential even upon a campaign. The encampments of the German, Swiss, and English infantry were of far humbler design. The tents of the officers were few in number, and of the simplest form and make. A considerable portion of the English infantry had been drawn from Holland, for the little army there was still the only body of trained troops at Elizabeth's disposal. The Swiss and Germans were for the most part mercenaries. Some had been raised at the expense of the Protestant princes, others were paid from the sums supplied from England. The great proportion of the men were hardy veterans who had fought under many banners, and cared but little for the cause in which they were fighting, provided they obtained their pay regularly and that the rations were abundant and of good quality. The French infantry regiments contained men influenced by a variety of motives. Some were professional soldiers who had fought in many a field during the long wars that had for so many years agitated France, others were the retainers of the nobles who had thrown in their cause with Henry, while others again were Huguenot peasants who were fighting, not for pay, but in the cause of their religion. The cavalry were for the most part composed of men of good family, relations, connections, or the superior vassals of the nobles who commanded or officered them. The king's own squadrons were chiefly composed of Huguenot gentlemen and their mounted retainers; but with these rode many foreign volunteers like Sir Ralph Pimpernel's party, attracted to Henry's banner either from a desire to aid the Protestant cause or to gain military knowledge and fame under so brave and able a monarch, or simply from the love of excitement and military ardour. The camp of this main body of cavalry or "battalia," as the body on whom the commander of our army chiefly relied for victory was called, was comparatively still and silent. The Huguenot gentlemen, after the long years of persecution to which those of their religion had been exposed, were for the most part poor. Their appointments were simple, and they fought for conscience' sake, and went into battle with the stern enthusiasm that afterwards animated Cromwell's Ironsides. It was not long before the camp quieted down; for the march had been a long one, and they would be on their feet by daybreak The king himself, attended by Marshals D'Aumont and Biron, had gone through the whole extent of the camp, seen that all was in order, that the troops had everywhere received their rations, and that the officers were acquainted with the orders for the morrow. He stayed a short time in the camp of each regiment and troop, saying a few words of encouragement to the soldiers, and laughing and joking with the officers. He paused a short time and chatted with Sir Ralph Pimpernel, who, at his request, introduced each of his companions to him. Lionel looked with interest and admiration at the man who was regarded as the champion of Protestantism against Popery, and who combined in himself a remarkable mixture of qualities seldom found existing in one person. He was brave to excess and apparently reckless in action, and yet astute, prudent, and calculating in council. With a manner frank, open, and winning, he was yet able to match the craftiest of opponents at their own weapons of scheming and duplicity. The idol of the Huguenots of France, he was ready to purchase the crown of France at the price of accepting the Catholic doctrines, for he saw that it was hopeless for him in the long run to maintain himself against the hostility of almost all the great nobles of France, backed by the great proportion of the people and aided by the pope and the Catholic powers, so long as he remained a Protestant. But this change of creed was scarcely even foreseen by those who followed him, and it was the apparent hopelessness of his cause, and the gallantry with which he maintained it, that attracted the admiration of Europe. Henry's capital was at the time garrisoned by the troops of the pope and Spain. The great nobles of France, who had long maintained a sort of semi-independence of the crown, were all against him, and were calculating on founding independent kingdoms. He himself was excommunicated. The League were masters of almost the whole of France, and were well supplied with funds by the pope and the Catholic powers, while Henry was entirely dependent for money upon what he could borrow from Queen Elizabeth and the States of Holland. But no one who listened to the merry laugh of the king as he chatted with the little group of English gentlemen would have thought that he was engaged in a desperate and well-nigh hopeless struggle, and that the following day was to be a decisive one as to his future fortunes. "Well, gentlemen," he said as he turned his horse to ride away, "I must ask you to lie down as soon as possible. As long as the officers are awake and talking the men cannot sleep; and I want all to have a good night's rest. The enemy's camp is close at hand, and the battle is sure to take place at early dawn." As the same orders were given everywhere, the camp was quiet early, and before daylight the troops were called under arms and ranged in the order appointed for them to fight in. The army of the League was astir in equally good time. In its centre was the battalia, composed of six hundred splendid cavalry, all noblemen of France, supported by a column of three hundred Swiss and two thousand French infantry. On the left were six hundred French cuirassiers and the eighteen hundred troops of Parma, commanded by Count Egmont. They were supported by six regiments of French and Lorrainers, and two thousand Germans. The right wing was composed of three regiments of Spanish lancers, two troops of Germans, four hundred cuirassiers, and four regiments of infantry. When the sun rose and lighted up the contending armies, the difference between their appearance was very marked. That of the League was gay with the gilded armour, waving plumes, and silken scarfs of the French nobles, whose banners fluttered brightly in the air, while the Walloons and Flemish rivalled their French comrades in the splendour of their appointments. In the opposite ranks there was neither gaiety nor show. The Huguenot nobles and gentlemen, who had for so many years been fighting for life and religion, were clad in armour dinted in a hundred battle-fields; and while the nobles of the League were confident of victory, and loud in demanding to be led against the foe, Henry of Navarre and his soldiers were kneeling, praying to the God of battles to enable them to bear themselves well in the coming fight. Henry of Navarre wore in his helmet a snow-white plume, which he ordered his troops to keep in view, and to follow wherever they should see it waving, in case his banner went down. Artillery still played but a small part in battles on the field, and there were but twelve pieces on the ground, equally divided between the two armies. These opened the battle, and Count Egmont, whose cavalry had suffered from the fire of the Huguenot cannon, ordered a charge, and the splendid cavalry of Parma swept down upon the right wing of Henry. The cavalry under Marshal Biron were unable to withstand the shock and were swept before them, and Egmont rode on right up to the guns and sabred the artillerymen. Almost at the same moment the German riders under Eric of Brunswick, the Spanish and French lancers, charged down upon the centre of the Royal Army. The rout of the right wing shook the cavalry in the centre. They wavered, and the infantry on their flanks fell back, but the king and his officers rode among them, shouting and entreating them to stand firm. The ground in their front was soft and checked the impetuosity of the charge of the Leaguers, and by the time they reached the ranks of the Huguenots they were broken and disordered, and could make no impression whatever upon them. As soon as the charge was repulsed, Henry set his troops in motion, and the battalia charged down upon the disordered cavalry of the League. The lancers and cuirassiers were borne down by the impetuosity of the charge, and Marshal Biron, rallying his troops, followed the king's white plume into the heart of the battle. Egmont brought up the cavalry of Flanders to the scene, and was charging at their head when he fell dead with a musket-ball through the heart. Brunswick went down in the fight, and the shattered German and Walloon horse were completely overthrown and cut to pieces by the furious charges of the Huguenot cavalry. At one time the victorious onset was checked by the disappearance of the king's snow-white plumes, and a report ran through the army that the king was killed. They wavered irresolutely. The enemy, regaining courage from the cessation of their attacks, were again advancing, when the king reappeared bareheaded and covered with dust and blood, but entirely unhurt. He addressed a few cheerful words to his soldiers, and again led a charge. It was irresistible; the enemy broke and fled in the wildest confusion hotly pursued by the royalist cavalry, while the infantry of the League, who had so far taken no part whatever in the battle, were seized with a panic, threw away their arms, and sought refuge in the woods in their rear. Thus the battle was decided only by the cavalry, the infantry taking no part in the fight on either side. Eight hundred of the Leaguers either fell on the battle-field or were drowned in crossing the river in their rear. The loss of the royalists was but one-fourth that number. Had the king pushed forward upon Paris immediately after the battle, the city would probably have surrendered without a blow; and the Huguenot leaders urged this course upon him. Biron and the other Catholics, however, argued that it was better to undertake a regular siege, and the king yielded to this advice, although the bolder course would have been far more in accordance with his own disposition. He was probably influenced by a variety of motives. In the first place his Swiss mercenaries were in a mutinous condition, and refused to advance a single foot unless they received their arrears of pay, and this Henry, whose chests were entirely empty, had no means of providing. In the second place he was at the time secretly in negotiation with the pope for his conversion, and may have feared to give so heavy a blow to the Catholic cause as would have been effected by the capture of Paris following closely after the victory of Ivry. At any rate he determined upon a regular siege. Moving forward he seized the towns of Lagny on the Marne, and Corbeil on the Seine, thus entirely cutting off the food supply of Paris. Lionel Vickars had borne his part in the charges of the Huguenot cavalry, but as the company to which he belonged was in the rear of the battalia, he had no personal encounters with the enemy. After the advance towards Paris the duties of the cavalry consisted entirely in scouting the country, sweeping in provisions for their own army, and preventing supplies from entering Paris. No siege operations were undertaken, the king relying upon famine alone to reduce the city. Its population at the time the siege commenced was estimated at 400,000, and the supply of provisions to be sufficient for a month. It was calculated therefore that before the League could bring up another army to its relief, it must fall by famine. But no allowance had been made for the religious enthusiasm and devotion to the cause of the League that animated the population of Paris. Its governor, the Duke of Nemours, brother of Mayenne, aided by the three Spanish delegates, the Cardinal Gaetano, and by an army of priests and monks, sustained the spirits of the population; and though the people starved by thousands, the city resisted until towards the end of August. In that month the army of the League, united with twelve thousand foot and three thousand horse from the Netherlands under Parma himself, advanced to its assistance; while Maurice of Holland, with a small body of Dutch troops and reinforcements from England, had strengthened the army of the king. The numbers of the two armies were not unequal. Many of the French nobles had rallied round Henry after his victory, and of his cavalry four thousand were nobles and their retainers who served at their own expense, and were eager for a battle. Parma himself had doubts as to the result of the conflict. He could rely upon the troops he himself had brought, but had no confidence in those of the League; and when Henry sent him a formal challenge to a general engagement, Parma replied that it was his custom to refuse a combat when a refusal seemed advantageous for himself, and to offer battle whenever it suited his purpose to fight. For seven days the two armies, each some twenty-five thousand strong, lay within a mile or two of each other. Then the splendid cavalry of Parma moved out in order of battle, with banners flying, and the pennons of the lances fluttering in the wind. The king was delighted when he saw that the enemy were at last advancing to the fight. He put his troops at once under arms, but waited until the plan of the enemy's battle developed itself before making his dispositions. But while the imposing array of cavalry was attracting the king's attention, Parma moved off with the main body of his army, threw a division across the river on a pontoon bridge, and attacked Lagny on both sides. When Lagny was first occupied some of Sir Ralph Pimpernel's party were appointed to take up their quarters there, half a company of the English, who had come with them from Holland, were also stationed in the town, the garrison being altogether 1200 strong. Lionel's horse had received a bullet wound at Ivry, and although it carried him for the next day or two, it was evident that it needed rest and attention, and would be unfit to carry his rider for some time. Lionel had no liking for the work of driving off the cattle of the unfortunate landowners and peasants, however necessary it might be to keep the army supplied with food, and was glad of the excuse that his wounded horse afforded him for remaining quietly in the town when his comrades rode out with the troop of cavalry stationed there. It happened that the officer in command of the little body of English infantry was taken ill with fever, and Sir Ralph Pimpernel requested Lionel to take his place. This he was glad to do, as he was more at home at infantry work than with cavalry. The time went slowly, but Lionel, who had comfortable quarters in the house of a citizen, did not find it long. The burgher's family consisted of his wife and two daughters, and these congratulated themselves greatly upon having an officer quartered upon them who not only acted as a protection to them against the insolence of the rough soldiery, but was courteous and pleasant in his manner, and tried in every way to show that he regarded himself as a guest and not a master. After the first week's stay he requested that instead of having his meals served to him in a room apart he might take them with the family. The girls were about Lionel's age, and after the first constraint wore off he became great friends with them; and although at first he had difficulty in making himself understood, he rapidly picked up a little French, the girls acting as his teachers. "What do you English do here?" the eldest of them asked him when six weeks after his arrival they were able to converse fairly in a mixture of French and Spanish. "Why do you not leave us French people to fight out our quarrels by ourselves?" "I should put it the other way," Lionel laughed. "Why don't you French people fight out your quarrels among yourselves instead of calling in foreigners to help you? It is because the Guises and the League have called in the Spaniards to fight on the Catholic side that the English and Dutch have come to help the Huguenots. We are fighting the battle of our own religion here, not the battle of Henry of Navarre." "I hate these wars of religion," the girl said. "Why can we not all worship in our own way?" "Ah, that is what we Protestants want to know, Mademoiselle Claire; that is just what your people won't allow. Did you not massacre the Protestants In France on the eve of St. Bartholomew? and have not the Spaniards been for the last twenty years trying to stamp out with fire and sword the new religion in the Low Countries? We only want to be left alone." "But your queen of England kills the Catholics." "Not at all," Lionel said warmly; "that is only one of the stories they spread to excuse their own doings. It is true that Catholics in England have been put to death, and so have people of the sect that call themselves Anabaptists; but this has been because they had been engaged in plots against the queen, and not because of their religion. The Catholics of England for the most part joined as heartily as the Protestants in the preparations for the defence of England in the time of the Armada. For my part, I cannot understand why people should quarrel with each other because they worship God in different ways." "It is all very bad, I am sure," the girl said; "France has been torn to pieces by these religious wars for years and years. It is dreadful to think what they must be suffering in Paris now." "Then why don't they open their gates to King Henry instead of starving themselves at the orders of the legate of the pope and the agent of Philip of Spain? I could understand if there was another French prince whom they wanted as king instead of Henry of Navarre. We fought for years in England as to whether we would have a king from the house of York or the house of Lancaster, but when it comes to choosing between a king of your own race and a king named for you by Philip of Spain, I can't understand it." "Never mind, Master Vickars. You know what you are fighting for, don't you?" "I do; I am fighting here to aid Holland. Parma is bringing all his troops to aid the Guises here, and while they are away the Dutch will take town after town, and will make themselves so strong that when Parma goes back he will find the nut harder than ever to crack." "How long will Paris hold out, think you, Master Vickars? They say that provisions are well-nigh spent." "Judging from the way in which the Dutch towns held on for weeks and weeks after, as it seemed, all supplies were exhausted, I should say that if the people of Paris are as ready to suffer rather than yield as were the Dutch burghers, they may hold on for a long time yet It is certain that no provisions can come to them as long as we hold possession of this town, and so block the river." "But if the armies of Parma and the League come they may drive you away, Master Vickars." "It is quite possible, mademoiselle; we do not pretend to be invincible, but I think there will be some tough fighting first." As the weeks went on Lionel Vickars came to be on very intimate terms with the family. The two maid-servants shared in the general liking for the young officer. He gave no more trouble than if he were one of the family, and on one or two occasions when disturbances were caused by the ill-conduct of the miscellaneous bands which constituted the garrison, he brought his half company of English soldiers at once into the house, and by his resolute attitude prevented the marauders from entering. When Parma's army approached Sir Ralph Pimpernel with the cavalry joined the king, but Lionel shared in the disappointment felt by all the infantry of the garrison of Lagny that they could take no share in the great battle that was expected. Their excitement rose high while the armies lay watching each other. From the position of the town down by the river neither army was visible from its walls, and they only learned when occasional messengers rode in how matters were going on. One morning Lionel was awoke by a loud knocking at his door. "What is it?" he shouted, as he sat up in bed. "It is I--Timothy Short, Master Vickars. The sergeant has sent me to wake you in all haste. The Spaniards have stolen a march upon us. They have thrown a bridge across the river somewhere in the night, and most all their army stands between us and the king, while a division are preparing to besiege the town on the other side." Lionel was hastily throwing on his clothes and arming himself while the man was speaking. "Tell the sergeant," he said, "to get the men under arms. I will be with him in a few minutes." When Lionel went out he found that the household was already astir. "Go not out fasting," his host said. "Take a cup of wine and some food before you start. You may be some time before you get an opportunity of eating again if what they say is true." "Thank you heartily," Lionel replied as he sat down to the table, on which some food had already been placed; "it is always better to fight full than fasting." "Hark you!" the bourgeois said in his ear; "if things go badly with you make your way here. I have a snug hiding-place, and I shall take refuge there with my family if the Spaniards capture the town. I have heard of their doings in Holland, and that when they capture a town they spare neither age nor sex, and slay Catholics as well as Protestants; therefore I shall take refuge till matters have quieted down and order is restored. I shall set to work at once to carry my valuables there, and a goodly store of provisions. My warehouseman will remain in charge above. He is faithful and can be trusted, and he will tell the Spaniards that I am a good Catholic, and lead them to believe that I fled with my family before the Huguenots entered the town." "Thank you greatly," Lionel replied; "should the need arise I will take advantage of your kind offer. But it should not do so. We have twelve hundred men here, and half that number of citizens have kept the Spaniards at bay for months before towns no stronger than this in Holland. We ought to be able to defend ourselves here for weeks, and the king will assuredly come to our relief in two or three days at the outside." Upon Lionel sallying out he found the utmost confusion and disorder reigning. The commandant was hurriedly assigning to the various companies composing the garrison their places upon the walls. Many of the soldiers were exclaiming that they had been betrayed, and that it were best to make terms with the Spaniards at once. The difference between the air of quiet resolution that marked the conduct of the people and troops at Sluys and the excitement manifested here struck Lionel unpleasantly. The citizens all remained in their houses, afraid lest the exultation they felt at the prospect of deliverance would be so marked as to enrage the soldiery. Lionel's own company was standing quietly and in good order in the market-place, and as soon as he received orders as to the point that he should occupy on the walls Lionel marched them away. In half an hour the Spanish batteries, which had been erected during the night, opened fire upon several points of the walls. The town was ill provided with artillery, and the answer was feeble, and before evening several breaches had been effected, two of the gates blown in, and the Spaniards advanced to the assault. Lionel and his company, with one composed of Huguenot gentlemen and their retainers and another of Germans, defended the gate at which they were posted with great bravery, and succeeded in repulsing the attacks of the Spaniards time after time. The latter pressed forward in heavy column, only to recoil broken and shattered from the archway, which was filled high with their dead. The defenders had just succeeded in repulsing the last of these attacks, when some soldiers ran by shouting "All is lost, the Spaniards have entered the town at three points!" The German company at once disbanded and scattered. The Huguenot noble said to Lionel: "I fear that the news is true; listen to the shouts and cries in the town behind us. I will march with my men and see if there is any chance of beating back the Spaniards; if not it were best to lay down our arms and ask for quarter. Will you try to hold this gate until I return?" "I will do so," Lionel said; "but I have only about thirty men left, and if the Spaniards come on again we cannot hope to repulse them." "If I am not back in ten minutes it will be because all is lost," the Huguenot said; "and you had then best save yourself as you can." But long before the ten minutes passed crowds of fugitives ran past, and Lionel learned that great numbers of the enemy had entered, and that they were refusing quarter and slaying all they met. "It is useless to stay here longer to be massacred," he said to his men. "I should advise you to take refuge in the churches, leaving your arms behind you as you enter. It is evident that further resistance is useless, and would only cost us our lives. The Spaniards are twenty to one, and it is evident that all hope of resistance is at an end." The men were only too glad to accept the advice, and, throwing down their arms, hurried away. Lionel sheathed his sword, and with the greatest difficulty made his way through the scene of wild confusion to the house where he had lodged. The doors of most of the houses were fast closed, and the inhabitants wore hurling down missiles of all kinds from the upper windows upon their late masters. The triumphant shouts of the Spaniards rose loud in the air, mingled with despairing cries and the crack of firearms. Lionel had several narrow escapes from the missiles thrown from the windows and roofs, but reached the house of the merchant safely. The door was half opened. "Thanks be to heaven that you have come. I had well-nigh given you up, and in another minute should have closed the door. The women are all below, but I waited until the last minute for you." Barring the door Lionel's host led the way downstairs into a great cellar, which served as a warehouse, and extended under the whole house. He made his way through the boxes and bales to the darkest corner of the great cellar. Here he pulled up a flag and showed another narrow stair, at the bottom of which a torch was burning. Bidding Lionel descend he followed him, lowered the flag behind him, and then led the way along a narrow passage, at the end of which was a door. Opening it Lionel found himself in an arched chamber. Two torches were burning, and the merchant's wife and daughters and the two female domestics were assembled. There was a general exclamation of gladness as Lionel entered. "We have been greatly alarmed," the mercer's wife said, "lest you should not be able to gain the house, Master Vickars; for we heard that the Spaniards are broken in at several points." "It was fortunately at the other end of the town to that at which I was stationed," Lionel said; "and I was just in time. You have a grand hiding-place here. It looks like the crypt of a church." "That is just what it is," the mercer said. "It was the church of a monastery that stood here a hundred years ago. The monks then moved into a grander place in Paris, and the monastery and church which adjoined our house were pulled down and houses erected upon the site. My grandfather, knowing of the existence of the crypt, thought that it might afford a rare hiding-place in case of danger, and had the passage driven from his cellar into it. Its existence could never be suspected; for as our cellar extends over the whole of our house, as can easily be seen, none would suspect that there was a hiding-place without our walls. There are three or four chambers as large as this. One of them is stored with all my choicest silks and velvets, another will serve as a chamber for you and me. I have enough provisions for a couple of months, and even should they burn the house down we are safe enough here."

19

STEENWYK.

Three days passed, and then a slight noise was heard as of the trap-door being raised. Lionel drew his sword. "It is my servant, no doubt," the merchant said, "he promised to come and tell me how things went as soon as he could get an opportunity to come down unobserved. We should hear more noise if it were the Spaniards." Taking a light he went along the passage, and returned immediately afterwards followed by his man; the latter had his head bound up, and carried his arm in a sling. An exclamation of pity broke from the ladies. "You are badly hurt, Jacques. What has happened?" "It is well it is no worse, mistress," he replied. "The Spaniards are fiends, and behaved as if they were sacking a city of Dutch Huguenots instead of entering a town inhabited by friends. For an hour or two they cut and slashed, pillaged and robbed. They came rushing into the shop, and before I could say a word one run me through the shoulder and another laid my head open. It was an hour or two before I came to my senses. I found the house turned topsy-turvy; everything worth taking had gone, and what was not taken was damaged. I tied up my head and arm as best I could, and then sat quiet in a corner till the din outside began to subside. The officers did their best, I hear, and at last got the men into order. Numbers of the townsfolk have been killed, and every one of the garrison was butchered. I tell you, mistress, it is better to have ten Huguenot armies in possession one after another than one Spanish force, though the latter come as friends and co-religionists. Well, as soon as things quieted down the soldiers were divided among the houses of the townsfolk, and we have a sergeant and ten men quartered above; but half an hour ago they were called away on some duty, and I took the opportunity to steal down here." "Have you told them that we were away, Jacques?" "No, monsieur; no one has asked me about it. They saw by the pictures and shrines that you were good Catholics, and after the first outburst they have left things alone. But if it is not too dreary for the ladies here, I should advise you to wait for a time and see how things go before you show yourselves." "That is my opinion too, Jacques. We can wait here for another two months if need be. Doubtless, unless the Huguenots show signs of an intention to attack the town, only a small garrison will be left here, and it may be that those in our house will be withdrawn." "Do you think it will be possible for me to make my escape, Jacques?" Lionel asked. "I should think so, sir. Ever since the Spaniards entered the town boats with provisions for Paris have been coming along in great numbers. From what I hear the soldiers say there is no chance of a battle at present, for the Huguenot army have drawn off to a distance, seeing that Paris is revictualled and that there is no chance of taking it. They say that numbers of the French lords with the Huguenot army have drawn off and are making for their homes. At any rate there is no fear of an attack here, and the gates stand open all day. Numbers of the townsfolk have been to Paris to see friends there, and I should say that if you had a disguise you could pass out easily enough." The question was discussed for some time. Lionel was very anxious to rejoin the army, and it was finally settled that Jacques should the next night bring him down a suit of his own clothes, and the first time the soldiers were all away should fetch him out, accompany him through the gates of the town, and act as his guide as far as he could. The next night Lionel received the clothes. Two days later Jacques came down early in the morning to say that the soldiers above had just gone out on duty. Lionel at once assumed his disguise, and with the heartiest thanks for the great service they had rendered him took his leave of the kind merchant and his family. Jacques was charged to accompany him as far as possible, and to set him well on his way towards the Huguenot army, for Lionel's small knowledge of French would be detected by the first person who accosted him. On going out into the street Lionel found that there were many peasants who had come in to sell fowls, eggs, and vegetables in the town, and he and Jacques passed without a question through the gates. Jacques had, the evening before, ascertained from the soldiers the position of Parma's army. A long detour had to be made, and it was two days before they came in sight of the tents of Henry's camp. They had observed the greatest precautions on their way, and had only once fallen in with a troop of Parma's cavalry. These had asked no questions, supposing that Jacques and his companion were making their way from Paris to visit their friends after the siege, there being nothing in their attire to attract attention, still less suspicion. The peasants they met on their way eagerly demanded news from Paris, but Jacques easily satisfied them by saying that they had had a terrible time, and that many had died of hunger, but that now that the river was open again better times had come. When within a couple of miles of the army Jacques said goodbye to Lionel, who would have rewarded him handsomely for his guidance, but Jacques would not accept money. "You are the master's guest," he said, "and you saved his house from plunder when your people were in possession. He and my mistress would never forgive me if I took money from you. I am well content in having been able to assist so kind a young gentleman." When Lionel arrived at the camp he soon found his way to Sir Ralph Pimpernel's tent, where he was received as one from the dead. There was no difficulty in providing himself again with armour and arms, for of these there were abundance--the spoils of Ivry--in the camp. When he was reclothed and rearmed Sir Ralph took him to the king's tent, and from him Henry learned for the first time the circumstances that had attended the capture of Lagny. "And so they put the whole garrison to the sword," the king said with indignation. "I will make any Spaniards that fall in my hands pay dearly for it!" Henry had indeed been completely out-generalled by his opponent. While he had been waiting with his army for a pitched battle Parma had invested Lagny, and there were no means of relieving it except by crossing the river in the face of the whole army of the enemy, an enterprise impossible of execution. As soon as Lagny had fallen provisions and ammunition were at once poured into Paris, two thousand boat-loads arriving in a single day. King Henry's army immediately fell to pieces. The cavalry having neither food nor forage rode off by hundreds every day, and in a week but two thousand out of his six thousand horse remained with him. The infantry also, seeing now no hope of receiving their arrears of pay, disbanded in large numbers, and after an unsuccessful attempt to carry Paris by a night attack, the king fell back with the remnant of his force. Corbeil was assaulted and captured by Parma, and the two great rivers of Paris were now open. If Parma could have remained with his army in France, the cause of Henry of Navarre would have been lost. But sickness was making ravages among his troops. Dissensions broke out between the Spaniards, Italians, and Netherlanders of his army and their French allies, who hated the foreigners, though they had come to their assistance. Lastly, his presence was urgently required in the Netherlands, where his work was as far from being done as ever. Therefore to the dismay of the Leaguers he started early in November on his march back. No sooner did he retire than the king took the field again, recaptured Lagny and Corbeil, and recommenced the siege of Paris, while his cavalry hung upon the rear and flanks of Parma's army and harassed them continually, until they crossed the frontier, where the duke found that affairs had not improved during his absence. Lionel had obtained permission to accompany the force which captured Lagny, and as soon as they entered the town hurried to the mercer's house. He found Jacques in possession, and learned that the family had weeks before left the crypt and reoccupied the house, but had again taken refuge there when the Huguenots attacked the town. Lionel at once went below, and was received with delight. He was now able to repay to some extent the obligations he had received from them, by protecting them from all interference by the new captors of the town, from whom the majority of the citizens received harsh treatment for the part they had taken in attacking the garrison when the Spaniards first entered. Prince Maurice's visit to the camp of Henry had been but a short one; and as soon as Parma had effected the relief of Paris, and there was no longer a chance of a great battle being fought, he returned to Holland, followed after the recapture of Lagny by Sir Ralph Pimpernel and the few survivors of his party, who were all heartily weary of the long period of inaction that had followed the victory at Ivry. They found that during their absence there had been little doing in the Netherlands, save that Sir Francis Vere, with a small body of English infantry and cavalry, had stormed some formidable works the Spaniards had thrown up to prevent relief being given to Recklinghausen, which they were besieging. He effected the relief of the town and drove off the besiegers. He then attacked and captured a fort on the bank of the Rhine, opposite the town of Wesel. At the end of the year 1590 there were, including the garrisons, some eight thousand English infantry and cavalry in Holland, and the year that followed was to see a great change in the nature of the war. The efforts of Prince Maurice to improve his army were to bear effect, and with the assistance of his English allies he was to commence an active offensive war, to astonish his foes by the rapidity with which he manoeuvred the new fighting machine he had created, and to commence a new departure in the tactics of war. In May he took the field, requesting Vere to co-operate with him in the siege of Zutphen. But Sir Francis determined in the first place to capture on his own account the Zutphen forts on the opposite side of the river, since these had been lost by the treachery of Roland Yorke. He dressed up a score of soldiers, some as peasants, others as countrywomen, and provided them with baskets of eggs and other provisions. At daybreak these went down by twos and threes to the Zutphen ferry, as if waiting to be taken across to the town; and while waiting for the boat to come across for them, they sat down near the gate of the fort. [Illustration: CROSSING THE BRIDGE OF BOATS OVER THE HAVEN.] A few minutes later a party of English cavalry were seen riding rapidly towards the fort. The pretended country people sprang to their feet, and with cries of alarm ran towards it for shelter. The gates were thrown open to allow them to enter. As they ran in they drew out the arms concealed under their clothes and overpowered the guard. The cavalry dashed up and entered the gate before the garrison could assemble, and the fort was captured. Vere at once began to throw up his batteries for the attack upon the town across the river, and the prince invested the city on the other side. So diligently did the besiegers work that before a week had passed after the surprise of the fort the batteries were completed, thirty-two guns placed in position, and the garrison, seeing there was no hope of relief, surrendered. On the very day of taking possession of the town, the allies, leaving a garrison there, marched against Deventer, seven miles down the river, and within five days had invested the place, and opened their batteries upon the weakest part of the town. A breach was effected, and a storm was ordered. A dispute arose between the English, Scotch, and Dutch troops as to who should have the honour of leading the assault. Prince Maurice decided in favour of the English, in order that they might have an opportunity of wiping out the stigma on the national honour caused by the betrayal of Deventer by the traitor Sir William Stanley. To reach the breach it was necessary to cross a piece of water called the Haven. Sir Francis Vere led the English across the bridge of boats which had been thrown over the water; but the bridge was too short. Some of the troops sprang over and pushed boldly for the breach, others were pushed over and drowned. Many of those behind stripped off their armour and swam across the Haven, supported by some Dutch troops who had been told off to follow the assaulting party. But at the breach they were met by Van der Berg, the governor, with seven companies of soldiers, and these fought so courageously that the assailants were unable to win their way up the breach, and fell back at last with a loss of two hundred and twenty-five men killed and wounded. While the assault was going on, the artillery of the besiegers continued to play upon other parts of the town, and effected great damage. On the following night the garrison endeavoured to capture the bridge across the Haven, but were repulsed with loss, and in the morning the place surrendered. The success of the patriots was due in no slight degree to the fact that Parma with the greatest part of his army was again absent in France, and the besieged towns had therefore no hope of assistance from without. The States now determined to seize the opportunity of capturing the towns held by the Spaniards in Friesland. The three principal towns in the possession of the Spaniards were Groningen, Steenwyk, and Coevorden. After capturing several less important places and forts Prince Maurice advanced against Steenwyk. But just as he was about to commence the siege he received pressing letters from the States to hurry south, as Parma was marching with his whole army to capture the fort of Knodsenburg, which had been raised in the previous autumn as a preparation for the siege of the important city of Nymegen. The Duke of Parma considered that he had ample time to reduce Knodsenburg before Prince Maurice could return to its assistance. Two great rivers barred the prince's return, and he would have to traverse the dangerous district called the Foul Meadow, and the great quagmire known as the Rouvenian Morass. But Prince Maurice had now an opportunity of showing the excellence of the army he had raised and trained. He received the news of Parma's advance on the 15th of July; two days later he was on the march south, and in five days had thrown bridges of boats across the two rivers, had crossed morass and swamp, and appeared in front of the Spanish army. One assault had already been delivered by the Spaniards against Knodsenburg, but this had been repulsed with heavy loss. As soon as the patriot army approached the neighbourhood, Parma's cavalry went out to drive in its skirmishers. Vere at once proposed to Prince Maurice to inflict a sharp blow upon the enemy, and with the approval of the prince marched with 1200 foot and 500 horse along the dyke which ran across the low country. Marching to a spot where a bridge crossed a narrow river he placed half his infantry in ambush there; the other half a quarter of a mile further back. Two hundred light cavalry were sent forward to beat up the enemy's outposts, and then retreat; the rest of the cavalry were posted in the rear of the infantry. Another dyke ran nearly parallel with the first, falling into it at some distance in the rear of Vere's position, and here Prince Maurice stationed himself with a body of horse and foot to cover Vere's retreat should he be obliged to fall back. About noon the light cavalry skirmished with the enemy and fell back, but were not followed. About half an hour later the scouts brought word that the Spaniards were at hand. Suddenly and without orders 800 of Maurice's cavalry galloped off to meet the enemy; but they soon came back again at full speed, with a strong force of Spanish cavalry in pursuit. Vere's infantry at once sallied out from their ambush among the trees, poured their fire into the enemy, and charged them with their pikes. The Spaniards turned to fly, when Vere's cavalry charged them furiously and drove them back in headlong rout to their own camp, taking a great number of prisoners, among them many officers of rank, and 500 horses. Parma finding himself thus suddenly in face of a superior army, with a rapid river in his rear, fell back across the Waal, and then proceeded to Spa to recruit his shattered health, leaving Verdugo, an experienced officer, in command. Instead of proceeding to besiege Nymegen, Maurice marched away as suddenly and quickly as before, and captured Hulst, on the borders of Zeeland and Brabant, a dozen miles only from Antwerp, and then turning again was, in three days, back at Nymegen, and had placed sixty-eight pieces of artillery in position. He opened fire on the 20th of October, and the next day the important city of Nymegen surrendered. This series of brilliant successes greatly raised the spirits of the Netherlanders, and proportionately depressed those of the Spaniards and their adherents. Parma himself was ill from annoyance and disappointment. The army with which he might have completed the conquest of the Netherlands had, in opposition to his entreaties and prayers, been frittered away by Philip's orders in useless expeditions in France, while the young and active generals of the Dutch and English armies were snatching town after town from his grasp, and consolidating the Netherlands, so recently broken up by Spanish strongholds, into a compact body, whose increasing wealth and importance rendered it every day a more formidable opponent. It is true that Parma had saved first Paris and afterwards Rouen for the League, but it was at the cost of loosening Philip's hold over the most important outpost of the Spanish dominions. In the following spring Parma was again forced to march into France with 20,000 men, and Maurice, as soon as the force started, prepared to take advantage of its absence. With 6000 foot and 2000 horse he again appeared at the end of May before Steenwyk. This town was the key to the province of Drenthe, and one of the safeguards of Friesland; it was considered one of the strongest fortresses of the time. Its garrison consisted of sixteen companies of foot and some cavalry, and 1200 Walloon infantry, commanded by Lewis, the youngest of the Counts de Berg, a brave lad of eighteen years of age. In this siege, for the first time, the spade was used by soldiers in the field. Hitherto the work had been considered derogatory to troops, and peasants and miners had been engaged for the work; but Prince Maurice had taught his soldiers that their duty was to work as well as fight, and they now proved the value of his teaching. The besieged made several successful sorties, and Sir Francis Vere had been severely wounded in the leg. The cannonade effected but little damage on the strong walls; but the soldiers, working night and day, drove mines under two of the principal bastions, and constructed two great chambers there; these were charged, one with five thousand pounds of powder, the other with half that quantity. On the 3d of July the mines were sprung. The bastion of the east gate was blown to pieces and the other bastion greatly injured, but many of the Dutch troops standing ready for the assault were also killed by the explosion. The storming parties, however, rushed forward, and the two bastions were captured. This left the town at the mercy of the besiegers. The next day the garrison surrendered, and were permitted to march away. Three hundred and fifty had been killed, among them young Count Lewis Van der Berg, and two hundred had been left behind, severely wounded, in the town. Between five and six hundred of the besiegers were killed during the course of the siege. The very day after the surrender of Steenwyk Maurice marched away and laid siege to Coevorden. This city, which was most strongly fortified, lay between two great swamps, between which there was a passage of about half a mile in width. Another of the Van der Bergs, Count Frederick, commanded the garrison of a thousand veterans. Verdugo sent to Parma and Mondragon for aid, but none could be sent to him, and the prince worked at his fortifications undisturbed. His force was weakened by the withdrawal of Sir Francis Vere with three of the English regiments, Elizabeth having sent peremptory orders that this force should follow those already withdrawn to aid Henry of Navarre in Brittany. Very unwillingly Vere obeyed, and marched to Doesburg on the Yssel. But a fortnight after he arrived there, while he was waiting for ships to transport him to Brittany the news came to him that Verdugo, having gathered a large force together, was about to attack Prince Maurice in his camp, and Vere at once started to the prince's aid. On the night of the 6th of September, Verdugo, with 4000 foot and 1800 cavalry, wearing their shirts outside their armour to enable them to distinguish each other in the dark, fell upon Maurice's camp. Fortunately the prince was prepared, having intercepted a letter from Verdugo to the governor of the town. A desperate battle took place, but at break of day, while its issue was still uncertain, Vere, who had marched all night, came up and threw himself into the battle. His arrival was decisive. Verdugo drew off with a loss of 300 killed, and five days later Coevorden surrendered, and Prince Maurice's army went into winter quarters. A few weeks later Parma died, killed by the burden Philip threw upon him, broken down by the constant disappointment of his hopes of carrying his work to a successful end, by the incessant interference of Philip with his plans, and by the anxiety caused by the mutinies arising from his inability to pay his troops, although he had borrowed to the utmost on his own possessions, and pawned even his jewels to keep them from starvation. He was undoubtedly the greatest commander of his age, and had he been left to carry out his own plans would have crushed out the last ember of resistance in the Netherlands and consolidated the power of Spain there. He was succeeded in his post by the Archduke Albert, but for a time Ernest Mansfeldt continued to command the army, and to manage the affairs in the Netherlands. In March, 1593, Prince Maurice appeared with his army in front of Gertruydenberg. The city itself was an important one, and its position on the Maas rendered it of the greatest use to the Spaniards, as through it they were at any moment enabled to penetrate into the heart of Holland. Gertruydenberg and Groningen, the capital of Friesland, were now, indeed, the only important places in the republic that remained in possession of the Spaniards. Hohenlohe with a portion of the army established himself to the east of the city, Maurice with its main body to the west. Two bridges constructed across the river Douge afforded a means of communication between two armies, and plank roads were laid across the swamps for the passage of baggage waggons. Three thousand soldiers laboured incessantly at the works, which were intended not only to isolate the city, but to defend the besiegers from any attack that might be made upon them by a relieving army. The better to protect themselves, miles of country were laid under water, and palisade work erected to render the country impregnable by cavalry. Ernest Mansfeldt did his best to relieve the town. His son, Count Charles, with five thousand troops, had been sent into France, but by sweeping up all the garrisons, he moved with a considerable army towards Gertruydenberg and challenged Maurice to issue out from his lines to fight him. But the prince had no idea of risking a certain success upon the issue of a battle. A hundred pieces of artillery on the batteries played incessantly on the town, while a blockading squadron of Zeeland ships assisted in the bombardment, and so terrible was the fire, that when the town was finally taken only four houses were found to have escaped injury. Two commandants of the place were killed one after the other, and the garrison of a thousand veterans, besides the burgher militia, was greatly reduced in strength. At last, after ninety days' siege, the town suddenly fell. Upon the 24th of June three Dutch captains were relieving guard in the trenches near the great north bastion of the town, when it occurred to them to scale the wall of the fort and see what was going on inside. They threw some planks across the ditch, and taking half a company of soldiers, climbed cautiously up. They obtained a foothold before the alarm was given. There was a fierce hand-to-hand struggle, and sixteen of the party fell, and nine of the garrison. The rest fled into the city. The Governor Gysant, rushing to the rescue without staying to put on his armour, was killed. Count Solms came from the besieging camp to investigate the sudden uproar, and to his profound astonishment was met by a deputation from the city asking for terms of surrender. Prince Maurice soon afterwards came up, and the terms of capitulation were agreed upon. The garrison were allowed to retire with side-arms and baggage, and fifty waggons were lent to them to carry off their wounded. In the following spring Coevorden, which had been invested by Verdugo, was relieved, and Groningen, the last great city of the Netherlands in the hands of the Spaniards, was besieged. Mines were driven under its principal bastion, and when these were sprung, after sixty-five days' siege, the city was forced to surrender. Thus for the first time, after years of warfare, Holland, Zeeland, and Friesland became truly united, and free from the grasp of the hated invader. Throughout the last three years of warfare Sir Francis Vere had proved an able assistant to the prince, and the English troops had fought bravely side by side with the Dutch; but their contingent had been but a small one, for the majority of Vere's force had, like that of the Spaniards, been withdrawn for service in France. The struggle in that country was nearly at an end. The conversion of Henry of Navarre for the second time to the Catholic religion had ranged many Catholics, who had hitherto been opposed to him, under his banner, while many had fallen away from the ranks of the League in disgust, when Philip of Spain at last threw off the mask of disinterestedness, and proposed his nephew the Archduke Ernest as king of France. In July, 1595, a serious misfortune befell the allied army. They had laid siege to Crolle, and had made considerable progress with the siege, when the Spanish army, under command of Mondragon, the aged governor of Antwerp, marched to its relief. As the army of Maurice was inferior in numbers, the States would not consent to a general action. The siege was consequently raised; and Mondragon having attained his object, fell back to a position on the Rhine at Orsoy, above Rheinberg, whence he could watch the movements of the allied army encamped on the opposite bank at Bislich, a few miles below Wesel. The Spanish army occupied both sides of the river, the wing on the right bank being protected from attack by the river Lippe, which falls into the Rhine at Wesel, and by a range of moorland hills called the Testerburg. The Dutch cavalry saw that the slopes of this hill were occupied by the Spaniards, but believed that their force consisted only of a few troops of horse. Young Count Philip of Nassau proposed that a body of cavalry should swim the Lippe, and attack and cut them off. Prince Maurice and Sir Francis Vere gave a very reluctant consent to the enterprise, but finally allowed him to take a force of five hundred men. With him were his brothers Ernest and Louis, his nephew Ernest de Solms, and many other nobles of Holland. Sir Marcellus Bacx was in command of them. The English contingent was commanded by Sir Nicholas Parker and Robert Vere. On August 22d they swam the Lippe and galloped in the direction where they expected to find two or three troops of Spanish horse; but Mondragon had received news of their intentions, and they suddenly saw before them half the Spanish army. Without hesitation the five hundred English and Dutch horsemen charged desperately into the enemy's ranks, and fought with extraordinary valour, until, altogether overpowered by numbers, Philip of Nassau and his nephew Ernest were both mortally wounded and taken prisoners. Robert Vere was slain by a lance-thrust in the face, and many other nobles and gentlemen fell. Thus died one of the three brave brothers, for the youngest, Horace, had also joined the army in 1590. The survivors of the band under Sir Nicholas Parker and Marcellus Bacx managed to effect their retreat, covered by a reserve Prince Maurice had posted on the opposite side of the river.

20

CADIZ.

In March, 1596, Sir Francis Vere returned to Holland. He had during his absence in England been largely taken into the counsels of Queen Elizabeth, and it had been decided that the war should be carried into the enemy's country, and a heavy blow struck at the power of Spain. Vere had been appointed to an important command in the proposed expedition, and had now come out charged with the mission of persuading the States-general to co-operate heartily with England, and to contribute both money and men. There was much discussion in the States; but they finally agreed to comply with the queen's wishes, considering that there was no surer way of bringing the war to a termination than to transport it nearer to the heart of the enemy. As soon as the matter was arranged, Sir Francis Vere left the Hague and went to Middleburg, where the preparations for the Dutch portion of the expedition were carried out. It consisted of twenty-two Dutch ships, under Count William of Nassau, and a thousand of the English troops in the pay of the States. The company commanded by Lionel Vickars was one of those chosen to accompany the expedition; and on the 22d of April it started from Flushing and joined the British fleet assembled at Dover. This was under the command of Lord Howard as lord-admiral, the Earl of Essex as general, Lord Thomas Howard as vice-admiral, and Sir Walter Raleigh as rear-admiral. Sir Francis Vere was lieutenant-general and lord-marshal. He was to be the chief adviser of the Earl of Essex, and to have the command of operations on shore. The ships of war consisted of the _Ark-Royal_, the _Repulse, Mere-Honour, War-Sprite, Rainbow, Mary, Rose, Dreadnought, Vanguard, Nonpareil, Lion, Swiftsure, Quittance_, and _Tremontaine_. There were also twelve ships belonging to London, and the twenty-two Dutch vessels. The fleet, which was largely fitted out at the private expense of Lord Howard and the Earl of Essex, sailed from Dover to Plymouth. Sir Francis Vere went by land, and set to work at the organization of the army. A month was thus spent, and on the 1st of June the fleet set sail. It carried 6360 soldiers and 1000 volunteers, and was manned by nearly 7000 sailors. There had been some dispute as to the relative ranks of Sir Francis Vere and Sir Walter Raleigh, and it was settled that Sir Francis should have precedence on shore, and Sir Walter Raleigh at sea. All on board the fleet were full of enthusiasm at the enterprise upon which they were embarked. It was eight years since the Spanish Armada had sailed to invade England; now an English fleet was sailing to attack Spain on her own ground. Things had changed indeed in that time. Spain, which had been deemed invincible, had suffered many reverses; while England had made great strides in power, and was now mistress of the seas, on which Spain had formerly considered herself to be supreme. A favourable wind from the north-east carried the fleet rapidly across the Bay of Biscay, and it proceeded on its way, keeping well out of sight of the coast of Portugal. The three fastest sailers of the fleet were sent on ahead as soon as they rounded Cape St. Vincent, with orders to capture all small vessels which might carry to Cadiz the tidings of the approach of the fleet. [Illustration] Early on the morning of the 20th June the fleet anchored off the spit of San Sebastian on the southern side of the city. Cadiz was defended by the fort of San Sebastian on one side and that of San Felipe on the other; while the fort of Pun tales, on the long spit of sand connecting the city with the mainland, defended the channel leading up to Puerto Real, and covered by its guns the Spanish galleys and ships of war anchored there. Lying off the town when the English fleet came in sight were forty richly-laden merchant ships about to sail for Mexico, under the convoy of four great men-of-war, two Lisbon galleons, two argosies, and three frigates. As soon as the English were seen, the merchant ships were ordered up the channel to Puerto Real, and the men-of-war and the fleet of seventeen war galleys were ranged under the guns of Fort Puntales to prevent the English passing up. It had first been decided to attempt a landing in the harbour of Galeta, on the south side of the city; but a heavy sea was setting in, and although the troops had been got into the boats they were re-embarked, and the fleet sailed round and anchored at the mouth of the channel leading up the bay. A council of war was held that night, and it was decided that the fleet should move up the bay with the tide next morning, and attack the Spanish fleet. The next morning at daybreak the ships got up their anchors and sailed up the channel, each commander vieing with the rest in his eagerness to be first in the fray. They were soon hotly engaged with the enemy; the fort, men-of-war, and galleys opening a heavy fire upon them, to which, anchoring as close as they could get to the foe, the English ships hotly responded. The galleys were driven closer in under the shelter of the fire of the fort, and the fire was kept up without intermission from six o'clock in the morning until four in the afternoon. By that time the Spaniards had had enough of it. The galleys slipped their cables and made sail for a narrow channel across the spit, covered by the guns of the fort. Three of them were captured by Sir John Wingfield in the _Vanguard_, but the rest got through the channel and escaped. The men-of-war endeavoured to run ashore, but boarding parties in boats from the _Ark-Royal_ and _Repulse_ captured two of them. The Spaniards set fire to the other two. The argosies and galleons were also captured. Sir Francis Vere at once took the command of the land operations. The boats were all lowered, and the regiments of Essex, Vere, Blount, Gerard, and Clifford told off as a landing party. They were formed in line. The Earl of Essex and Sir Francis Vere took their places in a boat in advance of the line, and were followed by smaller boats crowded with gentlemen volunteers. They landed between the fort of Puntales and the town. The regiments of Blount, Gerard, and Clifford were sent to the narrowest part of the spit to prevent reinforcements being thrown into the place; while those of Essex and Vere and the gentlemen volunteers turned towards Cadiz. Each of these parties consisted of about a thousand men. The walls of Cadiz were so strong that it had been intended to land guns from the fleet, raise batteries, and make a breach in the walls. Vere, however, perceiving some Spanish cavalry and infantry drawn up outside the walls, suggested to Essex that an attempt should be made to take the place by surprise. The earl at once agreed to the plan. Vere marched the force across to the west side of the spit, his movements being concealed by the sand-hills from the Spanish. Sir John Wingfield with two hundred men was ordered to march rapidly on against the enemy, driving in their skirmishers, and then to retreat hastily when the main body advanced against him. Three hundred men under Sir Matthew Morgan were posted as supports to Wingfield, and as soon as the latter's flying force joined them the whole were to fall upon the Spaniards and in turn chase them back to the walls, against which the main body under Essex and Vere were to advance. The orders were ably carried out. The Spaniards in hot chase of Wingfield found themselves suddenly confronted by Morgan's force, who fell upon them so furiously that they fled back to the town closely followed by the English. Some of the fugitives made their way in at the gates, which were hurriedly closed, while others climbed up at the bastions, which sloped sufficiently to afford foothold. Vere's troops from the Netherlands, led by Essex, also scaled the bastions and then an inner wall behind it. As soon as they had captured this they rushed through the streets, shooting and cutting down any who opposed them. Sir Francis Vere, who had also scaled the ramparts, knew that cities captured by assaults had often been lost again by the soldiers scattering. He therefore directed the rest of the troops to burst open the gate. This was with some difficulty effected, and he then marched them in good order to the market-place, where the Spaniards had rallied and were hotly engaged with Essex. The opposition was soon beaten down, and those defending the town-hall were forced to surrender. The troops were then marched through the town, and the garrison driven either into the convent of San Francisco or into the castle of Felipe. The convent surrendered on the same evening and the castle on the following day. The loss upon the part of the assailants was very small, but Sir John Wingfield was mortally wounded. The English behaved with the greatest courtesy to their captives, their conduct presenting an extraordinary contrast to that of the Spaniards under similar circumstance in the Netherlands. The women were treated with the greatest courtesy, and five thousand inhabitants, including women and priests, were allowed to leave the town with their clothes. The terms were that the city should pay a ransom of 520,000 ducats, and that some of the chief citizens should remain as hostages for payment. As soon as the fighting ceased, Lionel Vickars accompanied Sir Francis Vere through the streets to set guards, and see that no insult was offered to any of the inhabitants. As they passed along, the door of one of the mansions was thrown open. A gentleman hurried out; he paused for a moment, exclaiming, "Sir Francis Vere!" and then looking at Lionel rushed forward towards him with a cry of delight. Sir Francis Vere and Lionel stared in astonishment as the former's name was called; but at the sound of his own name Lionel fell back a step as if stupefied, and then with a cry of "Geoffrey!" fell into his brother's arms. "It is indeed Geoffrey Vickars!" Sir Francis Vere exclaimed. "Why, Geoffrey, what miracle is this? We have thought you dead these six years, and now we find you transmuted into a Spanish don." "I may look like one, Sir Francis," Geoffrey said as he shook his old commander's hand, "but I am English to the backbone still. But my story is too long to tell now. You will be doubtless too busy to-night to spare time to listen to it, but I pray you to breakfast with me in the morning, when I will briefly relate to you the outline of my adventures. Can you spare my brother for to-night, Sir Francis?" "I would do so were there ten times the work to be got through," Sir Francis replied. "Assuredly I would not keep asunder for a minute two brothers who have so long been separated. I will breakfast with you in the morning and hear this strange story of yours; for strange it must assuredly be, since it has changed my young page of the Netherlands into a Spanish hidalgo." "I am no hidalgo, Sir Francis, but a trader of Cadiz, and I own that although I have been in some way a prisoner, seeing that I could not effect my escape, I have not fared badly. Now, Lionel, come in. I have another surprise for you." Lionel, still confused and wonder-stricken at this apparent resurrection of his brother from the dead, followed him upstairs. Geoffrey led the way into a handsomely furnished apartment, where a young lady was sitting with a boy two years old in her lap. "Dolores, this is my brother Lionel, of whom you have so often heard me speak. Lionel, this is my wife and my eldest boy, who is named after you." It was some time before Lionel could completely realize the position, and it was not until Dolores in somewhat broken English bade him welcome that he found his tongue. "But I cannot understand it all!" he exclaimed, after responding to the words of Dolores. "I saw my brother in the middle of the battle with the Armada. We came into collision with a great galleon, we lost one of our masts, and I never saw Geoffrey afterwards; and we all thought that he had either been shot by the musketeers on the galleon, or had been knocked overboard and killed by the falling mast." "I had hoped that long before this you would have heard of my safety, Lionel, for a sailor friend of mine promised if he reached England to go down at once to Hedingham to tell them there. He left the ship he was in out in the West Indies, and I hoped had reached home safely." "We have heard nothing, Geoffrey. The man has never come with your message. But now tell me how you were saved." "I was knocked over by the mast, Lionel, but as you see I was not killed. I climbed up into a passing Spanish ship, and concealed myself in the chains until she was sunk, when I was, with many of the crew, picked up by the boats of other ships. I pretended to have lost my senses and my speech, and none suspected that I was English. The ship I was on board of was one of those which succeeded after terrible hardships in returning to Spain. An Irish gentleman on board her, to whom I confided my secret, took me as a servant. After many adventures I sailed with him for Italy, where we hoped to get a ship for England. On the way we were attacked by Barbary pirates. We beat them off, but I was taken prisoner. I remained a captive among them for nearly two years, and then with a fellow-prisoner escaped, together with Dolores and her father, who had also been captured by the pirates We reached Spain in safety, and I have since passed as one of the many exiles from England and Ireland who have taken refuge here; and Señor Mendez, my wife's father, was good enough to bestow her hand upon me, partly in gratitude for the services I had rendered him in his escape, partly because he saw she would break her heart if he refused." "You know that is not true, Geoffrey," Dolores interrupted. "Never mind, Dolores, it is near enough. And with his daughter," he continued, "he gave me a share in his business. I have been a fortunate man indeed, Lionel; but I have always longed for a chance to return home; until now none has ever offered itself, and I have grieved continually at the thought that my father and mother and you were mourning for me as dead. Now you have the outline of my story; tell me about all at home." "Our father and mother are both well, Geoffrey, though your supposed loss was a great blow for them. But is it still home for you, Geoffrey? Do you really mean to return with us." "Of course I do, Lionel. At the time I married I arranged with Señor Mendez that whenever an opportunity occurred I was to return home, taking, of course, Dolores with me. She has been learning English ever since, and although naturally she would rather that we remained here she is quite prepared to make her home in England. We have two boys, this youngster, and a baby three months old; so, you see, you have all at once acquired nephews as well as a brother and sister. Here is Senor Mendez. This is my brother, señor, the Lionel after whom I named my boy, though I never dreamed that our next meeting would take place within the walls of Cadiz." "You have astounded us, señor," the merchant said courteously. "We thought that Cadiz was safe from an attack; and though we were aware you had defeated our fleet we were astonished indeed when two hours since we heard by the din and firing in the streets that you had captured the city. Truly you English do not suffer the grass to grow under your feet. When we woke this morning no one dreamed of danger, and now in the course of one day you have destroyed our fleet, captured our town, and have our lives and properties at your disposal." "Your lives are in no danger, señor, and all who choose are free to depart without harm or hindrance. But as to your property--I don't mean yours, of course, because as Geoffrey's father-in-law I am sure that Sir Francis Vere will inflict no fine upon you--but the city generally will have to pay, I hear, some half million ducats as ransom." "That is as nothing," the Spaniard said, "to the loss the city will suffer in the loss of the forty merchant ships which you will doubtless capture or burn. Right glad am I that no cargo of mine is on board any of them, for I do not trade with Mexico; but I am sure the value of the ships with their cargoes cannot be less than twenty millions of ducats. This will fall upon the traders of this town and of Seville. Still, I own that the ransom of half-a-million for a city like Cadiz seems to me to be very moderate, and the tranquillity that already prevails in the town is beyond all praise. Would that such had been the behaviour of my countrymen in the Netherlands!" Don Mendez spoke in a tone of deep depression. Geoffrey made a sign to his brother to come out on to the balcony, while the merchant took a seat beside his daughter. " 'Tis best to leave them alone," he said as they looked down into the street, where the English and their Dutch allies, many of whom had now landed, were wandering about examining the public buildings and churches, while the inhabitants looked with timid curiosity from their windows and balconies at the men who had, as if by magic, suddenly become their masters. "I can see that the old gentleman is terribly cut up. Of course, nothing has been said between us yet, for it was not until we heard the sound of firing in the streets that anyone thought there was the smallest risk of your capturing the city. Nevertheless, he must be sure that I shall take this opportunity of returning home. "It has always been understood between us that I should do so as soon as any safe method of making a passage could be discovered; but after being here with him more than three years he had doubtless come to believe that such a chance would never come during his lifetime, and the thought of an early separation from his daughter, and the break up of our household here, must be painful to him in the extreme. It has been settled that I should still remain partner in the firm, and should manage our affairs in England and Holland; but this will, of course, be a comparatively small business until peace is restored, and ships are free to come and go on both sides as they please. But I think it is likely he will himself come to live with us in England, and that we shall make that the headquarters of the firm, employing our ships in traffic with Holland, France, and the Mediterranean until peace is restored with Spain, and having only an agent here to conduct such business as we may be able to carry on under the present stringent regulations. "In point of fact, even if we wound up our affairs and disposed of our ships, it would matter little to us, for Mendez is a very rich man, and as Dolores is his only child he has no great motive beyond the occupation it gives him for continuing in business. So you are a captain now, Lionel! Have you had a great deal of fighting?" "Not a great deal. The Spaniards have been too much occupied with their affairs in France to give us much work to do. In Holland I took part in the adventure that led to the capture of Breda, did some fighting in France with the army of Henry of Navarre, and have been concerned in a good many sieges and skirmishes. I do not know whether you heard of the death of Robert Vere. He came out just after the business of the Armada, and fell in the fight the other day near Wesel--a mad business of Count Philip of Nassau. Horace is serving with his troop. We have recovered all the cities in the three provinces, and Holland is now virtually rid of the Spaniards. "Things have greatly changed since the days of Sluys and Bergen-op-Zoom. Holland has increased marvellously in strength and wealth. We have now a splendidly-organized army, and should not fear meeting the Spaniards in the open field if they would but give the chance to do so in anything like equal numbers. Sir Francis is marshal of our army here, and is now considered the ablest of our generals; and he and Prince Maurice have never yet met with a serious disaster. But how have you escaped the Inquisition here, Geoffrey? I thought they laid hands on every heretic?" "So they do," Geoffrey replied; "but you see they have never dreamed that I was a heretic. The English, Irish, and Scotchmen here, either serving in the army or living quietly as exiles, are, of course, all Catholics, and as they suppose me to be one of them, it does not seem to have entered their minds that I was a Protestant. Since I have been here I have gone with my wife and father-in-law to church, and have said my prayers in my own way while they have said theirs. I cannot say I have liked it, but as there was no church of my own it did not go against my conscience to kneel in theirs. I can tell you that, after being for nearly a couple of years a slave among the Moors, one thinks less of these distinctions than one used to do. Had the Inquisition laid hands on me and questioned me, I should at once have declared myself a Protestant; but as long as I was not questioned I thought it no harm to go quietly and pay my devotions in a church, even though there were many things in that church with which I wholly disagreed. "Dolores and I have talked the matter over often, and have arrived at the conclusion long since that there is no such great difference between us as would lead us to hate each other." Lionel laughed. "I suppose we generally see matters as we want to, Geoffrey; but it will be rather a shock to our good father and mother when you bring them home a Catholic daughter." "I daresay when she has once settled in England among us, Lionel, she will turn round to our views on the subject; not that I should ever try to convert her, but it will likely enough come of itself. Of course, she has been brought up with the belief that heretics are very terrible people. She has naturally grown out of that belief now, and is ready to admit that there may be good heretics as well as good Catholics, which is a long step for a Spanish woman to take. I have no fear but that the rest will come in time. At present I have most carefully abstained from talking with her on the subject. When she is once in England I shall be able to talk to her freely without endangering her life by doing so." Upon the following morning Sir Francis Vere breakfasted with Geoffrey, and then he and Lionel heard the full account of his adventures, and the manner in which it came about that he was found established as a merchant in Cadiz. They then talked over the situation. Sir Francis was much vexed that the lord-admiral had not complied with the earnest request the Earl of Essex had sent him, as soon as he landed, to take prompt measures for the pursuit and capture of the merchant ships. Instead of doing this, the admiral, considering the force that had landed to be dangerously weak, had sent large reinforcements on shore as soon as the boats came off, and the consequence was that at dawn that morning masses of smoke rising from the Puerto Real showed that the Duke of Medina-Sidonia had set the merchant ships on fire rather than that they should fall into the hands of the English. For a fortnight the captors of Cadiz remained in possession. Senor Mendez had, upon the day after their entry, discussed the future with Geoffrey. To the latter's great satisfaction he took it for granted that his son-in-law would sail with Dolores and the children in the English fleet, and he at once entered into arrangements with him for his undertaking the management of the business of the firm in England and Holland. "Had I wound up my affairs I should accompany you at once, for Dolores is everything to me, and you, Geoffrey, have also a large share of my affection; but this is impossible. We have at present all our fifteen ships at sea, and these on their return to port would be confiscated at once were I to leave. Besides, there are large transactions open with the merchants at Seville and elsewhere. Therefore I must, for the present at any rate, remain here. I shall incur no odium by your departure. It will be supposed that you have reconciled yourself with your government, and your going home will therefore seem only natural; and it will be seen that I could not, however much I were inclined, interfere to prevent the departure of Dolores and the children with you. "I propose to send on board your ships the greater portion of my goods here suitable for your market. This, again, will not excite bad feelings, as I shall say that you as my partner insisted upon your right to take your share of our merchandise back to England with you, leaving me as my portion our fleet of vessels. Therefore all will go on here as before. I shall gradually reduce my business and dispose of the ships, transmitting my fortune to a banker in Brussels, who will be able to send it to England through merchants in Antwerp, and you can purchase vessels to replace those I sell. "I calculate that it will take me a year to complete all my arrangements. After that I shall again sail for Italy, and shall come to England either by sea or by travelling through Germany, as circumstances may dictate. On arriving in London I shall know where to find you, for by that time you will be well known there; and at any rate the bankers to whom my money is sent will be able to inform me of your address." These arrangements were carried out, and at the departure of the fleet, Geoffrey, with Dolores and the children, sailed in Sir Francis Vere's ship the _Rainbow_, Sir Francis having insisted on giving up his own cabin for the use of Dolores. On leaving Cadiz the town was fired, and the cathedral, the church of the Jesuits, the nunneries of Santa Maria and Candelaria, two hundred and ninety houses, and, greatest loss of all, the library of the Jesuits, containing invaluable manuscripts respecting the Incas of Peru, were destroyed. The destruction of the Spanish fleet, and the enormous loss caused by the burning of Cadiz and the loss of the rich merchant fleet, struck a terrible blow at the power and resources of Spain. Her trade never recovered from its effects, and her prestige suffered very greatly in the eyes of Europe. Philip never rallied from the blow to his pride inflicted by this humiliation. Lionel had at first been almost shocked to find that Geoffrey had married a Spanish woman and a Catholic; but the charming manner of Dolores, her evident desire to please, and the deep affection with which she regarded her husband, soon won his heart. He, Sir Francis Vere, and the other officers and volunteers on board, vied with each other in attention to her during the voyage; and Dolores, who had hitherto been convinced that Geoffrey was a strange exception to the rule that all Englishmen were rough and savage animals, and who looked forward with much secret dread to taking up her residence among them, was quite delighted, and assured Geoffrey she was at last convinced that all she had heard to the disadvantage of his countrymen was wholly untrue. The fleet touched at Plymouth, where the news of the immense success they had gained was received with great rejoicings; and after taking in fresh water and stores, they proceeded along the coast and anchored in the mouth of the Thames. Here the greater part of the fleet was disbanded, the _Rainbow_ and a few other vessels sailing up to Greenwich, where the captains and officers were received with great honour by the queen, and were feasted and made much of by the city. The brothers, the day after the ship cast anchor, proceeded to town, and there hired horses for their journey down into Essex. This was accomplished in two days, Geoffrey riding with Dolores on a pillion behind him with her baby in her lap, while young Lionel was on the saddle before his uncle. When they approached Hedingham Lionel said, "I had best ride forward Geoffrey to break the news to them of your coming. Although our mother has always declared that she would not give up hope that you would some day be restored to us, they have now really mourned you as dead." "Very well, Lionel. It is but a mile or so; I will dismount and put the boy up in the saddle and walk beside him, and we shall be in a quarter of an hour after you." The delight of Mr. and Mrs. Vickars on hearing Geoffrey was alive and close at hand was so great that the fact he brought home a Spanish wife, which would under other circumstances have been a great shock to them, was now scarcely felt, and when the rapturous greeting with which he was received on his arrival was over, they welcomed his pretty young wife with a degree of warmth which fully satisfied him. Her welcome was, of course, in the first place as Geoffrey's wife, but in a very short time his father and mother both came to love her for herself, and Dolores very quickly found herself far happier at Hedingham Rectory than she had thought she could be away from her native Spain. The announcement Geoffrey made shortly after his arrival, that he had altogether abandoned the trade of soldiering, and should in future make his home in London, trading in conjunction with his father-in-law, assisted to reconcile them to his marriage. After a fortnight's stay at Hedingham Geoffrey went up to London, and there took a house in the city, purchased several vessels, and entered upon business, being enabled to take at once a good position among the merchants of London, thanks to the ample funds with which he was provided. Two months later he went down to Essex and brought up Dolores and the children, and established them in his new abode. The apprenticeship he had served in trade at Cadiz enabled Geoffrey to start with confidence in his business. He at once notified all the correspondents of the firm in the different ports of Europe, that in future the business carried on by Signor Juan Mendez at Cadiz would have its headquarters in London, and that the firm would trade with all ports with the exception of those of Spain. The result was that before many months had elapsed there were few houses in London doing a larger trade with the Continent than that of Mendez and Vickars, under which title they had traded from the time of Geoffrey's marriage with Dolores.

21

THE BATTLE OF NIEUPORT.

The year after the capture of Cadiz, Lionel Vickars sailed under Sir Francis Vere with the expedition designed to attack the fleet which Philip of Spain had gathered in Ferrol, with the intention, it was believed, of invading Ireland in retaliation for the disaster at Cadiz. The expedition met with terrible weather in the Bay of Biscay, and put back scattered and disabled to Plymouth and Falmouth. In August they again sailed, but were so battered by another storm that the expedition against Ferrol was abandoned, and they sailed to the Azores. There, after a skirmish with the Spaniards, they scattered among the islands, but missed the great Spanish fleet laden with silver from the west, and finally returned to England without having accomplished anything, while they suffered from another tempest on their way home, and reached Plymouth with difficulty. Fortunately the same storm scattered and destroyed the great Spanish fleet at Ferrol, and the weather thus for the second time saved England from invasion. Late in the autumn, after his return from the expedition, Sir Francis Vere went over to Holland, and by his advice Prince Maurice prepared in December to attack a force of 4000 Spanish infantry and 600 cavalry, which, under the command of the Count of Varras, had gathered at the village of Turnhout, twenty miles from Breda. A force of 5000 foot and 800 horse were secretly assembled at Gertruydenberg. Sir Francis Vere brought an English regiment, and personally commanded one of the two troops into which the English cavalry was divided. Sir Robert Sidney came with 300 of the English garrison at Flushing, and Sir Alexander Murray with a Scotch regiment. The expedition started on the 23d of January, 1598, and after marching twenty-four miles reached the village of Rivels, three miles from Turnhout, two hours after dark. The night was bitter cold, and after cooking supper the men wrapt themselves up in their cloaks, and lay down on the frozen ground until daybreak The delay, although necessary, enabled the enemy to make their escape. The news that the allies had arrived close at hand reached Count Varras at midnight, and a retreat was at once ordered. Baggage waggons were packed and despatched, escorted by the cavalry, and before dawn the whole force was well on its road. Prince Maurice had set off an hour before daybreak, and on reaching Turnhout found that the rear-guard of the enemy had just left the village. They had broken down the wooden bridge across the River Aa, only one plank being left standing, and had stationed a party to defend it. Maurice held a hasty council of war. All, with the exception of Sir Francis Vere and Sir Marcellus Bacx, were against pursuit, but Maurice took the advice of the minority. Vere with two hundred Dutch musketeers advanced against the bridge; his musketry fire drove off the guard, and with a few mounted officers and the two hundred musketeers he set out in pursuit. He saw that the enemy's infantry were marching but slowly, and guessed that they were delayed by the baggage waggons in front. The country was wooded, and he threw the musketeers among the trees with orders to keep up a dropping fire, while he himself with sixteen horsemen followed closely upon the enemy along the road. Their rear-guard kept up a skirmishing fire, slightly wounding Vere in the leg; but all this caused delay, and it was three hours before they emerged on an open heath, three miles from the bridge. Vere placed his musketeers among some woods and inclosed fields on the left of the heath, and ordered them to keep up a brisk fire and to show themselves as if advancing to the attack. He himself, reinforced by some more horsemen who had come up, continued to follow in the open. The heath was three miles across, and Vere, constantly skirmishing with the Spanish infantry, who were formed in four solid squares, kept watching for the appearance of Maurice and the cavalry. At length these came in sight. Vere galloped up to the prince, and urged that a charge should be made at once. The prince assented. Vere, with the English cavalry, charged down upon the rear of the squares, while Hohenlohe swept down with the Dutch cavalry upon their flanks. The Spanish musketeers fired and at once fled, and the cavalry dashed in among the squares of pikemen and broke them. Several of the companies of horse galloped on in pursuit of the enemy's horse and baggage. Vere saw that these would be repulsed, and formed up the English cavalry to cover their retreat. In a short time the disordered horse came back at full gallop, pursued by the Spanish cavalry, but these, seeing Vere's troops ready to receive them, retreated at once. Count Varras was slain, together with three hundred of the Spanish infantry. Six hundred prisoners were taken, and thirty-eight colours fell into the victor's hands. The success was gained entirely by the eight hundred allied horse, the infantry never arriving upon the field. The brilliant little victory, which was one of the first gained by the allies in the open field, was the cause of great rejoicings. Not only were the Spaniards no longer invincible, but they had been routed by a force but one-sixth of their own number, and the battle showed how greatly the individual prowess of the two peoples had changed during the progress of the war. The Archduke Ernest had died in 1595, and had been succeeded by the Archduke Albert in the government of the Netherlands. He had with him no generals comparable with Parma, or even with Alva. His troops had lost their faith in themselves and their contempt for their foes. Holland was grown rich and prosperous, while the enormous expenses of carrying on the war both in the Netherlands and in France, together with the loss of the Armada, the destruction of the great fleet at Ferrol, and the capture of Cadiz and the ships there, had exhausted the resources of Spain, and Philip was driven to make advances for peace to France and England. Henry IV., knowing that peace with Spain meant an end of the civil war that had so long exhausted France, at once accepted the terms of Philip, and made a separate peace, in spite of the remonstrances of the ambassadors of England and Holland, to both of which countries he owed it in no small degree that he had been enabled to support himself against the faction of the Guises backed by the power of Spain. A fresh treaty was made between England and the Netherlands, Sir Francis Vere being sent out as special ambassador to negotiate. England was anxious for peace, but would not desert the Netherlands if they on their part would relieve her to some extent of the heavy expenses caused by the war. This the States consented to do, and the treaty was duly signed on both sides. A few days before its conclusion Lord Burleigh, who had been Queen Elizabeth's chief adviser for forty years, died, and within a month of its signature Philip of Spain, whose schemes he had so long opposed, followed him to the grave. On the 6th of the previous May Philip had formally ceded the Netherlands to his daughter Isabella, between whom and the Archduke Albert a marriage had been arranged. This took place on the 18th of April following, shortly after his death. It was celebrated at Valencia, and at the same time King Philip III. was united to Margaret of Austria. In the course of 1599 there was severe fighting on the swampy island between the rivers Waal and Maas, known as the Bommel-Waat, and a fresh attempt at invasion by the Spaniards was repulsed with heavy loss, Sir Francis Vere and the English troops taking a leading part in the operations. The success thus gained decided the States-general to undertake an offensive campaign in the following year. The plan they decided upon was opposed both by Prince Maurice and Sir Francis Vere as being altogether too hazardous; but the States, who upon most occasions were averse to anything like bold action, upon the present occasion stood firm to their decision. Their plan was to land an army near Ostend, which was held by the English, and to besiege the town of Nieuport, west of Ostend, and after that to attack Dunkirk. In the opinion of the two generals an offensive operation direct from Holland would have been far preferable, as in case of disaster the army could fall back upon one of their fortified towns, whereas, if beaten upon the coast, they might be cut off from Ostend and entirely destroyed. However, their opinions were overruled, and the expedition prepared. It consisted of 12,000 infantry, 1600 cavalry, and 10 guns. It was formed into three divisions. The van, 4500 strong, including 1600 English veterans, was commanded by Sir Francis Vere; the second division by Count Everard Solms; the rear division by Count Ernest of Nassau; while Count Louis Gunther of Nassau was in command of the cavalry. The army embarked at Flushing, and landed at Philippine, a town at the head of the Braakeman inlet. There was at the time only a small body of Spaniards in the neighbourhood, but as soon as the news reached the Archduke Albert at Brussels he concentrated his army round Ghent. The troops had for some time been in a mutinous state, but, as was always the case with them, they returned to their habits of military obedience the moment danger threatened. The Dutch army advanced by rapid marches to the neighbourhood of Ostend, and captured the fort and redoubts which the Spaniards had raised to prevent its garrison from undertaking offensive operations. Two thousand men were left to garrison these important positions, which lay on the line of march which the Spaniards must take coming from Bruges to Nieuport. The rest of the army then made their way across the country, intersected with ditches, and upon the following day arrived before Nieuport and prepared to besiege it. The Dutch fleet had arrived off the town, and co-operated with the army in building a bridge across the little river, and preparing for the siege. Towards the evening, however, the news arrived from Ostend, nine miles away, that a large force of the enemy had appeared before one of the forts just captured. Most of the officers were of opinion that the Spanish force was not a large one, and that it was a mere feint to induce the Dutch to abandon the siege of Nieuport and return to Ostend. Sir Francis Vere maintained that it was the main body of the archduke's army, and advised Maurice to march back at once with his whole force to attack the enemy before they had time to take the forts. Later on in the evening, however, two of the messengers arrived with the news that the forts had surrendered. Prince Maurice then, in opposition to Vere's advice, sent off 2500 infantry, 500 horse, and 2 guns, under the command of Ernest of Nassau, to prevent the enemy from crossing the low ground between Ostend and the sand-hills, Vere insisting that the whole army ought to move. It fell out exactly as he predicted; the detachment met the whole Spanish army, and broke and fled at the first fire, and thus 2500 men were lost in addition to the 2000 who had been left to garrison the forts. At break of day the army marched down to the creek, and as soon as the water had ebbed sufficiently waded across and took up their position among the sand-hills on the sea-shore. The enemy's army was already in sight, marching along on the narrow strip of land between the foot of the dunes and the sea. A few hundred yards towards Ostend the sand-hills narrowed, and here Sir Francis Vere took up his position with his division. He placed a thousand picked men, consisting of 250 English, 250 of Prince Maurice's guard, and 500 musketeers, partly upon two sand-hills called the East and West Hill, and partly in the bottom between them, where they were covered by a low ridge connecting the two hills. The five hundred musketeers were placed so that their fire swept the ground on the south, by which alone the enemy's cavalry could pass on that side. On the other ridge, facing the sea, were seven hundred English pikemen and musketeers; two hundred and fifty English and fifty of the guard held the position of East Hill, which was most exposed to the attack. The rest of the division, which consisted of six hundred and fifty English and two thousand Dutch, were placed in readiness to reinforce the advanced party. Half the cavalry, under Count Louis, were on the right of the dunes, and the other half, under Marcellus Bacx, on the left by the sea. The divisions of Count Solms and Count Ernest of Nassau were also on the sea-shore in the rear of West Hill. A council of war was held to decide whether the army should advance to the attack or await it. Vere advised the latter course, and his advice was adopted. The archduke's army consisted of ten thousand infantry, sixteen hundred horse, and six guns. Marshal Zapena was in command, while the cavalry were led by the Admiral of Arragon. They rested for two hours before advancing--waiting until the rise of the tide should render the sands unserviceable for cavalry, their main reliance being upon their infantry. Their cavalry led the advance, but the two guns Vere had placed on West Hill plied them so hotly with shot that they fell back in confusion. It was now high tide, and there were but thirty yards between the sea and the sand-hills. The Spaniards therefore marched their infantry into the dunes, while the cavalry prepared to advance between the sand-hills and the cultivated fields inland. The second and third divisions of Maurice's army also moved away from the shore inland. They now numbered but three thousand men, as the four thousand five hundred who had been lost belonged entirely to these divisions, Sir Francis Vere's division having been left intact. It was upon the first division that the whole brunt of the battle fell, they receiving some assistance from the thousand men remaining under Count Solms that were posted next to them; while the rear division was never engaged at all. At half-past two o'clock on the afternoon of the 2d of June, 1600, the battle began. Vere's plan was to hold his advanced position as long as possible, bring the reserves up as required until he had worn out the Spaniards, then to send for the other two divisions and to fall upon them. The company of Lionel Vickars formed part of the three hundred men stationed on the East Hill, where Vere also had taken up his position. After an exchange of fire for some time five hundred picked Spanish infantry rushed across the hollow between the two armies, and charged the hill. For half-an-hour a desperate struggle took place; the Spaniards were then obliged to fall back behind some low ridges at its foot. In the meantime the enemy's cavalry had advanced along the grass-grown tract, a hundred and fifty yards wide, between the foot of the dunes and the cultivated country inland. They were received, however, by so hot a fire by the five hundred musketeers posted by Vere in the sand-hills on their flank, and by the two cannon on West Hill, that they fell back upon their infantry just as the Dutch horse, under Count Louis, advanced to charge them. Vere sent orders to a hundred Englishmen to move round from the ridge and to attack the Spaniards who had fallen back from the attack of East Hill, on their flank, while sixty men charged down the hill and engaged them in front. The Spaniards broke and fled back to their main body. Then, being largely reinforced, they advanced and seized a sandy knoll near West Hill. Here they were attacked by the English, and after a long and obstinate fight forced to retire. The whole of the Spanish force now advanced, and tried to drive the English back from their position on the low ridge across the bottom connecting the two hills. The seven hundred men were drawn from the north ridge, and as the fight grew hotter the whole of the sixteen hundred English were brought up. Vere sent for reinforcements, but none came up, and for hours the sixteen hundred Englishmen alone checked the advance of the whole of the Spanish army. Sir Francis Vere was fighting like a private soldier in the midst of his troops. He received two balls in the leg, but still kept his seat and encouraged his men. At last the little band, receiving no aid or reinforcements from the Dutch, were forced to fall back. As they did so, Vere's horse fell dead under him and partly upon him, and it was with great difficulty that those around him extricated him. On reaching the battery on the sands Vere found the thousand Dutch of his division, who asserted that they had received no orders to advance. There were also three hundred foot under Sir Horace Vere and some cavalry under Captain Ball. These and Horace's infantry at once charged the Spaniards, who were pouring out from the sand-hills near to the beach, and drove them back. [Illustration: Vere's horse shot under him at the fight before Ostend.] The Spaniards had now captured East Hill, and two thousand of their infantry advanced into the valley beyond, and drove back the musketeers from the south ridge, and a large force advanced along the green way; but their movements were slow, for they were worn out by their long struggle, and the English officers had time to rally their men again. Horace Vere returned from his charge on the beach, and other companies rallied and joined him, and charged furiously down upon the two thousand Spaniards. The whole of the Dutch and English cavalry also advanced. Solms's thousand men came up and took part in the action, and the batteries plied the Spaniards with their shot. The latter had done all they could, and were confounded by this fresh attack when they had considered the victory as won. In spite of the efforts of their officers they broke and fled in all directions. The archduke headed their flight, and never drew rein until he reached Brussels. Zapena and the Admiral of Arragon were both taken prisoners, and about a third of the Spanish army killed and wounded. Of the sixteen hundred English half were killed or wounded; while the rest of the Dutch army suffered scarcely any loss--a fact that shows clearly to whom the honour of the victory belongs. Prince Maurice, in his letter to the queen, attributed his success entirely to the good order and directions of Sir Francis Vere. Thus, in a pitched battle the English troops met and defeated an army of six times their strength of the veterans of Spain, and showed conclusively that the English fighting man had in no way deteriorated since the days of Agincourt, the last great battle they had fought upon the Continent. The battle at Nieuport may be considered to have set the final seal upon the independence of Holland. The lesson first taught at Turnhout had now been impressed with crushing force. The Spaniards were no longer invincible; they had been twice signally defeated in an open field by greatly inferior forces. Their prestige was annihilated; and although a war continued, there was no longer the slightest chance that the result of the long and bloody struggle would be reversed, or that Spain would ever again recover her grip of the lost provinces. Sir Francis Vere was laid up for some months with his wounds. Among the officers who fought under him at Nieuport were several whose names were to become famous for the part they afterwards bore in the civil struggle in England. Among others were Fairfax, Ogle, Lambart, and Parker. Among those who received the honour of knighthood for their behaviour at the battle was Lionel Vickars. He had been severely wounded in the fight at East Hill, and was sent home to be cured there. It was some months before he again took the field, which he did upon the receipt of a letter from Sir Francis Vere, telling him that the Spaniards were closing in in great force round Ostend, and that his company was one of those that had been sent off to aid in the defence of that town. During his stay in England he had spent some time with Geoffrey in London. Juan Mendez had now arrived there, and the business carried on by him and Geoffrey was flourishing greatly. Dolores had much missed the outdoor life to which she was accustomed, and her father had bought a large house with a fine garden in Chelsea; and she and Geoffrey were now installed there with him, Geoffrey going to and fro from the city by boat. They had now replaced the Spanish trading vessels by an equal number of English craft; and at the suggestion of Juan Mendez himself his name now stood second to that of Geoffrey, for the prejudice against foreigners was still strong in England.

22

OLD FRIENDS.

The succession of blows that had been given to the power and commerce of Spain had immensely benefited the trade of England and Holland. France, devastated by civil war, had been in no position to take advantage of the falling off in Spanish commerce, and had indeed herself suffered enormously by the emigration of tens of thousands of the most intelligent of her population owing to her persecution of the Protestants. Her traders and manufacturers largely belonged to the new religion, and these had carried their industry and knowledge to England and Holland. Thus the religious bigotry of the kings of Spain and France had resulted in enormous loss to the trade and commerce of those countries, and in corresponding advantage to their Protestant rivals. Geoffrey Vickars and his partner reaped the full benefit of the change, and the extensive acquaintance of the Spanish trader with merchants in all the Mediterranean ports enabled him to turn a large share of the new current of trade into the hands of Geoffrey and himself. The capital which he transferred from Spain to England was very much larger than that employed by the majority of English merchants, whose wealth had been small indeed in comparison to that of the merchant princes of the great centres of trade such as Antwerp, Amsterdam, Genoa, and Cadiz, and Geoffrey Vickars soon came to be looked upon as one of the leading merchants in the city of London. "There can be no doubt, Geoffrey," his brother said as he lay on a couch in the garden in the early days of his convalescence, and looked at the river dotted with boats that flowed past it, "the falling of that mast was a fortunate thing for you. One never can tell how things will turn out. It would have seemed as if, were you not drowned at once, your lot would have been either a life's work in the Spanish galleys, or death in the dungeons of the Inquisition. Instead of this, here you are a wealthy merchant in the city, with a charming wife, and a father-in-law who is, although a Spaniard, one of the kindest and best men I ever met. All this time I, who was not knocked over by that mast, have been drilling recruits, making long marches, and occasionally fighting battles, and am no richer now than the day when we started together as Francis Vere's pages. It is true I have received the honour of knighthood, and that of course I prize much; but I have only my captain's pay to support my dignity, and as I hardly think Spain will continue this useless struggle much longer, in which case our army in Holland will be speedily disbanded, the prospect before me is not altogether an advantageous one." "You must marry an heiress, Lionel," Geoffrey laughed. "Surely Sir Lionel Vickars, one of the heroes of Nieuport, and many another field, should be able to win the heart of some fair English damsel, with broad acres as her dower. But seriously, Lionel," he went on, changing his tone, "if peace come, and with it lack of employment, the best thing for you will be to join me. Mendez is getting on in years; and although he is working hard at present, in order, as he says, to set everything going smoothly and well here, he is looking forward to taking matters more easily, and to spending his time in tranquil pleasure with Dolores and her children. Therefore, whensoever it pleases you, there is a place for you here. We always contemplated our lines running in the same groove, and I should be glad that they should do so still. When the time comes we can discuss what share you shall have of the business; but at any rate I can promise you that it shall be sufficient to make you a rich man." "Thank you, with all my heart, Geoffrey. It may be that some day I will accept your offer, though I fear you will find me but a sorry assistant. It seems to me that after twelve years of campaigning I am little fitted for life as a city merchant." "I went through plenty of adventure for six years, Lionel, but my father-in-law has from the first been well satisfied with my capacity for business. You are not seven-and-twenty yet. You have had enough rough campaigning to satisfy anyone, and should be glad now of an easier and more sober method of life. Well, there is no occasion to settle anything at present, and I can well understand that you should prefer remaining in the army until the war comes to an end. When it does so, we can talk the matter over again; only be well assured that the offer will be always open to you, and that I shall be glad indeed to have you with me." A few days after Lionel left him Geoffrey was passing along Chepe, when he stopped suddenly, stared hard at a gentleman who was approaching him, and then rushed towards him with outstretched hand. "My dear Gerald!" he exclaimed, "I am glad to see you." The gentleman started back with an expression of the profoundest astonishment. "Is it possible?" he cried. "Is it really Geoffrey Vickars?" "Myself, and no other, Gerald." "The saints be praised! Why, I have been thinking of you all these years as either dead or labouring at an oar in the Moorish galleys. By what good fortune did you escape? and how is it I find you here, looking for all the world like a merchant of the city?" "It is too long a story to tell now, Gerald. Where are you staying?" "I have lodgings at Westminster, being at present a suitor at court." "Is your wife with you?" "She is. I have left my four children at home in Ireland." "Then bring her to sup with me this evening. I have a wife to introduce to yours, and as she is also a Spaniard it will doubtless be a pleasure to them both." "You astound me, Geoffrey. However, you shall tell me all about it this evening, for be assured that we shall come. Inez has so often talked about you, and lamented the ill-fortune that befell you owing to your ardour." "At six o'clock, then," Geoffrey said. "I generally dwell with my father-in-law at Chelsea, but am just at present at home. My house is in St. Mary Axe; anyone there will tell you which it is." That evening the two friends had a long talk together Geoffrey learnt that Gerald Burke reached Italy without further adventure, and thence took ship to Bristol, and so crossed over to Ireland. On his petition, and solemn promise of good behaviour in future, he was pardoned and a small portion of his estate restored to him. He was now in London endeavouring to obtain a remission of the forfeiture of the rest. "I may be able to help you in that," Geoffrey said. "Sir Francis Vere is high in favour at court, and he will, at my prayer, I feel sure, use his influence in your favour when I tell him how you acted my friend on my landing in Spain from the Armada." Geoffrey then gave an account of his various adventures from the time when he was struck down from the deck of the Barbary corsair until the present time. "How was it," he asked when he concluded, "that you did not write to my parents, Gerald, on your return home? You knew where they lived." "I talked the matter over with Inez," Gerald replied, "and we agreed that it was kinder to them to be silent. Of course they had mourned you as killed in the fight with the Armada. A year had passed, and the wound must have somewhat healed. Had I told them that you had escaped death at that time, had been months with me in Spain, and had, on your way home, been either killed by the Moors or were a prisoner in their galleys, it would have opened the wound afresh, and caused them renewed pain and sorrow." "No doubt you were right, Gerald, and that it was, as you say, the kindest thing to leave them in ignorance of my fate." Upon the next visit Sir Francis Vere paid to England, Geoffrey spoke to him with regard to Gerald Burke's affairs. Sir Francis took the matter up warmly, and his influence sufficed in a very short time to obtain an order for the restoration to Gerald of all his estates. Inez and Dolores became as fast friends as were their husbands; and when the Burkes came to England Geoffrey's house was their home. The meeting with Gerald was followed by a still greater surprise, for not many days after, when Geoffrey was sitting with his wife and Don Mendez under the shade of a broad cypress in the garden of the merchant's house at Chelsea, they saw a servant coming across towards them, followed by a man in seafaring attire. "Here is a person who would speak to you, Master Vickars," the servant said. "I told him it was not your custom to see any here, and that if he had aught to say he should call at your house in St. Mary Axe; but he said that he had but just arrived from Hedingham, and that your honour would excuse his intrusion when you saw him." "Bring him up; he may be the bearer of a message from my father," Geoffrey said; and the servant went back to the man, whom he had left a short distance off. "Master Vickars will speak with you." The sailor approached the party. He stood for a minute before Geoffrey without speaking. Geoffrey looked at him with some surprise, and saw that the muscles of his face were twitching, and that he was much agitated. As he looked at him remembrance suddenly flashed upon him, and he sprang to his feet. "Stephen Boldero!" he exclaimed. "Ay, ay, Geoffrey, it is me." For a time the men stood with their right hands clasped and the left on each other's shoulders. Tears fell down the sailor's weather-beaten cheeks, and Geoffrey himself was too moved to speak. For two years they had lived as brothers, had shared each other's toils and dangers, had talked over their plans and hopes together; and it was to Stephen that Geoffrey owed it that he was not now a galley-slave in Barbary. "Old friend, where have you been all this time?" he said at last. "I had thought you dead, and have grieved sorely for you." "I have had some narrow escapes," Stephen said; "but you know I am tough. I am worth a good many dead men yet." "Inez, Señor Mendez, you both remember Stephen Boldero?" Geoffrey said, turning to them. "We have never forgotten you," the Spaniard said, shaking hands with the sailor, "nor how much we owe to you. I sent out instructions by every ship that sailed to the Indies that inquiries should be made for you; and moreover had letters sent by influential friends to the governors of most of the islands saying that you had done great service to me and mine, and praying that if you were in any need or trouble you might be sent back to Cadiz, and that any moneys you required might be given to you at my charge. But we have heard nought of you from the day when the news came that you had left the ship in which you went out." "I have had a rough time of it these five years," Stephen said. "But I care not now that I am home again and have found my friend Geoffrey. I arrived in Bristol but last week, and started for London on the day I landed, mindful of my promise to let his people know that he was safe and well, and with some faint hope that the capture of Cadiz had set him at liberty. I got to Hedingham last night, and if I had been a prince Mr. Vickars and his dame and Sir Lionel could not have made more of me. They were fain that I should stop with them a day or two; but when I heard that you were in London and had married Señora Dolores, and that Señor Mendez was with you--all of which in no way surprised me, for methought I saw it coming before I left Cadiz--I could not rest, but was up at daylight this morning. Your brother offered to procure me a horse, but I should have made bad weather on the craft, and after walking from Bristol the tramp up to London was nothing. I got to your house in the city at four; and, finding that you were here, took a boat at once, for I could not rest until I saw my friend again." Geoffrey at once took him into the house and set him down to a meal; and when the party were gathered later on in the sitting-room, and the candles were lighted, Stephen told his story. "As you will have heard, we made a good voyage to the Indies. We discharged our cargo, and took in another. I learned that there were two English ships cruising near San Domingo, and the Dons were in great fear of them. I thought that my chance lay in joining them, so when we were at our nearest port to that island I one night borrowed one of the ship's boats without asking leave, and made off. I knew the direction in which San Domingo lay, but no more. My hope was that I should either fall in with our ships at sea, or, when I made the island, should be able to gather such information as might guide me to them. When I made the land, after being four days out, I cruised about till the provisions and water I had put on board were exhausted, and I could hold out no longer. Then I made for the island and landed. "You may be sure I did not make for a port, where I should be questioned, but ran ashore in a wooded bay that looked as if no one had ever set foot there before. I dragged the boat up beyond, as I thought, the reach of the sea, and started to hunt for food and water. I found enough berries and things to keep me alive, but not enough to stock my boat for another cruise. A week after I landed there was a tornado, and when it cleared off and I had recovered from my fright--for the trees were blown down like rushes, and I thought my last day was come--I found that the boat was washed away. I was mightily disheartened at this, and after much thinking made up my mind that there was nought for it but to keep along the shore until I arrived at a port, and then to give out that I was a shipwrecked sailor, and either try to get hold of another boat, or take passage back to Spain and make a fresh start. However, the next morning, just as I was starting, a number of natives ran out of the bush and seized me, and carried me away up into the hills. "It was not pleasant at first, for they lit a big fire and were going to set me on the top of it, taking me for a Spaniard. Seeing their intentions, I took to arguing with them, and told them in Spanish that I was no Spaniard, but an Englishman, and that I had been a slave to the Spaniards and had escaped. Most of them understood some Spanish, having themselves been made to work as slaves in their plantations, and being all runaways from the tyranny of their masters. They knew, of course, that we were the enemies of the Spaniards, and had heard of places being sacked and ships taken by us. But they doubted my story for a long time, till at last one of them brought a crucifix that had somehow fallen into their hands, and held it up before me. When I struck it down, as a good Protestant should do, they saw that I was not of the Spanish religion, and so loosed my bonds and made much of me. "They could tell me nothing of the whereabouts of our ships, for though they had seen vessels at times sail by, the poor creatures knew nothing of the difference of rig between an English craft and a Spaniard. I abode with them for two years, and aided them in their fights whenever the Spaniards sent out parties, which they did many times, to capture them. They were poor, timorous creatures, their spirits being altogether broken by the tyranny of the Dons; but when they saw that I feared them not, and was ready at any time to match myself against two or, if need be, three of the Spaniards, they plucked up heart, and in time came to fight so stoutly that the Spaniards thought it best to leave them alone, seeing that we had the advantage of knowing every foot of the woods, and were able to pounce down upon them when they were in straitened places and forced to fight at great disadvantage. "I was regarded as a great chief by the natives, and could have gone on living with them comfortably enough had not my thoughts been always turning homeward, and a great desire to be among my own people, from whom I had been so long separated, devoured me. At last a Spanish ship was driven ashore in a gale; she went to pieces, and every soul was drowned. When the gale abated the natives went down to collect the stores driven ashore, and I found on the beach one of her boats washed up almost uninjured, so nothing would do but I must sail away in her. The natives tried their hardest to persuade me to stay with them, but finding that my mind was fixed beyond recall they gave way and did their best to aid me. The boat was well stored with provisions; we made a sail for her out of one belonging to the ship, and I set off, promising them that if I could not alight upon an English ship I would return to them. "I had intended to keep my promise, but things turned out otherwise. I had not been two days at sea when there was another storm, for at one time of the year they have tornadoes very frequently. I had nothing to do but to run for it, casting much of my provisions overboard to lighten the boat, and baling without ceasing to keep out the water she took in. After running for many hours I was, somewhere about midnight, cast on shore. I made a shift to save myself, and in the morning found that I was on a low key. Here I lived for three weeks. Fortunately there was water in some of the hollows of the rocks, and as turtles came ashore to lay their eggs I managed pretty well for a time; but the water dried up, and for the last week I had nought to drink but the blood of the turtles. One morning I saw a ship passing not far off, and making a signal with the mast of the boat that had been washed ashore with me I attracted their attention. I saw that she was a Spaniard, but I could not help that, for I had no choice but to hail her. They took me to Porto Rico and there reported me as a shipwrecked sailor they had picked up. The governor questioned me closely as to what vessel I had been lost from, and although I made up a good story he had his doubts. Fortunately it did not enter his mind that I was not a Spaniard; but he said he believed I was some bad character who had been marooned by my comrades for murder or some other crime, and so put me in prison until he could learn something that would verify my story. "After three months I was taken out of prison, but was set to work on the fortifications, and there for another two years I had to stop. Then I managed to slip away one day, and, hiding till nightfall, made my way down through the town to the quays and swam out to a vessel at anchor. I climbed on board without notice, and hid myself below, where I lay for two days until she got up sail. When I judged she was well away from the land I went on deck and told my story, that I was a shipwrecked sailor who had been forced by the governor to work at the fortifications. They did not believe me, saying that I must be some criminal who had escaped from justice, and the captain said he should give me up at the next port the ship touched. Fortunately four days afterwards a sail hove in sight and gave chase, and before it was dark was near enough to fire a gun and make us heave to, and a quarter of an hour later a boat came alongside, and I again heard English spoken for the first time since I had left you at Cadiz. "It was an English bucaneer, who, being short of water and fresh vegetables, had chased us, though seeing we were but a petty trader and not likely to have aught else worth taking on board. They wondered much when I discovered myself to them and told them who I was and how I had come there; and when, on their rowing me on board their ship, I told the captain my story he told me that he thought I was the greatest liar he had ever met. To be a galley-slave among the Spaniards, a galley-slave among the Moors, a consorter with Indians for two years, and again a prisoner with the Spaniards for as much more, was more than fell to the lot of any one man, and he, like the Spanish governor, believed that I was some rascal who had been marooned, only he thought that it was from an English ship. However, he said that as I was a stout fellow he would give me another chance; and when, a fortnight later, we fell in with a great Spanish galleon and captured her with a great store of prize-money after a hard fight for six hours, the last of which was passed on the deck of the Spaniard cutting and slashing--for, being laden with silver, she had a company of troops on board in addition to her crew--the captain said, that though an astonishing liar there was no better fellow on board a ship, and, putting it to the crew, they agreed I had well earned my share of the prize-money. When we had got the silver on board, which was a heavy job I can tell you, though not an unpleasant one, we put what Spaniards remained alive into the boats, fired the galleon, and set sail for England, where we arrived without adventure. The silver was divided on the day before we cast anchor, the owner's share being first set aside, every man his share, and the officers theirs in proportion. Mine came to over a thousand pounds, and it needed two strong men to carry the chest up to the office of the owners, who gave me a receipt for it, which, as soon as I got, I started for London; and here, as you see, I am." "And now, what do you propose to do with yourself. Stephen?" Geoffrey asked. "I shall first travel down again to Devonshire and see what friends I have remaining there. I do not expect to find many alive, for fifteen years make many changes. My father and mother were both dead before I started, and my uncle, with whom I lived for a time, is scarce like to be alive now. Still I may find some cousins and friends I knew as a boy." "I should think you have had enough of the sea, Stephen, and you have now ample to live ashore in comfort for the rest of your life." "Yes, I shall go no more to sea," Stephen said. "Except for this last stroke of luck fortune has always been against me. What I should like, Master Geoffrey, most of all, would be to come up and work under you. I could be of advantage in seeing to the loading and unloading vessels and the storage of cargo. As for pay, I should not want it, having, as you say, enough to live comfortably upon. Still I should like to be with you." "And I should like to have you with me, Stephen. Nothing would give me greater pleasure. If you are still of that mind when you return from Devonshire we can again talk the matter over, and as our wishes are both the same way we can have no difficulty in coming to an agreement." Stephen Boldero remained for a week in London and then journeyed down to Devonshire. His idea of entering Geoffrey's service was never carried out, for after he had been gone two months Geoffrey received a letter from him saying that one of his cousins, who had been but a little girl when he went away, had laid her orders upon him to buy a small estate and settle down there, and that as she was willing to marry him on no other terms he had nothing to do but to assent. Once a year, however, regularly to the end of his life Stephen Boldero came up to London to stay for a fortnight with Geoffrey, always coming by road, for he declared that he was convinced if he set foot on board a ship again she would infallibly be wrecked on her voyage to London. Chapter XXIII. The Siege of Ostend. On the 5th of July, 1601, the Archduke Albert began the siege of Ostend with 20,000 men and 50 siege-guns. Ostend had been completely rebuilt and fortified eighteen years previously, and was defended by ramparts, counterscarps, and two broad ditches. The sand-hills between it and the sea were cut through, and the water filled the ditches and surrounded the town. To the south the country was intersected by a network of canals. The river Yper-Leet came in at the back of the town, and after mingling with the salt water in the ditches found its way to the sea through the channels known as the Old Haven and the Geule, the first on the west, the second on the east of the town. On either side of these channels the land rose slightly, enabling the besiegers to plant their batteries in very advantageous positions. The garrison at first consisted of but 2000 men under Governor Vander Nood. The States-general considered the defence of Ostend to be of extreme importance to the cause, and appointed Sir Francis Vere general of the army in and about Ostend, and sent with him 600 Dutch troops and eight companies of English under the command of his brother, Sir Horace. This raised the garrison to the strength of 3600 men. Sir Francis landed with these reinforcements on the sands opposite the old town, which stood near the sea-shore between the Old Haven and the Geule, and was separated from the new town by a broad channel. He was forced to land here, as the Spanish guns on the sand-hills commanded the entrances of the two channels. [Illustration: OSTEND 1601.] Sixteen thousand of the Spanish troops under the order of the archduke were encamped to the west of the town, and had 30 of their siege-guns in position there, while 4000 men were stationed on the east of the town under Count Bucquoy. Ten guns were in position on that side. Ostend had no natural advantages for defence beyond the facility of letting the sea into the numerous channels and ditches which intersected the city, and protected it from any operations on the south side. On the east the Geule was broad and deep, and an assault from this side was very difficult. The Old Haven, on the west side, was fast filling up, and was fordable for four hours every tide. This, therefore, was the weak side of the town. The portion especially exposed to attack was the low sandy flat on which the old town stood, to the north of Ostend. It was against this point, separated only from the enemy's position by the shallow Old Haven, that the Spaniards concentrated their efforts. The defence here consisted of a work called the Porc-Espic, and a bastion in its rear called the Helmond. These works lay to the north of the ditch dividing the old from the new town, while on the opposite side of this ditch was a fort called the Sand-hill, from which along the sea face of the town ran strong palisades and bastions. The three principal bastions were named the Schottenburg, Moses' Table, and the Flamenburg, the last-named defending the entrance to the Geule on the eastern side. There was a strong wall with three bastions, the North Bulwark, the East Bulwark or Pekell, and the Spanish Bulwark at the south-east angle, with an outwork called the Spanish Half-moon on the other side of the Geule. The south side was similarly defended by a wall with four strong bastions, while beyond these at the south-west corner lay a field called the Polder, extending to the point where the Yper-Leet ran into the ditches. Sir Francis Vere's first step after his arrival was to throw up three redoubts to strengthen the wall round this field, as had the enemy taken possession of it they might have set the windmills upon it to work and have drained out many of the ditches. Having secured this point he cut a passage to the sea between the North-west Bulwark and the Flamenburg Fort, so that shipping might enter the port without having to ascend the Geule, exposed to the fire of the Spanish guns. To annoy the enemy and draw them away from the vital point near the sea, he then stationed 200 men on some rising ground surrounded by swamps and ditches at some distance to the south of the city, and from here they were able to open fire on the enemy's boats coming with supplies from Bruges. The operation was successful. The Spaniards, finding their line of communication threatened, advanced in force from their position by the sea, and their forts opened a heavy fire on the little work thrown up. Other similar attempts would have been made to harass the Spaniards and divert them from their main work, had not Sir Francis Vere been severely wounded in the head on the 4th of August by a shot from the Spanish batteries, which continued to keep up a tremendous fire upon the town. So serious was the wound that the surgeons were of opinion that the only chance of saving his life was to send him away from the din and turmoil of the siege; and on the 10th he was taken to Middelburg, where he remained for a month, returning to Ostend long before his wound was properly healed. On the 1st of August a batch of recruits had arrived from England, and on the 8th 1200 more were landed. The fire of the besiegers was now so heavy that the soldiers were forced to dig underground quarters to shelter themselves. Sir Horace Vere led out several sorties; but the besiegers, no longer distracted by the feints contrived by Sir Francis, succeeded in erecting a battery on the margin of the Old Haven, and opened fire on the Sand-hill Fort. On the 19th of September Sir Francis Vere returned to the town, to the great joy of the garrison. Reinforcements continued to arrive, and at this time the garrison numbered 4480. There were, too, a large number of noblemen and gentlemen from England, France, and Holland, who had come to learn the art of war under the man who was regarded as the greatest general of the time. All who were willing to work and learn were heartily welcomed; those who were unwilling to do so were soon made to feel that a besieged city was no place for them. While the fighting was going on the archduke had attempted to capture the place by treason. He engaged a traitor named Coningsby; who crossed to England, obtained letters of introduction to Vere, and then went to Ostend. Thence he sent intelligence to the besiegers of all that took place in the town, placing his letters at night in an old boat sunk in the mud on the bank of the Old Haven, a Spaniard wading across at low tide and fetching them away. He then attempted to bribe a sergeant to blow up the powder magazine. The sergeant revealed the plot. Coningsby was seized and confessed everything, and by an act of extraordinary clemency was only sentenced to be whipped out of town. This act of treachery on the part of the archduke justified the otherwise dishonourable stratagem afterwards played by Vere upon him. All through October and November the Spaniards were hard at work advancing their batteries, sinking great baskets filled with sand in the Old Haven to facilitate the passage of the troops, and building floating batteries in the Geule. On the night of the 4th of December they advanced suddenly to the attack. Vere and his officers leapt from their beds and rushed to the walls, and after a fierce struggle the besiegers were driven back. Straw was lighted to enable the musketeers and gunners to fire upon them as they retreated, and the assault cost them five hundred lives. On the 12th a hard frost set in, and until Christmas a strong gale from the south-east blew. No succour could reach the town. The garrison were dwindling fast, and ammunition falling short. It required fully 4000 men to guard the walls and forts, while but 2500 remained capable of bearing arms. It was known that the archduke soon intended to make an assault with his whole force, and Vere knew that he could scarcely hope to repel it. He called a council of his chief officers, and asked their opinion whether with the present numbers all parts of the works could be manned in case of assault, and if not whether it was advisable to withdraw the guards from all the outlying positions and to hold only the town. They were unanimously of opinion that the force was too small to defend the whole, but Sir Horace Vere and Sir John Ogle alone gave their advice to abandon the outlying forts rather than endanger the loss of the town. The other officers were of opinion that all the works should be held, although they acknowledged that the disposable force was incapable of doing so. Some days elapsed, and Vere learned that the Spanish preparations were all complete, and that they were only waiting for a low tide to attack. Time was everything, for a change of wind would bring speedy succour, so without taking council with anyone he sent Sir John Ogle with a drummer to the side of the Old Haven. Don Mateo Serrano came forward, and Ogle gave his message, which was that General Vere wished to have some qualified person to speak to him. This was reported to the archduke, who agreed that Serrano and another Spanish officer should go into the town, and that Ogle and a comrade should come as hostages into the Spanish camp. Sir John Ogle took his friend Sir Charles Fairfax with him, and Serrano and Colonel Antonio crossed into Ostend. The two Englishmen were conducted to the archduke, who asked Sir John Ogle to tell him if there was any deceit in the matter. Ogle answered if there were it was more than he knew, for Vere had simply charged him to carry the message, and that he and Fairfax had merely come as hostages for the safe return of the Spanish officers. Ogle was next asked whether he thought the general intended sincerely or not, and could only reply that he was altogether unacquainted with the general's purpose. The next morning Serrano and Antonio returned without having seen Vere. The pretext on which they had been sent back was that there was some irregularity in their coming across; but instead of their being sent back across the Old Haven they were sent across the Geule, and had to make a long round to regain the archduke's camp. Thus a day and a night were gained. The next day, towards evening, the two Spanish officers were admitted into Ostend, and received very hospitably by Sir Francis. After supper many healths were drunk, and then Sir Francis informed them to their astonishment that his proposal was not that he should surrender Ostend, but that the archduke should raise the siege. But it was now far too late for them to return, and they went to bed in the general's quarters. During the two nights thus gained the defenders had worked incessantly in repairing the palisades facing the point at which the attack would take place, a work that they had hitherto been unable to perform owing to the tremendous fire that the Spaniards kept up night and day upon it. At break of day five men-of-war from Zeeland came to anchor off the town. They brought four hundred men, and provisions and materials of war of all kinds. They were immediately landed under a heavy fire from the enemy's batteries on both sides. The firing awoke the two Spanish envoys, who inquired what was taking place. They were politely informed by Sir Francis Vere that succour had arrived, and the negotiations were of course broken off; and they were accordingly sent back, while Ogle and Fairfax returned to Ostend. Vere's account of the transaction was that he had simply asked for two Spanish officers to speak with him. He had offered no terms, and there was therefore no breach of faith. The commander of a besieged town, he insisted, is always at liberty to propose a parley, which the enemy can accept or not as he chooses. At any rate, it was not for the archduke, who had hired a traitor to corrupt the garrison, to make a complaint of treachery. Twelve hundred men were employed for the next eight days in strengthening the works, Sir Francis being always with them at night, when the water was low, encouraging them by his presence and example. Early in January he learned that the enemy were preparing for the assault, and on the 7th a crushing fire was kept up on the Porc-Espic, Helmond, and Sand-hill forts. The Spaniards had by this time fired 163,200 cannon-shot into the town, and scarcely a whole house was left standing. Towards evening they were seen bringing scaling-ladders to the opposite bank of the Haven. Two thousand Italian and Spanish troops had been told off to attack the sand-hill, two thousand were to assault Helmond and the Porc-Espic, two parties of five hundred men each were to attack other works, while on the east side Count Bucquoy was to deliver a general assault. The English general watched all these preparations with the greatest vigilance. At high water he closed the west sluice, which let the water into the town ditch from the Old Haven, in the rear of Helmond, in order to retain as much water as possible, and stationed his troops at the various points most threatened. Sir Horace Vere and Sir Charles Fairfax, with twelve weak companies, some of them reduced to ten or twelve men, were stationed on the sand-hill. Four of the strongest companies garrisoned the Porc-Espic; ten weak companies and nine cannon loaded with musket bullets defended the Helmond. These posts were commanded by Sergeant-major Carpenter and Captain Meetkerk; the rest of the force were disposed at the other threatened points. Sir Francis himself, with Sir Lionel Vickars as his right hand, took his post on the wall of the old town, between the sand-hill and the Schottenburg, which had been much damaged by the action of the waves during the gales and by the enemy's shot. Barrels of ashes, heaps of stones and bricks, hoops bound with squibs and fireworks, ropes of pitch, hand-grenades, and barrels of nails were collected in readiness to hurl down upon the assailants. At dusk the besiegers ceased firing, to allow the guns to cool. Two engineer officers with fifty stout sappers, who each had a rose-noble for every quarter of an hour's work, got on to the breach in front of the sand-hill, and threw up a small breastwork, strengthened by palisades, across it. An officer crept down towards the Old Haven, and presently returned with the news that two thousand of the enemy were wading across, and forming up in battalions on the Ostend side. Suddenly a gun boomed out from the archduke's camp as a signal to Bucquoy, and just as the night had fairly set in the besiegers rushed to the assault from all points. They were received by a tremendous fire from the guns of the forts and the muskets of the soldiers; but, although the effect was serious, they did not hesitate a moment, but dashed forwards towards the foot of the sand-hill and the wall of the old town, halted for a moment, poured in a volley, and then rushed into the breach and against the walls. The volley had been harmless, for Vere had ordered the men to lie flat until it was given. As the Spaniards climbed up barrels of ashes were emptied upon them, stones and heavy timbers hurled down, and flaming hoops cast over their necks. Three times they climbed to the crest of the sand-hill, and as many times gained a footing on the Schottenburg; but each time they were beaten back with great slaughter. As fiercely did they attack at the other points, but were everywhere repulsed. On the east side three strong battalions of the enemy attacked the outwork across the Geule, known as the Spanish Half-moon. Vere, who was everywhere supervising the defence, ordered the weak garrison there to withdraw, and sent a soldier out to give himself up, and to tell them that the Half-moon was slenderly manned, and to offer to lead them in. The offer was accepted, and the Spaniards took possession of the work. The general's object was to occupy them, and prevent their supporting their comrades in the western attack. The Half-moon, indeed, was quite open towards the town. Tide was rising, and a heavy fire was opened upon the captors of the work from the batteries across the Geule, and they were driven out with the loss of three hundred men. At length the assault was repulsed at all points, and the assailants began to retire across the Old Haven. No sooner did they begin to ford it than Vere opened the west sluice, and the water in the town ditch rushed down in a torrent, carrying numbers of the Spaniards away into the sea. Altogether, the assault cost the Spaniards two thousand men. An enormous amount of plunder in arms, gold chains, jewels, and rich garments were obtained by the defenders from the bodies of the fallen. The loss of the garrison was only thirty killed and a hundred wounded. The repulse of the grand attack upon Ostend by no means put an end to the siege. Sir Francis Vere, his brother Horace, Sir John Ogle, and Sir Lionel Vickars left, the general being summoned to assume command in the field; but the siege continued for two years and a half longer. Many assaults were repulsed during that time, and the town only surrendered on the 20th September, 1604, when the sand-hill, which was the key of the whole position, was at last captured by the Spaniards. It was but a heap of ruins that they had become possessed of after their three years' siege, and its capture had not only cost them an immense number of men and a vast amount of money, but the long and gallant defence had secured upon a firm basis the independence of Holland. While the whole available force of Spain had been so occupied Prince Maurice and his English allies had captured town after town, and had beaten the enemy whenever they attempted to show themselves in the open field. They had more than counterbalanced the loss of Ostend by the recapture of Sluys, and had so lowered the Spanish pride that not long afterwards a twelve years' truce was concluded, which virtually brought the war to an end, and secured for ever the independence of Holland. During the last year or two of the war Sir Francis Vere, worn out by his fatigues and the countless wounds he had received in the service of the Netherlands, had resigned his command and retired to England, being succeeded in his position by Sir Horace. Lionel Vickars fought no more after he had borne his part in the repulse of the great assault against Ostend. He had barely recovered from the effect of the wound he had received at the battle of Nieuport, and the fatigues and anxiety of the siege, together with the damp air from the marshes, brought on a serious attack of fever, which completely prostrated him as soon as the necessity for exertion had passed. He remained some weeks at the Hague, and then, being somewhat recovered, returned home. While throughout all England the greatest enthusiasm had been aroused by the victory of Nieuport and the repulse of the Spaniards at Ostend, the feeling was naturally higher in the Vere's county of Essex than elsewhere. As soon as Lionel Vickars was well enough to take any share in gaieties he received many invitations to stay at the great houses of the county, where most of the gentry were more or less closely connected with the Veres; and before he had been home many months he married Dorothy Windhurst, one of the richest heiresses in the county, and a cousin of the Veres. Thus Geoffrey had, after Juan Mendez retired from taking any active part in the business, to work alone until his sons were old enough to join him in the business. As soon as they were able to undertake its active management, Geoffrey bought an estate near Hedingham, and there settled down, journeying occasionally to London to see how the affairs of the house went on, and to give advice to his sons. Dolores had, two or three years after her arrival in England, embraced the faith of her husband; and although she complained a little at times of the English climate, she never once regretted the step she had taken in leaving her native Spain.

1

A FISHING EXPEDITION

It has just struck one, and the boys are streaming out from the schoolroom of Mr. Hathorn's academy in the little town of Marsden in Yorkshire. Their appearance would create some astonishment in the minds of lads of the present generation, for it was the year 1807, and their attire differed somewhat materially from that now worn. They were for the most part dressed in breeches tight at the knee, and buttoning up outside the close fitting jacket nearly under the arms, so that they seemed almost devoid of waist. At the present moment they were bareheaded; but when they went beyond the precincts of the school they wore stiff caps, flat and very large at the top, and with far projecting peaks. They were not altogether a happy looking set of boys, and many of their cheeks were stained with tears and begrimed with dirt from the knuckles which had been used to wipe them away; for there was in the year 1807 but one known method of instilling instruction into the youthful mind, namely, the cane, and one of the chief qualifications of a schoolmaster was to be able to hit hard and sharp. Mr. Hathorn, judged by this standard, stood very high in his profession; his cane seemed to whiz through the air, so rapidly and strongly did it descend, and he had the knack of finding out tender places, and of hitting them unerringly. Any one passing in front of the schoolhouse during the hours when the boys were at their lessons would be almost sure to hear the sharp cracks of the cane, followed sometimes by dead silence, when the recipient of the blows was of a sturdy and Spartan disposition, but more frequently by shrieks and cries. That Hathorn's boys hated their master was almost a matter of course. At the same time they were far from regarding him as an exceptional monster of cruelty, for they knew from their friends that flogging prevailed almost everywhere, and accepted it as a necessary portion of the woes of boyhood. Indeed, in some respects, when not smarting under the infliction, they were inclined to believe that their lot was, in comparison with that of others, a fortunate one; for whereas in many schools the diet was so poor and bad that the boys were half starved, at Hathorn's if their food was simple and coarse it was at least wholesome and abundant. Mr. Hathorn, in fact, intended, and as he quite believed with success, to do his duty by his boys. They were sent to him to be taught, and he taught them through the medium then recognized as most fitting for the purpose--the cane; while, as far as an abundance of porridge for breakfast, and of heavy pudding at dinner, with twice a week an allowance of meat, the boys were unstinted. He would indeed point with pride to his pupils when their parents assembled at the annual presentation of prizes. “Look at them!” he would say proudly. “None of your half starved skeletons here--well filled out and in good condition every boy of them--no stint of porridge here. It keeps them in good health and improves their learning; for, mark you, a plump boy feels the cane twice as much as a skinny one; it stings, my dear sir, it stings, and leaves its mark; whereas there is no getting at a boy whose clothes hang like bags about him.” This was no doubt true, and the boys themselves were conscious of it, and many had been the stern resolutions made while smarting in agony that henceforward food should be eschewed, or taken only in sufficient quantities to keep life together. But boys' appetites are stronger than boys' resolutions, and in the end there was never any marked falling off in the consumption of viands at Hathorn's. Like other things punishment fails when administered in excess. There was no disgrace whatever in what was common to all, for although some of the boys of superior ability and perseverance would escape with a smaller amount of punishment than their fellows, none could hope to escape altogether. Thus it was only the pain that they had to bear, and even this became to some extent deadened by repetition, and was forgotten as soon as inflicted, save when a sudden movement caused a sharp pain in back or leg. Once in the playground their spirits revived, and except a few whose recent punishment incapacitated them for a time from active exercise, the whole were soon intent upon their games. One only of the party wore his cap, and he after a few minutes left the others, and went toward a door which led from the playground into the road. “Don't be long, Sankey; come back as soon as you can, you know we agreed to go fishing this afternoon.” “All right, Tompkins; I will come back directly I have done my dinner. I expect I shall have finished quite as soon as you will.” Edward Sankey, who was regarded with envy by his schoolfellows, was the only home boarder at Hathorn's; for, as a general thing, the master set his face against the introduction of home boarders. They were, he considered, an element of disturbance; they carry tales to and from the school; they cause discontent among the other boys, and their parents are in the habit of protesting and interfering. Not, indeed, that parents in those days considered it in any way a hardship for their boys to suffer corporal punishment; they had been flogged at school, and they believed that they had learned their lessons all the better for it. Naturally the same thing would happen to their sons. Still mothers are apt to be weak and soft hearted, and therefore Mr. Hathorn objected to home boarders. He had made an exception in Sankey's case; his father was of a different type to those of the majority of his boys; he had lost his leg at the battle of Assaye, and had been obliged to leave the army, and having but small means beyond his pension, had settled near the quiet little Yorkshire town as a place where he could live more cheaply than in more bustling localities. He had, when he first came, no acquaintances whatever in the place, and therefore would not be given to discuss with the parents of other boys the doings in the school. Not that Mr. Hathorn was afraid of discussion, for he regarded his school as almost perfect of its kind. Still it was his fixed opinion that discussion was, as a general rule, unadvisable. Therefore, when Captain Sankey, a few weeks after taking up his residence in the locality, made a proposal to him that his son should attend his school as a home boarder, Mr. Hathorn acceded to the proposition, stating frankly his objections, as a rule, to boys of that class. “I shall not interfere,” Captain Sankey said. “Of course boys must be thrashed, and provided that the punishment is not excessive, and that it is justly administered, I have nothing to say against it. Boys must be punished, and if you don't flog you have to confine them, and in my opinion that is far worse for a boy's temper, spirit, and health.” So Ned Sankey went to Hathorn's, and was soon a great favorite there. Just at first he was regarded as a disobliging fellow because he adhered strictly to a stipulation which Mr. Hathorn had made, that he should not bring things in from the town for his school fellows. Only once a week, on the Saturday half holiday, were the boys allowed outside the bounds of the wall round the playground, and although on Wednesday an old woman was allowed to come into those precincts to sell fruit, cakes, and sweets, many articles were wanted in the course of the week, and the boys took it much amiss for a time that Ned refused to act as their messenger; but he was firm in his refusals. His father had told him not to do so, and his father's word was law to him; but when the boys saw that in all other respects he was a thoroughly good fellow, they soon forgave him what they considered his undue punctiliousness, and he became a prime favorite in the school. It is due to Mr. Hathorn to say that no fear of interference induced him to mitigate his rule to thrash when he considered that punishment was necessary, and that Ned received his full share of the general discipline. He was never known to utter a cry under punishment, for he was, as his school fellows said admiringly, as hard as nails; and he was, moreover, of a dogged disposition which would have enabled him, when he had once determined upon a thing, to carry it through even if it killed him. Mr. Hathorn regarded this quality as obstinacy, the boys as iron resolution; and while the former did his best to conquer what he regarded as a fault, the boys encouraged by their admiration what they viewed as a virtue. At home Ned never spoke of his punishments; and if his father observed a sudden movement which told of a hidden pain, and would say cheerfully, “What! have you been getting it again, Ned?” the boy would smile grimly and nod, but no complaint ever passed his lips. There was no disgrace in being flogged--it was the natural lot of schoolboys; why should he make a fuss about it? So he held his tongue. But Mr. Hathorn was not altogether wrong. Ned Sankey was obstinate, but though obstinate he was by no means sulky. When he made up his mind to do a thing he did it, whether it was to be at the top of his class in order to please his father, or to set his teeth like iron and let no sound issue from them as Mr. Hathorn's cane descended on his back. Ned Sankey was about fourteen years of age. He had a brother and a sister, but between them and himself was a gap of four years, as some sisters who had been born after him had died in infancy. Ned adored his father, who was a most kind and genial man, and would have suffered anything in silence rather than have caused him any troubles or annoyance by complaining to him. For his mother his feelings were altogether different. She was a kindly and well intentioned woman, but weak and silly. On leaving school she had gone out to join her father in India. Captain Sankey had sailed in the same ship and, taken by her pretty face and helpless, dependent manner, he had fallen in love with her, knowing nothing of her real disposition, and they had been married upon their arrival at the termination of the voyage. So loyal was his nature that it is probable Captain Sankey never admitted even to himself that his marriage had been a mistake; but none of his comrades ever doubted it. His wife turned out one of the most helpless of women. Under the plea of ill health she had at a very early period of their marriage given up all attempt to manage the affairs of the household, and her nerves were wholly unequal to the strain of looking after her children. It was noticeable that though her health was unequal to the discharge of her duties, she was always well enough to take part in any pleasure or gayety which might be going on; and as none of the many doctors who attended her were able to discover any specific ailment, the general opinion was that Mrs. Sankey's ill health was the creation of her own imagination. This, however, was not wholly the case. She was not strong; and although, had she made an effort, she would have been able to look after her children like other women, she had neither the disposition nor the training to make that effort. Her son regarded her with the sort of pity, not unmingled with contempt, with which young people full of life and energy are apt to regard those who are weak and ailing without having any specific disease or malady which would account for their condition. “All the bothers fall upon father,” he would say to himself; “and if mother did but make up her mind she could take her share in them well enough. There was he walking about for two hours this evening with little Lucy in his arms, because she had fallen down and hurt herself; and there was mother lying on the sofa reading that book of poetry, as if nothing that happened in the house was any affair of hers. She is very nice and very kind, but I do wish she wouldn't leave everything for father to do. It might have been all very well before he lost his leg, but I do think she ought to make an effort now.” However, Mrs. Sankey made no effort, nor did her husband ever hint that it would be better for herself as well as her family if she did so. He accepted the situation as inevitable, and patiently, and indeed willingly, bore her burden as well as his own. Fortunately she had in the children's nurse an active and trustworthy woman. Abijah Wolf was a Yorkshire woman. She had in her youth been engaged to a lad in her native village. In a moment of drunken folly, a short time before the day fixed for their wedding, he had been persuaded to enlist. Abijah had waited patiently for him twelve years. Then he had returned a sergeant, and she had married him and followed him with his regiment, which was that in which Captain Sankey--at that time a young ensign--served. When the latter's first child was born at Madras there was a difficulty in obtaining a white nurse, and Mrs. Sankey declared that she would not trust the child to a native. Inquiries were therefore made in the regiment, and Sergeant Wolf's wife, who had a great love for children although childless herself, volunteered to fill the post for a time. A few months afterward Sergeant Wolf was killed in a fight with a marauding hill tribe. His widow, instead of returning home and living on the little pension to which she was entitled at his death, remained in the service of the Sankeys, who soon came to regard her as invaluable. She was somewhat rough in her ways and sharp with her tongue; but even Mrs. Sankey, who was often ruffled by her brusque independence, was conscious of her value, and knew that she should never obtain another servant who would take the trouble of the children so entirely off her hands. She retained, indeed, her privilege of grumbling, and sometimes complained to her husband that Abijah's ways were really unbearable. Still she never pressed the point, and Abijah appeared established as a permanent fixture in the Sankeys' household. She it was who, when, after leaving the service, Captain Sankey was looking round for a cheap and quiet residence, had recommended Marsden. “There is a grand air from the hills,” she said, “which will be just the thing for the children. There's good fishing in the stream for yourself, captain, and you can't get a quieter and cheaper place in all England. I ought to know, for I was born upon the moorland but six miles away from it, and should have been there now if I hadn't followed my man to the wars.” “Where are you going, Master Ned?” she asked as the boy, having finished his dinner, ran to the high cupboard at the end of the passage near the kitchen to get his fishing rod. “I am going out fishing, Abijah.” “Not by yourself, I hope?” “No; another fellow is going with me. We are going up into the hills.” “Don't ye go too far, Master Ned. They say the croppers are drilling on the moors, and it were bad for ye if you fell in with them.” “They wouldn't hurt me if I did.” “I don't suppose they would,” the nurse said, “but there is never no saying. Poor fellows! they're druv well nigh out of their senses with the bad times. What with the machines, and the low price of labor, and the high price of bread, they are having a terrible time of it. And no wonder that we hear of frame breaking in Nottingham, and Lancashire, and other places. How men can be wicked enough to make machines, to take the bread out of poor men's mouths, beats me altogether.” “Father says the machinery will do good in the long run, Abijah--that it will largely increase trade, and so give employment to a great many more people than at present. But it certainly is hard on those who have learned to work in one way to see their living taken away from them.” “Hard!” the nurse said. “I should say it were hard. I know the croppers, for there were a score of them in my village, and a rough, wild lot they were. They worked hard and they drank hard, and the girl as chose a cropper for a husband was reckoned to have made a bad match of it; but they are determined fellows, and you will see they won't have the bread taken out of their mouths without making a fight for it.” “That may be,” Ned said, “for every one gives them the name of a rough lot; but I must talk to you about it another time, Abijah, I have got to be off;” and having now found his fishing rod, his box of bait, his paper of books, and a basket to bring home the fish he intended to get, Ned ran off at full speed toward the school. As Abijah Wolf had said, the croppers of the West Riding were a rough set. Their occupation consisted in shearing or cropping the wool on the face of cloths. They used a large pair of shears, which were so set that one blade went under the cloth while the other worked on its upper face, mowing the fibers and ends of the wool to a smooth, even surface. The work was hard and required considerable skill, and the men earned about twenty-four shillings a week, a sum which, with bread and all other necessities of life at famine prices, barely sufficed for the support of their families. The introduction of power looms threatened to abolish their calling. It was true that although these machines wove the cloth more evenly and smoothly than the hand looms, croppers were still required to give the necessary smoothness of face; still the tendency had been to lower wages. The weavers were affected even more than the croppers, for strength and skill were not so needed to tend the power looms as to work the hand looms. Women and boys could do the work previously performed by men, and the tendency of wages was everywhere to fall. For years a deep spirit of discontent had been seething among the operatives in the cotton and woolen manufactures, and there had been riots more or less serious in Derbyshire, Nottingham, Lancashire and Yorkshire, which in those days were the headquarters of these trades. Factories had been burned, employers threatened and attacked, and the obnoxious machines smashed. It was the vain struggle of the ignorant and badly paid people to keep down production and to keep up wages, to maintain manual labor against the power of the steam engine. Hitherto factories had been rare, men working the frames in their own homes, and utilizing the labor of their wives and families, and the necessity of going miles away to work in the mills, where the looms were driven by steam, added much to the discontent. Having found his fishing appliances Ned hurried off to the school, where his chum Tompkins was already waiting him, and the two set out at once on their expedition. They had four miles to walk to reach the spot where they intended to fish. It was a quiet little stream with deep pools and many shadows, and had its source in the heart of the moorlands. Neither of them had ever tried it before, but they had heard it spoken of as one of the best streams for fish in that part. On reaching its banks the rods were put together, the hooks were baited with worms, and a deep pool being chosen they set to work. After fishing for some time without success they tried a pool higher up, and so mounted higher and higher up the stream, but ever with the same want of success. “How could they have said that this was a good place for fish?” Tompkins said angrily at last. “Why, by this time it would have been hard luck if we had not caught a dozen between us where we usually fish close to the town, and after our long walk we have not had even a bite.” “I fancy, Tompkins,” Ned said, “that we are a couple of fools. I know it is trout that they catch in this stream, and of course, now I think of it, trout are caught in clear water with a fly, not with a worm. Father said the other day he would take me out some Saturday and give me a lesson in fly fishing. How he will laugh when I tell him we have wasted all our afternoon in trying to catch trout with worms!” “I don't see anything to laugh at,” Tompkins grumbled. “Here we waste a whole half holiday, and nothing to show for it, and have got six or seven miles at least to tramp back to school.” “Well, we have had a nice walk,” Ned said, “even if we are caught in the rain. However, we may as well put up our rods and start. I vote we try to make a straight cut home; it must be ever so much shorter to go in a straight line than to follow all the windings of this stream.” They had long since left the low lands, where trees and bushes bordered the stream, and were in a lonely valley where the hills came down close to the little stream, which sparkled among the boulders at their feet. The slopes were covered with a crop of short wiry grass through which the gray stone projected here and there. Tiny rills of water made their way down the hillside to swell the stream, and the tinge of brown which showed up wherever these found a level sufficient to form a pool told that they had their source in the bogs on the moorland above. Tompkins looked round him rather disconcertedly. “I don't know,” he said. “It's a beastly long way to walk round; but suppose we got lost in trying to make our way across the hills.” “Well, just as you like,” Ned said, “I am game to walk back the way we came or to try and make a straight cut, only mind don't you turn round and blame me afterward. You take your choice; whichever you vote for I am ready to do.” “My shoes are beginning to rub my heels,” Tompkins said, “so I will take the shortest way and risk it. I don't see we can go far out of our way.” “I don't see that we can,” Ned replied. “Marsden lies to the east, so we have only to keep our backs to the sun; it won't be down for another two hours yet, and before that we ought to be in.” By this time they had taken their rods to pieces, wound up their lines, and were ready to start. A few minutes' sharp climbing took them to the top of the slope. They were now upon the moor, which stretched away with slight undulations as far as they could see. “Now,” Ned said, “we will make for that clump of rocks. They seem to be just in the line we ought to take, and by fixing our eyes upon them we shall go straight.” This, however, was not as easy to do as Ned had fancied; the ground was in many places so soft and boggy that they were forced to make considerable detours. Nevertheless the rocks served as a beacon, and enabled them to keep the right direction; but although they made their way at the best of their speed it was an hour after starting before they approached the rock. When they were within fifty yards of it a figure suddenly rose. It was that of a boy some fifteen years of age. “Goa back,” he shouted; “dang yer, what be'est a cooming here vor?” The two boys stopped astonished. “We are going to Marsden,” Ned replied; “but what's that to you?” “Doan't ee moind wot it be to oi,” the boy said; “oi tell ee ee can't goa no further; yoi've got ter go back.” “We shan't go back,” Ned said; “we have got as much right to go this way as you have. This is not your land; and if it is, we ain't hurting it.” By this time they were at the foot of the pile of rocks, and the lad was standing some ten feet above them. “Oi tell ee,” he repeated doggedly, “yoi've got vor to go back.” The boy was so much bigger and stronger than either Ned or his companion that the former, although indignant at this interference, did not deem it prudent to attempt to climb the crag, so he said to Tompkins: “Of course we ain't going back, but we had better take a turn so as to get out of the way of this fellow.” So saying they turned to the right and prepared to scout round the rock and continue their way; but this did not suit their obstructor. “If ee doan't go back at oncet oi'll knock the heads off thee shoulders.” “We can't go back,” Tompkins said desperately, “we are both as tired as we can be, and my heel is so sore that I can hardly walk. We shouldn't get to Marsden tonight if we were to turn back.” “That's nowt to oi,” the boy said. “Oi bain't a-going to let ee pass here.” “What are we to do, Ned?” Tompkins groaned. “Do!” Ned replied indignantly. “Why, go on, of course. Marsden cannot be more than three miles off, and I ain't going to walk twelve miles round to please this obstinate brute.” “But he is ever so much bigger than we are,” Tompkins said doubtfully. “Well, there are two of us,” Ned said, “and two to one is fair enough when he is as big as the two of us together.” “We are going on,” he said to the boy, “and if you interfere with us it will be the worse for you.” The boy descended leisurely from his position on the rocks. “Oi don't want to hurt ee, but oi've got to do as oi were bid, and if ee doan't go back oi've got to make ee. There be summat a-going on thar,” and he jerked his head behind him, “as it wouldn't be good vor ee to see, and ye bain't a-going vor to see it.” But Ned and Tompkins were desperate now, and dropping their rods made a rush together against him.

2

THE FIGHT ON THE MOOR

The lad threw himself into a position of defense as the two boys rushed at him. “Oi doan't want vor to hurt ee,” he said again, “but if ee will have it, why, it won't be moi vault;” and swinging his arm round, he brought it down with such force upon the nose of Tompkins that the latter was knocked down like a ninepin, and, once down, evinced no intention of continuing the conflict. In Ned, however, the lad found an opponent of a different stamp. The latter saw at once that his opponent's far greater weight and strength rendered it hopeless for him to trust to close fighting, and he worked round and round him, every now and then rushing at him and delivering a telling blow, and getting off again before his heavy and comparatively unwieldy companion could reply. Once or twice, indeed, the lad managed to strike him as he came in, each time knocking him fairly off his feet; but in the fair spirit which at that time animated English men and boys of all classes he allowed Ned each time to regain his feet without interference. “Thou bee'st a plucky one,” he said, as Ned after his third fall again faced him, “but thou bain't strong enough for oi.” Ned made no reply, but nerved himself for a fresh effort. The blows he had received had been heavy, and the blood was streaming from his face; but he had no idea of giving in, although Tompkins, in spite of his calls and reproaches, refused to raise himself beyond a sitting position. “It's no good, Ned,” he replied, “the brute is too big for us, and I'd rather try to walk home all the way round than get another like the last. My nose feels as big as my head.” Ned hardly heard what his companion said. He would have been killed rather than yield now, and gathering all his strength he sprang at his opponent like a tiger. Avoiding the blow which the boy aimed at him, he leaped upon him, and flung his arms round his neck. The sudden shock overthrew him, and with a crash both boys came to the ground together. Ned at once loosened his hold, and springing to his feet again, awaited the rising of his opponent. The latter made a movement to get up, and then fell back with a cry. “Thou hast beaten me,” he said. “Oi think moi leg be broke.” Ned saw now that as the lad had fallen his leg had been twisted under him, and that he was unable to extricate it. In a moment he was kneeling before the prostrate lad. “Oh! I am sorry,” he exclaimed; “but you know I didn't mean to do it. Here, Tompkins, don't sit there like a fool, but come and help me move him and get his leg straight.” Although the boys did this as gently as they could, a groan showed how great was the agony. “Where is it?” Ned asked. “Aboove the knee somewhere,” the lad said, and Ned put his hand gently to the spot, and to his horror could feel something like the end of a bone. “Oh! dear, what is to be done? Here, Tompkins, either you or I must go on to the town for help.” “It's getting dark already,” Tompkins said; “the sun has set some time. How on earth is one to find the way?” “Well, if you like I will go,” Ned said, “and you stop here with him.” The lad, who had been lying with closed eyes and a face of ghastly pallor, now looked up. “There be soom men not a quarter of a mile away; they be a-drilling, they be, and oi was sot here to stop any one from cooming upon em; but if so bee as thou wilt go and tell em oi has got hurt, oi don't suppose as they will meddle with ye.” Ned saw now why the lad had opposed his going any further. Some of the croppers were drilling on the moor, and the boy had been placed as sentry. It wasn't a pleasant business to go up to men so engaged, especially with the news that he had seriously injured the boy they had placed on watch. But Ned did not hesitate a moment. “You stop here, Tompkins, with him,” he said quietly, “I will go and fetch help. It is a risk, of course, but we can't let him lie here.” So saying, Ned mounted the rock to get a view over the moor. No sooner had he gained the position than he saw some thirty or forty men walking in groups across the moor at a distance of about half a mile. They had evidently finished their drill, and were making their way to their homes. This at least was satisfactory. He would no longer risk their anger by disturbing them at their illegal practices, and had now only to fear the wrath which would be excited when they heard what had happened to the boy. He started at a brisk run after them, and speedily came up to the last of the party. They were for the most part men between twenty and thirty, rough and strongly built, and armed with billhooks and heavy bludgeons, two or three of them carrying guns. One of them looked round on hearing footsteps approaching, and gave a sudden exclamation. The rest turned, and on seeing Ned, halted with a look of savage and menacing anger on their faces. “Who be'est, boy? dang ee, what brings ye here?” Ned gulped down the emotion of fear excited by their threatening appearance, and replied as calmly as he could: “I am sorry to say that I have had a struggle with a boy over by that rock yonder. We fell together, and he has broken his leg. He told me if I came over in this direction I should find some one to help him.” “Broaken Bill's leg, did'st say, ye young varmint?” one of the men exclaimed. “Oi've a good moinde to wring yer neck.” “I am very sorry,” Ned said; “but I did not mean it. I and another boy were walking back to Marsden from fishing, and he wouldn't let us pass; it was too far to go back again, so of course we had to try, and then there was a fight, but it was quite an accident his breaking his leg.” “Did'st see nowt afore ye had the voight?” one of the other men inquired. “No,” Ned replied; “we saw no one from the time we left the stream till we met the boy who would not let us pass, and I only caught sight of you walking this way from the top of the rock.” “If 'twere a vair voight, John, the boy bain't to be blamed, though oi be main grieved about thy brother Bill; but we'd best go back for him, voor on us. And moind, youngster, thee'd best keep a quiet tongue in thy head as to whaat thou'st seen here.” “I haven't seen anything,” Ned said; “but of course if you wish it I will say nothing about it.” “It were best for ee, for if thou go'st aboot saying thou'st seen men with guns and clubs up here on the moor, it ull be the worsest day's work ee've ever done.” “I will say nothing about it,” Ned replied, “but please come on at once, for I am afraid the boy is in terrible pain.” Four of the men accompanied Ned back to the rock. “Hullo, Bill! what's happened ee?” his brother asked. “Oi've had a fight and hurted myself, and broke my leg; but it wa'nt that chap's fault; it were a vair voight, and a right good 'un he be. Doan't do nowt to him.” “Well, that's roight enough then,” the man said, “and you two young 'uns can go whoam. Marsden lies over that way; thou wilt see it below ye when ye gets to yon rock over there; and moind what I told ee.” “I will,” Ned said earnestly; “but do let me come up to see how he is getting on, I shall be so anxious to know.” The man hesitated, but the lad said, “Let um coom, John, he bee a roight good un.” “Well, if thou would'st like it, Bill, he shall coom.” “If thou coom oop to Varley and ask vor Bill Swinton, anyone will show ee the place.” “Goodby,” Ned said to the boy, “I am so sorry you have got hurt. I will come and see you as soon as I can.” Then he and Tompkins set off toward the rock the man had pointed out, which by this time, in the fast growing darkness, could scarce be made out. They would indeed probably have missed it, for the distance was fully a mile and a half; but before they had gone many yards one of the four men passed by them on a run on his way down to Marsden to summon the parish doctor, for a moment's examination had sufficed to show them that the boy's injury was far too serious to treat by themselves. Tired as the boys were, they set off in his footsteps, and managed to keep him in sight until they reached the spot whence Marsden could be seen, and they could no longer mistake the way. “Now, look here, Tompkins,” Ned said as they made their way down the hill; “don't you say a word about this affair. You haven't got much to boast about in it, sitting there on the grass and doing nothing to help me. I shan't say anything more about that if you hold your tongue; but if you blab I will let all the fellows know how you behaved.” “But they will all notice my nose directly I get in,” Tompkins said. “What am I to say?” “Yes, there's no fear about their not noticing your nose,” Ned replied. “I don't want you to tell a lie. You can say the exact truth. We were coming home across the moors; a boy interfered with us, and would not let us pass; we both pitched into him, and at last he got the worst of it, and we came home.” “But what's the harm of saying that you and he fell, and he broke his leg?” “A great deal of harm,” Ned replied. “If it was known that a boy's leg got broke in a fight with us it would be sure to come to Hathorn's ears; then there would be an inquiry and a row. Like enough he would go up to see the boy and inquire all about it. Then the men would suppose that we had broken our words, and the next time you and I go out on a fishing expedition there's no saying what mightn't happen to us. They are a rough lot those moor men, and don't stick at trifles.” “I will say nothing about it,” Tompkins replied hastily; “you may rely on that. What a lucky fellow you are to be going home! Nothing will be said to you for being an hour late. I shall get a licking to a certainty. How I do hate that Hathorn, to be sure!” They now came to the point where the road separated and each hurried on at his best speed. “You are late tonight, Ned,” the boy's father said when he entered. “I don't like your being out after dark. I don't mind how far you go so that you are in by sunset; but, halloo!” he broke off, as he caught sight of the boy's face as he approached the table at which the rest of the party were sitting at tea; “what have you been doing to your face?” Captain Sankey might well be surprised. One of the boy's eyes was completely closed by a swelling which covered the whole side of his face. His lip was badly cut, and the effect of that and the swelling was to give his mouth the appearance of being twisted completely on one side. “Oh! there's nothing the matter,” Ned replied cheerfully; “but I had a fight with a boy on the moor.” “It is dreadful! --quite dreadful!” Mrs. Sankey said; “your going on like this. It makes me feel quite faint and ill to look at you. I wonder you don't get killed with your violent ways.” Ned made no reply but took his seat at the table, and fell to work upon the hunches of thick brown bread and butter. “I will tell you about it afterward, father,” he said; “it really wasn't my fault.” “I am sure I don't wish to hear the story of your quarrels and fighting, Edward,” Mrs. Sankey said; “the sight of you is quite enough to upset my nerves and make me wretched. Of course if your father chooses to support you in such goings on I can say nothing. Neither he nor you seem to remember how trying such things as these are to any one with a broken constitution like mine.” Captain Sankey, knowing from experience how useless it was to attempt to argue with his wife when she was in this mood, continued to eat his meal placidly. Ned seized his mug of milk and water, and took an impatient drink of it. “Is there anything I had better do for my face?” he asked his father presently. “I don't think anything you can do, Ned, will make you presentable for the next few days. I believe that a raw beefsteak is the best thing to put on your eye, but is not such a thing in the house, and if there was, I don't think that I should be justified in wasting it for such a purpose. I should say the next best thing would be to keep a cloth soaked in cold water on your face; that will probably take down the swelling to some extent.” After tea Ned repaired to the kitchen, where Abijah, with much scolding and some commiseration, applied a wet cloth to his face, and fastened a handkerchief over it to keep it in its place. Then the boy went into the little room which his father called his study, where he used to read the papers, to follow the doings of the British armies in the field, and above all to smoke his pipe in quiet. He laughed as Ned entered. “You look like a wounded hero, indeed, Ned. Now sit down, my boy, and tell me about this business; not, you know, that I have any objection to your fighting when it's necessary. My experience is that it is the nature of boys to fight, and it is no use trying to alter boys' nature. As I have always told you, don't get into a fight if you can help it; but, if you once begin, fight it out like a man.” “Well, I couldn't help it this time, father, and I will tell you all about it. I promised not to tell; but what was meant by that was that I should not tell any one who would do anything about it; and as I know you won't, why, of course I can tell you.” “I don't know what you mean in the least, Ned; a promise, whatever it is about, is a promise.” “I know, father, but all that was meant in my case was that I would say nothing which would cause injury to those to whom I promised; and it will do them no injury whatever by telling you in confidence. Besides, it is probable you may learn about it in some other way; because, unfortunately, I broke the other fellow's leg very badly, and there is no saying what may come of it, so I think you ought to know all the circumstances.” “Very well, Ned,” his father said quietly; “this seems to be a serious business. Go on, my boy.” Ned related the whole circumstances, his father saying no word until he had finished. “You have been in no way to blame in the matter, nor could you have acted otherwise. The breaking of the boy's leg is unfortunate, but it was a pure accident, and even the boy's friends did not blame you in the matter. As to the illegal drilling, that is no new thing; it has been known to be going on for many months, and, indeed, in some places for years. The authorities take but little notice of it. An outbreak of these poor fellows would, indeed, constitute a considerable local danger. Mills might be burned down, and possibly some obnoxious masters killed, but a few troops of dragoons, or half a regiment of light infantry, would scatter them like chaff. “The Irish rebellion thirteen years ago was a vastly more formidable affair. There it may be said that the whole country was in arms, and the element of religious fanaticism came into play; but in spite of that the resistance which they opposed to the troops was absolutely contemptible; however, it is just as well that you did not see them drill, because now, if by any chance this lad should die, and inquiry were made about it, there would be no occasion for you to allude to the subject at all. You would be able to say truthfully that finding that he was hurt, you went off, and happened to come upon four men on the moor and brought them to his assistance.” “I promised to go up to see the boy, father. I suppose that there is no harm?” “None at all, Ned, it is only natural that you should entertain the wish; in fact you have injured him seriously, and we must do all in our power to alleviate his pain. I will go in the morning and see Dr. Green. I shall, of course, tell him that the boy was hurt in a tussle with you, and that you are very sorry about it. The fact that he is some two years older, as you say, and ever so much stronger and bigger, is in itself a proof that you were not likely to have wantonly provoked a fight with him. I shall ask the doctor if there is anything in the way of food and comforts I can send up for him.” Accordingly, the next morning, the first thing after breakfast, Captain Sankey went out and called upon the doctor. Ned awaited his return anxiously. “The doctor says it's a bad fracture, Ned, a very bad fracture, and the boy must have had his leg curiously twisted under him for the bone to have snapped in such a way. He questions whether it will be possible to save the leg; indeed, he would have taken it off last night, but the boy said he would rather die, and the men were all against it. By the help of half a dozen men he got the bones into their places again, and has bandaged the leg up with splints; but he is very doubtful what will come of it.” Ned was crying now. “I would give anything if it hadn't happened, father, and he really seemed a nice fellow. He said over and over again he didn't want to hurt us, and I am sure he didn't, only he thought he oughtn't to let us pass, and as we would go on he had to stop us.” “Well, it can't be helped, Ned,” his father said kindly. “It is very natural that you should be grieved about it; but you see it really was an accident; there was nothing willful or intentional about it, and you must not take it to heart more than you can help.” But Ned did take it to heart, and for the next fortnight was very miserable. The doctor's reports during that time were not hopeful. Fever had set in, and for some days the boy was delirious, and there was no saying how it would turn out. At the end of that time the bulletins became somewhat more hopeful. The lad was quiet now from the complete exhaustion of his strength. He might rally or he might not; his leg was going on favorably. No bad symptom had set in, and it was now purely a question of strength and constitution whether he would pull through it. Mrs. Sankey had been kept in entire ignorance of the whole matter. She had once or twice expressed a languid surprise at Ned's altered manner and extreme quietness; but her interest was not sufficient for her to inquire whether there were any reasons for this change. Abijah had been taken into Captain Sankey's counsels, and as soon as the fever had abated, and the doctor pronounced that the most nourishing food was now requisite, she set to work to prepare the strongest broths and jellies she could make, and these, with bottles of port wine, were taken by her every evening to the doctor, who carried them up in his gig on his visits to his patient in the morning. On the third Saturday the doctor told Ned that he considered that the boy had fairly turned the corner and was on the road to recovery, and that he might now go up and see him. His friends had expressed their warm gratitude for the supplies which had been sent up, and clearly cherished no animosity against Ned. The boy had been informed of the extreme anxiety of his young antagonist as to his condition, and had nodded feebly when asked if he would see Ned should he call upon him. It was therefore without any feeling of trepidation as to his reception that Ned on the Saturday afternoon entered Varley. Varley was a scattered village lying at the very edge of the moor. The houses were built just where the valley began to dip down from the uplands, the depression being deep enough to shelter them from the winds which swept across the moor. Some of those which stood lowest were surrounded by a few stumpy fruit trees in the gardens, but the majority stood bleak and bare. From most of the houses the sound of the shuttle told that hand weaving was carried on within, and when the weather was warm women sat at the doors with their spinning wheels. The younger men for the most part worked as croppers in the factories in Marsden. In good times Varley had been a flourishing village, that is to say its inhabitants had earned good wages; but no one passing through the bare and dreary village would have imagined that it had ever seen good days, for the greater proportion of the earnings had gone in drink, and the Varley men had a bad name even in a country and at a time when heavy drinking was the rule rather than the exception. But whatever good times it may have had they were gone now. Wages had fallen greatly and the prices of food risen enormously, and the wolf was at the door of every cottage. No wonder the men became desperate, and believing that all their sufferings arose from the introduction of the new machinery, had bound themselves to destroy it whatever happened. A woman of whom he inquired for John Swinton's cottage told him that it was the last on the left. Although he told himself that he had nothing to be afraid of, it needed all Ned's determination to nerve himself to tap at the door of the low thatched cottage. A young woman opened it. “If you please,” Ned said, “I have come to see Bill; the doctor said he would see me. It was I who hurt him, but indeed I didn't mean to do it.” “A noice bizness yoi've made of it atween ee,” the woman said, but in a not unkind voice. “Who'd ha' thought as Bill would ha' got hurted by such a little un as thou be'st; but coom in, he will be main glad to see ee, and thy feyther ha' been very good in sending up all sorts o' things for him. He's been very nigh agooing whoam, but I believe them things kept un from it.” The cottage contained but two rooms. In a corner of the living room, into which Ned followed the woman, Bill Swinton lay upon a bed which Captain Sankey had sent up. Ned would not have known him again, and could scarce believe that the thin, feeble figure was the sturdy, strong built boy with whom he had struggled on the moor. His eyes filled with tears as he went up to the bedside. “I am so sorry!” he said; “I have grieved so all the time you have been ill.” “It's all roight, young un,” the boy said in a low voice, “thar's no call vor to fret. It warn't thy fault; thou couldn't not tell why oi would not let ee pass, and ye were roight enough to foight rather than to toorn back. I doan't blame ee nohow, and thou stoodst up well agin me. Oi doan't bear no malice vor a fair foight, not loikely. Thy feyther has been roight good to oi, and the things he sends oi up has done oi a power o' good. Oi hoap as how they will let oi eat afore long; oi feels as if oi could hearty, but the doctor he woin't let oi.” “I hope in a few days he will let you,” Ned said, “and then I am sure father will send you up some nice things. I have brought you up some of my books for you to look at the pictures.” The boy looked pleased. “Oi shall like that,” Bill said; “but oi shan't know what they be about.” “But I will come up every Saturday if you will let me, and tell you the stories all about them.” “Willee now? That will be main koinde o' ye.” “I don't think you are strong enough to listen today,” Ned said, seeing how feebly the boy spoke; “but I hope by next Saturday you will be much stronger. And now I will say goodby, for the doctor said that I must not talk too long.” So saying Ned left the cottage and made his way back to Marsden in better spirits than he had been for the last three weeks. From that time Ned went up regularly for some weeks every Saturday to see Bill Swinton, to the great disgust of his schoolfellows, who could not imagine why he refused to join in their walks or games on those days; but he was well repaid by the pleasure which his visits afforded. The days passed very drearily to the sick boy, accustomed as he was to a life spent entirely in the open air, and he looked forward with eager longing to Ned's visits. On the occasion of the second visit he was strong enough to sit up in bed, and Ned was pleased to hear that his voice was heartier and stronger. He listened with delight as Ned read through the books he had brought him from end to end, often stopping him to ask questions as to the many matters beyond his understanding, and the conversations on these points were often so long that the continuance of the reading had to be postponed until the next visit. To Bill everything he heard was wonderful. Hitherto his world had ended at Marsden, and the accounts of voyages and travels in strange lands were full of surprise and interest to him. Especially he loved to talk to Ned of India, where the boy had lived up to the time when his father had received his wound, and Ned's account of the appearance and manners of the people there were even more interesting to him than books. At the end of two months after Ned's first visit Bill was able to walk about with a stick, and Ned now discontinued his regular visits; but whenever he had a Saturday on which there was no particular engagement he would go for a chat with Bill, for a strong friendship had now sprung up between the lads. On Ned's side the feeling consisted partly of regret for the pain and injury he had inflicted upon his companion, partly in real liking for the honesty and fearlessness which marked the boy's character. On Bill's side the feeling was one of intense gratitude for the kindness and attention which Ned had paid him, for his giving up his play hours to his amusement, and the pains which he had taken to lighten the dreary time of his confinement. Added to this there was a deep admiration for the superior knowledge of his friend. “There was nothing,” he often said to himself, “as oi wouldn't do for that young un.”

3

A CROPPER VILLAGE

Bad as were times in Varley, the two public houses, one of which stood at either end of the village, were for the most part well filled of an evening; but this, as the landlords knew to their cost, was the result rather of habit than of thirst. The orders given were few and far between, and the mugs stood empty on the table for a long time before being refilled. In point of numbers the patrons of the “Brown Cow” and the “Spotted Dog” were not unequal; but the “Dog” did a larger trade than its rival, for it was the resort of the younger men, while the “Cow” was the meeting place of the elders. A man who had neither wife nor child to support could manage even in these hard times to pay for his quart or two of liquor of an evening; but a pint mug was the utmost that those who had other mouths than their own to fill could afford. Fortunately tobacco, although dear enough if purchased in the towns, cost comparatively little upon the moors, for scarce a week passed but some lugger ran in at night to some little bay among the cliffs on the eastern shore, and for the most part landed her bales and kegs in spite of the vigilance of the coast guard. So there were plenty of places scattered all over the moorland where tobacco could be bought cheap, and where when the right signal was given a noggin of spirits could be had from the keg which was lying concealed in the wood stack or rubbish heap. What drunkenness there was on the moors profited his majesty's excise but little. The evenings at the “Cow” were not lively. The men smoked their long pipes and sipped their beer slowly, and sometimes for half an hour no one spoke; but it was as good as conversation, for every one knew what the rest were thinking of--the bad times, but no one had anything new to say about them. They were not brilliant, these sturdy Yorkshiremen. They suffered patiently and uncomplainingly, because they did not see that any effort of theirs could alter the state of things. They accepted the fact that the high prices were due to the war, but why the war was always going on was more than any of them knew. It gave them a vague satisfaction when they heard that a British victory had been won; and when money had been more plentiful, the occasion had been a good excuse for an extra bout of drinking, for most of them were croppers, and had in their time been as rough and as wild as the younger men were now; but they had learned a certain amount of wisdom, and shook their heads over the talk and doings of the younger men who met at the “Dog.” Here there was neither quiet nor resignation, but fiery talk and stern determination; it was a settled thing here that the machines were responsible for the bad times. The fact that such times prevailed over the whole country in no way affected their opinion. It was not for them to deny that there was a war, that food was dear, and taxation heavy. These things might be; but the effect of the machinery came straight home to them, and they were convinced that if they did but hold together and wreck the machines prosperity would return to Varley. The organization for resistance was extensive. There were branches in every village in West Yorkshire, Lancashire, Nottingham, and Derby--all acting with a common purpose. The members were bound by terrible oaths upon joining the society to be true to its objects, to abstain on pain of death from any word which might betray its secrets, and to carry into execution its orders, even if these should involve the slaying of a near relation proved to have turned traitor to the society. Hitherto no very marked success had attended its doings. There had been isolated riots in many places; mills had been burned, and machinery broken. But the members looked forward to better things. So far their only successes had been obtained by threats rather than deeds, for many manufacturers had been deterred from adopting the new machinery by the receipt of threatening letters signed “King Lud,” saying that their factories would be burned and themselves shot should they venture upon altering their machinery. The organ of communication between the members of the society at Varley and those in other villages was the blacksmith, or as he preferred to be called, the minister, John Stukeley, who on weekdays worked at the forge next door to the “Spotted Dog,” and on Sundays held services in “Little Bethel”--a tiny meeting house standing back from the road. Had John Stukeley been busier during the week he would have had less time to devote to the cause of “King Lud;” but for many hours a day his fire was banked up, for except to make repairs in any of the frames which had got out of order, or to put on a shoe which a horse had cast on his way up the hill from Marsden, there was but little employment for him. The man was not a Yorkshireman by birth, but came from Liverpool, and his small, spare figure contrasted strongly with those of the tall, square built Yorkshiremen, among whom he lived. He was a good workman, but his nervous irritability, his self assertion, and impatience of orders had lost him so many places that he had finally determined to become his own master, and, coming into a few pounds at the death of his father, had wandered away from the great towns, until finding in Varley a village without a smith, he had established himself there, and having adopted the grievances of the men as his own, had speedily become a leading figure among them. A short time after his arrival the old man who had officiated at Little Bethel had died, and Stukeley, who had from the first taken a prominent part in the service, and who possessed the faculty of fluent speech to a degree rare among the Yorkshiremen, was installed as his successor, and soon filled Little Bethel as it had never been filled before. In his predecessor's time, small as the meeting house was, it had been comparatively empty; two or three men, half a dozen women, and their children being the only attendants, but it was now filled to crowding. Stukeley's religion was political; his prayers and discourses related to the position of affairs in Varley rather than to Christianity. They were a downtrodden people whom he implored to burst the bonds of their Egyptian taskmasters. The strength he prayed for was the strength to struggle and to fight. The enemy he denounced was the capitalist rather than the devil. Up to that time “King Lud” had but few followers in Varley; but the fiery discourses in Little Bethel roused among the younger men a passionate desire to right their alleged wrongs, and to take vengeance upon those denounced as their oppressors, so the society recruited its numbers fast. Stukeley was appointed the local secretary, partly because he was the leading spirit, partly because he alone among its members was able to write, and under his vigorous impulsion Varley became one of the leading centers of the organization in West Yorkshire. It was on a Saturday evening soon after Bill Swinton had become convalescent. The parlor of the “Brown Cow” was filled with its usual gathering; a peat fire glowed upon the hearth, and two tallow candles burned somewhat faintly in the dense smoke. Mugs of beer stood on the tables, but they were seldom applied to the lips of the smokers, for they had to do service without being refilled through the long evening. The silence was broken only by the short puffs at the pipes. All were thinking over the usual topic, when old Gideon Jones unexpectedly led their ideas into another channel. “Oive heern,” he said slowly, taking his pipe from his mouth, “as how Nance Wilson's little gal is wuss.” “Ay, indeed!” “So oi've heern;” “Be she now?” and various other exclamations arose from the smokers. Gideon was pleased with the effect he had produced, and a few minutes later continued the subject. “It be the empty coopbud more nor illness, I expect.” There was another chorus of assent, and a still heartier one when he wound up the subject: “These be hard toimes surely.” Thinking that he had now done sufficient to vindicate his standing as one of the original thinkers of the village, Gideon relapsed into silence and smoked away gravely, with his eyes fixed on the fire, in the post of honor on one side of which was his regular seat. The subject, however, was too valuable to be allowed to drop altogether, and Luke Marner brought it into prominence again by remarking: “They tell oi as how Nance has asked Bet Collins to watch by the rood soide to catch doctor as he droives whoam. He went out this arternoon to Retlow.” “Oi doubt he woant do she much good; it be food, and not doctor's stuff as the child needs,” another remarked. “That be so, surely,” went up in a general chorus, and then a newcomer who had just entered the room said: “Oi ha' joost coom vrom Nance's and Bill Swinton ha' sent in a basin o' soup as he got vrom the feyther o' that boy as broke his leg. Nance war a feeding the child wi' it, and maybe it will do her good. He ha' been moighty koind to Bill, that chap hav.” “He ha' been that,” Gideon said, after the chorus of approval had died away. “Oi seed t' young un today a-sitting in front o' th' cottage, a-talking and laughing wi' Bill.” “They be good uns, feyther and son, though they tells oi as neither on them bain't Yaarkshire.” The general feeling among the company was evidently one of surprise that any good thing should be found outside Yorkshire. But further talk on the subject was interrupted by a slight exclamation at the door. “O what a smoke, feyther! I can't see you, but I suppose you're somewhere here. You're wanted at home.” Although the speaker was visible to but few in the room there was no doubt as to her identity, or as to the person addressed as feyther. Mary Powlett was indeed the niece and not the daughter of Luke Marner, but as he had brought her up from childhood she looked upon him as her father. It was her accent and the tone of her voice which rendered it unnecessary for any of those present to see her face. Luke was a bachelor when the child had arrived fifteen years before in the carrier's cart from Marsden, having made the journey in a similar conveyance to that town from Sheffield, where her father and mother had died within a week of each other, the last request of her mother being that little Polly should be sent off to the care of Luke Marner at Varley. Luke had not then settled down into the position of one of the elders of the village, and he had been somewhat embarrassed by the arrival of the three year old girl. He decided promptly, however, upon quitting the lodgings which he had as a single man occupied and taking a cottage by himself. His neighbors urged upon him that so small a child could not remain alone all day while he was away at Marsden at work--a proposition to which he assented; but to the surprise of every one, instead of placing her during the day under the care of one of the women of the place, he took her down with him to Marsden and placed her under the care of a respectable woman there who had children of her own. Starting at five every morning from his cottage with Polly perched on his shoulder he tramped down to the town, leaving her there before going to work, and calling for her in the evening. A year later he married, and the village supposed that Polly would now be left behind. But they were mistaken. When he became engaged he had said: “Now, Loiza, there's one point as oi wish settled. As oi have told ye, oi ha' partly chosen ye becos oi knowed as how ye would maake a good mother to my little Polly; but oi doan't mean to give up taking her down with me o' days to the town. Oi likes to ha' her wi' me on the roade--it makes it shorter like. As thou knowest thyself, oi ha' bin a chaanged man sin she coom. There warn't a cropper in the village drank harder nor oi, but oi maad oop moi moind when she came to gi' it up, and oi have gi'd it up.” “I know, Luke,” the girl said, “I wouldna have had ye, hadn't ye doon so, as I told ye two years agone. I know the child ha' done it, and I loves her for it, and will be a good mother to her.” “Oi knows you will, Loiza, and oi bain't feared as ye'll be jealous if so be as ye've children o' your own. Oi shan't love 'em a bit the less coss oi loves little Polly. She be just the image o' what moi sister Jane was when she war a little thing and oi used to take care o' her. Mother she didn't belong to this village, and the rough ways of the men and the drink frightened her. She war quiet and tidy and neat in her ways, and Jane took arter her, and glad she was when the time came to marry and get away from Varley. Oi be roight sure if she knows owt what's going on down here, she would be glad to know as her child ain't bein' brought oop in Varley ways. I ha' arranged wi' the woman where she gets her meals for her to go to school wi' her own children. Dost thee object to that, lass? --if so, say so noo afore it's too late, but doon't thraw it in moi face arterwards. Ef thou'st children they shalt go to school too. Oi don't want to do more for Polly nor oi'd do for moi own.” “I ha' no objection, Luke. I remembers your sister, how pretty and quiet she wor; and thou shalt do what you likest wi' Polly, wi'out no grumble from me.” Eliza Marner kept the promise she had made before marriage faithfully. If she ever felt in her heart any jealousy as she saw Polly growing up a pretty bright little maiden, as different to the usual child product of Varley as could well be, she was wise enough never to express her thoughts, and behaved with motherly kindness to her in the evening hours spent at home. She would perhaps have felt the task a harder one had her own elder children been girls; but three boys came first, and a girl was not born until she had been married eleven years. Polly, who was now fourteen, had just come home from her schooling at Marsden for good, and was about to go out into service there. But after the birth of her little girl Mrs. Marner, who had never for a Varley girl been strong, faded rapidly away; and Polly's stay at home, intended at first to last but a few weeks, until its mother was about again, extended into months. The failing woman reaped now the benefit of Polly's training. Her gentle, quiet way, her soft voice, her neatness and tidiness, made her an excellent nurse, and she devoted herself to cheer and brighten the sickroom of the woman who had made so kind an adopted mother to her. Her influence kept even the rough boys quiet; and all Varley, which had at first been unanimous in its condemnation of the manner in which Luke Marner was bringing up that “gal” of his, just as if the place was not good enough for her, were now forced to confess that the experiment had turned out well. “Polly, my dear,” the sick woman said to her one afternoon when the girl had been reading to her for some time, and was now busy mending some of the boys' clothes, while baby, nearly a year old, was gravely amusing herself with a battered doll upon the floor, “I used to think, though I never said so, as your feyther war making a mistake in bringing you up different to other gals here; but I see as he was right. There ain't one of them as would have been content to give up all their time and thoughts to a sick woman as thou hast done. There ain't a house in the village as tidy and comfortable as this, and the boys mind you as they never minded me. When I am gone Luke will miss me, but thar won't be no difference in his comfort, and I know thou'lt look arter baby and be a mother to her. I don't suppose as thou wilt stay here long; thou art over fifteen now, and the lads will not be long afore they begin to come a-coorting of thee. But doan't ee marry in Varley, Polly. My Luke's been a good husband to me. But thou know'st what the most of them be--they may do for Varley bred gals, but not for the like of thee. And when thou goest take baby wi' thee and bring her up like thysel till she be old enough to coom back and look arter Luke and the house.” Polly was crying quietly while the dying woman was speaking. The doctor, on leaving that morning, had told her that he could do no more and that Mrs. Marner was sinking rapidly. Kneeling now beside the bed she promised to do all that her adopted mother asked her, adding, “and I shall never, never leave feyther as long as he lives.” The woman smiled faintly. “Many a girl ha' said that afore now, Polly, and ha' changed her moind when the roight man asked her. Don't ee make any promises that away, lass. 'Tis natural that, when a lassie's time comes, she should wed; and if Luke feels loanly here, why he's got it in his power to get another to keep house for him. He be but a little over forty now; and as he ha' lived steady and kept hisself away from drink, he be a yoonger man now nor many a one ten year yoonger. Don't ye think to go to sacrifice your loife to hissen. And now, child, read me that chapter over agin, and then I think I could sleep a bit.” Before morning Eliza Marner had passed away, and Polly became the head of her uncle's house. Two years had passed, and so far Mary Powlett showed no signs of leaving the house, which, even the many women in the village, who envied her for her prettiness and neatness and disliked her for what they called her airs, acknowledged that she managed well. But it was not from lack of suitors. There were at least half a dozen stalwart young croppers who would gladly have paid court to her had there been the smallest sign on her part of willingness to accept their attentions; but Polly, though bright and cheerful and pleasant to all, afforded to none of them an opportunity for anything approaching intimacy. On Sundays, the times alone when their occupations enabled the youth of Varley to devote themselves to attentions to the maidens they favored, Mary Powlett was not to be found at home after breakfast, for, having set everything in readiness for dinner, she always started for Marsden, taking little Susan with her, and there spent the day with the woman who had even more than Eliza Marner been her mother. She had, a month after his wife's death, fought a battle with Luke and conquered. The latter had, in pursuance of the plans he had originally drawn up for her, proposed that she should go into service at Marsden. “Oi shall miss thee sorely, Polly,” he said; “and oi doan't disguise it from thee, vor the last year, lass, thou hast been the light o' this house, and oi couldna have spared ye. But oi ha' always fixed that thou shouldst go into service at Marsden--Varley is not fit vor the likes o' ye. We be a rough lot here, and a drunken; and though oi shall miss thee sorely for awhile, oi must larn to do wi'out thee.” Polly heard him in silence, and then positively refused to go. “You have been all to me, feyther, since I was a child, and I am not going to leave you now. I don't say that Varley is altogether nice, but I shall be very happy here with you and the boys and dear little Susan, and I am not going to leave, and so--there!” Luke knew well how great would be the void which her absence would make, but he still struggled to carry out his plans. “But, Polly, oi should na loike to see thee marry here, and thy mother would never ha' loiked it, and thou wilt no chance of seeing other men here.” “Why, I am only sixteen, feyther, and we need not talk of my marriage for years and years yet, and I promise you I shan't think of marrying in Varley when the time comes; but there is one thing I should like, and that is to spend Sundays, say once a fortnight, down with Mrs. Mason; they were so quiet and still there, and I did like so much going to the church; and I hate that Little Bethel, especially since that horrible man came there; he is a disgrace, feyther, and you will see that mischief will come out of his talk.” “Oi don't like him myself, Polly, and maybe me and the boys will sometoimes come down to the church thou art so fond of. However, if thou wilt agree to go down every Sunday to Mrs. Mason, thou shalt stay here for a bit till oi see what can best be done.” And so it was settled, and Polly went off every Sunday morning, and Luke went down of an evening to fetch her back. “Well, what is't, lass?” he asked as he joined her outside the “Brown Cow.” “George has scalded his leg badly, feyther. I was just putting Susan to bed, and he took the kettle off the fire to pour some water in the teapot, when Dick pushed him, or something, and the boiling water went over his leg.” “Oi'll give that Dick a hiding,” Luke said wrathfully as he hastened along by her side. “Why didn't ye send him here to tell me instead of cooming thyself?” “It was only an accident, feyther, and Dick was so frightened when he saw what had happened and heard George cry out that he ran out at once. I have put some flour on George's leg; but I think the doctor ought to see him, that's why I came for you.” “It's no use moi goaing voor him now, lass, he be expected along here every minute. Jack Wilson, he be on the lookout by the roadside vor to stop him to ask him to see Nance, who be taken main bad. I will see him and ask him to send doctor to oor house when he comes, and tell Jarge I will be oop in a minute.” Upon the doctor's arrival he pronounced the scald to be a serious one, and Dick, who had been found sobbing outside the cottage, and had been cuffed by his father, was sent down with the doctor into the town to bring up some lint to envelop the leg. The doctor had already paid his visit to Nance Wilson, and had rated her father soundly for not procuring better food for her. “It's all nonsense your saying the times are bad,” he said in reply to the man's excuses. “I know the times are bad; but you know as well as I do that half your wages go to the public house; your family are starving while you are squandering money in drink. That child is sinking from pure want of food, and I doubt if she would not be gone now if it hadn't have been for that soup your wife tells me Bill Swinton sent in to her. I tell you, if she dies you will be as much her murderer as if you had chopped her down with a hatchet.” The plain speaking of the doctor was the terror of his parish patients, who nevertheless respected him for the honest truths he told them. He himself used to say that his plain speaking saved him a world of trouble, for that his patients took good care never to send for him except when he was really wanted. The next day Mary Powlett was unable to go off as usual to Marsden as George was in great pain from his scald. She went down to church, however, in the evening with her father, Bill Swinton taking her place by the bedside of the boy. “Thou hast been a-sitting by moi bedside hours every day, Polly,” he said, “and it's moi turn now to take thy place here. Jack ha' brought over all moi books, for oi couldn't make shift to carry them and use moi crutches, and oi'll explain all the pictures to Jarge jest as Maister Ned explained 'em to oi.” The sight of the pictures reconciled George to Polly's departure, and seeing the lad was amused and comfortable, she started with Luke, Dick taking his place near the bed, where he could also enjoy a look at the pictures. “Did you notice that pretty girl with the sweet voice in the aisle in a line with us, father,” Ned asked that evening, “with a great, strong, quiet looking man by the side of her?” “Yes, lad, the sweetness of her singing attracted my attention, and I thought what a bright, pretty face it was!” “That's Mary Powlett and her uncle. You have heard me speak of her as the girl who was so kind in nursing Bill.” “Indeed, Ned! I should scarcely have expected to find so quiet and tidy looking a girl at Varley, still less to meet her with a male relation in church.” “She lives at Varley, but she can hardly be called a Varley girl,” Ned said. “Bill was telling me about her. Her uncle had her brought up down here. She used to go back to sleep at night, but otherwise all her time was spent here. It seems her mother never liked the place, and married away from it, and when she and her husband died and the child came back to live with her uncle he seemed to think he would be best carrying out his dead sister's wishes by having her brought up in a different way to the girls at Varley. He has lost his wife now, and she keeps house for him, and Bill says all the young men in Varley are mad about her, but she won't have anything to say to them.” “She is right enough there,” Captain Sankey said smilingly. “They are mostly croppers, and rightly or wrongly--rightly, I am afraid--they have the reputation of being the most drunken and quarrelsome lot in Yorkshire. Do you know the story that is current among the country people here about them?” “No, father, what is it?” “Well, they say that no cropper is in the place of punishment. It was crowded with them at one time, but they were so noisy and troublesome that his infernal majesty was driven to his wits' end by their disputes. He offered to let them all go. They refused. So one day he struck upon a plan to get rid of them. Going outside the gates he shouted at the top of his voice, 'Beer, beer, who wants beer?' every cropper in the place rushed out, and he then slipped in again and shut the gates, and has taken good care ever since never to admit a cropper into his territory.” Ned laughed at the story. “It shows at any rate, father, what people think of them here; but I don't think they are as bad as that, though Bill did say that there are awful fights and rows going on there of an evening, and even down here if there is a row there is sure to be a cropper in it. Still you see there are some good ones; look at Luke Marner, that's the man we saw in church, see how kind he has been to his niece.” “There are good men of all sorts, and though the croppers may be rough and given to drink, we must not blame them too severely; they are wholly uneducated men, they work hard, and their sole pleasure is in the beer shop. At bottom they are no doubt the same as the rest of their countrymen, and the Yorkshire men, though a hard headed, are a soft hearted race; the doctor tells me that except that their constitutions are ruined by habitual drinking he has no better patients; they bear pain unflinchingly, and are patient and even tempered. I know he loves them with all their faults, and I consider him to be a good judge of character.”

4

THE WORMS TURN

“I say, it's a shame, a beastly shame!” Ned Sankey exclaimed passionately as the boys came out from school one day. Generally they poured out in a confused mass, eager for the fresh air and anxious to forget in play the remembrance of the painful hours in school; but today they came out slowly and quietly, each with a book in his hand, for they had tasks set them which would occupy every moment till the bell sounded again. “Every one says they know nothing about the cat. I don't know whether it's true or not, for I am sorry to say some of the fellows will tell lies to escape the cane, but whether it is so or not he's no right to punish us all for what can only be the fault of one or two.” That morning the cat, which was the pet of Mr. Hathorn and his wife, had been found dead near the door of the schoolhouse. It had been most brutally knocked about. One of its eyes had been destroyed, its soft fur was matted with blood, and it had evidently been beaten to death. That the cat was no favorite with the boys was certain. The door between the schoolroom and the house was unfastened at night, and the cat in her pursuit of mice not unfrequently knocked over inkstands, and the ink, penetrating into the desks, stained books and papers, and more than one boy had been caned severely for damage due to the night prowlings of the cat. Threats of vengeance against her had often been uttered, and when the cat was found dead it was the general opinion in the school that one or other of their comrades had carried out his threats, but no suspicion fell upon any one in particular. The boys who were most likely to have done such a thing declared their innocence stoutly. Mr. Hathorn had no doubt on the subject. The cane had been going all the morning, and he had told them that extra tasks would be given which would occupy all their playtime until the offender was given up to judgment. In point of fact the boys were altogether innocent of the deed. Pussy was a noted marauder, and having been caught the evening before in a larder, from which she had more than once stolen titbits, she had been attacked by an enraged cook with a broomstick, and blows had been showered upon her until the woman, believing that life was extinct, had thrown her outside into the road; but the cat was not quite dead, and had, after a time, revived sufficiently to drag her way home, only, however, to die. “I call it a shame!” Ned repeated. “Mind, I say it's a brutal thing to ill treat a cat like that. If she did knock down inkstands and get fellows into rows it was not her fault. It's natural cats should run after mice, and the wainscoting of the schoolroom swarmed with them. One can hear them chasing each other about and squeaking all day. If I knew any of the fellows had killed the cat I should go straight to Hathorn and tell him. “You might call it sneaking if you like, but I would do it, for I hate such brutal cruelty. I don't see how it could have been any of the fellows, for they would have had to get out of the bedroom and into it again; besides, I don't see how they could have caught the cat if they did get out; but whether it was one of the fellows or not makes no difference. I say it's injustice to punish every one for the fault of one or two fellows. “I suppose he thinks that in time we shall give up the names of the fellows who did it. As far as I am concerned, it will be just the other way. If I had known who had done it this morning, when he accused us, I should have got up and said so, because I think fellows who treat dumb animals like that are brutes that ought to be punished, but I certainly would not sneak because Hathorn punished me unjustly. I vote we all refuse to do the work he has set us.” This bold proposition was received with blank astonishment. “But he would thrash us all fearfully,” Tompkins said. “He daren't if we only stuck together. Why, he wouldn't have a chance with us if we showed fight. If we were to say to him, 'We won't do these extra tasks; and if you touch one of us the whole lot will pitch into you,' what could he do then?” “I will tell you what he could do, Sankey,” Tom Room, a quiet, sensible boy, replied. “If we were in a desert island it would be all well enough, he could not tyrannize over us then: but here it is different. He would just put on his hat and go into the town, and in ten minutes he would be back again with the six constables, and if that wasn't enough he could get plenty of other men, and where would our fighting be then? We should all get the most tremendous licking we have ever had, and get laughed at besides through the town for a pack of young fools.” Ned broke into a good tempered laugh. “Of course you are right, Room. I only thought about Hathorn himself. Still, it is horribly unfair. I will do it today. But if he goes on with it, as he threatens, I won't do it, let him do what he likes.” For some days this state of things continued. There was no longer any sound of shouting and laughter in the playground. The boys walked about moody and sullen, working at their lessons. They were fast becoming desperate. No clue had been obtained as to the destroyer of the cat, and the schoolmaster declared that if it took him months to break their spirits he would do it. Ned Sankey had said nothing at home as to his troubles. His father noticed that he ran off again as soon as his dinner was over, and that he no longer said anything as to the sports in which he was engaged in playtime; also, that his lessons occupied him from tea time until he went up to bed. “Anything is better than this,” Ned said one day to some of the boys of his own age. “In my opinion it's better to have a regular row. What Room said was quite true; we shall get the worst of it; but the story will then come out, and it will be seen what a beastly tyranny we have been undergoing. I tell you, I for one will not stand it any longer, so here goes,” and he threw his book up into a tree, in whose branches it securely lodged. His comrades followed his example, and the news that Sankey and some of the other fellows were determined to put up with it no longer soon spread, and in five minutes not a book was to be seen in the playground. The spirit of resistance became strong and general, and when the bell rang the boys walked into the schoolroom silent and determined, but looking far less moody and downcast than usual. Mr. Hathorn took his seat at his desk. “The first class will come up and say their tasks.” Not a boy moved in his seat. “The first class will come up and say their tasks,” the master repeated, bringing his cane down with angry emphasis on the desk. Still no one moved. “What does this mean?” he shouted, rising from his seat. “It means, sir,” Ned Sankey said, rising also, “that we are determined, all of us, that we will learn no more extra tasks. None of us, so far as we know, ever touched your cat, and we are not going to submit to be punished any longer for a fault which none of us have committed.” “No, no,” rose in a general chorus through the schoolroom, “we will do no more tasks.” Mr. Hathorn stood petrified with astonishment and white with anger. “So you are at the bottom of this, Sankey. I will make an example of you.” So saying, he took a stride forward toward Ned. In an instant a shower of books flew at him from all parts of the room. Infuriated by the attack, he rushed forward with his cane raised. Ned caught up a heavy inkstand. “If you touch me,” he shouted, “I will fling this at your head.” Mr. Hathorn hesitated. The shower of books had not affected him, but the heavy missile in Ned's hand was a serious weapon. In another moment he sprang forward and brought his cane down with all his force upon Ned's back. Ned at once hurled the heavy inkstand at him. The schoolmaster sprang on one side, but it struck him on the shoulder, and he staggered back. “You have broken my shoulder, you young scoundrel!” he exclaimed. “I shouldn't care if I had broken your head,” Ned retorted, white with passion; “it would have served you right if I had killed you, you tyrant.” “One of you go and fetch a constable,” Mr. Hathorn said to the boys. “Let him send his servant. He will find me at home. Mr. Hathorn, I am not going to run away, you need not think it. Give me in charge if you dare; I don't care what they do to me, but the whole country shall know what a tyrant you are.” So saying, he collected his books, put his cap on his head, and walked from the schoolroom, the boys cheering him loudly as he went. On reaching home he went at once to his father's study. “I am sorry to say, sir, that there has been a row in the school, and Hathorn has threatened to send a constable here after me for throwing an inkstand at him.” “Throwing an inkstand!” Captain Sankey exclaimed. “Is it possible?” “It is quite possible and quite true; he has been treating us shamefully for the last ten days; he has been always a cruel brute all along, though I never wanted to make a fuss about it, but it has been getting worse and worse. Ten days ago some one killed his cat, and I am almost sure it was none of the boys, but he chose to believe it was, and because he couldn't find out who, he has punished the whole school, and all our play hours have been taken up with lessons ever since, and he said he would keep on so till he found out who did it, if it was months. “So at last we could not stand it any longer, and we all agreed that we wouldn't do the extra tasks, and that we would stick together when we told him so. He rushed at me with his cane, and gave me one with all his might, and I threw an inkstand at him, and it caught him on the shoulder, and he says it has broken it, and that he would send for a constable. So I told him to do so if he dared, and here I am.” “This is a very serious business, Ned,” his father said gravely. “In the first place, there is something like a rebellion in the school, of which, I suppose, you were one of the leaders or he would not have singled you out. In the second place, you threw a missile at him, which has broken his shoulder, and might have killed him had it struck him on the head. I have warned you, my boy, over and over again against giving way to that passionate temper of yours, and have told you that it would lead you into serious trouble.” “I can't help it, sir,” Ned said doggedly. “I've put up with a tremendous lot there, and have said nothing about it, because I did not wish to give you trouble; but when it came to downright tyranny like this I would rather be killed than put up with it. I warned him fairly that if he struck me I would throw the inkstand at him, and he brought it on himself.” Captain Sankey seeing that in his son's present state of mind talking would be useless to him, ordered him to remain in his study till his return, and putting on his hat went toward the school. Ned's temper had always been a source of anxiety to him. The boy was, no doubt, of a passionate nature, but had he had the advantage of a proper supervision and care when he was a child the tendency might have been overcome. Unfortunately this had not been the case. His mother had left the children entirely to the care of ayahs, he himself had been far too occupied with his regimental duties to be able to superintend their training, while Abijah's hands had been too full with the management of the house, which entirely devolved upon her, and with the constant attention demanded by Mrs. Sankey, to give them any close superintendence. Thus like most children born in India and left entirely in the charge of colored nurses, Ned had acquired the habit of giving way to bursts of ungovernable passion; for the black nurses have no authority over their young charges, unless seconded and supported by the firmness of their mothers. In this case no such support had been forthcoming. Mrs. Sankey hated being troubled, and the ayahs always found that any complaints to her recoiled upon themselves, for she always took the part of her children, and insisted that the fault lay on the side of the nurses and not on them. The natural result was, that the ayahs ceased to trouble her, and found it easier to allow the children to do as they chose, and to give way quietly to Ned's outbursts of passion. Captain Sankey knew nothing of all this. Ned was very fond of him, and was always bright and good tempered when with his father, and it was not until he left India and was thrown more with him that Captain Sankey discovered how grievously Ned's disposition, which was in other respects a fine one, was marred by the habit which had been encouraged by indulgence and want of control. Then he set to work earnestly to remedy the mischief, but the growth of years is hard to eradicate, and although under the influence of the affection for his father and his own good sense Ned had so far conquered himself that his fits of passion were few and far between, the evil still existed, and might yet, as his father felt, lead to consequences which would mar his whole life. Thinking the matter sadly over, Captain Sankey was proceeding toward the school when he met one of the constables. The man touched his hat and stopped. “This be a moighty oonpleasant business, captain,” he said; “your boy, he ha' been and battered schoolmaister; and t' doctor says he ha' broke his collarbone. Oi ha' got to take him afore t' magistrate.” “Very well, Harper,” Captain Sankey said quietly; “of course you must do your duty. It is a sad business, and I was on my way to the school to see if the matter could not be arranged; however, as it has been put in your hands it is now too late, and things must take their course; the magistrates are not sitting today. I will guarantee that my son shall be present at the sitting on Thursday, I suppose that will be sufficient?” “Yes, oi supposes if you promises to produce him, that will do,” the constable said. “Oi doan't suppose as nought will come o't; these schoolmaister chaps does thrash t' boys cruel, and oi ain't surprised as t' little chaps roises ag'in it soometoimes. T'others all seem moighty glad o' it: oi heard 'em shouting and, cheering in t' yard as if they was all mad.” Captain Sankey shook his head. “I'm afraid the magistrates won't see it in that light, Harper; discipline is discipline. However, we must hope for the best.” The story that there had been a rebellion among the boys at Hathorn's, that the schoolmaster had his shoulder broken, and that Captain Sankey's son was to go before the magistrates, spread rapidly through Marsden, and the courthouse was crowded at the sitting of the magistrates on Thursday. There were two magistrates on the bench. Mr. Thompson the local banker, and Squire Simmonds of Lathorpe Hall, three miles from the town. Several minor cases were first disposed of, and then Ned's name was called. Captain Sankey had been accommodated with a seat near the magistrates, with both of whom he had some personal acquaintance. Ned was sitting by the side of the lawyer whom his father had retained to defend him; he now moved quietly into the dock, while Mr. Hathorn, with his arm in a sling, took his place in the witness box. Ned had recovered now from his fit of passion, and looked amused rather than concerned as the schoolmaster gave his evidence as to the fray in the schoolroom. “I have a few questions to ask you, Mr. Hathorn,” Mr. Wakefield, Ned's lawyer, said. “Had you any reason for expecting any outbreak of this kind among your boys?” “None whatever,” Mr. Hathorn said. “You use the cane pretty freely, I believe, sir.” “I use it when it is necessary,” Mr. Hathorn replied. “Ah, and how often do you consider it necessary?” “That must depend upon circumstances.” “You have about thirty boys, I think?” “About thirty.” “And you consider it necessary that at least fifteen out of that thirty should be caned every day. You must have got a very bad lot of boys, Mr. Hathorn?” “Not so many as that,” the schoolmaster said, flushing. “I shall be prepared to prove to your worships,” the lawyer said, “that for the last six months the average of boys severely caned by this man has exceeded sixteen a day, putting aside such minor matters as one, two, or three vicious cuts with the cane given at random. It fortunately happened, as I find from my young friend in the dock, that one of the boys has, from motives of curiosity, kept an account for the last six months of the number of boys thrashed every day. I have sent round for him, and he is at present in court.” Mr. Hathorn turned pale, and he began to think that it would have been wiser for him to have followed Ned's advice, and not to have brought the matter into court. “Your worships,” the lawyer said, “you have been boys, as I have, and you can form your own ideas as to the wretchedness that must prevail among a body of lads of whom more than half are caned daily. This, your worships, is a state of tyranny which might well drive any boys to desperation. But I have not done with Mr. Hathorn yet. “During the ten days previous to this affair things wore even more unpleasant than usual in your establishment, were they not, sir? I understand that the whole of the boys were deprived of all play whatever, and that every minute was occupied by extra tasks, and moreover the prospect was held out to them that this sort of thing would continue for months.” There had already been several demonstrations of feeling in court, but at this statement by the lawyer there was a general hiss. The schoolmaster hesitated before replying. “Now, Mr. Hathorn,” the lawyer said briskly, “we want neither hesitation nor equivocation. We may as well have it from you, because if you don't like telling the truth I can put the thirty miserable lads under your charge into the box one after the other.” “They have had extra tasks to do during their play time,” Mr. Hathorn said, “because they refused to reveal which among them brutally murdered my cat.” “And how do you know they murdered your cat?” “I am sure they did,” the schoolmaster said shortly. “Oh! you are sure they did! And why are you so sure? Had they any grudge against your cat?” “They pretended they had a grudge.” “What for, Mr. Hathorn?” “They used to accuse her of upsetting the ink bottles when they did it themselves.” “You did not believe their statements, I suppose?” “Not at all.” “You caned them just the same as if they had done it themselves. At least I am told so.” “Of course I caned them, especially as I knew that they were telling a lie.” “But if it was a lie, Mr. Hathorn, if this cat did not upset their ink, why on earth should these boys have a grudge against her and murder her?” The schoolmaster was silent. “Now I want an answer, sir. You are punishing thirty boys in addition to the sixteen daily canings divided among them; you have cut off all their play time, and kept them at work from the time they rise to the time they go to bed. As you see, according to your own statement, they could have had no grudge against the cat, how are you sure they murdered her?” “I am quite sure.” Mr. Hathorn said doggedly. “Boys have always a spite against cats.” “Now, your honors, you hear this,” Mr. Wakefield said. “Now I am about to place in the witness box a very respectable woman, one Jane Tytler, who is cook to our esteemed fellow townsman, Mr. Samuel Hawkins, whose residence is, as you know, not far from this school. She will tell you that, having for some time been plagued by a thieving cat which was in the habit of getting into her larder and carrying off portions of food, she, finding it one day there in the act of stealing a half chicken, fell upon it with a broomstick and killed it, or as she thought killed it, and I imagine most cooks would have acted the same under the circumstances. “She thought no more about it until she heard the reports in the town about this business at the school, and then she told her master. The dates have been compared, and it is found that she battered this cat on the evening before the Hathorn cat was found dead in the yard. Furthermore, the cat she battered was a white cat with a black spot on one side, and this is the exact description of the Hathorn cat; therefore, your honors, you will see that the assumption, or pretense, or excuse, call it what you will, by which this man justifies his tyrannical treatment of these unfortunate boys has no base or foundation whatever. You can go now, Mr. Hathorn; I have nothing further to say to you.” A loud hiss rose again from the crowded court as the schoolmaster stepped down from the witness box, and Jane Tytler took his place. After giving her evidence she was succeeded by Dick Tompkins in much trepidation. Dick was a most unwilling witness, but he produced the notebook in which he had daily jotted down the number of boys caned, and swore to the general accuracy of the figures. Mr. Wakefield then asked the magistrates if they would like to hear any further witnesses as to the state of things in the schoolroom. They said that what they had heard was quite sufficient. He then addressed them on the merits of the case, pointing out that although in this case one of the parties was a master and the other a pupil this in no way removed it in the eye of the law from the category of other assaults. “In this case,” he said, “your worships, the affair has arisen out of a long course of tyranny and provocation on the part of one of the parties, and you will observe that this is the party who first commits the assault, while my client was acting solely in self defense. “It is he who ought to stand in the witness box; and the complainant in the dock, for he is at once the aggressor and the assailant. The law admits any man who is assaulted to defend himself, and there is, so far as I am aware, no enactment whatever to be found in the statute book placing boys in a different category to grownup persons. When your worships have discharged my client, as I have no doubt you will do at once, I shall advise him to apply for a summons for assault against this man Hathorn.” The magistrates consulted together for some time, then the squire, who was the senior, said: “We are of opinion that Master Sankey, by aiding this rebellion against his master, has done wrongly, and that he erred grievously in discharging a heavy missile at his master; at the same time we think that the provocation that he received by the tyranny which has been proved to have been exercised by Mr. Hathorn toward the boys under his charge, and especially by their unjust punishment for an offense which the complainant conceived without sufficient warrant, or indeed without any warrant at all, that they had committed, to a great extent justifies and excuses the conduct of Master Sankey. Therefore, with a reprimand as to his behavior, and a caution as to the consequences which might have arisen from his allowing his temper to go beyond bounds, we discharge him. “As to you, sir,” he said to the schoolmaster, “we wish to express our opinion that your conduct has been cruel and tyrannical in the extreme, and we pity the unfortunate boys who are under the care of a man who treats them with such cruel harshness as you are proved to have done.” The magistrates now rose, and the court broke up. Many of those present crowded round Ned and shook his hand, congratulating him on the issue; but at a sign from his father the boy drew himself away from them, and joining Captain Sankey, walked home with him. “The matter has ended better than I expected, Ned,” he said gravely; “but pray, my boy, do not let yourself think that there is any reason for triumph. You have been gravely reprimanded, and had the missile you used struck the schoolmaster on the head, you would now be in prison awaiting your trial for a far graver offense, and that before judges who would not make the allowances for you that the magistrates here have done. “Beware of your temper, Ned, for unless you overcome it, be assured that sooner or later it may lead to terrible consequences.” Ned, who had in fact been inclined to feel triumphant over his success, was sobered by his father's grave words and manner; and resolved that he would try hard to conquer his fault; but evil habits are hard to overcome, and the full force of his father's words was still to come home to him. He did not, of course, return to Mr. Hathorn's, and indeed the disclosures of the master's severity made at the examination before the magistrates obtained such publicity that several of his pupils were removed at once, and notices were given that so many more would not return after the next holidays that no one was surprised to hear that the schoolmaster had arranged with a successor in the school, and that he himself was about to go to America. The result was that after the holidays his successor took his place, and many of the fathers who had intended to remove their sons decided to give the newcomer a trial. The school opened with nearly the usual number of pupils. Ned was one of those who went back. Captain Sankey had called on the new master, and had told him frankly the circumstances of the fracas between Ned and Mr. Hathorn. “I will try your son at any rate, Mr. Sankey,” the master said. “I have a strong opinion that boys can be managed without such use of the cane as is generally adopted; that, in my opinion, should be the last resort. Boys are like other people, and will do more for kindness than for blows. By what you tell me, the circumstances of your son's bringing up in India among native servants have encouraged the growth of a passionate temper, but I trust that we may be able to overcome that; at any rate I will give him a trial.” And so it was settled that Ned should return to Porson's, for so the establishment was henceforth to be known.

5

THE NEW MASTER

It was with much excitement and interest that the boys gathered in their places for the first time under the new master. The boarders had not seen him upon their arrival on the previous evening, but had been received by an old housekeeper, who told them Mr. Porson would not return until the coach came in from York that night. All eyes were turned to the door as the master entered. The first impression was that he was a younger man than they had expected. Mr. Hathorn had been some forty-five years old; the newcomer was not over thirty. He was a tall, loosely made man, with somewhat stooping shoulders; he had heavy eyebrows, gray eyes, and a firm mouth. He did not look round as he walked straight to his desk; then he turned, and his eyes traveled quietly and steadily round the room as if scanning each of the faces directed toward him. “Now, boys,” he said in a quiet voice, “a few words before we begin. I am here to teach, and you are here to learn. As your master I expect prompt obedience. I shall look to see each of you do your best to acquire the knowledge which your parents have sent you here to obtain. Above all, I shall expect that every boy here will be straightforward, honorable, and truthful. I shall not expect to find that all are capable of making equal progress; there are clever boys and stupid boys, just as there are clever men and stupid men, and it would be unjust to expect that one can keep up to the other; but I do look to each doing his best according to his ability. On my part I shall do my best to advance you in your studies, to correct your faults, and to make useful men of you. “One word as to punishments. I do not believe that knowledge is to be thrashed into boys, or that fear is the best teacher. I shall expect you to learn, partly because you feel that as your parents have paid for you to learn it is your duty to learn, partly because you wish to please me. I hope that the cane will seldom be used in this school. It will be used if any boy tells me a lie, if any boy does anything which is mean and dishonorable, if any boy is obstinately idle, and when it is used it will be used to a purpose, but I trust that the occasion for it will be rare. “I shall treat you as friends whom it is my duty to instruct. You will treat me, I hope, as a friend whose duty it is to instruct you, and who has a warm interest in your welfare; if we really bear these relations to each other there should be seldom any occasion for punishment. And now as a beginning today, boys, let each come up to my desk, one at a time, with his books. I shall examine you separately, and see what each knows and is capable of doing. I see by the report here that there are six boys in the first class. As these will occupy me all the morning the rest can go into the playground. The second class will be taken this afternoon.” The boys had listened with astonished silence to this address, and so completely taken aback were they that all save those ordered to remain rose from their seats and went out in a quiet and orderly way, very different from the wild rush which generally terminated school time. Ned being in the second class was one of those who went out. Instead of scattering into groups, the boys gathered in a body outside. “What do you think of that, Sankey?” Tompkins said. “It seems almost too good to be true. Only fancy, no more thrashing except for lying and things of that sort, and treating us like friends! and he talked as if he meant it too.” “That he did,” Ned said gravely; “and I tell you, fellows, we shall have to work now, and no mistake. A fellow who will not work for such a man as that deserves to be skinned.” “I expect,” said James Mather, who was one of the biggest boys in the school though still in the third class, “that it's all gammon, just to give himself a good name, and to do away with the bad repute the school has got into for Hathorn's flogging. You will see how long it will last! I ain't going to swallow all that soft soap.” Ned, who had been much touched at the master's address, at once fired up: “Oh! we all know how clever you are, Mather--quite a shining genius, one of the sort who can see through a stone wall. If you say it's gammon, of course it must be so.” There was a laugh among the boys. “I will punch your head if you don't shut up, Sankey,” Mather said angrily; “there's no ink bottle for you to shy here.” Ned turned very white, but he checked himself with an effort. “I don't want to fight today--it's the first day of the half year, and after such a speech as we've heard I don't want to have a row on this first morning. But you had better look out; another time you won't find me so patient. Punch my head, indeed! Why, you daren't try it.” But Mather would have tried it, for he had for the last year been regarded as the cock of the school. However, several of the boys interfered. “Sankey is right, Mather; it would be a beastly shame to be fighting this morning. After what Porson said there oughtn't to be any rows today. We shall soon see whether he means it.” Mather suffered himself to be dissuaded from carrying his threat into execution, the rather that in his heart of hearts he was not assured that the course would have been a wise one. Ned had never fought in the school, but Tompkins' account of his fight on the moor with Bill Swinton, and the courage he had shown in taking upon himself the office of spokesman in the rebellion against Hathorn, had given him a very high reputation among the boys; and in spite of Mather's greater age and weight there were many who thought that Ned Sankey would make a tough fight of it with the cock of the school. So the gathering broke up and the boys set to at their games, which were played with a heartiness and zest all the greater that none of them were in pain from recent punishment, and that they could look forward to the afternoon without fear and trembling. When at twelve o'clock the boys of the first class came out from school the others crowded round to hear the result of the morning's lessons. They looked bright and pleased. “I think he is going to turn out a brick,” Ripon, the head of the first class, said. “Of course one can't tell yet. He was very quiet with us and had a regular examination of each of us. I don't think he was at all satisfied, though we all did our best, but there was no shouting or scolding. We are to go in again this afternoon with the rest. He says there's something which he forgot to mention to us this morning.” “More speeches!” Mather grumbled. “I hate all this jaw.” “Yes,” Ripon said sharply; “a cane is the thing which suits your understanding best. Well, perhaps he will indulge you; obstinate idleness is one of the things he mentioned in the address.” When afternoon school began Mr. Porson again rose. “There is one thing I forgot to mention this morning. I understand that you have hitherto passed your play time entirely in the playground, except on Saturday afternoons, when you have been allowed to go where you like between dinner and tea time. With the latter regulation I do not intend to interfere, or at any rate I shall not do so so long as I see that no bad effects come of it; but I shall do so only with this proviso: I do not think it good for you to be going about the town. I shall therefore put Marsden out of bounds. You will be free to ramble where you like in the country, but any boy who enters the town will be severely punished. I am not yet sufficiently acquainted with the neighborhood to draw the exact line beyond which you are not to go, but I shall do so as soon as I have ascertained the boundaries of the town. “I understand that you look forward to Saturday for making such purchases as you require. Therefore each Saturday four boys, selected by yourselves, one from each class, will be allowed to go into the town to make purchases for the rest, but they are not to be absent more than an hour. “In the second place, I do not think that the playground affords a sufficient space for exercise, and being graveled, it is unsuitable for many games. Therefore I have hired a field, which I dare say you all know; it is called 'The Four Acre Field,' about a hundred yards down the road on the left hand side. This you will use as your playground during the six summer months. I have brought with me from York a box which I shall place under the charge of Ripon and the two next senior to him. It contains bats, wickets, and a ball for cricket; a set of quoits; trap bat and ball for the younger boys; leaping bars and some other things. These will give you a start. As they become used up or broken they must be replaced by yourselves; and I hope you will obtain plenty of enjoyment from them. I shall come and play a game of cricket with you myself sometimes. “You will bear in mind that it is my wish that you should be happy. I expect you to work hard, but I wish you to play hard too. Unless the body works the brain will suffer, and a happy and contented boy will learn as easily again as a discontented, and miserable one. I will give you the box after tea, so that you can all examine them together. The second and third classes will now stay in; the fourth class can go out in the playground with the first. I shall have time to examine them while the others are doing their work tomorrow.” There was a suppressed cheer among the boys and Ripon, as the senior, said: “I am sure, sir, we are all very much obliged to you for your kindness, and we will do our best to deserve it.” There was a chorus of assent, and then the elder and younger boys went out into the playground while the work of examination of the second and third classes began. On the following day lessons began in earnest, and the boys found their first impressions of the new master more than justified. A new era had commenced. The sound of the cane was no longer heard, and yet the lessons were far better done than had been the case before. Then the whole work had fallen on the boys; the principal part of the day's lessens had been the repeating of tasks learned by heart, and the master simply heard them and punished the boys who were not perfect. There was comparatively little of this mechanical work now; it was the sense and not the wording which had to be mastered. Thus geography was studied from an atlas and not by the mere parrot-like learning of the names of towns and rivers. In grammar the boys had to show that they understood a rule by citing examples other than those given in their books. History was rather a lecture from the master than a repetition of dry facts and dates by the boys. Latin and mathematics were made clear in a similar way. “It was almost too good to last,” the boys said after the first day's experience of this new method of teaching; but it did last. A considerable portion of the work out of school was devoted to the keeping up the facts they had learned, for Mr. Porson was constantly going back and seeing that their memories retained the facts they had acquired, and what they called examinations were a part of the daily routine. In some points upon which Mr. Hathorn had laid the greatest stress Mr. Porson was indifferent--dates, which had been the bane of many a boy's life and an unceasing source of punishment, he regarded but little, insisting only that the general period should be known, and his questions generally took the form of, “In the beginning or at the end of such and such a century, what was the state of things in England or in Rome?” A few dates of special events, the landmarks of history, were required to be learned accurately, all others were passed over as unimportant. It was not that the boys worked fewer hours than before, but that they worked more intelligently, and therefore more pleasantly to themselves. The boys--and there were some--who imagined that under this new method of teaching they could be idle, very soon found out their mistake, and discovered that in his way Mr. Porson was just as strict as his predecessor. He never lost his temper; but his cold displeasure was harder to bear than Mr. Hathorn's wrath; nor were punishments wanting. Although the cane was idle, those who would not work were kept in the schoolroom during play hours; and in cases where this was found to be ineffectual Mr. Porson coldly said: “Your parents pay me to teach you, and if you do not choose to be taught I have only to write home to them and request them to take you away. If you are one of those boys who will only learn from fear of the cane you had better go to some school where the cane is used.” This threat, which would have been ineffective in Mr. Hathorn's time never failed to have an effect now; for even Mather, the idlest and worst boy there, was able to appreciate the difference between the present regime and the last. In a marvelously short time Mr. Porson seemed to have gauged the abilities of each of the boys, and while he expected much from those who were able' to master easily their tasks, he was content with less from the duller intellects, providing they had done their best. After a week's experience of Mr. Porson, Ned gave so glowing an account to his father of the new master and his methods that Captain Sankey went down to the school and arranged that Charlie, now ten years old, should accompany his brother. There were several boys no older than he; but Charlie differed widely from his elder brother, being a timid and delicate child, and ill fitted to take care of himself. Captain Sankey felt, however, after what Ned had told him of Mr. Porson, that he could trust to him during the school hours, and Ned would be an active protector in the playground. It was not until a fortnight after the school began that the Four Acre Field was ready. By that time a flock of sheep had been turned into it, and had eaten the grass smooth, and a heavy horse roller had been at work for a day making a level pitch in the center. It was a Saturday afternoon when the boys took possession of it for the first time. As they were about to start in the highest glee, Mr. Porson joined them. Some of their faces fell a little; but he said cheerfully: “Now, boys, I am going with you; but not, you know, to look after you or keep you in order. I want you all to enjoy yourselves just in your own way, and I mean to enjoy myself too. I have been a pretty good cricketer in my time, and played in the York Eleven against Leeds, so I may be able to coach you up a little, and I hope after a bit we may be able to challenge some of the village elevens round here. I am afraid Marsden will be too good for us for some time; still, we shall see.” On reaching the field Mr. Porson saw the ground measured and the wickets erected, and then said: “Now I propose we begin with a match. There are enough of us to make more than two elevens; but there are the other games. Would any of the bigger boys like to play quoits better than cricket?” Mather, who felt much aggrieved at the master's presence, said he should prefer quoits; and Williamson, who always followed his lead, agreed to play with him. “Now,” Mr. Porson said, “do you, Ripon, choose an eleven. I will take the ten next best. The little ones who are over can play at trap bat, or bowls, as they like.” There was a general approval of the plan. Ripon chose an eleven of the likeliest boys, selecting the biggest and most active; for as there had been no room for cricket in the yard their aptitude for the game was a matter of guesswork, though most of them had played during the holidays. Mr. Porson chose the next ten and after tossing for innings, which Ripon won, they set to work. Mr. Porson played for a time as long stop, putting on two of the strongest of his team as bowlers, and changing them from time to time to test their capacity. None of them turned out brilliant, and the runs came fast, and the wickets were taken were few and far between, until at last Mr. Porson himself took the ball. “I am not going to bowl fast,” he said, “just straight easy lobs;” but the boys found that the straight lobs were not so easy after all, and the wickets of the boys who had made a long score soon fell. Most of those who followed managed to make a few runs as well off Mr. Porson's bowling as from that at the other end; for the master did not wish to discourage them, and for a few overs after each batsman came to the wicket aimed well off it so as to give them a chance of scoring. The last wicket fell for the respectable score of fifty-four. The junior eleven then went in, the master not going in until the last. Only twenty runs had been made when he took the bat. In the five balls of the over which were bowled to him he made three fours; but before it came to his turn again his partner at the other end was out, and his side were twenty-two behind on the first innings. The other side scored thirty-three for the first four wickets before he again took the ball, and the remaining six went down for twelve runs. His own party implored him to go in first, but he refused. “No, no, boys,” he said; “you must win the match, if you can, without much aid from me.” The juniors made a better defense this time and scored forty before the ninth wicket fell. Then Mr. Porson went in and ran the score up to sixty before his partner was out, the seniors winning the match by nine runs. Both sides were highly pleased with the result of the match. The seniors had won after a close game. The juniors were well pleased to have run their elders so hard. They all gathered round their master and thanked him warmly. “I am glad you are pleased, my boys,” he said; “I will come down two or three times a week and bowl to you for an hour, and give you a few hints, and you will find that you get on fast. There is plenty of promise among you, and I prophesy that we shall turn out a fair eleven by the end of the season.” The younger boys had also enjoyed themselves greatly, and had been joined by many of the elders while waiting for their turn to go in. Altogether the opening day of the Four Acre Field had been a great success. The old cake woman who had previously supplied the boys still came once a week, her usual time being Wednesday evening, when, after tea, the boys played for half an hour in the yard before going in to their usual lessons. Ned was not usually present, but he one evening went back to fetch a book which he needed. As he came in at the gate of the yard Mather was speaking to the woman. “No, I won't let you have any more, Master Mather. You have broken your promises to me over and over again. That money you owed me last half ain't been paid yet. If it had only been the money for the cakes and sweets I shouldn't ha' minded so much, but it's that ten shillings you borrowed and promised me solemn you would pay at the end of the week and ain't never paid yet. I have got to make up my rent, and I tell ye if I don't get the money by Saturday I shall speak to t' maister about it and see what he says to such goings on.” “Don't talk so loud,” Mather said hurriedly, “and I will get you the money as seen as I can.” “I don't care who hears me,” the woman replied in a still louder voice, “and as soon as you can won't do for I. I have got to have it on Saturday, so that's flat. I will come up to the field, and you'll best have it ready for me.” Ned did not hear the last few words, but he had heard enough to know that Mather owed ten shillings which he had borrowed, besides a bill for cakes. Mather had not noticed him come into the yard, for his back was toward the gate, and the noise which the boys made running about and shouting prevented him hearing the gate open and close. “It's a beastly shame,” Ned muttered to himself as he went off to school, “to borrow money from an old woman like that. Mather must have known he couldn't pay it, for he has only a small allowance, and he is always short of money, and of course he could not expect a tip before the holidays. He might have paid her when he came back, but as he didn't I don't see how he is to do so now, and if the old woman tells Porson there will be a row. It's just the sort of thing would rile him most.” On the next Saturday he watched with some curiosity the entry of the old woman into the field. Several of the boys went up and bought sweets. When she was standing alone Mather strolled up to her. After a word or two he handed her something. She took it, and said a few words. Mather shook his head positively, and in a minute or two walked away, leaving her apparently satisfied. “I suppose he has given her something on account,” Ned said to himself. “I wonder where he got it. When Ripon asked him last Monday for a subscription to buy another set of bats and wickets, so that two lots could practise at once, he said he had only sixpence left, and Mather would not like to seem mean now, for he knows he doesn't stand well with any one except two or three of his own set, because he is always running out against everything that Porson does.” A week later Mr. Porson said, at the end of school: “By the way, boys, have any of you seen that illustrated classical dictionary of mine? I had it in school about ten days ago when I was showing you the prints of the dress and armor of the Romans, and I have not seen it since. I fancy I must have left it on my table, but I cannot be sure. I looked everywhere in my library for it last night and cannot find it. Perhaps if I left it on the desk one of you has taken it to look at the pictures.” There was a general silence. “I think it must be so,” Mr. Porson went on more gravely. “If the boy who has it will give it up I shall not be angry, as, if I left it on the desk, there would be no harm in taking it to look at the pictures.” Still there was silence. “I value the book,” Mr. Porson went on, “not only because it is an expensive work, but because it is a prize which I won at Durham.” He paused a moment, and then said in a stern voice: “Let every boy open his desk.” The desks were opened, and Mr. Porson walked round and glanced at each. “This is a serious matter now,” he said. “Ripon, will you come to the study with me and help me to search again. It is possible it may still be there and I may have overlooked it. The rest will remain in their places till I return.” There was a buzz of conversation while the master was absent. On his return he said: “The book is certainly not there. The bookshelves are all so full that it could only have been put in its own place or laid upon the table. Ripon and I have searched the room thoroughly and it is certainly not there. Now, boys, this is a serious business. In the first place, I will give a last chance to whoever may have taken it to rise in his place and confess it.” He paused, and still all were silent. “Now mind,” he said, “I do not say that any of you have taken it--I have no grounds for such an accusation. It may have been taken by a servant. A tramp may have come in at the back gate when you were all away and have carried it off. These things are possible. And even were I sure that it had been done by one of you I should not dream of punishing all; therefore for the present we will say no more about it. But in order to assure myself and you I must ask you for the keys of your boxes. The servants' boxes will also be searched, as well as every nook and corner of the house; and then, when we have ascertained for a certainty that the book is not within these four walls, I shall go on with a lighter heart.” The boys all eagerly opened their trunks and play boxes, searched under the beds, in the cupboards, and in every nook and corner of their part of the house, and an equally minute search was afterward made in the other apartments; but no trace of the book was discovered. For days the matter was a subject of conversation among the boys, and endless were the conjectures as to what could have become of the dictionary. Their respect and affection for their master were greatly heightened by the fact that his behavior toward them was in no way altered by the circumstances. His temper was as patient and equable as before in the schoolroom; he was as cheerful and friendly in the cricket field, They could see, however, that he was worried and depressed, though he strove to appear the same as usual. Often did they discuss among themselves how different the state of things would have been had the loss happened to Mr. Hathorn, and what a life they would have led under those circumstances. At the end of a week the happy thought struck Ripon that a subscription should be made to buy a new dictionary. The amount was a serious one, as they found that the book could not be purchased under two guineas; but every boy subscribed to his last farthing. Some promised their pocket money for weeks in advance; others wrote home to their parents to ask for money, and in ten days the boys had the satisfaction of seeing Ripon at the commencement of school walk up to Mr. Porson's desk and present him with the handsome volume in the name of all the boys. Ripon had taken some pains in getting up an appropriate speech, and it was voted a great success. “Mr. Porson,” he said, “in the name of all the boys in the school I beg to ask your acceptance of this volume. It cannot have the value to you of that which you have lost, as that was a prize; but we hope, that as a proof of the respect and affection which we all have for you, and as a token of our appreciation of your very great kindness toward us, you will accept it in place of the other.” Mr. Porson's face lit up with pleasure. “My boys,” he said, “I am very highly gratified at this proof that I have succeeded in my endeavors to make you feel that I am your friend as well as your master, and I shall value your gift far more highly than my college prize. That was simply the result of my own labor; this is a proof of kindness and affection on your parts. I shall value it very greatly all my life. And now, as I don't think you will be able to pay much attention to your work this morning, and as I have been for some days awaiting an opportunity to go over to York, where I have some pressing business, I shall start at once, and can just catch the stage, and shall get back in time for school tomorrow morning, so you will have the day to yourselves.” With a shout of pleasure the boys started off for a long day in the cricket field, while Mr. Porson hurried away to catch the stagecoach for York.

6

THE THIEF DETECTED

Mr. Porson was in his place next morning, having returned only half an hour before school began; he looked fagged, and he was scarcely so attentive as usual to the lessons, his thoughts seeming to be elsewhere. “He seems regularly done up with his journey,” Ripon said as the boys came out of school. “I think he is upset about something,” Ned remarked. “Sometimes he hardly seemed paying attention to what was going on, and he did not speak as cheerfully as usual. I noticed a sort of change in his voice directly he began. I hope nothing wrong has occurred, we were getting on so jollily.” When afternoon school began Mr. Porson placed on the desk before him a packet done up in brown paper. “Boys,” he said, “I have got my book again.” An exclamation of surprise and pleasure burst from the boys. The mystery had weighed heavily on the school, and a look of eager curiosity came over every face to hear how the book had been recovered. “It was found in a bookseller's shop in York,” Mr. Porson went on. “I myself had inquired at Leighton's here, but with little hope of finding it, for no one who stole it would have disposed of it so near home. I then wrote to several friends in the large towns, and one of them, a clergyman at York, wrote to me two days ago to say that just such a book as I had described was on sale in the window of one of the booksellers there. It was a second hand copy, but in excellent preservation. The flyleaf was missing. On going over yesterday I found that it was my book, and was able to prove it by several marginal notes in my handwriting. “The bookseller said at once that it was sent him by a general dealer at Marsden who was in the habit of picking up books at sales in the neighborhood and sending them to him; he had given eighteen shillings for it. This morning I have called upon the man, whose name is White, accompanied by a constable. He admitted at once that he had sent the book to York, and said that he bought it from some one about a month ago. His customer came late, and as White is short sighted, and there was only a tallow candle burning in the shop, he said that he should not know him again, and could say nothing about his age; however, I shall call him in; he is now outside with the constable. I am sure that for your own sakes you will not object to his taking a look at you.” Mr. Porson went to the door, and the constable and White entered. The chief constable, when Mr. Porson had called upon him to ask for one of his men to accompany him to the dealer's, had told him that White bore a very bad reputation. He was suspected of being the medium through whom stolen goods in that part of Yorkshire were sent up to London for disposal. A highwayman who had been caught and executed at York, had in his confession stated that this man had acted as his go between for the disposal of the watches and other articles he took from travelers, and White's premises had then been thoroughly searched by the constables; but as nothing suspicious was found, and there was only the unsupported confession of the highwayman against him, he had got off scot free. “I don't think you will get anything out of him, Mr. Porson,” the constable said. “The fact that he has been trusted by these fellows shows that he is not a man to peach upon those with whom he deals; and in the next place he would know well enough that if any one were convicted of stealing this book he would be liable to a prosecution as receiver; and though we could scarcely get a conviction against him, as we could not prove that he knew that it was stolen, it would do him no good.” The boys all stood up in a line. “I will look at 'em, sir,” White said; “but, as I have told you, I should not know the man as I bought that book from, from Adam. Anyhow none of these little ones couldn't be he. If it weren't a man, he were as big as a man. You don't suppose an honest tradesman would buy an expensive book like that from a kid.” So saying he placed a pair of horn spectacles on his nose and walked round the line. “I don't see any one here whose face I ever see before as far as I knows; but bless you, the man as I bought it of might have had hair all over his face, and I be none the wiser looking at him across that counter of mine in the dark.” “Thank you,” Mr. Porson said; “then it is of no use troubling you further. I have got my book back; but I confess that this affords me but small gratification in comparison to that which I should feel if I could unravel this mystery.” The discovery of the book reopened the interest in the matter, and nothing else was talked of that evening in the playground. “Ripon,” Ned said, putting his arm in that of the head boy, “I want to tell you a thing that has been in my mind for the last three weeks; mind, I don't say that there's anything in it, and I hate to think harm of any one. There is another thing; he and I ain't good friends. If it hadn't been for that I should have spoken to you before; but I was afraid that it would look like a piece of dirty spite on my part; but I do think now that as head boy you ought to know, and I want your advice whether I ought to say anything about it or not.” “What a long winded chap you are, Sankey! What is it all about?” “Well, you know, Ripon, when we got up that subscription for the cricket things, Mather didn't give anything. He said he had no money.” “No; and he hadn't any,” Ripon said, “for I had only the day before lent him twopence to buy some string, and he paid me when he got his allowance on Saturday.” “Well, a day or two after that I came back after tea for a book that I had left behind me, and as I came in at the gate there Mather was standing at the corner talking to Mother Brown. He had his back to the door, and they didn't see me. She was talking loud and angry and I couldn't help hearing what she said.” “Well, what did she say?” Ripon said rather impatiently. “She said, 'You have disappointed me over and over again, and if you don't pay me that ten shillings you borrowed of me last half, and the bill for the cakes, by Saturday, I will see the master and tell him all about it.' I didn't hear any more; but on the Saturday I saw him go up to her in the field and pay her something. Of course I don't know what it was; not all, I think, by the manner in which she took it; still, I suppose it was enough to content her. About ten days afterward we heard the book was missing. It didn't strike me at the time; but afterward, when I thought of it, I remembered that the last time Porson brought it out was on the Thursday, which was the day after Mather had been speaking to Mother Brown. Now, of course, Ripon, I don't actually suspect Mather of taking the book; still it is curious its being missing just at the time he wanted money so badly. He may have got the money from home, or he may have borrowed it from some other fellow.” “No,” Ripon said positively, “I am sure Mather has had no letter, because I always distribute the letters, and Mather's people never write to him; and I am sure there was no fellow in the school had more than a shilling or two at the outside at that time. Why didn't you tell me before, Sankey?” “I didn't like to, because every one knows Mather and I are not good friends; then I thought perhaps Mather might be able to explain it all right, and I should have cut a nice figure if he could; then at the time when I thought of it, and had got the dates right, the first excitement had died out and I thought we might hear no more of it and it would be forgotten; but now that the book has been found and the whole thing has come up fresh again I thought it better to tell you all about it and ask you what you would advise me to do.” Ripon did not answer for some time; then he said: “I am sure I don't know, Ned; I will think it over till tomorrow. You have not said anything about it to any one else?” “Not to a soul. I hesitated whether I should tell you or father, but he wouldn't understand how boys think of these things so well as you do; so I thought as you were head of the school it was best you should know.” “I wish you hadn't told me,” Ripon grumbled. “I am sure I don't know what's best to do;” and he turned away and began to pace the yard moodily up and down. “The only thing I have decided,” he said to Ned the next day, “is to ask Mother Brown myself how much Mather paid her. We may as well settle that question first.” As this was Wednesday and the cake woman was coming that evening there was not long to wait. Ripon chose a time when most of the boys had made their purchases and the old woman was alone. “Don't you give too much tick to any of the fellows, Mother Brown,” he began. “You know it isn't always easy to get money that's owing.” “I should think not, Master Ripon; I wish they would always pay money down as you do. There's Master Mather, he been owing me money ever since last half. He borrowed ten shillings of me and promised solemn he would pay at the end of the week, and he has only paid five shillings yet, a month ago, and that was only 'cause I told him I would tell the master about him; there's that five shillings, and seven shillings and eightpence for cakes and things; but I have been giving him a piece of my mind this afternoon; and if I don't get that other five shillings by Saturday, sure enough I will speak to t' maister about it. No one can say as Mother Brown is hard on boys, and I am always ready to wait reasonable; but I can't abear lies, and when I lent that ten shillings I expected it was going to be paid punctual.” “Then he knows you are going to speak to Mr. Porson on Saturday if he doesn't pay up another five shillings?” “He knows it,” the old woman said, nodding. “When I says a thing I mean it. So he had best pay up.” When Ripon met Ned next day he said: “I talked to her last night. Mather paid her five shillings, and she has told him if he doesn't pay her the other five by Saturday she will speak to Porson; so I think the best plan is to wait till then and see what comes of it. She will tell the whole story and Porson will learn it without our interference, and can think what he likes about it.” Relieved in mind at finding that there was a prospect of his avoiding the decision whether or not to inform the master of his suspicions, Ned went to his desk. When afternoon school began Mr. Porson said gravely: “Boys, when you came back from the field did you all go straight to the washing room to wash your hands before dinner?” There was a chorus of surprised assent. “I am sorry to tell you that another theft has been committed. A gold pencil case has disappeared from my study table. I was using it after school. I left it on the table when I went for a stroll before dinner. I remember most distinctly laying it down among the pens. I went into my study ten minutes ago; and wanting to make a note as to this afternoon's work looked for the pencil and it was gone. The window was open as usual, and it is possible that tramps passing along the road may have come into the garden and have got in at the window. As in the case of the book I suspect no one, but two such occurrences as these are very uncomfortable for us all. I shall not propose any search this time, for had any of you taken it, which I cannot for a moment believe, he would not have been careless enough to put it in his pocket, or conceal it in his desk or boxes, but would have stowed it away somewhere where there would be no chance whatever of its being found. Now let us dismiss the subject and go on with our lessons.” While the master was speaking Ripon and Sankey had glanced for a moment at each other; the same thought was in both their minds. After school was over they joined each other in the yard. “Was Mather in the washing room with the others?” Sankey asked eagerly. “He was, but he came up last,” Ripon replied. “You know he generally saunters along in a lazy way and is the last to get in. So he was today, but I don't know that he was later than usual.” “I think, Ripon, we ought to speak to Porson.” “I think so too,” Ripon rejoined gravely; “it is too serious to keep to ourselves. Any ordinary thing I would not peach about on any account, but a disgraceful theft like this, which throws a doubt over us all, is another thing; the honor of the whole school is at stake. I have been thinking it over. I don't want Mather to suspect anything, so I will go out at the back gate with you, as if I was going to walk part of the way home with you, and then we will go round to the front door and speak to Porson.” The master was sitting on a low seat in the window of his study. Hearing footsteps coming up from the front gate he looked round. “Do you want to speak to me, boys?” he asked in some surprise through the open window. “What makes you come round the front way?” “We want to see you privately, sir,” Ripon said. “Very well, boys, I will open the door for you. “Now, what is it?” he asked as the boys followed him into the study. “Well, sir, it may be nothing, I am sure I hope so,” Ripon said, “but Sankey and I thought you ought to know and then it will be off our minds, and you can do as you like about it. Now, Sankey, tell what you knew first, then I will tell what Mother Brown said to me on Wednesday.” Ned told the story in the same words in which he had related it to Ripon; and Ripon then detailed his conversation with the cake woman, and her threats of reporting Mather on Saturday were the debt not paid. Ned had already given his reason for keeping silence in the matter hitherto, and Ripon now explained that they had determined to wait till Saturday to see what came of it, but that after that new theft they deemed it their duty to speak at once. Mr. Porson sat with his face half shaded with his hand and without speaking a single word until the boys had concluded. “It is a sad business,” he said in a low tone, “a very sad business. It is still possible that you may have come to false conclusions; but the circumstances you have related are terribly strong. I am grieved, indeed, over the business, and would rather have lost a hundred books and pencil cases than it should have happened. You have done quite right, boys; I am greatly obliged to you both, and you have acted very well. I know how painful it must be to you both to have been obliged to bring so grave a matter to my ears. Thank you; I will consider what is the best course to adopt. If it can be avoided, I shall so arrange that your names do not appear in the matter.” For some little time after the boys had left him Mr. Porson remained in deep thought; then he rose, put on his hat, and went out, first inquiring of the servant if she knew where the woman who sold cakes to the boys lived. “Yes, sir; she lives in a little house in Mill Street; it's not a regular shop, but there are a few cakes in one of the windows; I have bought things there for the kitchen, knowing that she dealt with the young gentlemen.” Mr. Porson made his way to Mill Street and easily found the house he was in search of. On being questioned the old woman at first showed some reluctance in answering his questions, but Mr. Porson said sharply: “Now, dame, I want no nonsense; I am acquainted with the whole affair, but wish to have it from your own lips. Unless you tell me the whole truth not a cake will you sell my boys in future.” Thus pressed Mrs. Brown at once related the story of Mather having borrowed some money of her; of her threats to report him unless he paid, and of his having given her five shillings on the following Saturday, saying that he would give her the rest in a few days, but could pay no more then; and how, after repeated disappointments, she had now given him till Saturday to settle the debt. “If he didn't pay, sir, I meant to have come to ye and telled ye all about it, for I hate lies, and Master Mather has lied to me over and over again about it; but seeing that Saturday hasn't come I don't like telling ye the story, as he may have meant to keep his word to me this time.” “Here are the five shillings which he borrowed of you; as to the other money, you will never get it, and I hope it will be a lesson to you; and mind, if I find that you ever allow the boys to run an account with you further than the following Saturday after it is incurred, you will never come into my field or playground again.” Mr. Porson then went to the chief constable's, and after a short conversation with him a constable was told off to accompany him. He and the master took their station at a short distance from the shop of the man White and waited quietly. A little after nine a figure was seen coming down the street from the other end. He passed quickly into the shop. “That is the boy,” Mr. Porson said. “Wouldn't it be better, sir,” the constable asked, “to wait till the deed is completed, then we can lay our hands on White as a receiver?” “No,” Mr. Porson replied, “for in that case the boy would have to appear with him in the dock, and that I wish of all things to avoid.” So saying he walked quickly on and entered the shop. Mather was leaning across the counter while the man was examining the pencil case by the light of the candle. “Five shillings,” the man said, “and no more. I was nearly getting into trouble over that last job of yours.” “But it's worth a great deal more than that,” Mather said. “You might give me ten.” “Well, take it back then,” the man said, pushing it across the counter. “Thank you, I will take it myself,” Mr. Porson said quietly, as he advanced and stretched out his hand. Mather turned round with a sudden cry, and then stood the picture of silent terror. “As for you,” the master said indignantly to the dealer, “you scoundrel, if you had your deserts I would hand you over to the constable, who is outside the door, as a receiver of stolen goods, and for inciting this boy to theft. I heard you offer him a sum of money for it which shows that you knew it was stolen; but your time will come, sir, and you will hang over the gate of York prison as many a poor wretch far less guilty than yourself has done;” for in those days death was the punishment of receivers of stolen goods, as well as of these convicted of highway robbery and burglary. “Have mercy, sir, oh, spare me!” Mather exclaimed, falling on his knees. “Don't give me in charge.” “I am not going to do so,” the master said. “Get up and come with me.” Not a word was spoken on the way back to the school. Mr. Porson then took Mather into his study, where they remained for half an hour. What passed between them was never known. In the morning the boys who slept in the room with Mather were surprised to find that his bed was empty and the window open. He had gone to bed at half past eight as usual, and saying he was sleepy had threatened to punch the head of any boy who spoke, so that all had gone off to sleep in a very short time. A stout ivy grew against the wall, and some fallen leaves on the ground showed them that he had climbed down with the assistance of its stem. But why he should have gone, and what on earth possessed him to run away, none could imagine. The news ran rapidly through the other bedrooms, and brimful of excitement all went down when the bell rang for prayers before breakfast. The list of names was called out by the master as usual, and the excitement grew breathless as the roll of the third class was called; but to the astonishment of all, Mather's name was omitted. When the list was concluded Mr. Porson said: “Mather has left; I grieve to say that I have discovered that it was he who stole the book and pencil case. He has confessed the whole to me, and he is, I trust, sincerely penitent. He slept last night on the sofa in my study, and has gone off this morning by the coach. I have written to his parents stating the whole circumstances under which he was driven to commit the theft, and that although I could not permit him to remain here, I trusted and believed that his repentance was sincere, and that it would be a lesson to him through life, and I urged them to give him a further trial, and not to drive him to desperation by severity. “There is a lesson which you may all learn from this. Mather committed these crimes because he had borrowed money which he could not repay. Most foolishly and mistakenly the woman who supplies you with cakes had lent him money and when he could not repay it according to his promise to her, threatened to report the case to me, and it was to prevent the matter coming to my ears that he took these things. Let this be a warning to you, boys, through life. Never borrow money, never spend more than your means afford. An extravagance may seem to you but a small fault, but you see crime and disgrace may follow upon it. Think this well over, and be lenient in your hearts to your late schoolfellow. He was tempted, you see, and none of us can tell what he may do when temptation comes, unless we have God's help to enable us to withstand it, and to do what is right. Now let us fall to at our breakfast.” It was a strangely silent meal. Scarce a word was spoken, even in a whisper. It came as a shock to everybody there, that after all the dictionary should have been taken by one of their number, and that the master's kindness on that occasion should have been requited by another robbery seemed a disgrace to the whole school. That Mather, too, always loud, noisy, and overbearing, should have been the thief was surprising indeed. Had it been some quiet little boy, the sort of boy others are given to regard as a sneak, there would have been less surprise, but that Mather should do such a thing was astounding. These were probably the first reflections which occurred to every boy as he sat down to breakfast. The next impression was how good Mr. Porson had been about it. He might have given Mother in charge, and had him punished by law. He might have given him a terrific flogging and a public expulsion before all the school. Instead of that he had sent him quietly away, and seemed sorry for rather than angry with him. By the time the meal was finished there was probably not a boy but had taken an inward resolution that there was nothing he would not do for his master, and although such resolutions are generally but transient, Mr. Porson found that the good effect of his treatment of Mather was considerable and permanent. Lessons were more carefully learned, obedience was not perhaps more prompt, but it was more willing, and the boys lost no opportunity of showing how anxious they were to please in every respect. Ned and his brother were not present when Mr. Porson explained the cause of Mather's absence to the others, but they were surrounded by their schoolfellows, all eager to tell the news upon their arrival in the playground a few minutes before the school began. Before breaking up in June, Porson's played their first cricket match with a strong village team, and beat them handsomely, although, as the boys said, it was to their master's bowling that their success was due. Still the eleven all batted fairly, and made so long a score that they won in one innings; and Mr. Porson promised them that before the season ended they should have a whole holiday, and play the Marsden eleven. Ned enjoyed his holiday rambles, taking several long walks across the moors accompanied by Bill Swinton, who had now perfectly recovered. The discontent among the croppers, and indeed among the workers in the mills generally through the country was as great as ever; but the season was a good one; bread had fallen somewhat in price, and the pinch was a little less severe than it had been. The majority of the masters had been intimidated by the action of their hands from introducing the new machinery, and so far the relations between master and men, in that part of Yorkshire at any rate, remained unchanged. But although Ned enjoyed his rambles he was glad when the holidays were over. He had no friends of his own age in Marsden; his brother was too young to accompany him in his long walks, and Bill obtained a berth in one of the mills shortly after the holidays began, and was no longer available. Therefore Ned looked forward to meeting his schoolfellows again, to the fun of the cricket field and playground, and even to lessons, for these were no longer terrible. The school reopened with largely increased numbers. The reports which the boys had taken home of the changed conditions of things and of their master's kindness excited among all their friends an intense longing to go to a school where the state of things was so different to that which prevailed elsewhere; and the parents were equally satisfied with the results of the new master's teaching. Such as took the trouble to ask their boys questions found that they had acquired a real grasp of the subjects, and that they were able to answer clearly and intelligently. The consequence was, the house was filled with its full complement of fifty boarders, and indeed Mr. Porson was obliged to refuse several applications for want of room. As he had not the same objection as his predecessor to receive home boarders, the numbers were swelled by eighteen boys whose parents resided in Marsden. To meet the increased demands upon his teaching powers Mr. Porson engaged two ushers, both of them young men who had just left Durham. They were both pleasant and gentlemanly young fellows; and as Mr. Porson insisted that his own mode of teaching should be adopted, the change did not alter the pleasant state of things which had prevailed during the past half year. Both the ushers were fond of cricket, and one turned out to be at least equal to Mr. Porson as a bowler. Therefore the boys looked forward to their match with Marsden with some confidence. Captain Sankey saw with great pleasure the steady improvement which was taking place in Ned's temper. It was not to be expected that the boy would at once overcome a fault of such long standing, but the outbursts were far less frequent, and it was evident that he was putting a steady check upon himself; so that his father looked forward to the time when he would entirely overcome the evil consequences engendered by his unchecked and undisciplined childhood.

7

A TERRIBLE SHOCK

Ned had been looking forward with great anticipations to Michaelmas day, upon which the great match was to take place; for he was one of the eleven, being the youngest of the boys included in it. An event, however, happened which deprived him of his share in the match, and caused the day to pass almost unnoticed. On the 20th of September the servant came in to Mr. Porson during morning school to say that he was wanted. A minute or two later she again re-entered and said that Ned and his brother were to go to the master's study. Much surprised at this summons they followed her. Mr. Porson was looking exceedingly grave. “My dear boys,” he said, “I have bad news for you. Very bad news. You must bear it bravely, looking for support and consolation to Him who alone can give it. Dr. Green's boy has just been here. He was sent down by his master to say that there has been a serious accident in the town.” The commencement of the master's speech and the graveness of his tone sent a serious thrill through the hearts of the boys. Mr. Porson would never have spoken thus had not the news been serious indeed. When he paused Ned gave a little gasp and exclaimed, “My father!” “Yes, Ned, I am grieved to say that it is your brave father who has suffered from the accident. It seems that as he was walking down the High Street one of Ramsay's heavy wagons came along. A little girl ran across the street ahead, but stumbled and fell close to the horses. Your father, forgetful of the fact of his wooden leg, rushed over to lift her; but the suddenness of the movement, he being a heavy man, snapped the wooden leg in sunder, and he fell headlong in the street. He was within reach of the child, and he caught her by the clothes and jerked her aside; but before he could, in his crippled condition, regain his feet, the wheel was upon him, and he has suffered very serious injuries.” “He is not dead, sir?” Ned gasped, while his brother began to cry piteously. “No, Ned, he is not dead,” Mr. Porson said; “but I fear, my dear boy, that it would be cruel kindness did I not tell you to prepare yourself for the worst. I fear from what I hear that he is fatally injured, and that there is but little hope. Get your hats, my boys, and I will walk home with you at once.” There were but few words exchanged during that dismal walk, and these were addressed by Mr. Porson to Ned. “Try to calm yourself, my boy,” he said, putting his hand on his shoulder, which was shaking with the boy's efforts to keep down his convulsive sobs; “try and nerve yourselves for the sake of your father himself, of your mother, and the little ones. The greatest kindness you can show to your father new is by being calm and composed.” “I will try, sir,” Ned said as steadily as he could; “but you don't know how I loved him!” “I can guess it, my boy; for I, too, lost my father when I was just your age. God's ways are not our ways, Ned; and be sure, although you may not see it now, that he acts for the best.” A little crowd stood gathered near the door. They were talking in low tones of the gallant way in which the crippled officer had sacrificed himself to save the child. They made way silently for the boys to pass. Ned opened the door and entered. Abijah was in the hall. She was tearless, but her face was white and set. “My poor boy,” she said to Ned, “he is in the parlor; he has just been asking for you. I am glad you have come. Your mother is in hysterics in her bedroom, and is going on like a mad woman. You must be calm, dear, for your father's sake.” Ned gave a little nod, and, taking his brother's hand, opened the door of the parlor. Captain Sankey was lying on the hearth rug, his head propped up with pillows from the sofa; his face was an ashen pallor, and his eyes were closed. The doctor was kneeling beside him, pouring some liquid from a glass between his lips. A strong friendship had sprung up between the two men, and tears were running fast down the doctor's cheeks. He motioned to the boys to approach. They fell on their knees by their father's side. “Sankey,” the doctor said in a steady voice, “here are your boys, Ned and Charlie.” The eyes of the dying man opened slowly, and he looked at his sons, and Ned felt a slight pressure of the hand which he had taken in his own. “God bless you, my boys!” he said, in a faint whisper. “Ned, be kind to your mother; care for her always. She will need all your kindness.” “I will, father,” the boy said steadily. “I will take care of mother, I promise you.” A faint smile passed over the pale face; then the eyes closed again, and there was silence for five minutes, broken only by the sobbing of the younger boy. The doctor, who had his fingers on the pulse of Captain Sankey, leaned closely over him; then he laid his arm gently down, and putting his hand on Ned's shoulder said softly: “Come, my boy, your father is out of pain now.” Ned gave one loud and bitter cry, and threw himself down by the side of the corpse, and gave way to his pent up emotion. The doctor led the younger boy from the room, and gave him into the care of Abijah. Then he returned and stood for awhile watching Ned's terrible outburst of grief; then he poured some wine into a glass. “My boy,” he said tenderly, “you must not give way like this or you will make yourself ill. Drink this, Ned, and then go up and lie down on your bed until you feel better. Remember you must be strong for the sake of the others. You know you will have to bear your mother's burdens as well as your own.” He helped Ned to his feet and held the glass to his lips, for the boy's hand was shaking so that he could not have held it. After drinking it Ned stumbled upstairs and threw himself on the bed, and there cried silently for a long time; but the first passion of grief had passed, and he now struggled with his tears, and in an hour rose, bathed his flushed and swollen face, and went downstairs. “Abijah,” he said, in a voice which he struggled in vain to steady, “what is there for me to do? How is my mother?” “She has just cried herself off to sleep, Master Ned, and a mercy it is for her, poor lady, for she has been going on dreadful ever since he was brought in here; but if you go in to Master Charlie and Miss Lucy and try and comfort them it would be a blessing. I have not been able to leave your mother till now, and the poor little things are broken hearted. I feel dazed myself, sir. Think of the captain, who went out so strong and well this morning, speaking so kind and bright just as usual, lying there!” and here Abijah broke down and for the first time since Captain Sankey was carried into the house tears came to her relief, and throwing her arms round Ned's neck she wept passionately. Ned's own tears flowed too fast for him to speak for some time. At last he said quietly, “Don't cry so, Abijah. It is the death of all others that was fitted for him, he, so brave and unselfish, to die giving his life to save a child. You told me to be brave; it is you who must be brave, for you know that you must be our chief dependence now.” “I know, Master Ned; I know, sir,” the woman said, choking down her sobs, and wiping her eyes with her apron, “and I will do my best, never fear. I feel better now I have had a good cry. Somehow I wasn't able to cry before. Now, sir, do you go to the children and I will look after things.” A fortnight passed. Captain Sankey had been laid in his grave, after such a funeral as had never been seen in Marsden, the mills being closed for the day, and all the shutters up throughout the little town, the greater part of the population attending the funeral as a mark of respect to the man who, after fighting the battles of his country, had now given his life for that of a child. The great cricket match did not come off, it being agreed on all hands that it had better be postponed. Mr. Porson had called twice to see Ned, and had done much by his comforting words to enable him to bear up. He came again the day after the funeral. “Ned,” he said, “I think that you and Charlie had better come to school again on Monday. The sooner you fall into your regular groove the better. It would only do you both harm to mope about the house here; and although the laughter and noise of your schoolfellows will jar upon you for awhile, it is better to overcome the feeling at once; and I am sure that you will best carry out what would have been his wishes by setting to your work again instead of wasting your time in listless grieving.” “I think so too, sir,” Ned said, “but it will be awfully hard at first, and so terrible to come home and have no one to question one on the day's work, and to take an interest in what we have been doing.” “Very hard, Ned; I thoroughly agree with you, but it has to be borne, and remember there is One who will take interest in your work. If I were you I should take your brother out for walks this week. Get up into the hills with him, and try and get the color back into his cheeks again. He is not so strong as you are, and the confinement is telling upon him--the fresh air will do you good, too.” Ned promised to take his master's advice, and the next morning started after breakfast with Charlie. His mother had not yet risen, and indeed had not been downstairs since the day of the accident, protesting that she was altogether unequal to any exertion whatever. Ned had sat with her for many hours each day, but he had indeed found it hard work. Sometimes she wept, her tears being mingled with self reproaches that she had not been able to do more to brighten her husband's life. Sometimes she would break off and reproach the boy bitterly for what she called his want of feeling. At other times her thoughts seemed directed solely toward the fashion of her mourning garments, and after the funeral she drove Ned almost to madness by wanting to knew all the details of who was there and what was done, and was most indignant with him because he was able to tell her nothing, the whole scene having been as a mist to him, absorbed as he was in the thought of his father alone. But Ned had never showed the least sign of impatience or hastiness, meeting tears, reproaches, and inquiries with the same stoical calmness and gentleness. Still it was with a sigh of relief that he took a long breath of fresh air as he left the house and started for a ramble on the moor with his brother. He would have avoided Varley, for he shrank even from the sympathy which Bill Swinton would give; but Bill would be away, so as it was the shortest way he took that road. As he passed Luke Marner's cottage the door opened and Mary came down to the gate. One of the little ones had seen Ned coming along the road and had run off to tell her. Little Jane Marner trotted along by Polly's side. “Good morning, Polly!” Ned said, and walked on. He dreaded speech with any one. Polly saw his intention and hesitated; then she said: “Good morning, Master Ned! One moment, please, sir.” Ned paused irresolutely. “Please don't say anything,” he began. “No, sir, I am not a-going to--at least--” and then she hesitated, and lifted up the child, who was about four years old, a soft eyed, brown haired little maiden. “It's little Jenny,” she said; “you know sir, you know;” and she looked meaningly at the child as the tears stood in her eyes. Ned understood at once. “What!” he said; “was it her? I did not know; I had not heard.” “Yes, sir; she and all of us owe her life to him. Feyther wanted to come down to you, but I said better not yet awhile, you would understand.” “How did it happen?” Ned said, feeling that here at least his wound would be touched with no rough hand. “She went down to the town with Jarge, who was going to fetch some things I wanted. He left her looking in at a shop window while he went inside. They were some time serving him as there were other people in the shop. Jenny got tired, as she says, of waiting, and seeing some pictures in a window on the other side of the street started to run across, and her foot slipped, and--and--” “I know,” Ned said. “I am glad you have told me, Polly. I am glad it was some one one knows something about. Don't say anything more now, I cannot bear it.” “I understand, sir,” the girl said gently. “God bless you!” Ned nodded. He could not trust himself to speak, and turning he passed on with Charlie through the village, while Mary Powlett, with the child still in her arms, stood looking sorrowfully after him as long as he was in sight. “So thou'st seen the boy?” Luke said, when on his return from work Polly told him what had happened. “Thou told's him, oi hope, how we all felt about it, and how grateful we was?” “I didn't say much, feyther, he could not bear it; just a word or two; if I had said more he would have broken out crying, and so should I.” “Thou hast cried enoo, lass, the last ten days. Thou hast done nowt but cry,” Luke said kindly, “and oi felt sore inclined to join thee. Oi ha' had hard work to keep back the tears, old though oi be, and oi a cropper.” “You are just as soft hearted as I am, feyther, every bit, so don't pretend you are not;” and indeed upon the previous day Luke Marner had broken down even more completely than Mary. He had followed the funeral at a short distance, keeping with Mary aloof from the crowd; but when all was over, and the churchyard was left in quiet again, Luke had gone and stood by the still open grave of the man who had given his life for his child's, and had stood there with the tears streaming down his cheeks, and his strong frame so shaken by emotion that Polly had been forced to dry her own eyes and stifle her sobs, and to lead him quietly away. “Strange, bain't it, lass; feyther and son seem mixed up with Varley. First the lad has a foight wi' Bill Swinton, and braakes the boy's leg; then t' feyther sends oop all sorts o' things to Bill, and his son comes up here and gets as friendly with Bill as if he were his brother, and gets to know you, and many another in the village. Then our Jane goes down into t' town and would ha' lost her life if captain he hadn't been passing by and saaved her. Then he gets killed. Just gived his life for hearn. Looks like a fate aboot it; may be it eel be our toorn next, and if ever that lad waants a man to stand beside him Luke Marner will be there. And there's Bill too--oi believe that boy would lay down his life for him. He's very fond of our Janey--fonder nor her own brothers. He ain't got no sister of his own, and he's took to t' child wonderful since he got ill. He thowt a soight o' Ned Sankey afore; I doan't know what he wouldn't do for him now.” “I don't suppose, feyther, as any of us will be able to do anything for him; but we may do, who knows?” “Ay, who knows, lass? toimes is main bad, and oi doot there will be trouble, but oi doan't see as that can affect him no ways, being as he is a lad, and having nowt to do with the mills--but oi do hoape as the time may come, lass, as we can show un as we knows we owes a loife to him.” On the Monday following Ned and Charlie returned to school, and found it less painful than Ned had expected. Mr. Porson had taken Ripon aside and had told that the kindest way to treat the boys would be to avoid all allusion to their loss or anything like a show of open sympathy, but to let them settle quietly into their places. “Sankey will know you all feel for him, Ripon, he will need no telling of that.” Ripon passed the word round the school, and accordingly when the boys came into the playground, two or three minutes before the bell rang, Ned, to his great relief, found that with the exception of a warm silent wring of the hand from a few of those with whom he was most intimate, and a kindly nod from others, no allusion was made to his fortnight's absence or its cause. For the next month he worked hard and made up the time he had lost, running straight home when he came out from school, and returning just in time to go in with the others; but gradually he fell into his former ways, and by the time the school broke up at Christmas was able to mix with the boys and take part in their games. At home he did his best to make things bright, but it was uphill work. Mrs. Sankey was fretful and complaining. Their income was reduced by the loss of Captain Sankey's half pay, and they had now only the interest of the fortune of four thousand pounds which Mrs. Sankey had brought to her husband on her marriage. This sum had been settled upon her, and was entirely under her own control. The income was but a small one, but it was sufficient for the family to live upon with care and prudence. Captain Sankey had made many friends since the time when he first settled at Marsden, and all vied with each other in their kindness to his widow. Presents of game were constantly left for her; baskets of chickens, eggs, and fresh vegetables were sent down by Squire Simmonds and other county magnates, and their carriages often stopped at the door to make inquiries. Many people who had not hitherto called now did so, and all Marsden seemed anxious to testify its sympathy with the widow of the brave officer. Ned was touched with these evidences of respect for his father's memory. Mrs. Sankey was pleased for herself, and she would of an evening inform Ned with much gratification of the visits she had received. Ned was glad that anything should occur which could rouse his mother, and divert her from her own grievances; but the tone in which she spoke often jarred painfully upon him, and he wondered how his mother could find it in her heart to receive these people and to talk over his father's death. But Mrs. Sankey liked it. She was conscious she looked well in her deep mourning, and that even the somber cap was not unbecoming with her golden hair peeping out beneath it. Tears were always at her command, and she had ever a few ready to drop upon her dainty embroidered handkerchief when the occasion commanded it; and her visitors, when they agreed among themselves, what a soft gentle woman that poor Mrs. Sankey was, but sadly delicate you know--had no idea of the querulous complaining and fretfulness whose display was reserved for her own family only. To this Ned was so accustomed that it passed ever his head almost unheeded; not so her constant allusions to his father. Wholly unconscious of the agony which it inflicted upon the boy, Mrs. Sankey was incessantly quoting his opinions or utterances. “Ned, I do wish you would not fidget with your feet. You know your dear father often told you of it;” or, “As your dear father used to say, Ned;” until the boy in despair would throw down his book and rush out of the room to calm himself by a run in the frosty night air; while Mrs. Sankey would murmur to herself, “That boy's temper gets worse and worse, and with my poor nerves how am I to control him?” Mr. Porson was very kind to him in those days. During that summer holiday he had very frequently spent the evening at Captain Sankey's, and had formed a pretty correct idea of the character of Ned's mother. Thus when he saw that Ned, when he entered the school after breakfast or dinner, had an anxious hunted look, and was clearly in a state of high tension, he guessed he was having a bad time of it at home. Charlie had fast got over the shock of his father's death; children quickly recover from a blow, and, though delicate, Charlie was of a bright and gentle disposition, ready to be pleased at all times, and not easily upset. One morning when Ned came in from school looking pale and white, gave random answers to questions, and even, to the astonishment of the class, answered Mr. Porson himself snappishly, the master, when school was over and the boys were leaving their places, said: “Sankey, I want to have a few words with you in the study.” Ned followed his master with an air of indifference. He supposed that he was going to be lectured for the way he had spoken, but as he said to himself, “What did it matter! what did anything matter!” Mr. Porson did not sit down on entering the room, but when Ned had closed the door after him took a step forward and laid his hand on his shoulder. “My boy,” he said, “what is it that is wrong with you? I fear that you have trouble at home.” Ned stood silent, but the tears welled up into his eyes. “It can't be helped, sir,” he said in a choking voice, and then with an attempt at gayety: “it will be all the same fifty years hence, I suppose.” “That is a poor consolation, Ned,” Mr. Porson rejoined. “Fifty years is a long time to look forward to. Can't we do anything before that?” Ned was silent. “I do not want you to tell me, Ned, anything that happens at home--God forbid that I should pry into matters so sacred as relations between a boy and a parent! --but I can see, my boy, that something is wrong. You are not yourself. At first when you came back I thought all was well with you; you were, as was natural, sad and depressed, but I should not wish it otherwise. But of late a change has come ever you; you are nervous and excited; you have gone down in your class, not, I can see, because you have neglected your work, but because you cannot bring your mind to bear upon it. Now all this must have a cause. Perhaps a little advice on my part might help you. We shall break up in a week, Ned, and I shall be going away for a time. I should like to think before I went that things were going on better with you.” “I don't want to say anything against my mother,” Ned said in a low voice. “She means kindly, sir; but, oh! it is so hard to bear. She is always talking about father, not as you would talk, sir, but just as if he were alive and might come in at any moment, and it seems sometimes as if it would drive me out of my mind.” “No doubt it is trying, my boy,” Mr. Porson said; “but you see natures differ, and we must all bear with each other and make allowances. Your mother's nature, as far as I have seen of her, is not a deep one. She was very fond of your father, and she is fond of you; but you know, just as still waters run deep, shallow waters are full of ripples, and eddies, and currents. She has no idea that what seems natural and right to her should jar upon you. You upon your part can scarcely make sufficient allowance for her different treatment of a subject which is to you sacred. I know how you miss your father, but your mother must miss him still more. No man ever more lovingly and patiently tended a woman than he did her so far as lay in his power. She had not a wish ungratified. You have in your work an employment which occupies your thoughts and prevents them from turning constantly to one subject; she has nothing whatever to take her thoughts from the past. It is better for her to speak of him often than to brood over him in silence. Your tribute to your father's memory is deep and silent sorrow, hers is frequent allusions. Doubtless her way jars upon you; but, Ned, you are younger than she, and it is easier for you to change. Why not try and accept her method as being a part of her, and try, instead of wincing every time that she touches the sore, to accustom yourself to it. It may be hard at first, but it will be far easier in the end.” Ned stood silent for a minute or two; then he said: “I will try, sir. My father's last words to me were to be kind to mother, and I have tried hard, and I will go on trying.” “That is right, my boy; and ask God to help you. We all have our trials in this life, and this at present is yours; pray God to give you strength to bear it.”

8

NED IS SORELY TRIED

Among the many who called upon Mrs. Sankey after the death of her husband was Mr. Mulready, the owner of a mill near Marsden. He was one of the leading men in the place, although his mill was by no means a large one. He took rank in the eyes of the little town with men in a much larger way of business by means of a pushing manner and a fluent tongue. He had come to be considered an authority upon most subjects. He paid much attention to his dress, and drove the fastest horse and the best got up gig in that part of the country; but it was Mr. Mulready's manner which above all had raised him to his present position in the esteem of the good people of Marsden. He had the knack of adapting himself to the vein of those he addressed. With the farmers who came into market he was bluff and cordial; with the people in general he was genial and good tempered. At meetings at which the county gentry were present he was quiet, businesslike, and a trifle deferential, showing that he recognized the difference between his position and theirs. With ladies he was gay when they were gay, sympathetic when sympathy was expected. With them he was even more popular than with the men, for the latter, although they admired and somewhat envied his varied acquirements, were apt in the intimacy of private conversation to speak of him as a humbug. There was one exception, however, to his general popularity. There was no mill owner in the neighborhood more heartily detested by his workpeople; but as these did not mingle with the genteel classes of Marsden their opinion of Mr. Mulready went for nothing. The mill owner was a man of forty-three or forty-four, although when dressed in his tightly fitting brown coat with its short waist, its brass buttons, and high collar, and with a low hat with narrow brim worn well forward and coming down almost to the bridge of his nose, he looked seven or eight years younger. His hair was light, his trimly cut muttonchop whiskers were sandy, he had a bright, fresh complexion, a large mouth, and good teeth, which he always showed when he smiled, and in public he was always smiling; his eyes were light in color, very close together, and had a somewhat peculiar appearance. Indeed there were men who hinted that he had a slight cast, but these were, no doubt, envious of his popularity. Mrs. Sankey had been flattered by his visit and manner; indeed it could hardly have been otherwise, for he had expressed a sympathy and deference which were very soothing to her. “It is indeed kind of you to receive me,” he had said. “I know, of course, that it is not usual for a man who has the misfortune to be unmarried to make a call upon a lady, but I could not help myself. William Mulready is not a man to allow his feelings to be sacrificed to the cold etiquette of the world. I had not the pleasure of the acquaintance of that most brave and distinguished officer your late husband. I had hoped that some day circumstances might throw me in contact with him, but it was not for me, a humble manufacturer, to force my acquaintance upon one socially my superior; but, my dear madam, when I heard of that terrible accident, of that noble self devotion, I said to myself, 'William Mulready, when a proper and decent time elapses you must call upon the relict of your late noble and distinguished townsman, and assure her of your sympathy and admiration, even if she spurns you from the door.'” “You could not think I should do that, Mr. Mulready,” Mrs. Sankey said. “It is most gratifying to me to receive this mark of sympathy in my present sad position;” and she sighed deeply. “You are good indeed to say so,” Mr. Mulready said in a tone of deep gratitude; “but I might have been sure that my motives at least would not be misunderstood by a high bred and delicate lady like yourself. I will not now trespass on your time, but hope that I may be permitted to call again. Should there be anything in which so humble an individual could be in the slightest degree useful to you pray command my services. I know the responsibility which you must feel at being left in charge of those two noble boys and your charming little daughter must be well nigh overwhelming, and if you would not think it presumption I would say that any poor advice or opinion which I, who call myself in some degree a man of the world, can give, will be always at your service.” “You are very good,” Mrs. Sankey murmured. “It is indeed a responsibility. My younger boy and girl are all that I could wish, but the elder is already almost beyond me;” and by the shake of her head she testified that her troubles on that score approached martyrdom. “Never fear, my dear madam,” Mr. Mulready said heartily. “Boys will be boys, and I doubt not that he will grow up everything that you could desire. I may have heard that he was a little passionate. There was a trifling affair between him and his schoolmaster, was there not? But these things mend themselves, and doubtless all will come well in time; and now I have the honor of wishing you good morning.” “Charming manners!” Mrs. Sankey said to herself when her visitor had left. “A little old fashioned, perhaps, but so kind and deferential. He seemed to understand my feelings exactly.” That evening when they were at tea Mrs. Sankey mentioned the agreeable visitor who had called in the afternoon. “What! William Mulready!” Ned exclaimed; “Foxey, as his hands call him. I have heard Bill speak of him often. His men hate him. They say he is a regular tyrant. What impudence his coming here!” “Ned, I am surprised at you,” his mother said angrily. “I am sure Mr. Mulready is nothing of the sort. He is a most kind and considerate gentleman, and I will not allow you to repeat these things you hear from the low companions whom your father permitted you to associate with.” “Bill is not a low companion, mother,” Ned exclaimed passionately. “A better fellow never stood, and Foxey is not kind and considerate. He is a brutal tyrant, and I am sure my father, if you will quote his opinion, would not have had such a man inside his doors.” “Leave the room, Ned, this moment,” his mother exclaimed, more angry than he had ever seen her before. “I am ashamed of you speaking to me in that way. You would not have dared to do it had your father been alive.” Ned dashed down his scarcely begun bread and butter and flung himself out of the room, and then out of the house, and it was some hours before he returned. Then he went straight up to his mother's room. “I beg your pardon, mother,” he said quietly. “I am very sorry I spoke as I did. I ought not to have done so.” “Very well,” Mrs. Sankey said coldly; “then don't do it again, Ned.” Without another word Ned went off to his books. He was grieved and sore at heart. He had during his walk fought a hard battle with himself, and had conquered. As his temper cooled down he had felt that he had broken his promise, that he had not been kind to his mother; felt, too, that her accusation was a true one--he would not have dared to speak so to her had his father been alive. “But it was so different then,” he had said to himself as the tears chased each other down his cheeks. “Father understood me, and cared for me, and made allowances. It was worth while fighting against one's temper just to have him put his hand on my shoulder and say, 'Well done, my boy.' Now it is so different. I will go on trying for his sake; but I know it's no good. Do what I will, I can't please her. It's my fault, I dare say, but I do try my best. I do, indeed, father,” he said, speaking out loud; “if you can hear me, I do, indeed, try to be kind to mother, but she won't let me. I do try to make allowances, that is, when I am not in a passion, and then I go and spoil it all, like a beast, just as I did tonight. “Anyhow,” he said to himself as he turned his face homeward again, “I will go and tell her I am sorry, and beg her pardon. I don't suppose she will be nice, but I can't help that. It's my duty anyhow, and I will try and not say anything against Foxey next time she speaks of him.” The latter part of his resolution Ned found it very hard to maintain, for Mr. Mulready became a not unfrequent visitor. He had always some excuse for calling, either to bring in a basket of fresh trout, some game, or hothouse fruit, for, as he said, he knew her appetite was delicate and needed tempting, or some book newly issued from the London press which he was sure she would appreciate. After a short time Mrs. Sankey ceased to speak of these visits, perhaps because she saw how Ned objected to the introduction of Mr. Mulready's name, perhaps for some other reason, and a year passed without Ned's being seriously ruffled on the subject. Ned was now nearly sixteen. He had worked hard, and was the head boy at Porson's. It had always been regarded as a fixed thing that he should go into the army. As the son of an officer who had lost his leg in the service it was thought that he would be able to obtain a commission without difficulty, and Squire Simmonds, who had been a kind friend since his father's death, had promised to ask the lord lieutenant of the county to interest himself in the matter, and had no doubt that the circumstances of Captain Sankey's death would be considered as an addition to the claim of his services in the army. Captain Sankey had intended that Ned should have gone to a superior school to finish his education, but the diminished income of the family had put this out of the question, and the subject had never been mooted after his death. Ned, however, felt that he was making such good progress under Mr. Porson that he was well content to remain where he was. His struggle with his temper had gone on steadily, and he hoped he had won a final victory over it. Mr. Porson had been unwearied in his kindnesses, and often took Ned for an hour in the evening in order to push him forward, and although he avoided talking about his home life the boy felt that he could, in case of need, pour out his heart to him; but, indeed, things had gone better at home. Mrs. Sankey was just as indisposed as ever to take any share whatever in the trouble of housekeeping, but as Abijah was perfectly capable of keeping the house in order without her instructions things went on smoothly and straightly in this respect. In other matters home life was more pleasant than it had been. Mrs. Sankey was less given to querulous complaining, more inclined to see things in a cheerful light, and Ned especially noticed with satisfaction that the references to his father which had so tried him had become much less frequent of late. One day in September, when his father had been dead just a year, one of the town boys, a lad of about Ned's age, said to him as they were walking home from school together: “Well, Ned, I suppose I ought to congratulate you, although I don't know whether you will see it in that light.” “What do you mean?” Ned said. “I don't know that anything has happened on which I should be particularly congratulated, except on having made the top score against the town last week.” “Oh! I don't mean that,” the boy said. . “I mean about Mulready.” “What do you mean?” Ned said, stopping short and turning very white. “Why,” the lad said laughing, “all the town says he is going to marry your mother.” Ned stood as if stupefied. Then he sprang upon his companion and seized him by the throat. “It's a lie,” he shouted, shaking him furiously. “It's a lie I say, Smithers, and you know it. I will kill you if you don't say it's a lie.” With a great effort Smithers extricated himself from Ned's grasp. “Don't choke a fellow,” he said. “It may be a lie if you say it is, but it is not my lie anyhow. People have been talking about it for some time. They say he's been down there nearly every day. Didn't you know it?” “Know it?” Ned gasped. “I have not heard of his being in the house for months, but I will soon find out the truth.” And without another word he dashed off at full speed up the street. Panting and breathless he rushed into the house, and tore into the room where his mother was sitting trifling with a piece of fancy work. “I do wish, Edward, you would not come into the room like a whirlwind. You know how any sudden noise jars upon my nerves. Why, what is the matter?” she broke off suddenly, his pale, set face catching her eye, little accustomed as she was to pay any attention to Ned's varying moods. “Mother,” he panted out, “people are saying an awful thing about you, a wicked, abominable thing. I know, of course, it is not true, but I want just to hear you say so, so that I can go out and tell people they lie. How dare they say such things!” “Why, what do you mean, Edward?” Mrs. Sankey said, almost frightened at the boy's vehemence. “Why, they say that you are going to marry that horrible man Mulready. It is monstrous, isn't it? I think they ought to be prosecuted and punished for such a wicked thing, and father only a year in his grave.” Mrs. Sankey was frightened at Ned's passion. Ever since the matter had first taken shape in her mind she had felt a certain uneasiness as to what Ned would say of it, and had, since it was decided, been putting off from day to day the telling of the news to him. She had, in his absence, told herself over and over again that it was no business of his, and that a boy had no right to as much as question the actions of his mother; but somehow when he was present she had always shrank from telling him. She now took refuge in her usual defense--tears. “It is shameful,” she said, sobbing, as she held her handkerchief to her eyes, “that a boy should speak in this way to his mother; it is downright wicked.” “But I am not speaking to you, mother; I am speaking of other people--the people who have invented this horrible lie--for it is a lie, mother, isn't it? It is not possible it can be true?” “It is true,” Mrs. Sankey said, gaining courage from her anger; “it is quite true. And you are a wicked and abominable boy to talk in that way to me. Why shouldn't I marry again? Other people marry again, and why shouldn't I? I am sure your poor father would never have wished me to waste my life by remaining single, with nothing to do but to look after you children. And it is shameful of you to speak in that way of Mr. Mulready.” Ned stopped to hear no more. At her first words he had given a low, gasping cry, as one who has received a terrible wound. The blood flew to his head, the room swam round, and he seemed to feel the veins in his temples swell almost to bursting. The subsequent words of his mother fell unheeded on his ears, and turning round he went slowly to the door, groping his way as one half asleep or stupefied by a blow. Mechanically he opened the door and went out into the street; his cap was still on his head, but he neither thought of it one way or the other. Almost without knowing it he turned from the town and walked toward the hills. Had any one met him by the way they would assuredly have thought that the boy had been drinking, so strangely and unevenly did he walk. His face was flushed almost purple, his eyes were bloodshot; he swayed to and fro as he walked, sometimes pausing altogether, sometimes hurrying along for a few steps. Passing a field where the gate stood open he turned into it, kept on his way for some twenty yards further, and then fell at full length on the grass. There he lay unconscious for some hours, and it was not until the evening dews were falling heavily that he sat up and looked round. For some time he neither knew where he was nor what had brought him there. At last the remembrance of what had passed flashed across him, and with a cry of “Father! father!” he threw himself at full length again with his head on his arm; but this time tears came to his relief, and for a long time he cried with a bitterness of grief even greater than that which he had suffered at his father's death. The stars were shining brightly when he rose to his feet, his clothes were soaked with dew, and he trembled with cold and weakness. “What am I to do?” he said to himself; “what am I to do?” He made his way back to the gate and leaned against it for some time; then, having at last made up his mind, he turned his back on the town and walked toward Varley, moving more slowly and wearily than if he was at the end of a long and fatiguing day's walk. Slowly he climbed the hill and made his way through the village till he reached the Swintons' cottage. He tapped at the door with his hand, and lifting the latch he opened the door a few inches. “Bill, are you in?” There was an exclamation of surprise. “Why, surely, it's Maister Ned!” and Bill came to the door. “Come out, Bill, I want to speak to you.” Much surprised at the low and subdued tone in which Ned spoke, Bill snatched down his cap from the peg by the door and joined him outside. “What be't, Maister Ned? what be t' matter with thee? Has owt gone wrong?” Ned walked on without speaking. In his yearning for sympathy, in his intense desire to impart the miserable news to some one who would feel for him, he had come to his friend Bill. He had thought first of going to Mr. Porson. But though his master would sympathize with him he would not be able to feel as he did; he would no doubt be shocked at hearing that his mother was so soon going to marry again, but he would not be able to understand the special dislike to Mr. Mulready, still less likely to encourage his passionate resentment. Bill would, he knew, do both, for it was from him he had learned how hated the mill owner was among his people. But at present he could not speak. He gave a short wave of his hand to show that he heard, but could not answer yet, and with his head bent down made his way out through the end of the village on to the moor--Bill following him, wondering and sympathetic, unable to conjecture what had happened. Presently, when they had left the houses far behind them, Ned stopped. “What be't, Maister Ned?” Bill again asked, laying his strong hand upon Ned's shoulder; “tell oi what it be. Hast got in another row with t' maister? If there be owt as oi can do, thou knowest well as Bill Swinton be with thee heart and soul.” “I know, Bill--I know,” Ned said in a broken voice, “but you can do nothing; I can do nothing; no one can. But it's dreadful to think of. It's worse than if I had killed twenty masters. Only think--only think, Bill, my mother's going to marry Mulready!” “Thou doesn't say so, lad! What! thy mother marry Foxey! Oi never heer'd o' such a thing. Well, that be bad news, surely! Well, well, only to think, now! Poor lad! Well, that beats all!” The calamity appeared so great to Bill that for some time no idea occurred to him which could, under the circumstances, be considered as consolatory. But Ned felt the sympathy conveyed in the strong grasp of his shoulder, and in the muttered “Well, well, now!” to which Bill gave vent at intervals. “What bee'st going to do vor to stop it?” he asked at last. “What can I do, Bill? She won't listen to me--she never does. Anything I say always makes her go the other way. She wouldn't believe anything I said against him. It would only make her stick to him all the more. “Dost think,” Bill suggested after another long pause, “that if we got up a sort of depitation--Luke Marner and four or five other steady chaps as knows him; yes, and Polly Powlett, she could do the talking--to go to her and tell her what a thundering dad un he is--dost think it would do any good?” Even in his bitter grief Ned could hardly help smiling at the thought of such a deputation waiting upon his mother. “No, it wouldn't do, Bill.” Bill was silent again for some time. “Dost want un killed, Maister Ned?” he said in a low voice at last; “'cause if ye do oi would do it for ye. Oi would lay down my life for ye willing, as thou knowst; and hanging ain't much, arter all. They say 'tis soon over. Anyhow oi would chance it, and perhaps they wouldn't find me out.” Ned grasped his friend's hand. “I could kill him myself!” he exclaimed passionately. “I have been thinking of it; but what would be the good? I know what my mother is--when once she has made up her mind there's no turning her; and if this fellow were out of the way, likely enough she would take up with another in no time.” “But it couldn't been as bad as if wur Foxey,” Bill urged, “he be the very worsest lot about Marsden.” “I would do it,” Ned said passionately; “I would do it over and over again, but for the disgrace it would bring on Charlie and Lucy.” “But there would be no disgrace if oi was to do it, Maister Ned.” “Yes, there would, Bill--a worse disgrace than if I did it myself. It would be a nice thing to let you get hanged for my affairs; but let him look out--let him try to ill treat Charlie and Lucy, and he will see if I don't get even with him. I am not so much afraid of that--it's the shame of the thing. Only to think that all Marsden should know my mother is going to be married again within a year of my father's death, and that after being his wife she was going to take such a man as this! It's awful, downright awful, Bill!” “Then what art thou going to do, Maister Ned--run away and 'list for a soldier, or go to sea?” “I wish I could,” Ned exclaimed. “I would turn my back on Marsden and never come back again, were it not for the little ones. Besides,” he added after a pause, “father's last words were, 'Be kind to mother;' and she will want it more than he ever dreamed of.” “She will that,” Bill agreed; “leastways unless oi be mistaken. And what be'st going to do now, lad? Be'st agoing whoam?” “No, I won't go home tonight,” Ned replied. “I must think it over quietly, and it would be worse to bear there than anywhere else. No, I shall just walk about.” “Thou canst not walk abowt all night, Maister Ned,” Bill said positively; “it bain't to be thowt of. If thou don't mind thou canst have moi bed and oi can sleep on t' floor.” “No, I couldn't do that,” Ned said, “though I do feel awfully tired and done up; but your brothers would be asking me questions and wondering why I didn't go home. I could not stand that.” “No, Maister Ned, oi can see that wouldn't do; but if we walk about for an hour or two, or--no, I know of a better plan. We can get in at t' window of the school; it bain't never fastened, and bain't been for years, seeing as thar bain't been neither school nor schoolers since auld Mother Brown died. Oi will make a shift to light a fire there. There be shutters, so no one will see the light. Then oi will bring ee up some blankets from our house, and if there bain't enough Polly will lend me some when oi tell her who they are for. She bain't a one to blab. What dost thou say?” Ned, who felt utterly worn out, assented gladly to the proposal, and an entrance was easily effected into the desolate cottage formerly used as a day school. Bill went off at once and soon returned with a load of firewood; the shutters were then carefully closed, and a fire quickly blazed brightly on the hearth. Bill then went away again, and in a quarter of an hour returned with Mary Powlett. He carried a bundle of rugs and blankets, while she had a kettle in one hand and a large basket in the other. “Good evening! Master Sankey,” she said as she entered. “Bill has told me all about it, and I am sorry indeed for you and for your mother. It is worse for her, poor lady, than for you. You will soon be old enough to go out into the world if you don't like things at home; but she will have to bear what trouble comes to her. And now I thought you would like a cup of tea, so I have brought the kettle and things up. I haven't had tea yet, and they don't have tea at Bill's; but I like it, though feyther grumbles sometimes, and says it's too expensive for the likes of us in sich times as these; but he knows I would rather go without meat than without tea, so he lets me have it. Bill comes in for a cup sometimes, for he likes it better than beer, and it's a deal better for him to be sitting taking a cup of tea with me than getting into the way of going down to the 'Spotted Dog,' and drinking beer there. So we will all have a cup together. No one will disturb us. Feyther is down at the 'Brown Cow,' and when I told the children I had to go out on special business they all promised to be good, and Jarge said he would see them all safely into bed. I told him I should be back in an hour.” While Polly was speaking she was bustling about the room, putting things straight; with a wisp of heather she swept up the dust which had accumulated on the floor, in a semicircle in front of the fire, and laid down the rugs and blankets to form seats. Three cups and saucers, a little jag of milk, a teapot, and basin of sugar were placed in the center, and a pile of slices of bread and butter beside them, while from a paper bag she produced a cake which she had bought at the village shop on her way up. Ned watched her preparations listlessly. “You are very good, Polly,” he said, “and I shall be very glad of the cup of tea, but I cannot eat anything.” “Never mind,” she said cheerfully. “Bill and I can do the eating, and perhaps after you have had a cup of tea you will be able to, for Bill tells me you have had nothing to eat since breakfast.” Ned felt cheered by the warm blaze of the fire and by the cheerful sound of the kettle, and after taking a cup of tea found that his appetite was coming, and was soon able to eat his share. Mary Powlett kept up a cheerful talk while the meal was going on, and no allusion was made to the circumstances which had brought Ned there. After it was done she sat and chatted for an hour. Then she said: “I must be off now, and I think, Bill, you'd best be going soon too, and let Maister Ned have a good night of it. I will make him up his bed on the rugs; and I will warrant, after all the trouble he has gone through, he will sleep like a top.”

9

A PAINFUL TIME

When Ned was left alone he rolled himself up in the blankets, placed a pillow which Polly had brought him under his head, and lay and looked at the fire; but it was not until the flames had died down, and the last red glow had faded into blackness that he fell off to sleep. His thoughts were bitter in the extreme. He pictured to himself the change which would take place in his home life with Mulready the manufacturer, the tyrant of the workmen, ruling over it. For himself he doubted not that he would be able to hold his own. “He had better not try on his games with me,” he muttered savagely. “Though I am only sixteen he won't find it easy to bully me; but of course Charlie and Lucy can't defend themselves. However, I will take care of them. Just let him be unkind to them, and see what comes of it! As to mother, she must take what she gets, at least she deserves to. Only to think of it! only to think of it! Oh, how bitterly she will come to repent! How could she do it! “And with father only dead a year! But I must stand by her, too. I promised father to be kind to her, though he could never have guessed how she would need it. He meant that I would only put up, without losing my temper, with her way of always pretending to be ill, and never doing anything but lie on the sofa and read poetry. Still, of course, it meant I was to be kind anyhow, whatever happened, and I will try to be so, though it is hard when she has brought such trouble upon us all. “As for Mulready I should like to burn his mill down, or to break his neck. I hate him: it's bad enough to be a tyrant; but to be a tyrant and a hypocrite, too, is horrible. Well, at any rate he shan't lord it over me;” and so at last Ned dropped off to sleep. He was still soundly asleep when Bill Swinton came in to wake him. It was half past six, a dull October morning, with a dreary drizzling rain. Bill brought with him a mug of hot tea and some thick slices of bread and butter. Ned got up and shook himself. “What o'clock is it, Bill?” “Half past six--the chaps went off to t' mill an hour gone; oi've kept some tea hot for ee.” “Thank you, Bill, my head aches, and so do all my bones, and I feel as if I hadn't been asleep all night, although, indeed, I must have slept quite as long as usual. Can't I have a wash?” “Yes,” Bill said, “thou canst come to our place; but thou had best take thy breakfast whilst it be hot. It will waken thee up like.” Ned drank the tea and ate a slice of bread and butter, and felt refreshed thereat. Then he ran with Bill to his cottage and had a wash, and then started for the town. It was eight o'clock when he reached home. Abijah was at the door, looking down the road as he came up. “Oh! Master Ned, how can you go on so? Not a bit of sleep have I had this blessed night, and the mistress in strong hystrikes all the evening. Where have you been?” Ned gave a grunt at the news of his mother's hysterics--a grunt which clearly expressed “served her right,” but he only answered the last part of the question. “I have been up at Varley, and slept at the schoolhouse. Bill Swinn and Polly Powlett made me up a bed and got me tea and breakfast. I am right enough.” “But you shouldn't have gone away, Master Ned, in that style, leaving us to wait and worry ourselves out of our senses.” “Do you know what she told me, Abijah? Wasn't it enough to make any fellow mad?” “Ay, ay,” the nurse said. “I know. I have seen it coming months ago; but it wasn't no good for me to speak. Ay, lad, it's a sore trouble for you, surely a sore trouble for you, and for us all; but it ain't no manner of use for you to set yourself agin it. Least said sooner mended, Master Ned; in a case like this it ain't no good your setting yourself up agin the missis. She ain't strong in some things, but she's strong enough in her will, and you ought to know by this time that what she sets her mind on she gets. It were so allus in the captain's time, and if he couldn't change her, poor patient lamb--for if ever there were a saint on arth he was that--you may be sure that you can't. So try and take it quietly, dearie. It be main hard for ye, and it ain't for me to say as it isn't; but for the sake of peace and quiet, and for the sake of the little ones, Master Ned, it's better for you to take it quiet. If I thought as it would do any good for you to make a fuss I wouldn't be agin it: but it ain't, you know, and it will be worse for you all if you sets him agin you to begin with. Now go up and see your mother, dearie, afore you goes off to school. I have just taken her up her tea.” “I have got nothing to say to her,” Ned growled. “Yes, you have, Master Ned; you have got to tell her you hopes she will be happy. You can do that, you know, with a clear heart, for you do hope so. Fortunately she didn't see him yesterday; for when he called I told him she was too ill to see him, and a nice taking she was in when I told her he had been and gone; but I didn't mind that, you know, and it was better she shouldn't see him when she was so sore about the words you had said to her. It ain't no use making trouble aforehand, or setting him agin you. He knows, I reckon, as he won't be welcomed here by you. The way he has always come when you would be out showed that clear enough. But it ain't no use making matters worse. It's a pretty kettle of fish as it stands. Now, go up, dearie, like a good boy, and make things roight.” Ned lingered irresolute for a little time in the hall, and then his father's words, “Be kind to her,” came strongly in his mind, and he slowly went upstairs and knocked at his mother's door. “Oh! here you are again!” she said in querulous tones as he entered, “after being nearly the death of me with your wicked goings on! I don't know what you will come to, speaking to me as you did yesterday, and then running away and stopping out all night.” “It was wrong, mother,” Ned said quietly, “and I have come to tell you I am sorry; but you see the news was very sudden, and I wasn't prepared for it. I did not know that he had been coming here, and the news took me quite by surprise. I suppose fellows never do like their mothers marrying again. It stands to reason they wouldn't; but, now I have thought it over, I am sorry I spoke as I did, and I do hope, mother, you will be happy with him.” Mrs. Sankey felt mollified. She had indeed all along dreaded Ned's hearing the news, and had felt certain it would produce a desperate outbreak on his part. Now that it was over she was relieved. The storm had been no worse than she expected, and now that Ned had so speedily come round, and was submissive, she felt a load off her mind. “Very well, Ned,” she said more graciously than usual, “I am glad that you have seen the wickedness of your conduct. I am sure that I am acting for the best, and that it will be a great advantage to you and your brother and sister having a man like Mr. Mulready to help you push your way in life. I am sure I am thinking of your interest as much as my own; and I have spoken to him over and over again about you, and he has promised dozens of times to do his best to be like a father to you all.” Ned winced perceptibly. “All right, mother! I do hope you will be happy; but, please, don't let us talk about it again till--till it comes off; and, please, don't let him come here in the evening. I will try and get accustomed to it in time; but you see it's rather hard at first, and you know I didn't expect it.” So saying Ned left the room, and collecting his books made his way off to school, leaving his mother highly satisfied with the interview. His absence from afternoon school had, of course, been noticed, and Smithers had told his friends how Ned had flown at him on his speaking to him about the talk of his mother and Mulready. Of course before afternoon school broke up every boy knew that Ned Sankey had cut up rough about the report; and although the great majority of the boys did not know Mr. Mulready by name there was a general feeling of sympathy with Ned, The circumstances of his father's death had, of course, exalted him greatly in the eyes of his schoolfellows, and it was the unanimous opinion, that after having had a hero for his father, a fellow would naturally object to having a stepfather put over him. Ned's absence was naturally associated with the news, and caused much comment and even excitement. His attack upon Mr. Hathorn had become a sort of historical incident in the school, and the younger boys looked up with a sort of respectful awe upon the boy who had defied a headmaster. There were all sorts of speculations rife among them as to what Ned had done, there being a general opinion that he had probably killed Mr. Mulready, and the debate turning principally upon the manner in which this act of righteous vengeance had been performed. There was, then, a feeling almost of disappointment when Ned walked into the playground looking much as usual, except that his face was pale and his eyes looked heavy and dull. No one asked him any questions; for although Ned was a general favorite, it was generally understood that he was not the sort of fellow to be asked questions that might put him out. When they went in school, and the first class was called up, Ned, who was always at its head, took his place at the bottom of the class, saying quietly to the master: “I have not prepared my lesson today, sir, and I have not done the exercises.” Mr. Porson made no remark; he saw at once by Ned's face that something was wrong with him. When several questions went round, which Ned could easily have answered without preparation, the master said: “You had better go to your desk, Sankey; I see you are not well. I will speak to you after school is over.” Ned sat down and opened a book, but he did not turn a page until school was over; then he followed his master to the study. “Well, my boy,” he asked kindly, “what is it?” “My mother is going to marry Mr. Mulready,” Ned said shortly. The words seemed to come with difficulty from his lips. “Ah! it is true, then. I heard the report some weeks ago, but hoped that it was not true. I am sorry for you, Ned. I know it must be a sore trial for you; it is always so when any one steps into the place of one we have loved and lost.” “I shouldn't care so much if it wasn't him,” Ned said in a dull voice. “But there's nothing against the man, is there?” Mr. Porson asked. “I own I do not like him myself; but I believe he stands well in the town.” “Only with those who don't know him,” Ned replied; “his workpeople say he is the worst master and the biggest tyrant in the district.” “We must hope it's not so bad as that, Ned; still, I am sorry--very sorry, at what you tell me; but, my boy, you must not take it to heart. You see you will be going out into the world before long. Your brother will be following you in a few years. It is surely better that your mother should marry again and have some one to take care of her.” “Nice care of her he is likely to take!” Ned laughed bitterly. “You might as well put a fox to take care of a goose.” “You are severe on both parties,” Mr. Porson said with a slight smile; “but I can hardly blame you, my boy, for feeling somewhat bitter at first; but I hope that, for your own sake and your mother's, you will try and conquer this feeling and will make the best of the circumstances. It is worse than useless to kick against the pricks. Any show of hostility on your part will only cause unhappiness, perhaps between your mother' and him--almost certainly between you and her. In this world, my boy, we have all our trials. Some are very heavy ones. This is yours. Happily, so far as you are concerned, you need only look forward to its lasting eighteen months or so. In that time you may hope to get your commission; and as the marriage can hardly take place for some little time to come, you will have but a year or so to bear it.” “I don't know, sir,” Ned said gloomily; “everything seems upset now. I don't seem to know what I had best do.” “I am sure at present, Ned,” Mr. Porson said kindly--for he saw that the boy was just now in no mood for argument--“the best is to try and think as little of it as possible. Make every allowance for your mother; as you know, my boy, I would not speak disrespectfully to you of her on any account; but she is not strong minded. She has always been accustomed to lean upon some one, and the need of some one to lean on is imperative with her. Had you been a few years older, and had you been staying at home, it is probable that you might have taken your place as her support and strength. As it is, it was almost inevitable that something of this sort would happen. “But you know, Ned, where to look for strength and support. You have fought one hard battle, my boy, and have well nigh conquered; now you have another before you. Seek for strength, my boy, where you will assuredly find it, and remember that this discipline is doubtless sent you for your good, and that it will be a preparation for you for the struggle in after life. I don't want you to be a thoughtless, careless young officer, but a man earnest in doing his duty, and you cannot but see that these two trials must have a great effect in forming your character. Remember, Ned, that if the effect be not for good, it will certainly be for evil.” “I will try, sir,” Ned said; “but I know it is easy to make good resolutions, and how it will be when he is in the house as master I can't trust myself even to think.” “Well, let us hope the best, Ned,” Mr. Porson said kindly; “things may turn out better than you fear.” Then seeing that further talking would be useless now, he shook Ned's hand and let him go. The next three or four months passed slowly and heavily. Ned went about his work again quietly and doggedly; but his high spirits seemed gone. His mother's engagement with Mr. Mulready had been openly announced, directly after he had first heard of it. Charlie had, to Ned's secret indignation, taken it quietly. He knew little of Mr. Mulready, who had, whenever he saw him, spoken kindly to him, and who now made him frequent presents of books and other things dear to schoolboys. Little Lucy's liking he had, however, failed to gain, although in his frequent visits he had spared no pains to do so, seldom coming without bringing with him cakes or papers of sweets. Lucy accepted the presents, but did not love the donor, and confided to Abijah that his teeth were exactly like those of the wolf who ate Little Red Riding Hood. Ned found much more comfort in her society during those dull days than in Charlie's. He had the good sense, however, never to encourage her in her expressions of dislike to Mr. Mulready, and even did his best to combat her impression, knowing how essential it was for her to get on well with him. Ned himself did not often see Mr. Mulready during that time. The first time that they met, Ned had, on his return from school, gone straight up into the drawing room, not knowing that Mr. Mulready was there. On opening the door and seeing him he paused suddenly for a moment and then advanced. For a moment neither of them spoke, then Mr. Mulready said in his frankest manner: “Ned, you have heard I am going to marry your mother. I don't suppose you quite like it; it wouldn't be natural if you did; I know I shouldn't if I were in your place. Still you know your disliking it won't alter it, and I hope we shall get on well together. Give me your hand, my lad, you won't find me a bad sort of fellow.” “I hope not,” Ned said quietly, taking Mr. Mulready's hand and continuing to hold it while he went on: “I don't pretend I like it, and I know it makes no difference whether I do or not; the principal point is, that my mother should be happy, and if you make her happy I have no doubt we shall, as you say, get on well together; if you don't, we shan't.” There was no mistaking the threat conveyed in Ned's steady tones, and Mr. Mulready, as Ned dropped his hand, felt that he should have more trouble with the boy than he had expected. He gave a forced laugh. “One would think, Ned, that you thought it likely I was going to be unkind to your mother.” “No,” Ned said quietly, “I don't want to think about it one way or the other, only I promised my father I would be kind to my mother; that means that I would look after her, and I mean to. “Well, mother,” he said in his usual tone, turning to Mrs. Sankey, “and how are you this morning?” “I was feeling better, Ned,” she said sharply; “but your unpleasant way of talking, and your nonsense about taking care of me, have made me feel quite ill again. Somehow you always seem to shake my nerves. You never seem to me like other boys. One would think I was a child instead of being your mother. I thought after what you said to me that you were going to behave nicely.” “I am trying to behave nicely,” Ned said. “I am sure I meant quite nicely, just as Mr. Mulready does; I think he understands me.” “I don't understand that boy,” Mrs. Sankey said plaintively when Ned had left the room, “and I never have understood him. He was dreadfully spoiled when he was in India, as I have often told you; for in my weak state of health I was not equal to looking after him, and his poor father was sadly overindulgent. But he has certainly been much better as to his temper lately, and I do hope, William, that he is not going to cause trouble.” “Oh, no!” Mr. Mulready said lightly, “he will not cause trouble; I have no doubt we shall get on well together. Boys will be boys, you know; I have been one myself, and of course they look upon stepfathers as natural enemies; but in this case, you see, we shall not have to put up with each other long, as he will be getting his commission in a year or so. Don't trouble yourself about it, love; in your state of health you ought really not to worry yourself, and worry, you know, spoils the eyes and the complexion, and I cannot allow that, for you will soon be my property now.” The wedding was fixed for March. It was to be perfectly quiet, as Mrs. Sankey would, up to the day, be still in mourning. A month before the time Ned noticed that his mother was more uncertain in her temper than usual, and Abijah confided to him in secret that she thought things were not going on smoothly between the engaged couple. Nor were they. Mr. Mulready had discovered, to his surprise, that, indolent and silly as Mrs. Sankey was in many respects, she was not altogether a fool, and was keen enough where her own interests were concerned. He had suggested something about settlements, hoping that she would at once say that these were wholly unnecessary; but to his surprise she replied in a manner which showed that she had already thought the matter over, and had very fixed ideas on the subject. “Of course,” she said, “that will be necessary. I know nothing about business, but it was done before, and my poor husband insisted that my little fortune should be settled so as to be entirely at my own disposal.” But this by no means suited Mr. Mulready's views. Hitherto want of capital had prevented his introducing the new machinery into his mills, and the competition with the firms which had already adopted it was injuring him seriously, and he had reckoned confidently upon the use of Mrs. Sankey's four thousand pounds. Although he kept his temper admirably under the circumstances, he gave her distinctly to understand, in the pleasantest way, that an arrangement which was most admirably suitable in every respect in the case of a lady marrying an officer in the army, to whom her capital could be of no possible advantage, was altogether unsuitable in the case of a manufacturer. “You see, my love,” he argued, “that it is for your benefit as well as mine that the business should grow and flourish by the addition of the new machinery which this little fortune of yours could purchase. The profits could be doubled and trebled, and we could look forward ere long to holding our heads as high as the richest manufacturers at Leeds and Bradford--while the mere interest in this money invested in consols as at present would be absolutely useless to us.” Mrs. Sankey acknowledged the force of his argument, but was firm in her determination to retain her hold of her money, and so they parted, not in anger, for Mr. Mulready altogether disclaimed the possibility of his being vexed, but with the sense that something like a barrier had sprung up between them. This went on for a few days, and although the subject was not mooted, Mrs. Sankey felt that unless some concession on her part was made it was likely that the match would fall through. This she had not the slightest idea of permitting, and rather than it should happen she would have married without any settlement at all, for she really loved, in her weak way, the man who had been so attentive and deferential to her. So one day the subject was renewed, and at last an understanding was arrived at. Mrs. Sankey's money was to be put into the business in her own name. Should she not survive her husband, he was to have the option of paying the money to her children or of allowing them the sum of eighty pounds a year each from the business. Should he not survive her the mill was to be settled upon any children she might have after her marriage; should there be no children it was to be hers absolutely. All this was only arrived at after several long discussions, in all of which Mrs. Sankey protested that she knew nothing of business, that it was most painful to her to be thus discussing money matters, and that it would be far better to leave it in the hands of a solicitor to arrange in a friendly manner with him. She nevertheless stuck to her views, and drove a bargain as keenly and shrewdly as any solicitor could have done for her, to the surprise and exasperation of Mr. Mulready. Had he known that she really loved him, and would, if she had been driven to it, have sacrificed everything rather than lose him, he could have obtained very different terms; but having no heart to speak of, himself, he was ignorant of the power he possessed over her. Bankruptcy stared him in the face unless he could obtain this increase of capital, and he dared not, by pressing the point, risk its loss. The terms, he told himself, were not altogether unsatisfactory; it was not likely that she would survive him. They were of about the same age; he had never known what it was to be ill, and she, although not such an invalid as she fancied herself, was still not strong. If she did not survive him he would have the whole business, subject only to the paltry annuity of two hundred and forty pounds a year to the three children. If, the most unlikely thing in the world, she did survive him--well, it mattered not a jot in that case who the mill went to. So the terms were settled, the necessary deeds were drawn up by a solicitor, and signed by both parties. Mrs. Sankey recovered her spirits, and the preparations for the wedding went on. Ned had intended to absent himself from the ceremony, but Mr. Porson, guessing that such might be his intention, had talked the matter gravely over with him. He had pointed out to Ned that his absence would in the first place be an act of great disrespect to his mother; that in the second place it would cause general comment, and would add to the unfavorable impression which his mother's early remarriage had undoubtedly created; and that, lastly, it would justify Mr. Mulready in regarding him as hostile to the marriage, and, should trouble subsequently arise, he would be able to point to it in self justification, and as a proof that Ned had from the first determined to treat him as an enemy. So Ned was present at his mother's marriage. Quiet as the wedding was, for only two or three acquaintances were asked to be present, the greater part of Marsden were assembled in the church. The marriage had created considerable comment. The death of Captain Sankey in saving a child's life had rendered his widow an object of general sympathy, and people felt that not only was this marriage within eighteen months of Captain Sankey's death almost indecent, but that it was somehow a personal wrong to them, and that they had been defrauded in their sympathy. Therefore the numerous spectators of the marriage were critical rather than approving. They could find nothing to find fault with, however, in the bride's appearance. She was dressed in a dove colored silk, and with her fair hair and pale complexion looked quite young, and, as every one admitted, pretty. Mr. Mulready, as usual, was smiling, and seemed to convey by the looks which he cast round that he regarded the assemblage as a personal compliment to himself. Lucy and Charlie betrayed no emotion either way; they were not pleased, but the excitement of the affair amused and interested them, and they might be said to be passive spectators. Ned, however, although he had brought himself to be present, could not bring himself to look as if the ceremony had his approval or sanction. He just glared, as Abijah, who was present, afterward confided to some of her friends, as if he could have killed the man as he stood. His look of undisguised hostility was indeed noticed by all who were in church, and counted heavily against him in the days which were to come.

10

TROUBLES AT HOME

It was not one of the least griefs of the young Sankeys connected with their mother's wedding that Abijah was to leave them. It was she herself who had given notice to Mrs. Sankey, saying that she would no longer be required. The first time that she had spoken of her intentions, Mrs. Sankey vehemently combated the idea, saying that neither she nor Lucy could spare her; but she did not afterward return to the subject, and seemed to consider it a settled thing that Abijah intended to leave. Mrs. Sankey had, in fact, spoken to Mr. Mulready on the subject, but instead of taking the view she had expected, he had said cheerfully: “I am glad that she has given notice. I know that she is a valuable woman and much attached to you. At the same time these old servants always turn out a mistake under changed circumstances. She would never have been comfortable or contented. She has, my dear if I may say so, been mistress too long, and as I intend you to be mistress of my house, it is much better that she should go.” As Mrs. Sankey had certain doubts herself as to whether Abijah would be a success in the new home, the subject was dropped, and it became an understood thing that Abijah would leave after the wedding. The newly married couple were absent for three weeks. Until two days before their return Abijah remained in the old house with the young Sankeys; then they moved into their new home, and she went off to her native village ten miles distant away on the moors. The next day there was a sale at the old house. A few, a very few, of the things had been moved. Everything else was sold, to the deep indignation of Ned, who was at once grieved and angry that all the articles of furniture which he associated with his father should be parted with. Abijah shared the boy's feelings in this respect, and at the sale all the furniture and fittings of Captain Sankey's study were bought by a friendly grocer on her behalf, and the morning after the sale a badly written letter, for Abijah's education had been neglected, was placed in Ned's hand. “MY DEAR MASTER NED: Knowing as it cut you to the heart that everything should go away into the hands of strangers, I have made so bold as to ask Mr. Willcox for to buy all the furniter and books in maister's study. He is a-going to stow them away in a dry loft, and when so bee as you gets a home of your own there they is for you; they are sure not to fetch much, and when you gets a rich man you can pay me for them; not as that matters at all one way or the other. I have been a-saving up pretty nigh all my wages from the day as you was born, and is quite comfortable off. Write me a letter soon, dearie, to tell me as how things is going on. Your affectionate nurse, ABIJAH WOLF.” Although Ned was a lad of sixteen, he had a great cry over this letter, but it did him good, and it was with a softer heart that he prepared to receive his mother and her husband that evening. The meeting passed off better than he had anticipated. Mrs. Mulready was really affected at seeing her children again, and embraced them, Ned thought, with more fondness than she had done when they went away. Mr. Mulready spoke genially and kindly, and Ned began to hope that things would not be so bad after all. The next morning, to his surprise, his mother appeared at breakfast, a thing which he could not remember that she had ever done before, and yet the hour was an early one, as her husband wanted to be off to the mill. During the meal Mr. Mulready spoke sharply two or three times, and it seemed to Ned that his mother was nervously anxious to please him. “Things are not going on so well after all,” he said to himself as he walked with his brother to school. “Mother has changed already; I can see that she isn't a bit like herself. There she was fussing over whether he had enough sugar with his tea, and whether the kidneys were done enough for him; then her coming down to breakfast was wonderful. I expect she has found already that somebody else's will besides her own has got to be consulted; it's pretty soon for her to have begun to learn the lesson.” It was very soon manifest that Mr. Mulready was master in his own house. He still looked pleasant and smiled, for his smile was a habitual one; but there was a sharpness in the ring of his voice, an impatience if everything was not exactly as he wished. He roughly silenced Charlie and Lucy if they spoke when he was reading his paper at breakfast, and he spoke snappishly to his wife when she asked him a question on such occasions. Ned felt his face burn, as with his eyes on his plate he continued his meal. To him Mr. Mulready seldom spoke unless it was absolutely necessary. Ned often caught himself wondering over the change which had taken place in his mother. All the ways and habits of an invalid had disappeared. She not only gave directions for the management of the house, but looked after everything herself, and was forever going upstairs and down, seeing that everything was properly done. However sharply Mr. Mulready spoke she never replied in the same tone. A little flush of color would come into her cheek, but she would pass it off lightly, and at all times she appeared nervously anxious to please him. Ned wondered much over the change. “He is a tyrant,” he said, “and she has learned it already; but I do think she loves him. Fancy my mother coming to be the slave of a man like this! I suppose,” he laughed bitterly, “it's the story of 'a woman, a dog, and a walnut tree, the more you thrash them the better they will be.' My father spent his whole life in making hers easy, and in sparing her from every care and trouble, and I don't believe she cared half as much for him as she does for this man who is her master.” For some months Mr. Mulready was very busy at his mill. A steam engine was being erected, new machinery brought in, and he was away the greater part of his time superintending it. One day at breakfast, a short time before all was in readiness for a start with the new plant, Mr. Mulready opened a letter directed in a sprawling and ill written hand which lay at the top of the pile by his plate. Ned happened to notice his face, and saw the color fade out from it as he glanced at the contents. The mouth remained as usual, set in a smile, but the rest of the face expressed agitation and fear. The hand which held the letter shook. Mrs. Mulready, whose eyes seldom left her husband's face when he was in the room, also noticed the change. “Is anything the matter, William?” “Oh! nothing,” he said with an unnatural laugh, “only a little attempt to frighten me.” “An attempt which has succeeded,” Ned said to himself, “whatever it is.” Mr. Mulready passed the letter over to his wife. It was a rough piece of paper; at the top was scrawled the outline of a coffin underneath which was written: “MR. MULREADY: Sir, this is to give you warning that if you uses the new machinery you are a dead man. You have been a marked man for a long time for your tyrannical ways, but as long as you didn't get the new machinery we let you live; but we has come to the end of it now; the day as you turns on steam we burns your mill to the ground and shoots you, so now you knows it.” At the bottom of this was signed the words “Captain Lud.” “Oh! William,” Mrs. Mulready cried, “you will never do it! You will never risk your life at the hands of these terrible people!” All the thin veneer of politeness was cracked by this blow, and Mr. Mulready said sullenly: “Nice thing indeed; after I have married to get this money, and then not to be able to use it!” His wife gave a little cry. “It's a shame to say so,” Charlie burst out sturdily. Mr. Mulready's passion found a vent. He leaped up and seized the boy by the collar and boxed his ears with all his force. In an instant the fury which had been smoldering in Ned's breast for months found a vent. He leaped to his feet and struck Mr. Mulready a blow between the eyes which sent him staggering back against the wall; then he caught up the poker. The manufacturer with a snarl like that of an angry wild beast was about to rush at him, but Ned's attitude as he stood, poker in hand, checked him. “Stand back,” Ned said threateningly, “or I will strike you. You coward and bully; for months I have put up with your tyrannizing over Charlie and Lucy, but touch either of them again if you dare. You think that you are stronger than I am--so you are ever so much; but you lay a finger on them or on me, and I warn you, if I wait a month for an opportunity I will pay you for it, if you kill me afterward.” Mrs. Mulready's screams had by this time brought the servants into the room, and they stood astonished at the spectacle. Lucy crying bitterly had run to Ned and thrown her arms round him, begging him to be quiet. Charlie, hardly recovered from the heavy blows he had received, was crying too. Mr. Mulready as pale as death was glaring at Ned, while his wife had thrown herself between them. Mr. Mulready was the first to recover himself. “This is a nice spectacle,” he said to the servants. “You see that boy has attacked me with the poker and might have murdered me. However, you can go now, and mind, no chattering about what you have seen. “And now,” he continued to Ned as the door closed behind the servants, “out of this house you go this day.” “You don't suppose I want to stay in your house,” Ned said passionately. “You don't suppose that it's any pleasure to me to stop here, seeing you play the tyrant over my mother.” “Oh, Ned, Ned,” Mrs. Mulready broke in, “how can you talk so!” “It is true, mother, he is a tyrant to you as well as to every one else; but I don't mean to go, I mean to stop here to protect you and the children. He daren't turn me out; if he did, I would go and work in one of the mills, and what would the people of Marsden say then? What would they think of this popular, pleasant gentleman then, who has told his wife before her children that he married her for her money? They shall all know it, never fear, if I leave this house. I would have gone to Mr. Simmonds and asked him to apply for a commission for me before now, for other fellows get it as young as I am; but I have made up my mind that it's my duty not to do so. “I know he has been looking forward to my being out of the way, and his being able to do just what he likes with the others, but I ain't going to gratify him. It's plain to me that my duty at present is to take care of you all, and though God knows how I set my mind upon going into the army and being a soldier like my father, I will give it up if it means leaving Charlie here under him.” “And do you suppose, sir,” Mr. Mulready asked with intense bitterness, “that I am going to keep you here doing nothing all your life, while you are pleased to watch me?” “No, I don't,” Ned replied. “I shall get a clerkship or something in one of the mills, and I shall have Charlie to live with me until he is old enough to leave school, and then I will go away with him to America or somewhere. As to mother, I can do nothing for her. I think my being here makes it worse for her, for I believe you tyrannize over her all the more because you think it hurts me. I know you hated me from the first just as I hated you. As for Lucy, mother must do the best she can for her. Even you daren't hit a girl.” “Oh, Ned, how can you go on so?” Mrs. Mulready wailed. “You are a wicked boy to talk so.” “All right, mother,” Ned replied recklessly; “if I am, I suppose I am. I know in your eyes he can do no wrong. And I believe if he beat you, you would think that you deserved it.” So he flung himself down in his chair and continued his breakfast. Mr. Mulready drank off his tea without sitting down, and then left the room without another word; in fact, as yet he did not know what to say. Almost speechless with passion as he was, he restrained himself from carrying out his threat and turning Ned at once from the house. Above all things he prized his position and popularity, and he felt that, as Ned had said, he would indeed incur a heavy odium by turning his wife's son from his doors. Captain Sankey's death had thrown almost a halo over his children. Mr. Mulready knew that he was already intensely unpopular among the operative class, but he despised this so long as he stood well with the rest of the townsmen; but he dared not risk Ned's going to work as an ordinary hand in one of the factories; public opinion is always against stepfathers, and assuredly this would be no exception. Hating him as he did, he dared not get rid of this insolent boy, who had struck and defied him. He cursed himself now with his rashness in letting his temper get the best of him and telling his wife openly that he had married her for her money; for this in Ned's hands would be a serious weapon against him. That his wife's feelings were hurt he cared not a jot, but it would be an awkward thing to have it repeated in the town. Then there was this threatening letter; what was he to do about that? Other men had had similar warnings. Some had defied Captain Lud, and fortified their mills and held them. Many had had their property burned to the ground; some had been murdered. It wouldn't be a pleasant thing to drive about in the country knowing that at any moment he might be shot dead. His mill was some little distance out of the town; the road was dark and lonely. He dared not risk it. Mr. Mulready was, like all tyrants, a coward at heart, and his face grew white again as he thought of the letter in his pocket. In the meantime Mrs. Mulready was alternately sobbing and upbraiding Ned as he quietly finished his breakfast. The boy did not answer, but continued his meal in dogged silence, and when it was over collected his books and without a word went off to school. Weeks went on, and no outward change took place. Ned continued to live at home. Mr. Mulready never addressed him, and beyond helping him to food entirely ignored his presence. At mealtimes when he opened his lips it was either to snap at Charlie or Lucy, or to snarl at his wife, whose patience astonished Ned, and who never answered except by a smile or murmured excuse. The lad was almost as far separated from her now as from his stepfather. She treated him as if he only were to blame for the quarrel which had arisen. They had never understood each other, and while she was never weary of making excuses for her husband, she could make none for her son. In the knowledge that the former had much to vex him she made excuses for him even in his worst moods. His new machinery was standing idle, his business was getting worse and worse, he was greatly pressed and worried, and it was monstrous, she told herself, that at such a time he should be troubled with Ned's defiant behavior. A short time before the school Christmas holidays Ned knocked at the door of Mr. Porson's study. Since the conversation which they had had when first Ned heard of his mother's engagement Mr. Porson had seen in the lad's altered manner, his gloomy looks, and a hardness of expression which became more and more marked every week, that things were going on badly. Ned no longer evinced the same interest in his work, and frequently neglected it altogether; the master, however, had kept silence, preferring to wait until Ned should himself broach the subject. “Well, Sankey, what is it?” he asked kindly as the boy entered. “I don't think it's any use my going on any longer, Mr. Porson.” “Well, Sankey, you have not been doing yourself much good this half, certainly. I have not said much to you about it, for it is entirely your own business: you know more than nineteen out of twenty of the young fellows who get commissions, so that if you choose to give up work it is your own affair.” “I have made up my mind not to go into the army,” Ned said quietly. Mr. Porson was silent a minute. “I hope, my dear lad,” he said, “you will do nothing hastily about this. Here is a profession open to you which is your own choice and that of your father, and it should need some very strong and good reason for you to abandon it. Come let us talk the matter over together, my boy, not as a master and his pupil, but as two friends. “You know, my boy, how thoroughly I have your interest at heart. If you had other friends whom you could consult I would rather have given you no advice, for there is no more serious matter than to say anything which might influence the career of a young fellow just starting in life. Terrible harm often results from well intentioned advice or opinions carelessly expressed to young men by their elders; it is a matter which few men are sufficiently careful about; but as I know that you have no friends to consult, Ned, and as I regard you with more than interest, I may say with affection, I think it would be well for you to tell me all that there is in your mind before you take a step which may wreck your whole life. “I have been waiting for some months in hopes that you would open your mind to me, for I have seen that you were unhappy; but it was not for me to force your confidence.” “I don't know that there's much to tell,” Ned said wearily. “Everything has happened just as it was certain it would do. Mulready is a brute; he ill treats my mother, he ill treats Charlie and Lucy, and he would ill treat me if he dared.” “All this is bad, Ned,” Mr. Porson said gravely; “but of course much depends upon the amount of his ill treatment. I assume that he does not actively ill treat your mother.” “No,” Ned said with an angry look in his face; “and he'd better not.” “Yes, Ned, he had better not, no doubt,” Mr. Porson said soothingly; “but what I want to know, what it is essential I should know if I am to give you any advice worth having, is what you mean by ill treatment--is he rough and violent in his way with her? does he threaten her with violence? is he coarse and brutal?” “No,” Ned said somewhat reluctantly; “he is not that, sir; he is always snapping and snarling and finding fault.” “That is bad, Ned, but it does not amount to ill treatment. When a man is put out in business and things go wrong with him it is unhappily too often his custom to vent his ill temper upon innocent persons; and I fancy from what I hear--you know in a little place like this every one's business is more or less known--Mr. Mulready has a good deal to put him out. He has erected new machinery and dare not put it to work, owing as I hear--for he has lain the documents before the magistrates--for his having received threatening letters warning him against doing so. This is very trying to the man. Then, Ned, you will excuse my saying that perhaps he is somewhat tried at home. It is no pleasant thing for a man to have a young fellow like yourself in the house taking up an attitude of constant hostility. I do not say that his conduct may or may not justify it; but you will not deny that from the first you were prepared to receive him as an enemy rather than as a friend. I heard a story some weeks ago in the town, which emanated no doubt from the servants, that you had actually struck him.” “He hit Charlie, sir,” Ned exclaimed. “That may be,” Mr. Porson went on gravely; “and I have no doubt, Ned, that you considered then, and that you consider now, that you were acting rightly in interfering on behalf of your brother. But I should question much whether in such a matter you are the best judge. You unfortunately began with a very strong prejudice against this man; you took up the strongest attitude of hostility to him; you were prepared to find fault with everything he said and did; you put yourself in the position of the champion of your mother, brother, and sister against him. Under such circumstances it was hardly possible that things could go on well. Now I suppose, Ned, that the idea which you have in your mind in deciding to give up the profession you have chosen, is that you may remain as their champion and protector here.” “Yes, sir,” Ned said. “Father told me to be kind to mother, whatever happened.” “Quite so, my boy; but the question is, Are you being kind?” Ned looked surprised. “That you intend to be so, Ned, I am sure. The question is, Are you going the right way to work? Is this championship that you have taken upon yourself increasing her happiness, or is it not?” Ned was silent. “I do not think that it is, Ned. Your mother must be really fond of this man or she would not have married him. Do you think that it conduces to the comfort of her home to see the constant antagonism which prevails between you and him? Is it not the fact that this ill temper under which she suffers is the result of the irritation caused to him by your attitude? Do you not add to her burden rather than relieve it?” Ned was still silent. He had so thoroughly persuaded himself that he was protecting his mother, his brother, and sister from Mr. Mulready that he had never considered the matter in this light. “Does your mother take his part or yours in these quarrels, Ned?” “She takes his part, sir,” said Ned indignantly. “Very well, Ned; that shows in itself that she does not wish for your championship, that in her eyes the trouble in the house is in fact caused by you. You must remember that when a woman loves a man she makes excuses for his faults of temper; his irritable moods, sharp expressions, and what you call snapping and snarling do not seem half so bad to her as they do to a third person, especially when that third person is her partisan. Instead of your adding to her happiness by renouncing your idea of going into the army, and of deciding to remain here in some position or other to take care of her, as, I suppose, is your intention, the result will be just the contrary. As to your sister, I think the same thing would happen. “Your mother is certainly greatly attached to her and owing to her changed habits--for I understand that she is now a far more active, and I may say, Ned, a more sensible woman than before her marriage--I see no reason why Lucy should not be happy with her, especially if the element of discord--I mean yourself--were out of the way. As to Charlie, at the worst I don't think that he would suffer from your absence. His stepfather's temper will be less irritable; and as Charlie is away at school all day, and has to prepare his lessons in the evening, there is really but slight opportunity for his stepfather treating him with any active unkindness, even should he be disposed to do so. “Did I think, my boy, that your presence here would be likely to benefit your family I should be the last person to advise you to avoid making a sacrifice of your private wishes to what you consider your duty; but upon the contrary I am convinced that the line which you have, with the best intention, taken up has been altogether a mistake, that your stay at home does vastly more harm than good, and that things would go on very much better in your absence.” This was a bitter mortification for Ned, who had hitherto nursed the idea that he was performing rather a heroic part, and was sacrificing himself for the sake of his mother. “You don't know the fellow as I do,” he said sullenly at last. “I do not, Ned; but I know human nature, and I know that any man would show himself at his worst under such circumstances as those in which you hare placed him. It is painful to have to say, but I am sure that you have done harm rather than good, and that things will get on much better in your absence.” “I believe he is quite capable of killing her,” Ned said passionately, “if he wanted her out of the way.” “That is a hard thing to say, Ned; but even were it so, we have no reason for supposing that he does want her out of the way. Come, Sankey, I am sure you have plenty of good sense. Hitherto you have been acting rather blindly in this matter. You have viewed it from one side only, and with the very best intentions in the world have done harm rather than good. “I am convinced that when you come to think it over you will see that, in following out your own and your father's intentions and wishes as to your future career, you will really best fulfil his last injunctions and will show the truest kindness to your mother. Don't give me your answer now, but take time to think it over. Try and see the case from every point of view, and I think you will come to the conclusion that what I have been saying, although it may seem rather hard to you at first, is true, and that you had best go into the army, as you had intended. I am sure in any case you will know that what I have said, even if it seems unkind, has been for your good.” “Thank you, Mr. Porson,” Ned replied; “I am quite sure of that. Perhaps you are right, and I have been making a fool of myself all along. But anyhow I will think it over.”

11

THE NEW MACHINERY

It is rather hard for a lad who thinks that he has been behaving somewhat as a hero to come to the conclusion that he has been making a fool of himself; but this was the result of Ned Sankey's cogitation over what Mr. Porson had said to him. Perhaps he arrived more easily at that conclusion because he was not altogether unwilling to do so. It was very mortifying to allow that he had been altogether wrong; but, on the other hand, there was a feeling of deep pleasure at the thought that he could, in Mr. Porson's deliberate opinion, go into the army and carry out all his original hopes and plans. His heart had been set upon this as long as he could remember, and it had been a bitter disappointment to him when he had arrived at the conclusion that it was his duty to abandon the idea. He did not now come to the conclusion hastily that Mr. Porson's view of the case was the correct one; but after a fortnight's consideration he went down on New Year's Day to the school, and told his master that he had made up his mind. “I see, sir,” he said, “now that I have thought it all over, that you are quite right, and that I have been behaving like an ass, so I shall set to work again and try and make up the lost time. I have only six months longer, for Easter is the time when Mr. Simmonds said that I should be old enough, and he will write to the lord lieutenant, and I suppose that in three months after that I should get my commission.” “That is right, Ned. I am exceedingly glad you have been able to take my view of the matter. I was afraid you were bent upon spoiling your life, and I am heartily glad that you have been able to see the matter in a different light.” A day or two afterward Ned took an opportunity of telling his mother that he intended at Easter to remind Mr. Simmonds of his promise to apply for a commission for him; and had he before had any lingering doubt that the decision was a wise one it would have been dissipated by the evident satisfaction and relief with which the news was received; nevertheless, he could not help a feeling of mortification at seeing in his mother's face the gladness which the prospect of his leaving occasioned her. It was some time since Ned had seen his friend Bill Swinton, for Bill was now regularly at work in Mr. Mulready's factory and was only to be found at home in the evening, and Ned had been in no humor for going out. He now, however, felt inclined for a friendly talk again, and the next Sunday afternoon he started for Varley. “Well, Maister Ned,” Bill said as he hurried to the door in answer to his knock, “it be a long time surely sin oi saw thee last--well nigh six months, I should say.” “It is a long time, Bill, but I haven't been up to anything, even to coming up here. Put on your cap and we will go for a walk across the moors together.” In a few seconds Bill joined him, and they soon left the village behind. “Oi thought as how thou didn't feel oop to talking loike, Moister Ned. Oi heared tell as how thou did'st not get on well wi' Foxey; he be a roight down bad un, he be; it were the talk of the place as how you gived him a clout atween t' eyes, and oi laughed rarely to myself when oi seed him come through t' mill wi' black and blue all round 'em. There warn't a hand there but would have given a week's pay to have seen it done.” “I am afraid I was wrong, Bill,” Ned said, feeling ashamed rather then triumphant at the thought. “I oughtn't to have done it, but my beastly temper got the best of it.” “Doan't say that Maister Ned; he deserves ten toimes worse nor ye gived him, and he will get it some time if he doan't mind. Oi tell ee there be lots of talk of him, and Captain Lud's gang be a getting stronger and stronger. Oi tell ye, t' maisters be agoing to have a bad time on it afore long, and Foxey be sure to be one of the first served out.” “Well, don't you have anything to do with it, Bill. You know I have told you over and over again that no good can come of such bad doings, and that the men will only make matters much worse for themselves. My father used to say that no good ever came of mob violence. They may do some harm for a time, but it is sure to recoil on their own heads.” “Oi doan't ha' nowt to do wi' it,” Bill replied, “cause oi told yer oi wouldn't; but oi've some trouble to keep oot o't. Ye see oi am nointeen now, and most o' t' chaps of moi age they be in 't; they meet at the 'Dog' nigh every noight, and they drills regular out on t' moor here, and it doan't seem natural for oi not to be in it, especial as moi brothers be in it. They makes it rough for me in t' village, and says as how I ain't got no spirit, and even t' girls laughs at me.” “Not Polly Powlett, I am sure, Bill.” “No, not Polly,” Bill replied. “She be a different sort. A' together it be a bit hard, and it be well for me as oi 'm main strong and tough, for oi ha' to fight pretty nigh every Saturday. However, oi ha thrashed pretty nigh every young chap in Varley, and they be beginning now to leave oi alone.” “That's right, Bill; I am sure I have no right to preach to you when I am always doing wrong myself; still I am quite sure you will be glad in the long run that you had nothing to do with King Lud. I know the times are very hard, but burning mills and murdering masters are not the way to make them better; you take my word for that. And now how are things going on in Varley?” “No great change here,” Bill replied. “Polly Powlett bain't made up her moind yet atween t' chaps as is arter her. They say as she sent John Stukeley, the smith, to the roight about last Sunday; he ha' been arter her vor the last year. Some thowt she would have him, some didn't. He ha' larning, you see, can read and wroite foine, and ha' got a smooth tongue, and knows how to talk to gals, so some thought she would take him; oi knew well enough she wouldn't do nowt of the koind, for oi ha' heard her say he were a mischievous chap, and a cuss to Varley. Thou know'st, Maister Ned, they do say, but in course oi knows nowt about it, as he be the head of the Luddites in this part of Yorkshire. “Luke Marner he be dead against King Lud, he be, and so be many of the older men here; it's most the young uns as takes to them ways; and nateral, Polly she thinks as Luke does, or perhaps,” and Bill laughed, “it's Polly as thowt that way first, and Luke as thinks as she does. However it be, she be dead set agin them, and she's said to me jest the same thing as thou'st been a-saying; anyhow, it be sartain as Polly ha' said no to John Stukeley, not as she said nowt about it, and no one would ha' known aboot it ef he hadn't gone cussing and swearing down at the 'Dog.' “I thinks. Maister Ned, as we shall ha' trouble afore long. The men ha been drilling four or five years now, and oi know as they ha' been saying, What be the good of it when nowt is done and the wages gets lower and lower? They have preachments now out on t' moor on Sunday, and the men comes from miles round, and they tells me as Stukeley and others, but him chiefly, goes on awful agin t' maisters, and says, There's Scripture vor it as they owt to smite 'em, and as how tyrants owt vor to be hewed in pieces.” “The hewing would not be all on one side, Bill, you will see, if they begin it. You know how easily the soldiers have put down riots in other places.” “That be true,” Bill said; “but they doan't seem vor to see it. Oi don't say nowt one way or t' other, and oi have had more nor half a mind to quit and go away till it's over. What wi' my brothers and all t' other young chaps here being in it, it makes it moighty hard vor oi to stand off; only as oi doan't know what else vor to do, oi would go. Oi ha' been a-thinking that when thou get'st to be an officer oi'll list in the same regiment and go to the wars wi' thee. Oi am sick of this loife here.” “Well, Bill, there will be no difficulty about that if you really make up your mind to it when the time comes. Of course I should like to have you very much. I have heard my father say that each officer has a soldier as his special servant; and if you would like that, you see, when we were alone together we should be able to talk about Varley and everything here just as we do now. Then I suppose I could help you on and get you made first corporal and then a sergeant.” “Very well, Maister Ned, then we will look on that as being as good as settled, and as soon as thou gets to be an officer oi will go as one of your soldiers.” For an hour they walked across the moor, talking about a soldier's life, Ned telling of the various parts of the world in which England was at that time engaged in war, and wondering in which of them they would first see service. Then they came back to the village and there parted, and Ned, feeling in better spirits than he had been from the day when he first heard of his mother's engagement to Mr. Mulready, walked briskly down to Marsden. For a time matters went on quietly. Few words were exchanged between Ned and Mr. Mulready; and although the latter could not but have noticed that Ned was brighter and more cheerful in his talk, he was brooding over his own trouble, and paid but little heed to it. The time was fast approaching when he could no longer go on as at present. The competition with the mills using the new machinery was gradually crushing him, and it was necessary for him to come to a determination either to pluck up heart and to use his new machines, or to close his mill. At last he determined to take the former course and to defy King Lud. Other manufacturers used steam, and why should not he? It was annoying to him in the extreme that his friends and acquaintances, knowing that he had fitted the mill with the new plant, were always asking him why he did not use it. A sort of uneasy consciousness that he was regarded by his townsmen as a coward was constantly haunting him. He knew in his heart that his danger was greater than that of others, because he could not rely on his men. Other masters had armed their hands, and had turned their factories into strong places, some of them even getting down cannon for their defense: for, as a rule, the hands employed with the new machinery had no objection to it, for they were able to earn larger wages with less bodily toil than before. The hostility was among the hands thrown out of employment, or who found that they could now no longer make a living by the looms which they worked in their own homes. Hitherto Mr. Mulready had cared nothing for the goodwill of his hands. He had simply regarded them as machines from whom the greatest amount of work was to be obtained at the lowest possible price. They might grumble and curse him beneath their breaths; they might call him a tyrant behind his back, for this he cared nothing: but he felt now that it would have been better had their relations been different: for then he could have trusted them to do their best in defense of the mill. Having once determined upon defying King Lud, Mr. Mulready went before the magistrates, and laying before them the threatening letters he had received, for the first had been followed by many others, he asked them to send for a company of infantry, as he was going to set his mill to work. The magistrates after some deliberation agreed to do so, and wrote to the commanding officer of the troops at Huddersfield asking him to station a detachment at Marsden for a time. The request was complied with. A company of infantry marched in and were billeted upon the town. A room was fitted up at the mill, and ten of them were quartered here, and upon the day after their arrival the new machinery started. Now that the step was taken, Mr. Mulready's spirits rose. He believed that the presence of the soldiers was ample protection for the mill, and he hoped that ere they left the town the first excitement would have cooled down, and the Luddites have turned their attention to other quarters. Ned met Bill on the following Sunday. “I suppose, Bill,” he said, “there is a rare stir about Foxey using his new machinery?” “Ay, that there be, and no wonder,” Bill said angrily, “there be twenty hands turned adrift. Oi bee one of them myself.” “You, Bill! I had no idea you had been discharged.” “Ay; oi have got the sack, and so ha' my brother and young Jarge Marner, and most o' t' young chaps in the mill. Oi suppose as how Foxey thinks as the old hands will stick to t' place, and is more afeerd as the young uns might belong to King Lud, and do him a bad turn with the machinery. Oi tell ye, Maister Ned, that the sooner as you goes as an officer the better, vor oi caan't bide here now and hold off from the others, Oi have had a dog's loife for some time, and it ull be worse now. It would look as if oi hadn't no spirit in the world, to stand being put upon and not join the others. T' other chaps scarce speak to me, and the gals turn their backs as oi pass them. Oi be willing vor to be guided by you as far as oi can; but it bain't in nature to stand this. Oi'd as lief go and hang myself. Oi would go and list tomorrow, only oi don't know what regiment you are going to.” “Well, Bill, it is hard,” Ned said, “and I am not surprised that you feel that you cannot stand it; but it won't be for long now. Easter will be here in a fortnight, and then I shall see Mr. Simmonds and get him to apply at once. I met him in the street only last week, and he was talking about it then. He thinks that it will not be long after he sends in an application before I get my commission. He says he has got interest in London at the Horse Guards, and will get the application of the lord lieutenant backed up there; so I hope that in a couple of months at latest it will all be settled.” “Oi hope so, oi am sure, vor oi be main sick of this. However, oi can hold on for another couple of months; they know anyhow as it ain't from cowardice as I doan't join them. I fowt Jack Standfort yesterday and licked un; though, as you see, oi 'ave got a rare pair of black eyes today. If oi takes one every Saturday it's only eight more to lick, and oi reckon oi can do that.” “I wish I could help you, Bill,” Ned said: “if father had been alive I am sure he would have let you have a little money to take you away from here and keep you somewhere until it is time for you to enlist; but you see I can do nothing now.” “Doan't you go vor to trouble yourself aboot me, Maister Ned. Oi shall hold on roight enow. The thought as it is for two months longer will keep me up. Oi can spend moi evenings in at Luke's. He goes off to the 'Coo,' but Polly doan't moind moi sitting there and smoking moi pipe, though it bain't every one as she would let do that.” Ned laughed. “It's a pity, Bill, you are not two or three years older, then perhaps Polly mightn't give you the same answer she gave to the smith.” “Lor' bless ee,” Bill said seriously, “Polly wouldn't think nowt of oi, not if oi was ten years older. Oi bee about the same age as she; but she treats me as if I was no older nor her Jarge. No, when Polly marries it won't be in Varley. She be a good many cuts above us, she be. Oi looks upon her jest as an elder sister, and oi doan't moind how much she blows me up--and she does it pretty hot sometimes, oi can tell ee; but oi should just loike to hear any one say a word agin her; but there be no one in Varley would do that. Every one has a good word for Polly; for when there's sickness in the house, or owt be wrong, Polly's always ready to help. Oi do believe that there never was such a gal. If it hadn't been for her oi would ha' cut it long ago. Oi wouldn't go agin what ye said, Maister Ned; but oi am danged if oi could ha' stood it ef it hadn't been for Polly.” “I suppose,” Ned said, “that now they have got the soldiers down in Marsden it will be all right about the mill.” “Oi caan't say,” Bill replied; “nateral they doan't say nowt to me; but oi be sure that some'ats oop. They be a-drilling every night, and there will be trouble avore long. Oi doan't believe as they will venture to attack the mill as long as the sojers be in Marsden; but oi wouldn't give the price of a pint of ale for Foxey's loife ef they could lay their hands on him. He'd best not come up this way arter dark.” “He's not likely to do that,” Ned said. “I am sure he is a coward or he would have put the mill to work weeks ago.” Secure in the protection of the troops, and proud of the new machinery which was at work in his mill, Mr. Mulready was now himself again. His smile had returned. He carried himself jauntily, and talked lightly and contemptuously of the threats of King Lud. Ned disliked him more in this mood than in the state of depression and irritation which had preceded it. The tones of hatred and contempt in which he spoke of the starving workmen jarred upon him greatly, and it needed all his determination and self command to keep him from expressing his feelings. Mr. Mulready was quick in perceiving, from the expression of Ned's face, the annoyance which his remarks caused him, and reverted to the subject all the more frequently. With this exception the home life was more pleasant than it had been before. Mr. Mulready, in his satisfaction at the prospect of a new prosperity, was far more tolerant with his wife, and her spirits naturally rose with his. She had fully shared his fears as to the threats by the Luddites, and now agreed cordially with his diatribes against the workpeople, adopting all his opinions as her own. Ned's acquaintance with Bill Swinton had long been a grievance to her, and her constant complainings as to his love for low company had been one of the afflictions to which Ned had long been accustomed. Now, having her husband by her side, it was a subject to which she frequently reverted. “Why can't you leave me alone, mother?” Ned burst out one day when Mr. Mulready had left the room. “Can't you leave me in quiet as to my friends, when in two or three months I shall be going away? Bill Swinton is going to enlist in the same regiment in which I am, so as to follow me all over the world. “Would any of the fine friends you would like me to make do that? I like all the fellows at school well enough, but there is not one of them would do a fiftieth part as much for me as Bill would. Even you, mother, with all your prejudices; must allow that it will be a good thing for me to have some one with me who will really care for me, who will nurse me if I am sick or wounded, who would lay down his life for mine if necessary. I tell you there isn't a finer fellow than Bill living. Of course he's rough, and he's had no education, I know that; but it's not his fault. But a truer or warmer hearted fellow never lived. He is a grand fellow. I wish I was only half as true and as honest and manly as he is. I am proud to have Bill as a friend. It won't be long before I have gone, mother. I have been fighting hard with myself so that there shall be peace and quietness in the house for the little time I have got to be here, and you make it harder for me.” “It's ridiculous your talking so,” Mrs. Mulready said peevishly, “and about a common young fellow like this. I don't pretend to understand you, Ned. I never have and never shall do. But I am sure the house will be much more comfortable when you have gone. Whatever trouble there is with my husband is entirely your making. I only wonder that he puts up with your ways as he does. If his temper was not as good as yours is bad he would not be able to do so.” “All right, mother,” Ned said. “He is an angel, he is, we all know, and I am the other thing. Well, if you are contented, that's the great thing, isn't it? I only hope you will always be so; but there,” he said, calming himself with a great effort as his father's last words again came into his mind, “don't let's quarrel, mother. I am sorry for what I have said. It's quite right that you should stick up for your husband, and I do hope that when I go you will, as you say, be more comfortable and happy. Perhaps you will. I am sure I hope so. Well, I know I am not nice with him. I can't help it. It's my beastly temper, I suppose. That's an old story. Come, mother, I have only a short time to be at home now. Let us both try and make it as pleasant as we can, so that when I am thousands of miles away, perhaps in India, we may have it to look back upon. You try and leave my friends alone and I will try and be as pleasant as I can with your husband.” Mrs. Mulready was crying now. “You know, Ned, I would love you if you would let me, only you are so set against my husband. I am sure he always means kindly. Look how he takes to little Lucy, who is getting quite fond of him.” “Yes, I am very glad to think that he is, mother,” Ned said earnestly. “You see Lucy is much younger, and naturally remembers comparatively little about her father, and has been able to take to Mr. Mulready without our prejudices. I am very glad to see that he really does like her--in fact I do think he is getting quite fond of her. I shall go away feeling quite easy about her. I wish I could say as much about Charlie. He is not strong, like other boys, and feels unkindness very sharply. I can see him shrink and shiver when your husband speaks to him, and am afraid he will have a very bad time of it when I am gone.” “I am sure, Ned, he will get on very well,” Mrs. Mulready said. “I have no doubt that when he gets rid of the example you set him--I don't want to begin to quarrel again--but of the example you set him of dislike and disrespect to Mr. Mulready, that he will soon be quite different. He will naturally turn to me again instead of looking to you for all his opinions, and things will go on smoothly and well.” “I am sure I hope so, mother. Perhaps I have done wrong in helping to set Charlie against Mulready. Perhaps when I have gone, too, things will be easier for him. If I could only think so I should go away with a lighter heart. Well, anyhow, mother, I am glad we have had this talk. It is not often we get a quiet talk together now.” “I am sure it is not my fault,” Mrs. Mulready said in a slightly injured tone. “Perhaps not, mother,” Ned said kindly. “With the best intentions, I know I am always doing things wrong. It's my way, I suppose. Anyhow, mother, I really have meant well, and I hope you will think of me kindly after I have gone.” “You may be sure I shall do that, Ned,” his mother said, weeping again. “I have no doubt the fault has been partly mine too, but you see women don't understand boys, and can't make allowances for them.” And so Ned kissed his mother for the first time since the day when she had returned home from her wedding tour, and mother and son parted on better terms than they had done for very many months, and Ned went with a lightened heart to prepare his lessons for the next day.

12

MURDERED!

In spite of Ned's resolutions that he would do nothing to mar the tranquillity of the last few weeks of his being at home, he had difficulty in restraining his temper the following day at tea. Never had he seen his stepfather in so bad a humor. Had he known that things had gone wrong at the mill that day, that the new machine had broken one of its working parts and had brought everything to a standstill till it could be repaired, he would have been able to make allowances for Mr. Mulready's ill humor. Not knowing this he grew pale with the efforts which he made to restrain himself as his stepfather snarled at his wife, snapped at Lucy and Charlie, and grumbled and growled at everything throughout the meal. Everything that was said was wrong, and at last, having silenced his wife and her children, the meal was completed in gloomy silence. The two boys went into the little room off the hall which they used of an evening to prepare their lessons for next day. Charlie, who came in last, did not abut the door behind him. “That is a nice man, our stepfather,” Ned said in a cold fury. “His ways get more and more pleasant every day; such an amiable, popular man, so smiling and pleasant!” “Oh! it's no use saying anything,” Charlie said in an imploring voice, “it only makes things worse.” “Worse!” Ned exclaimed indignantly; “how could they be worse? Well may they call him Foxey, for foxey he is, a double faced snarling brute.” As the last word issued from Ned's lips he reeled under a tremendous box on the ear from behind. Mr. Mulready was passing through the hall--for his gig was waiting at the door to take him back to the mill, where some fitters would be at work till late, repairing the damages to the machine--when he had caught Ned's words, which were spoken at the top of his voice. The smoldering anger of months burst at once into a flame heightened by the ill humor which the day's events had caused, and he burst into the room and almost felled Ned to the ground with his swinging blow. Recovering himself, Ned flew at him, but the boy was no match for the man, and Mr. Mulready's passion was as fierce as his own; seizing his throat with his left hand and forcing him back into a corner of the room, his stepfather struck him again and again with all his force with his right. Charlie had run at once from the room to fetch his mother, and it was scarcely a minute after the commencement of the outbreak that she rushed into the room, and with a scream threw her arms round her husband. “The young scoundrel!” Mr. Mulready exclaimed, panting, as he released his hold of Ned; “he has been wanting a lesson for a long time, and I have given him one at last. He called me Foxey, the young villain, and said I was a double faced snarling brute; let him say so again and I will knock his head off.” But Ned just at present was not in a condition to repeat his words; breathless and half stunned he leaned in the corner, his breath came in gasps, his face was as pale as death, his cheek was cut, there were red marks on the forehead which would speedily become black, and the blood was flowing from a cut on his lip, his eyes had a dazed and half stupid look. “Oh! William!” Mrs. Mulready said as she looked at her son, “how could you hurt him so!” “Hurt him, the young reptile!” Mr. Mulready said savagely. “I meant to hurt him. I will hurt him more next time.” Mrs. Mulready paid no attention to his words, but went up to Ned. “Ned, my boy,” she said tenderly, “what is it? Don't look like that, Ned; speak to me.” His mother's voice seemed to rouse Ned into consciousness. He drew a long breath, then slowly passed his hand across his eyes, and lips, and mouth. He looked at his mother and seemed about to speak, but no sound came from his lips. Then his eye fell on his stepfather, who, rather alarmed at the boy's appearance, was standing near the door. The expression of Ned's face changed, his mouth became set and rigid, his eyes dilated, and Mr. Mulready, believing that he was about to spring upon him, drew back hastily half a step and threw up his hands to defend himself. Mrs. Mulready threw herself in Ned's way; the boy made no effort to put her aside, but kept his eyes fixed over her shoulder at his stepfather. “Take care!” he said hoarsely, “it will be my turn next time, and when it comes I will kill you, you brute.” “Oh, go away, William!” Mrs. Mulready cried; “oh! do go away, or there will be more mischief. Oh! Ned, do sit down, and don't look so dreadful; he is going now.” Mr. Mulready turned and went with a laugh which he intended to be scornful, but in which there was a strong tinge of uneasiness. He had always in his heart been afraid of this boy with his wild and reckless temper, and felt that in his present mood Ned was capable of anything. Still as Mr. Mulready took his seat in his gig his predominant feeling was satisfaction. “I am glad I have given him a lesson,” he muttered to himself, “and have paid him off for months of insolence. He won't try it on again, and as for his threats, pooh! he'll be gone in a few weeks, and there will be an end of it.” After he had gone Mrs. Mulready tried to soothe Ned, but the boy would not listen to her, and in fact did not seem to hear her. “Don't you mind, mother,” he said in a strange, quiet voice, “I will pay him off;” and muttering these words over and over again he went out into the hall, took down his cap in a quiet, mechanical sort of way, put it on, opened the door, and went out. “Oh! Charlie,” Mrs. Mulready said to her second son, who, sobbing bitterly, had thrown himself down in a chair by the table, and was sitting with his head on his hands, “there will be something terrible come of this! Ned's temper is so dreadful, and my husband was wrong, too. He should never have beaten him so, though Ned did say such things to him. What shall I do? these quarrels will be the death of me. I suppose Ned will be wandering about all night again. Do put on your cap, Charlie, and go out and see if you can find him, and persuade him to come home and go to bed; perhaps he will listen to you.” Charlie was absent an hour, and returned saying that he could not find his brother. “Perhaps he's gone up to Varley as he did last time,” Mrs. Mulready said. “I am sure I hope he has, else he will be wandering about all night, and he had such a strange lock in his face that there's no saying where he might go to, or what he might do.” Charlie was almost heartbroken, and sat up till long past his usual time, waiting for his brother's return. At last his eyes would no longer keep open, and he stumbled upstairs to bed, where he fell asleep almost as his head touched the pillow, in spite of his resolution to be awake until Ned returned. Downstairs Mrs. Mulready kept watch. She did not expect Ned to return, but she was listening for the wheels of her husband's gig. It was uncertain at what time he would return; for when he rose from the tea table she had asked him what time he expected to be back, and he had replied that he could not say; he should stop until the repairs were finished, and she was to go to bed and not bother. So at eleven o'clock she went upstairs, for once before when he had been out late and she had sat up he had been much annoyed; but after she got in bed she lay for hours listening for the sound of the wheels. At last she fell asleep and dreamed that Ned and her husband were standing at the end of a precipice grappling fiercely together in a life and death struggle. She was awaked at last by a knocking at the door; she glanced at her watch, which hung above her head; it was but half past six. “What is it, Mary?” “Please, mum, there's a constable below, and he wants to speak to you immediate.” Mrs. Mulready sprang from the bed and began to dress herself hurriedly. All sorts of mischief that might have come to Ned passed rapidly through her mind; her husband had not returned, but no doubt he had stopped at the mill all night watching the men at work. His absence scarcely occasioned her a moment's thought. In a very few minutes she was downstairs in the kitchen, where the constable was standing waiting for her. She knew him by sight, for Marsden possessed but four constables, and they were all well known characters. “What is it?” she asked; “has anything happened to my son?” “No, mum,” the constable said in a tone of surprise, “I didn't know as he wasn't in bed and asleep, but I have some bad news for you, mum; it's a bad job altogether.” “What is it?” she asked again; “is it my husband?” “Well, mum, I am sorry to say as it be. A chap came in early this morning and told me as summat had happened, so I goes out, and half a mile from the town I finds it just as he says.” “But what is it?” Mrs. Mulready gasped. “Well, mum, I am sorry to have to tell you, but there was the gig all smashed to atoms, and there was the little black mare lying all in a heap with her neck broke, and there was--” and he stopped. “My husband!” Mrs. Mulready gasped. “Yes, marm, I be main sorry to say it were. There, yards in front of them, were Mr. Mulready just stiff and cold. He'd been flung right out over the hoss' head. I expect he had fallen on his head and must have been killed roight out; and the worst of it be, marm, as it warn't an accident, for there, tight across the road, about eighteen inches above the ground, was a rope stretched tight atween a gate on either side. It was plain enough to see what had happened. The mare had come tearing along as usual at twelve mile an hour in the dark, and she had caught the rope, and in course there had been a regular smash.” The pretty color had all gone from Mrs. Mulready's face as he began his story, but a ghastly pallor spread over her face, and a look of deadly horror came into her eyes as he continued. “Oh, Ned, Ned,” she wailed, “how could you!” and then she fell senseless to the ground. The constable raised her and placed her in a chair. “Are you sure the master's dead?” the servant asked, wiping her eyes. “Sure enough,” the constable said. “I have sent the doctor off already, but it's no good, he's been dead hours and hours. But,” he continued, his professional instincts coming to the surface, “what did she mean by saying, 'Oh, Ned, how could you!' She asked me, too, first about him; ain't he at home?” “No, he ain't,” the servant said, “and ain't been at home all night; there were a row between him and maister last even; they had a fight. Maister Charlie he ran into the parlor as I was a clearing away the' tea things, hallowing out as maister was a-killing Ned. Missis she ran in and I heard a scream, then maister he drove off, and a minute or two later Maister Ned he went out, and he ain't come back again. When I went in with the candles I could see missis had been a crying. That's all I know about it.” “And enough too,” the constable said grimly. “This here be a pretty business. Well, you had best get your missis round and see about getting the place ready for the corpse. They have gone up with a stretcher to bring him back. They will be here afore long. I must go to Justice Thompson's and tell him all about it. This be a pretty kittle of fish, surely. I be main sorry, but I have got my duty to do.” An hour later Williams the constable with a companion started out in search of Ned Sankey, having a warrant in his pocket for his arrest on the charge of willful murder. The excitement in Marsden when it became known that Mr. Mulready had been killed was intense, and it was immensely heightened when it was rumored that a warrant had been issued for the arrest of his stepson on the charge of murder. Quite a little crowd hung all day round the house with closed blinds, within which their so lately active and bustling townsman was lying. All sorts of conjectures were rife, and there were many who said that they had all along expected harm would come of the marriage which had followed so soon after the death of Captain Sankey. The majority were loud in expression of their sympathy with the dead mill owner, recalling his cheery talk and general good temper. Others were disposed to think that Ned had been driven to the act; but among very few was there any doubt as to his guilt. It was recalled against him that he had before been in the dock for his assault upon Mr. Hathorn, and that it had been proved that he had threatened to kill his master. His sullen and moody demeanor at the marriage of his mother told terribly against him, and the rumors of the previous quarrel when Ned had assaulted his stepfather, and which, related with many exaggerations, had at the time furnished a subject of gossip in the town, also told heavily to his disadvantage. Williams having learned from the servant that Ned was in the habit of going up to Varley had first made his inquiries there; but neither Bill nor Luke Marner, who were, the constable speedily learned, his principal friends there, had seen him. Varley was greatly excited over the news of the murder. Many of the men worked at Mulready's mill, and had brought back the news at an early hour, as all work was of course suspended. There was no grief expressed in Varley at Mr. Mulready's death, indeed the news was received with jubilant exultation. “A good job too,” was the general verdict; and the constable felt that were Ned in the village he would be screened by the whole population. He was convinced, however, that both Bill Swinton and Luke Marner were ignorant of his whereabouts, so genuine had been their astonishment at his questions, and so deep their indignation when they learned his errand. “Thou duss'n't believe it, Luke?” Bill Swinton said as he entered the latter's cottage. “No, lad, oi duss'n't,” Luke said; “no more does Polly here, but it looks main awkward,” he said slowly stroking his chin, “if as how what the constable said is right, and there was a fight atween them that evening.” “Maister Ned were a hot 'un,” Bill said; “he allus said as how he had a dreadful temper, though oi never seed nowt of it in him, and he hated Foxey like poison; that oi allows; but unless he tells me hisself as he killed him nowt will make me believe it. He might ha' picked up summat handy when Foxey hit him and smashed him, but oi don't believe it of Maister Ned as he would ha done it arterward.” “He war a downright bad 'un war Foxey,” Luke said, “vor sure. No worse in the district, and there's many a one as would rejoice as he's gone to his account, and oi believe as whoever's done it has saved Captain Lud from a job; but there, it's no use a talking of that now. Now, look here, Bill, what thou hast got to do be this. Thou hast got to find the boy; oi expect he be hiding somewheres up on t' moors. Thou knowst better nor oi wheere he be likely vor to be. Voind him out, lad, and tell him as they be arter him. Here be ten punds as oi ha had laying by me for years ready in case of illness; do thou give it to him and tell him he be heartily welcome to it, and can pay me back agin when it suits him. Tell him as he'd best make straight for Liverpool and git aboard a ship there for 'Merikee--never moind whether he did the job or whether he didn't. Things looks agin him now, and he best be on his way.” “Oi'll do't,” Bill said, “and oi'll bid thee goodby, Luke, and thee too, Polly, for ye won't see me back agin. Of course I shall go wi' him. He haven't got man's strength yet, and oi can work for us both. I bain't a-going to let him go by hisself, not loikely.” “Thou art roight, lad,” Luke said heartily. “Dang it all, lad, thou speak'st loike a man. Oi be sorry thou art going, Bill, for oi loike thee; but thou be right to go wi' this poor lad. Goodby, lad, and luck be wi' ye;” and Luke wrung Bill's hand heartily. “I shan't say goodby, Bill,” Mary Powlett said quietly. “I don't think Ned Sankey can have done this thing, and if he hasn't you will find that he will not run away, but will stay here and face it out.” “Then he will be a fool,” Luke Marner said. “I tell ee the evidence be main strong agin him, and whether he be innocent or not he will find it hard to clear hisself. Oi don't think much the worst of him myself if he done it, and most in Varley will be o' my way o' thinking. Foxey war a tyrant if ever there war one, and the man what was so hard a maister to his hands would be loike to be hard to his wife's children.” “Don't speak like that, feyther,” Polly said; “murder is murder, you know.” “Ay, lass, and human natur be human natur, and it be no use your going agin it. If he ha been and ill treated the boy, and I don't doubt as he has, thou may'st argue all noight, but thou won't get me to say as oi blames him much if he has done it. Oi don't suppose as he meant to kill him--not vor a moment. I should think hard of him if oi thowt as how he did. He meant, oi reckon, vor to throw his horse down and cut his knees, knowing, as every one did, as Mulready were moighty proud of his horse, and he may have reckoned as Foxey would git a good shake, and some bruises as well, as a scare, but oi doan't believe, not vor a moment, as he meant vor to kill him. That's how oi reads it, lass.” “Well, it may be so,” Mary assented. “It is possible he may have done it, meaning really only to give him a fright and a shake; but I hope he didn't. Still if that was how it happened I will shake hands, Bill, and wish you goodby and good luck, for it would be best for him to get away, for I am afraid that the excuse that he only meant to frighten and not to kill him will not save him. I am sorry you are going, Bill, very sorry; but if you were my own brother I would not say a word to stop you. Didn't his feyther give up his life to save little Janey? and I would give mine to save his. But I do think it will be good for you, Bill; times are bad, and it has been very hard for you lately in Varley. I know all about it, and you will do better across the seas. You will write, won't you, sometimes?” “Never fear,” Bill said huskily, “oi will wroite, Polly; goodby, and God bless you all; but it mayn't be goodby, for oi mayn't foind him;” and, wringing the hands of Luke and Polly, Bill returned to his cottage, hastily packed up a few things in a kit, slung it over his shoulder on a stick, and started out in search of Ned. Late that evening there came a knock at the door of Luke's cottage. On opening it he found Bill standing there. “Back again, Bill! --then thou hasn't found him?” “No,” Bill replied in a dejected voice. “Oi ha' hoonted high and low vor him; oi ha' been to every place on the moor wheer we ha' been together, and wheer oi thowt as he might be a-waiting knowing as oi should set out to look for him as soon as oi heard the news. Oi don't think he be nowhere on the moor. Oi have been a-tramping ever sin' oi started this mourning. Twice oi ha' been down Maarsten to see if so be as they've took him, but nowt ain't been seen of him. Oi had just coom from there now. Thou'st heerd, oi suppose, as the crowner's jury ha found as Foxey wer murdered by him; but it bain't true, you know, Luke--be it?” Bill made the assertions stoutly, but there was a tremulous eagerness in the question which followed it; He was fagged and exhausted. His faith in Ned was strong, but he had found the opinion in the town so unanimous against him that he longed for an assurance that some one beside himself believed in Ned's innocence. “Oi doan't know, Bill,” Luke Marner said, stroking his chin as he always did when he was thinking; “oi doan't know, Bill--oi hoape he didn't do it, wi' all my heart. But oi doan't know aboot it. He war sorely tried--that be sartain. But if he did it, he did it; it makes no difference to me. It doan't matter to me one snap ov the finger whether the lad killed Foxey or whether he didn't--that bain't my business or yours. What consarns me is, as the son of the man as saved my child's loife at t' cost of his own be hunted by the constables and be in risk of his loife. That's t' question as comes home to me--oi've had nowt else ringing in my ears all day. Oi ha' been oot to a searching high and low. Oi ain't a found him, but oi ha made oop moi moind whaat I be agoing to do.” They had moved a little away from the cottage now, but Luke lowered his voice: “Oi be agoing down to t' town in the morning to give moiself oop vor the murder of Foxey.” Bill gave an exclamation of astonishment: “But thou didn'st do it, Luke?” “I moight ha' done it for owt thou know'st, Bill. He wer the worst of maisters, and, as thou know'st, Bill, oi hated him joost as all the countryside did. He's been warned by King Lud and ha' been obliged to get the sojers at his factory. Well, thou knowest it was nateral as he would drive down last noight to see how t' chaps at t' engine was a-getting on, and it coomed across my moind as it wer a good opportunity vor to finish un; so ther thou hast it.” Bill gazed in astonishment through the darkness at his companion. “But it bain't true, Luke? Thou wast talking to me arter thou coom'd out of the Coo at noine o'clock, an thou saidst as thou was off to bed.” “Nowt of the koind,” Luke replied. “Oi told ye, thou know'st, as I wer a-going down to t' toon and oi had got a job in hand. Oi spoke mysterous loike, and you noticed as how oi had got a long rope coiled up in moi hand.” Bill gave a gasp of astonishment. “That's what thou hast got to say,” Luke said doggedly; “only astead o' its being at noine o'clock it war at ten. Oi were just a-slipping owt of the cottage, t' others were all asleep and knew nowt aboot moi having goone out.” Bill was silent now. “Oi wish oi had a-thowt of it,” he said at last; “oi would ha' doon it moiself.” “Oi wouldn't ha' let thee, Bill,” Luke said quietly. “He be a friend of thine, and oi know thou lovest him loike a brother, and a soight mor'n most brothers; but it be moi roight. The captain gave his loife vor moi child's, and oi bee a going vor to give mine for his. That will make us quits. Besides, thou art young; oi be a-getting on. Jarge, he will be a-arning money soon; and Polly, she can get a place in sarvice, and 'ul help t' young uns. They will manage. Oi ha' been thinking it over in all loites, and ha' settled it all in moi moind.” Bill was silent for a time and then said: “Ther be one thing agin' it, Luke, and it be this: As we can't hear nowt of Maister Ned, oi be a thinking as he ha' made straight vor Liverpool or Bristol or London, wi' a view to going straight across the seas or of 'listing, or doing somewhat to keep out of t' way. He be sure to look in t' papers, to see how things be a-going on here; and as sure as he sees as how you've gived yourself up and owed up as you ha' done it, he will coom straight back again and say as how it were him.” “Maister Ned might ha' killed Foxey in a passion, but not loike this. He didn't mean to kill him, but only vor to give him a shaake and frighten him. But oi be sartin sure as he wouldn't let another be hoonged in his place. So ye see thou'd do more harm nor good.” “Oi didn't think of that,” Luke said, rubbing his chin. “That be so, surely. He'd be bound to coom back agin. Well, lad, oi will think it over agin avore moorning, and do thou do t' same. Thou know'st moi wishes now. We ha' got atween us to get Maister Ned off--that be the thing as be settled. It doan't matter how it's done, but it's got to be done soomhow; and oi rely on thee to maake moi story good, whatever it be. “There can't be nowt wrong about it--a loife vor a loife be fair, any way. There be more nor eno' in Yorkshire in these toimes, and one more or less be of no account to any one.” “Oi be thy man, Luke,” Bill said earnestly. “Whatever as thou sayest oi will sweer to; but I would reyther change places.” “That caan't be, Bill, so it bain't no use thinking aboot it. Oi know thou wilt do thy best vor Polly and t' young uns. It 'ull be rough on her, but it bain't to be helped; and as she will be going away from Varley and settling elsewhere, it wouldn't be brought up again her as she had an uncle as were a Luddite and got hoong for killing a bad maister. Goodnoight, lad! oi will see thee i' t' morning.”

13

COMMITTED FOR TRIAL

After a talk with Luke Marner early in the morning Bill Swinton went down into Marsden to hear if there was any news of Ned. He was soon back again. “Maister Ned's took,” he said as he met Luke, who was standing in front of his cottage awaiting his return before starting out to renew his search for Ned. “Oi hear, at noine o'clock last noight he walked in to Justice Thompson's and said as he had coom to give hisself up. He said as how he had been over at Painton, where the old woman as was his nurse lives; and directly as the news coom in t' arternoon as Foxey had been killed and he was wanted for the murder, he coom straight over.” “That's roight,” Luke said heartily; “that settles it. He must ha' been innocent or he would ha' bolted straight away, and not coom back and gi'd hisself oop to justice. It were only his hiding away as maade oi think as he moight ha' done it. Noo in course he will be able to clear hisself; for if he was over at Painton, why, he couldn't be here--that be plain to any one.” “Oi be aveared, by what t' constable told me, as he won't be able vor to prove it. It seems as how he didn't get to Painton till t' morning. He says as how he were awalking aboot on t' moor all night. So you see he will have hard work vor to clear hisself.” “Then I shall ha' to give meself up,” Luke said quietly. “Ye see as it can't do him harm now, 'cause he ha' coom back; and ef oi says as I killed the man they will open the doors, and he will only have to walk out.” “Oi ha' been a-thinking of that as I coom back,” Bill said, “and oi doan't think as oi see my way clear through it now. Firstly, if Maister Ned did it, of course he will hold his tongue and leave 'em to prove it, which maybe they can't do; so he has a chance of getting off. But if you cooms forward and owns up, he will be saaf, if he did it, to say so at once; and so you will have done him harm rather nor good. Vor of course he will be able to prove his story better nor you will yourn, and you will have put the noose round his neck instead of getting it put round yourn. In the second place, it be loike enough as they lawyer chaps moight find out as your story weren't true when they coom to twisting me inside owt in the box. They might foind as oi war a-swearing false. There be never no saying. They moight prove as that bit of rope warn't yourn. Polly moight swear as she hadn't been asleep till arter the time you said you went out, and that you never moved as long as she war awake. Lots of unexpected things moight turn up to show it war a lie and then you know they'd drop onto Maister Ned wourse nor ever.” “I doan't believe they would ask you any questions, Bill. When a man cooms and says, 'Oi did a murder,' they doan't want to ask many questions aboot it. They takes it vor granted as he wouldn't be such a fool as vor to say he did it when he didn't. But th' other point be more sarous. It be loike enough as t' lad did it, and if he did he will out wi' it when oi cooms forward. If oi could get to see him first oi moight argue him into holding his tongue by pointing owt that moi loife bain't of so much valley as hissen, also that I owe a debt to his feyther.” “Well, oi ha' been thinking it over,” Bill said, “and moi opinion is thou had best hold thy tongue till the trial. Thou can'st be in the court. Ef the jury foind him innocent, of course thou will't hold thy tongue; ef they foind him guilty, then thou'lt get up in the court, and thou'lt say to the joodge, civil loike: “Moi lord, the gentlemen of the jury have made a mistake; oi am the chap as killed Foxey and oi ha' got a young man here as a witness as moi words is true.” “Perhaps that will be the best way, Bill,” Luke said thoughtfully. “Oi ha' bin thinking how we moight get over Polly's evidence agin me; every noight oi will get up regular and coom and ha' a talk wi' you; oi will coom out wi'out my shoes as quiet as a cat, and then if Polly sweers as oi didn't leave t' house that noight thou can'st sweer as she knows nothing at all aboot it, as oi ha' been out every noight to see thee.” So the matter was allowed to stand for the time; and Bill and Luke, when they had had their breakfast, went down again to Marsden to hear what was going on. Marsden was greatly excited. The sensation caused by the news of the murder scarcely exceeded that which was aroused when it was heard that Ned Sankey had come in and given himself up. Some thought that at the examination which was to take place at noon he would at once confess his guilt, while others believed that he would plead not guilty, and would throw the burden of proving that he killed his stepfather upon the prosecution. All through the previous day Mrs. Mulready had been the central object of interest to the town gossips pending the capture of her son. Dr. Green had been in and out of the house all day. It was known that she had passed from one fit of hysterics into another, and that the doctor was seriously alarmed about her state. Rumors were about that the servants, having been interviewed at the back gate, said, that in the intervals of her screaming and wild laughter she over and over again accused Ned as the murderer of her husband. Dr. Green, when questioned, peremptorily refused to give any information whatever as to his patient's opinions or words. “The woman is well nigh a fool at the best of times,” he said irritably, “and at present she knows no more what she is saying than a baby. Her mind is thrown completely off any little balance that it had and she is to all intents and purposes a lunatic.” Only with his friend Mr. Porson, who called upon him after the first visit had been paid to Mrs. Mulready immediately after her husband's body had been brought in, did Dr. Green discuss in any way what had happened. “I agree with you, Porson, in doubting whether the poor boy had a hand in this terrible business. We both know, of course, that owing to the bad training and total absence of control when he was a child in India his temper was, when he first came here, very hot and ungovernable. His father often deplored the fact to me, blaming himself as being to a great extent responsible for it, through not having had time to watch and curb him when he was a child; but he was, as you say, an excellently disposed boy, and your testimony to the efforts which he has made to overcome his faults is valuable. But I cannot conceal from you, who are a true friend of the boy's, what I should certainly tell to no one else, namely, that I fear that his mother's evidence will be terribly against him. “She has always been prejudiced against him. She is a silly, selfish woman. So far as I could judge she cared little for her first husband, who was a thousand times too good for her; but strangely enough she appears to have had something like a real affection for this man Mulready, who, between ourselves, I believe, in spite of his general popularity in the town, to have been a bad fellow. One doesn't like to speak ill of the dead under ordinary circumstances, but his character is an important element in the question before us. Of course among my poorer patients I hear things of which people in general are ignorant, and it is certain that there was no employer in this part of the country so thoroughly and heartily detested by his men.” “I agree with you cordially,” Mr. Porson said. “Unfortunately I know from Ned's own lips that the lad hated his stepfather; but I can't bring myself to believe that he has done this.” “I hope not,” the doctor said gravely, “I am sure I hope not; but I have been talking with his brother, who is almost heartbroken, poor boy, and he tells me that there was a terrible scene last night. It seems that Mulready was extremely cross and disagreeable at tea time; nothing, however, took place at the table; but after the meal was over, and the two boys were alone together in that little study of theirs, Ned made some disparaging remarks about Mulready. The door, it seems, was open. The man overheard them, and brutally assaulted the boy, and indeed Charlie thought that he was killing him. He rushed in and fetched his mother, who interfered, but not before Ned had been sadly knocked about. Mulready then drove off to his factory, and Ned, who seems to have been half stunned, went out almost without saying a word, and, as you know, hasn't been heard of since. “It certainly looks very dark against him. You and I, knowing the boy, and liking him, may have our doubts, but the facts are terribly against him, and unless he is absolutely in the position to prove an alibi, I fear that it will go hard with him.” “I cannot believe it,” Mr. Porson said, “although I admit that the facts are terribly against him. Pray, if you get an opportunity urge upon his mother that her talk will do Ned horrible damage and may cost him his life. I shall at once go and instruct Wakefield to appear for him, if he is taken, and to obtain the best professional assistance for his defense. I feel completely unhinged by the news, the boy has been such a favorite of mine ever since I came here; he has fought hard against his faults, and had the makings of a very fine character in him. God grant that he may be able to clear himself of this terrible accusation!” Ned's first examination was held on the morning after he had given himself up, before Mr. Simmonds and Mr. Thompson. The sitting was a private one. The man who first found Mr. Mulready's body testified to the fact that a rope had been laid across the road. Constable Williams proved that when he arrived upon the spot nothing had been touched. Man and horse lay where they had fallen, the gig was broken in pieces, a strong rope was stretched across the road. He said that on taking the news to Mrs. Mulready he had learned from the servants that the prisoner had not slept at home that night, and that there had been a serious quarrel between him and the deceased the previous evening. After hearing this evidence Ned was asked if he was in a position to account for the time which had elapsed between his leaving home and his arrival at his nurse's cottage. He replied that he could only say that he had been wandering on the moor. The case was remanded for a week, as the evidence of Mrs. Mulready and the others in the house would be necessary, and it was felt that a mother could not be called upon to testify against her son with her husband lying dead in the house. “I am sorry indeed to see you in this position,” Mr. Simmonds said to Ned. “My friendship for your late father, and I may say for yourself, makes the position doubly painful to me, but I can only do my duty. I should advise you to say nothing at this period of the proceedings; but if there is anything which you think of importance to say, and which will give another complexion to the case, I am ready to hear it.” “I have nothing to say, sir,” Ned said quietly, “except that I am wholly innocent of the affair. As you may see by my face I was brutally beaten by my stepfather on the evening before his death. I went out of the house scarce knowing what I was doing. I had no fixed intention of going anywhere or of doing anything, I simply wanted to get away from home. I went on to the moors and wandered about, I suppose for some hours. Then I threw myself down under the shelter of a pile of stones and lay there awake till it was morning. Then I determined to go to the house of my old nurse and to stop there until I was fit to be seen. In the afternoon I heard what had taken place here, and that I was accused of the murder, and I at once came over here and gave myself up.” “As you are not in a position to prove what you state,” Mr. Simmonds said, “we have nothing to do but to remand the case until this day week. I may say that I have received a letter from Dr. Green saying that he and Mr. Porson are ready to become your bail to any amount; but we could not think of accepting bail in a charge of murder.” Ned bowed and followed the constable without a word to the cells. His appearance had not been calculated to create a favorable impression. His clothes were stained and muddy; his lips were swollen, his eyes were discolored and so puffed that he could scarcely see between the lids, his forehead was bruised and cut in several places. He had passed two sleepless nights; his voice had lost its clearness of ring and was low and husky. Mr. Simmonds shook his head to his fellow magistrate. “I am afraid it's a bad case, Thompson, but the lad has been terribly ill used, there is no doubt about that. It's a thousand pities he takes up the line of denying it altogether. If he were to say, what is no doubt the truth, that having been brutally beaten he put the rope across the road intending to punish and even injure his stepfather, but without any intention of killing him, I think under the circumstances of extreme provocation, and what interest we could bring to bear on the matter, he would get off the capital punishment, for the jury would be sure to recommend him to mercy. I shall privately let Green and Porson, who are evidently acting as his friends in the matter, know that I think it would be far better for him to tell the truth and throw himself on the mercy of the crown.” “They may not find him guilty,” Mr. Thompson said. “The jury will see that he received very strong provocation; and after all, the evidence is, so far as we know at present, wholly circumstantial, and unless the prosecution can bring home to him the possession of the rope, it is likely enough they will give him the benefit of the doubt.” “His life is ruined anyhow,” Mr. Simmonds said. “Poor lad! poor lad! Another fortnight and I was going to apply for a commission for him. I wish to heavens I had done so at Christmas, and then all this misery would have been spared.” As soon as Ned had been led back to the cell Mr. Porson obtained permission to visit him. He found him in a strange humor. “Well, my poor boy,” he began, “this is a terrible business.” “Who do you mean it is a terrible business for, Mr. Porson, me or him?” Ned spoke in a hard unnatural voice, without the slightest tone of trouble or emotion. Mr. Porson perceived at once that his nerves were brought up to such a state of tension by the events of the preceding forty-eight hours that he was scarce responsible for what he was saying. “I think I meant for you, Ned. I cannot pretend to have any feeling for the man who is dead, especially when I look at your face.” “Yes, it is not a nice position for me,” Ned said coldly, “just at the age of seventeen to be suspected of the murder of one's stepfather, and such a nice stepfather too, such a popular man in the town! And not only suspected, but with a good chance of being hung for it.” “Ned, my dear boy,” Mr. Porson said kindly, “don't talk in that way. You know that we, your friends, are sure that you did not do it.” “Are you quite sure, sir?” Ned said. “I am not quite sure myself. I know I should have done it if I had had the chance. I thought over all sorts of ways in which I might kill him, and I wouldn't quite swear that I did not think of this plan and carry it out, though it doesn't quite seem to me that I did. I have no very definite idea what happened that night, and certainly could give but a vague account of myself from the time I left the house till next morning, when I found myself lying stiff and half frozen on the moor. Anyhow, whether I killed him or not it's all the same. I should have done so if I could. And if some one else has saved me the trouble I suppose I ought to feel obliged to him.” Mr. Porson saw that in Ned's present state it was useless to talk to him. Two nights without sleep, together with the intense excitement he had gone through, had worked his brain to such a state of tension that he was not responsible for what he was saying. Further conversation would do him harm rather than good. What he required was rest and, if possible, sleep. Mr. Porson therefore only said quietly: “We will not talk about it now, Ned; your brain is over excited with all you have gone through. What you want now is rest and sleep.” “I don't feel sleepy, Mr. Porson. I don't feel as if I should ever get to sleep again. I don't look like it, do I?” “No, Ned, I don't think you do at present; but I wish you did, my boy. Well, remember that we, your old friends, all believe you innocent of this thing, and that we will spare no pains to prove it to the world. I see,” he said, looking at the table, “that you have not touched your breakfast. I am not surprised that you could not eat it. I will see that you have a cup of really good tea sent you in.” “No,” Ned said with a laugh which it pained Mr. Porson to hear, “I have not eaten since I had tea at home. It was only the day before yesterday, but it seems a year.” On leaving the cell Mr. Porson went to Dr. Green, who lived only three or four doors away, told him of the state in which he had found Ned, and begged him to give him a strong and, as far as possible, tasteless sedative, and to put it in a cup of tea. “Yes, that will be the best thing,” the doctor replied. “I had better not go and see him, for talking will do him harm rather than good. We shall be having him on our hands with brain fever if this goes on. I will go round with the tea myself to the head constable and tell him that no one must on any account be permitted to see Ned, and that rest and quiet are absolutely necessary for him. I will put a strong dose of opium into the tea.” Ten minutes later Dr. Green called upon the chief constable and told him that he feared from what he had heard from Mr. Porson that Ned was in a very critical state, and that unless he got rest and sleep he would probably have an attack of brain fever, even if his mind did not give way altogether. “I was intending to have him removed at once,” the officer said, “to a comfortable room at my own house. He was only placed where he is temporarily. I exchanged a few words with him after the examination and was struck myself with the strangeness of his tone. Won't you see him?” “I think that any talk is bad for him,” the doctor said. “I have put a strong dose of opium in this tea, and I hope it will send him off to sleep. When he recovers I will see him.” “I think, doctor,” the constable said significantly, “it would be a good thing if you were to see him at once. You see, if things go against him, and between ourselves the case is a very ugly one, if you could get in the box and say that you saw him here, and that, in your opinion, his mind was shaken, and that as likely as not he had not been responsible for his actions from the time he left his mother's house, it might save his life.” “That is a capital idea,” Dr. Green said, “and Porson's evidence would back mine. Yes, I will go in and see him even if my visit does do him harm.” “I will move him into his new quarters first,” the officer said; “then if he drinks the tea he may, if he feels sleepy, throw himself on the bed and go off. He will be quiet and undisturbed there.” Two or three minutes later the doctor was shown into a comfortable room. A fire was burning brightly, and the tea was placed on a little tray with a new roll and a pat of butter. Ned's mood had somewhat changed. He received the doctor with a boisterous laugh. “How are you, doctor? Here I am, you see, monarch of all I survey. This is the first time you have visited me in a room which I could consider entirely my own. Not a bad place either.” “I hope you will not be here long, Ned,” Dr. Green said, humoring him. “We shall all do our best to get you out as soon as we can.” “I don't think your trying will be of much use, doctor; but what's the odds as long as you are happy!” “That's right, my boy, nothing like looking at matters cheerfully. You know, lad, how warmly all your old friends are with you. Would you like me to bring Charlie next time I come?” “No, no, doctor,” Ned said almost with a cry. “No. I have thought it over, and Charlie must not see me. It will do him harm and I shall break down. I shall have to see him at the trial--of course he must be there--that will be bad enough.” “Very well,” the doctor said quietly, “just as you like, Ned. I shall be seeing you every day, and will give him news of you. I am going to see him now.” “Tell him I am well and comfortable and jolly,” Ned said recklessly. “I will tell him you are comfortable, Ned, and I should like to tell him that you had eaten your breakfast.” “Oh, yes! Tell him that. Say I ate it voraciously.” And he swallowed down the cup of tea and took a bite at the roll. “I will tell him,” Dr. Green said. “I will come in again this evening, and will perhaps bring in with me a little medicine. You will be all the better for a soothing draught.” “I want no draughts,” Ned said. “Why should I? I am as right as ninepence.” “Very well. We will see,” the doctor said. “Now I must be going my rounds.” As soon as he had gone Ned began pacing up and down the room, as he had done the whole of the past night without intermission. Gradually, however, the powerful narcotic began to take effect. His walk became slower, his head began to droop, and at last he stumbled toward the bed in the corner of the room, threw himself heavily down, and was almost instantly sound asleep. Five minutes later the door opened quietly and Dr. Green entered. He had been listening outside the door, had noticed the change in the character of Ned's walk, and having heard the fall upon the bed, and had no fear of his rousing himself at his entrance. The boy was lying across the bed, and the doctor, who was a powerful man, lifted him gently and laid him with his head upon the pillow. He felt his pulse, and lifted his eyelid. “It was a strong dose,” he said to himself, “far stronger than I should have dared give him at any other time, but nothing less would have acted, with his brain in such an excited state. I must keep in the town today and look in from time to time and see how he is going on. It may be that I shall have to take steps to rouse him.” At the next visit Dr. Green looked somewhat anxious as he listened to the boy's breathing and saw how strongly he was under the influence of the narcotic. “Under any other circumstances,” he said to the chief constable, who had entered the room with him, “I should take strong measures to arouse him at once, but as it is I will risk it. I know it is a risk both for him and me, for a nice scrape I should get in if he slipped through my fingers; but unless he gets sleep I believe his brain will go, and anything is better than that.” “Yes, poor lad,” the officer said. “When I look at his face I confess my sympathies are all with him rather than with the man he killed.” “I don't think he killed him,” the doctor said quietly. “I am almost sure he didn't.” “You don't say so!” the chief constable said, surprised. “I had not the least doubt about it.” “No. Nobody seems to have the least doubt about it,” the doctor said bitterly. “I am almost sure that he had nothing to do with it; but if he did it it was when he was in a state of such passion that he was practically irresponsible for his actions. At any rate, I am prepared to swear that his mind is unhinged at present. I will go back now and fetch two or three books and will then sit by him. He needs watching.” For several hours the doctor sat reading by Ned's bedside. From time to time he leaned over the lad, listened to his breathing, felt his pulse, and occasionally lifted his eyelid. After one of these examinations, late in the afternoon, he rose with a sigh of relief, pulled down the blinds, gently drew the curtains, and then, taking his books, went down and noiselessly closed the door after him. “Thank God! he will do now,” he said to the chief constable; “but it has been a very near squeak, and I thought several times I should have to take immediate steps to wake him. However, the effects are passing off, and he will soon be in a natural sleep. Pray let the house be kept as quiet as possible, and let no one go near him. The chances are he will sleep quietly till morning.” The doctor called again the last thing that evening, but was told that no stir had been heard in Ned's room, and the same report met him when he came again next morning. “That is capital,” he said. “Let him sleep on. He has a long arrears to make up. I shall not be going out today; please send in directly he wakes.” “Very well,” the officer replied. “I will put a man outside his door, and the moment a move is heard I will let you know.”

14

COMMITTED FOR TRIAL

It was not until after midday that the message arrived, and Dr. Green at once went in. Ned was sitting on the side of the bed, a constable having come off with the message as soon as he heard him make the first move. “Well, Ned, how are you now?” Dr. Green asked cheerfully as he went to the window and drew back the curtains. “Had a good sleep, my boy, and feel all the better for it, I hope.” “Yes, I think I have been asleep,” Ned said in a far more natural voice than that of the previous day. “How did the curtains get drawn?” “I drew them, Ned. I looked in in the afternoon, and found you fast asleep, so I darkened the room.” “Why, what time is it now?” Ned asked. “Half past twelve, Ned.” “Half past twelve! Why, how can that be?” “Why, my boy, you have had twenty-two hours' sleep.” Ned gave an exclamation of astonishment. “You had two nights' arrears to make up for, and nature is not to be outraged in that way with impunity. I am very thankful that you had a good night, for I was really anxious about you yesterday.” “I feel rather heavy and stupid now,” Ned said, “but I am all the better for my sleep. “Let me think,” he began, looking round the room, for up till now remembrance of the past had not come back again, “what am I doing here? Oh! I remember now.” “You are here, my boy, on a charge of which I have no doubt we shall prove you innocent. Of course Porson and I and all your friends know you are innocent, but we have got to prove it to the world, and we shall want all your wits to help us. But we needn't talk about that now. The first thing for you to do is to put your head in a basin of water. By the time you have had a good wash your breakfast will be here. I told my old cook to prepare it when I came out, and as you are a favorite of hers I have no doubt it will be a good one. After you have discussed that we can talk matters over. I sent my boy down to the school just now to ask Porson to come up here in half an hour. Then we three can lay our heads together and see what are the best steps to take.” “Let me see,” Ned said thoughtfully. “Was I dreaming, or have I seen Mr. Porson since I came here?” “You are not dreaming, Ned; but the fact is, you were not quite yourself yesterday. The excitement you had gone through had been too much for you.” “It all seems a dream to me,” Ned said in a hopeless tone, “a confused, muddled sort of dream.” “Don't think about it now, Ned,” the doctor said cheerfully, “but get off your things at once, and set to and sluice your head well with water. I will be back in a quarter of an hour with the breakfast.” At the end of that time the doctor returned, his boy carrying a tray. The constable on duty took it from him, and would have carried it into Ned's room, but the doctor said: “Give it me, Walker. I will take it in myself. I don't want him to see any of you just at present. His head's in a queer state, and the less he is impressed with the fact that he is in charge the better.” Dr. Green found Ned looking all the better for his wash. The swelling of his face had now somewhat abated, but the bruises were showing out in darker colors than before; still he looked fresher and better. “Here is your breakfast, Ned, and if you don't enjoy it Jane will be terribly disappointed.” “I shall enjoy it, doctor. I feel very weak; but I do think I am hungry.” “You ought to be, Ned, seeing that you have eaten nothing for two days.” The doctor removed the cloth which covered the tray. The meal consisted of three kidneys and two eggs, and a great pile of buttered toast. The steam curled out of the spout of a dainty china teapot, and there was a small jug brimful of cream. The tears came into Ned's eyes. “Oh! how good you are, doctor!” “Nonsense, good!” the doctor said; “come, eat away, that will be the best thanks to Jane and me.” Ned needed no pressing. He ate languidly at first; but his appetite came as he went on, and he drank cup after cup of the fragrant tea, thick with cream. With the exception of one egg, he cleared the tray. “There, doctor!” he said, as he pushed back his chair; “if you are as satisfied as I am you must be contented indeed.” “I am, Ned; that meal has done us both a world of good. Ah! here is Porson, just arrived at the right moment.” “How are you, Ned?” the master asked heartily. “I am quite well, sir, thank you. Sleep and the doctor, and the doctor's cook, have done wonders for me. I hear you came yesterday, sir, but I don't seem to remember much about it.” “Yes, I was here, Ned,” Mr. Porson said, “but you were pretty well stupid from want of sleep. However, I am glad to see you quite yourself again this morning.” “And now,” the doctor said, “we three must put our heads together and see what is to be done. You understand, Ned, how matters stand, don't you?” “Yes, sir,” Ned said after a pause; “I seem to know that some one said that Mr. Mulready was dead, and some one thought that I had killed him, and then I started to come over to give myself up. Oh! yes, I remember that, and then there was an examination before the magistrates. I remember it all; but it seems just as if it had been a dream.” “Yes, that is what happened, Ned, and naturally it seems a dream to you, because you were so completely overcome by excitement and want of food and sleep that you were scarcely conscious of what was passing. Now we want you to think over quietly, as well as you can, what you did when you left home.” Ned sat for a long time without speaking. “It seems all confused,” he said at last. “I don't even remember going out of the house. I can remember his striking me in the face again and again, and then I heard my mother scream, and everything seems to have become misty. But I know I was walking about; I know that I was worrying to get at him, and that if I had met him I should have attacked him, and if I had had anything in my hand I should have killed him.” “But you don't remember doing anything, Ned? You cannot recall that you went anywhere and got a rope and fastened it across the road with the idea of upsetting his gig on the way back from the mill?” “No, sir,” Ned said decidedly; “I can't recollect anything of that at all. I am quite sure if I had done that I should remember it; for I seem to remember, now I think of it, a good deal of what I did. Yes, I went up through Varley; the lights weren't out, and I wondered what Bill would say if I were to knock at his door and he opened it and saw what a state my face was in. Then I went out on the moor, and it seems to me that I walked about for hours, and the longer I walked the more angry I was. At last--it could not have been long before morning, I think--I lay down for a time, and then when it was light I made up my mind to go over and see Abijah. I knew she would be with me. That's all I remember about it. Does my mother think I did it?” Dr. Green hesitated a moment. “Your mother is not in a state to think one way or the other, Ned; she is in such a state of grief that she hardly knows what she is saying or doing.” In fact Mrs. Mulready entertained no doubt whatever upon the subject, and had continued to speak of Ned's wickedness until Dr. Green that morning had lost all patience with her, and told her she ought to be ashamed of herself to be the first to accuse her son, and that if he was hung she would only have herself to blame for it. Ned guessed by the doctor's answer that his mother was against him. “It is curious,” he said, “she did not take on so after my father's death, and he was always kind and good to her, while this man was just the reverse.” “There's never any understanding women,” Dr. Green said testily, “and your mother is a singularly inconsequent and weak specimen of her sex. Well, Ned, and so that is all you can tell us about the way you passed that unfortunate evening. What a pity it is, to be sure, that you did not rouse up your friend Bill. His evidence would probably have cleared you at once. As it is, of course we believe your story, my boy. The question is, will the jury believe it?” “I don't seem to care much whether they do or not,” Ned said sadly, “unless we find the man who did it. Every one will think me guilty even if I am acquitted. Fancy going on living all one's life and knowing that everyone one meets is thinking to himself, 'That is the man who killed his stepfather'--it would be better to be hung at once.” “You must look at it in a more hopeful way than that, Ned,” Mr. Porson said kindly; “many will from the first believe, with us, that you are innocent. You will live it down, my boy, and sooner or later we may hope and believe that God will suffer the truth to be known. At the worst, you know you need not go on living here. The world is wide, and you can go where your story is unknown. “Do not look on the darkest side of things. And now, for the present, I have brought you down a packet of books. If I were you I would try to read--anything is better than going on thinking. You will want all your wits about you, and the less you worry your mind the better. Mr. Wakefield will represent you at the examination next week; but I do not see that there will be much for him to do, as I fear there is little doubt that you will be committed for trial, when of course we shall get the best legal assistance for you. I will tell him exactly what you have said to me, and he can then come and see you or not as he likes. I shall come in every day. I have already obtained permission from the magistrates to do so. I shall go now and see Charlie and tell him all about it. It will cheer him very much, poor boy. You may be sure he didn't think you guilty; still, your assurance that you know nothing whatever about it will be a comfort to him.” “Yes,” Ned said, “Charlie knows that I would not tell a lie to save my life, though he knows that I might possibly kill any one when I am in one of my horrible tempers; and I did think I was getting over them, Mr. Porson!” he broke out with a half sob. “I have really tried hard.” “I know you have, Ned. I am sure you have done your best, my boy, and you have been sorely tried; but, now, I must be off. Keep up your spirits, hope for the best, and pray God to strengthen you to bear whatever may be in store for you, and to clear you from this charge.” That evening when Mr. Porson was in his study the servant came in and said that a young man wished to speak to him. “Who is it, Mary?” “He says his name is Bill Swinton, sir.” “Oh! I know,” the master said; “show him in.” Bill was ushered in. “Sit down, Bill,” Mr. Porson said; “I have heard of you as a friend of Sankey's. I suppose you have come to speak to me about this terrible business?” “Ay,” Bill said, “that oi be, sir, seeing as how Ned always spake of you as a true friend, and loiked you hearty. They say too as you ha' engaged Lawyer Wakefield to defend him.” “That is so, Bill. I am convinced of the boy's innocence. He has always been a favorite of mine. He has no relations to stand by him now, poor boy, so we who are his friends must do our best for him.” “Surely,” Bill said heartily; “and dost really think as he didn't do it?” “I may say I am quite sure he did not, Bill. Didn't you think so too?” “No, sir,” Bill said; “it never entered my moind as he didn't do it. Oi heard as how t' chap beat Maister Ned cruel, and it seemed to me natural loike as he should sarve him out. Oi didn't suppose as how he meant vor to kill him, but as everyone said as how he did the job it seemed to me loike enough; but of course it didn't make no differ to oi whether so be as he killed un or not. Maister Ned's moi friend, and oi stands by him; still oi be main glad to hear as you think he didn't do it; but will the joodge believe it?” “Ah! that I cannot say,” Mr. Porson replied. “I know the lad and believe his word; but at present appearances are sadly against him. That unfortunate affair that he had with my predecessor induced a general idea that he was very violent tempered. Then it has been notorious that he and his stepfather did not get on well together, and this terrible quarrel on the evening of Mr. Mulready's death seems only too plainly to account for the affair; still, without further evidence, I question if a jury will find him guilty. It is certain he had no rope when he went out, and unless the prosecution can prove that he got possession of a rope they cannot bring the guilt home to him.” “No, surely,” Bill assented, and sat for some time without further speech; then he went on, “now, sir, what oi be come to thee about be this. Thou bee'st his friend and know'st best what 'ould be a good thing for him. Now we ha' been a-talking aboot a plan, Luke Marner and oi, as is Maister Ned's friends, and we can get plenty of chaps to join us. We supposes as arter the next toime as they has him up in coort they will send him off to York Castle to be tried at the 'sizes.” “Yes; I have no doubt he will be committed after his next appearance, Bill; but what is the plan that you and your friend Luke were thinking of?” “Well, we was a-thinking vor twenty or so on us to coom down at noight and break open t' cells. There be only t' chief constable and one other, and they wouldn't be no good agin us, and we could get Maister Ned owt and away long afore t' sojers would have toime to wake up and coom round; then we could hide un up on moor till there was toime to get un away across the seas. Luke he be pretty well bent on it, but oi says as before we did nothing oi would coom and ax thee, seeing as how thou bee'st a friend of his.” “No, Bill,” Mr. Porson said gravely. “It would not do at all, and I am glad you came to ask me. If I thought it certain that the jury would find a verdict of guilty, and that Ned, innocent as I believe him of the crime, would be hung, I should say that your plan might be worth thinking of; for in that case Ned might possibly be got away till we his friends here could get at the bottom of the matter. Still it would be an acknowledgment for the time of his guilt, and I am sure that Ned himself would not run away without standing his trial even if the doors of his cell were opened. I shall see him tomorrow morning, and will tell him of your scheme on his behalf. I am sure he will be grateful, but I am pretty certain that he will not avail himself of it. If you will come down tomorrow evening I will let you know exactly what he says.” As Mr. Porson expected, Ned, although much moved at the offer of his humble friends to free him by force, altogether declined to accept it. “It is just like Bill,” he said, “ready to get into any scrape himself to help me: but I must stand my trial. I know that even if they cannot prove me guilty I cannot prove I am innocent; still, to run away would be an acknowledgment of guilt, and I am not going to do that.” On the day appointed Ned was again brought up before the magistrates. The examination was this time in public, and the justice room was crowded. Ned, whose face was now recovering from the marks of ill usage, was pale and quiet. He listened in silence to the evidence proving the finding of Mr. Mulready's body. The next witness put into the box was one of the engineers at the factory; he proved that the rope which had been used in upsetting the gig had been cut from one which he had a short time before been using for moving a portion of the machinery. He had used the rope about an hour before Mr. Mulready came back in the evening, and it was then whole. After it had been done with it was thrown outside the mill to be out of the way, as it would not be required again. After he had given his evidence Mr. Wakefield asked: “Did you hear any one outside the mill when Mr. Mulready was there?” “No, sir; I heard nothing.” “Any one might have entered the yard, I suppose, and found the rope?” “Yes; the gates were open, as we were at work.” “Would the rope be visible to any one who entered the yard?” “It would not be seen plainly, because it was a dark night; but any one prowling about outside the mill might have stumbled against it.” “You have no reason whatever for supposing that it was Mr. Edward Sankey who cut this rope more than anyone else?” “No, sir.” Charlie was the next witness. The boy was as white as a sheet, and his eyes were swollen with crying. He glanced piteously at his brother, and exclaimed with a sob, “Oh! Ned.” “Don't mind, Charlie,” Ned said quietly. “Tell the whole story exactly as it happened. You can't do me any harm, old boy.” So encouraged Charlie told the whole story of the quarrel arising in the first place from his stepfather's ill temper at the tea table. “Your brother meant nothing specially unpleasant in calling your stepfather Foxey?” Mr. Wakefield asked. “No, sir; he had always called him so even before he knew that he was going to marry mother. It was a name, I believe, the men called him, and Ned got it from them.” “I believe that your stepfather had received threatening letters, had he not?” “Yes, sir, several; he was afraid to put his new machines to work because of them.” “Thank you, that will do,” Mr. Wakefield said. “I have those letters in my possession,” he went on to the magistrates. “They are proof that the deceased had enemies who had threatened to take his life. Shall I produce them now?” “It is hardly worth while, Mr. Wakefield, though they can be brought forward at the trial. I may say, indeed, that we have seen some of them already, for it was on account of these letters that we applied for the military to be stationed here.” It was not thought necessary to call Mrs. Mulready; but the servant gave her evidence as to what she had heard of the quarrel, and as to the absence of Ned from home that night. “Unless you are in a position to produce evidence, Mr. Wakefield, proving clearly that at the time the murder was committed the prisoner was at a distance from the spot, we are prepared to commit him for trial.” Mr. Wakefield intimated that he should reserve his evidence for the trial itself, and Ned was then formally committed. The examination in no way altered the tone of public opinion. The general opinion was that Ned had followed his stepfather to the mill, intending to attack him, that he had stumbled onto the coil of rope, and the idea occurred to him of tying it across the road and upsetting the gig on its return. Charlie's evidence as to the savage assault upon his brother had created a stronger feeling of sympathy than had before prevailed, and had the line of defense been that, smarting under his injuries, Ned had suddenly determined to injure his stepfather by upsetting the gig, but without any idea of killing him, the general opinion would have been that under such provocation as Ned had received a lengthened term of imprisonment would have been an ample punishment. More than one, indeed, were heard to say, “Well, if I were on the jury, my verdict would be, Served him right.” Still, although there was greater sympathy than before with Ned, there were few, indeed, who doubted his guilt. After Ned was removed from court he was taken back by the chief constable to his house, and ten minutes later he was summoned into the parlor, where he found Charlie and Lucy waiting him. Lucy, who was now ten years old, sprang forward to meet him; he lifted her, and for awhile she lay with her head on his shoulder and her arms round his neck, sobbing bitterly, while Charlie clung to his brother's disengaged hand. “Don't cry, Lucy, don't cry little woman; it will all come right in the end;” but Lucy's tears were not to be stanched. Ned sat down, and after a time soothed her into stillness, but she still lay nestled up in his arms. “It was dreadful, Ned,” Charlie said, “having to go into court as a witness against you. I had thought of running away, but did not know where to go to, and then Mr. Porson had a talk with me and told me that it was of the greatest importance that I should tell everything exactly word for word, just as it happened. He said every one knew there had been a quarrel, and that if I did not tell everything it would seem as if I was keeping something back in order to screen you, and that would do you a great deal of harm, and that, as really you were not to blame in the quarrel, my evidence would be in your favor rather than against you. He says he knew that you would wish me to tell exactly what took place.” “Certainly, Charlie; there is nothing I could want hid. I was wrong to speak of him as Foxey, and to let fly as I did about him; but there was nothing intended to offend him in that, because, of course, I had no idea that he could hear me. The only thing I have to blame myself very much for is for getting into a wild passion. I don't think any one would say I did wrong in going out of the house after being knocked about so; but if I had not got into a passion, and had gone straight to Bill's, or to Abijah, or to Mr. Porson, which would have been best of all, to have stopped the night, all this would not have come upon me; but I let myself get into a blind passion and stopped in it for hours, and I am being punished for it.” “It was natural that you should get in a passion,” Charlie said stoutly. “I think any one would have got in a passion.” “I don't think you would, Charlie,” Ned said, smiling. “No,” Charlie replied; “but then you see that is not my way. I should have cried all night; but then I am not a great, strong fellow like you, and it would not be so hard to be knocked about.” “It's no use making excuses, Charlie. I know I ought not to have given way to my temper like that. Now, Lucy dear, as you are feeling better, you must sit up and talk to me. How is mother?” “Mother is in bed,” Lucy said. “She's always in bed now; the house is dreadful, Ned, without you, and they say you are not to come back yet,” and the tears came very near to overflowing again. “Ah! well, I hope I shall be back before long, Lucy.” “I hope so,” Lucy said; “but you know you will soon be going away again to be a soldier.” “I shall not go away again now, Lucy,” Ned said quietly. “When I come back it will be for good.” “Oh! that will be nice,” Lucy said joyously, “just as it used to be, with no one to be cross and scold about everything.” “Hush! little woman, don't talk about that. He had his faults, dear, as we all have, but he had a great deal to worry him, and perhaps we did not make allowances enough for him, and I do think he was really fond of you, Lucy, and when people are dead we should never speak ill of them.” “I don't want to,” Lucy said, “and I didn't want him to be fond of me when he wasn't fond of you and Charlie or mother. It seems to me he wasn't fond of mother, and yet she does nothing but cry; I can't make that out, can you?” Ned did not answer; his mother's infatuation for Mr. Mulready had always been a puzzle to him, and he could at present think of no reply which would be satisfactory to Lucy. A constable now came in and said that there were other visitors waiting to see Ned. He then withdrew, leaving the lad to say goodby to his brother and sister alone. Ned kept up a brave countenance, and strove to make the parting as easy as possible for the others, but both were crying bitterly as they went out. Ned's next visitors were Dr. Green and Mr. Porson. “We have only a minute or two, my boy,” Mr. Porson said, “for the gig is at the door. The chief constable is going to drive you to York himself. You will go halfway and sleep on the road tonight. It is very good of him, as in that way no one will suspect that you are any but a pair of ordinary travelers. Keep up your spirits, my boy. We have sent to London for a detective from Bow Street to try and ferret out something of this mysterious business; and even if we do not succeed, I have every faith that it will come right in the end. And now goodby, my boy, I shall see you in a fortnight, for of course I shall come over to York to the trial to give evidence as to character.” “And so shall I, Ned, my patients must get on without me for a day or two,” the doctor said. “Mr. Wakefield is waiting to see you. He has something to tell you which may help to cheer you. He says it is of no legal value, but it seems to me important.”

15

NOT GUILTY

As soon as Mr. Porson and the doctor had left him Mr. Wakefield appeared. “Well, Sankey, I hope you are not downcast at the magistrates' decision. It was a certainty that they would have to commit you, as we could not prove a satisfactory alibi. Never mind, I don't think any jury will find against you on the evidence they have got, especially in the face of those threatening letters and the fact that several men in Mulready's position have been murdered by the Luddites.” “It won't be much consolation to me, sir, to be acquitted if it can't be proved to the satisfaction of every one that I am innocent.” “Tut, tut! my boy; the first thing to do is to get you out of the hands of the law. After that we shall have time to look about us and see if we can lay our hands on the right man. A curious thing has happened today while I was in court. A little boy left a letter for me at my office here; it is an ill-written scrawl, as you see, but certainly important.” Ned took the paper, on which was written in a scrawling hand: “Sir, Maister Sankey be innocent of the murder of Foxey. I doan't want to put my neck in a noose, but if so be as they finds him guilty in coort and be a-going to hang him, I shall come forward and say as how I did it. I bean't agoing to let him be hung for this job. A loife for a loife, saes oi; so tell him to keep up his heart.” There was no signature to the paper. Ned looked up with delight in his face. “But won't the letter clear me, Mr. Wakefield? It shows that it was not me, but some one else who did it.” “No, Sankey, pray do not cherish any false hopes on that ground. The letter is valueless in a legal way. To you and to your friends it may be a satisfaction; but it can have no effect on the court. There is nothing to prove that it is genuine. It may have been written by any friend of yours with a view of obtaining your acquittal. Of course we shall put it in at the trial, but it cannot be accepted as legal evidence in any way. Still a thing of that sort may have an effect upon some of the jury.” Ned looked again at the letter, and a shade came over his face now that he looked at it carefully. He recognized in a moment Bill's handwriting. He had himself instructed him by setting him copies at the time he was laid up with the broken leg, and Bill had stuck to it so far that he was able to read and write in a rough way. Ned's first impulse was to tell Mr. Wakefield who had written the note, but he thought that it might get Bill into a scrape. It was evidently written by his friend, solely to create an impression in his favor, and he wondered that such an idea should have entered Bill's head, which was by no means an imaginative one. As to the young fellow having killed Mr. Mulready it did not even occur to Ned for a moment. As, seated by the side of the chief constable, he drove along that afternoon, Ned turned it over anxiously in his mind whether it would be honest to allow this letter to be produced in court, knowing that it was only the device of a friend, Finally he decided to let matters take their course. “I am innocent,” he said to himself, “and what I have got to live for is to clear myself from this charge. Mr. Wakefield said this letter would not be of value one way or the other, and if I were to say Bill wrote it he might insist upon Bill's being arrested, and he might find it just as hard to prove his innocence as I do.” The assizes were to come on in three weeks. Ned was treated with more consideration than was generally the case with prisoners in those days, when the jails were terribly mismanaged; but Mr. Simmonds had written to the governor of the prison asking that every indulgence that could be granted should be shown to Ned, and Mr. Porson had also, before the lad left Marsden, insisted on his accepting a sum of money which would enable him to purchase such food and comforts as were permitted to be bought by prisoners, able to pay for them, awaiting their trial. Thus Ned obtained the boon of a separate cell, he was allowed to have books and writing materials, and to have his meals in from outside the prison. The days, however, passed but slowly, and Ned was heartily glad when the time for the assizes was at hand and his suspense was to come to an end. His case came on for trial on the second day of the sessions. On the previous evening he received a visit from Mr. Wakefield, who told him that Mr. Porson, Dr. Green and Charlie had come over in the coach with him. “You will be glad to hear that your mother will not be called,” the lawyer said. “The prosecution, I suppose, thought that it would have a bad effect to call upon a mother to give evidence against her son; besides, she could prove no more than your brother will be able to do. If they had called her, Green would have given her a certificate that she was confined to her bed and could not possibly attend. However I am glad they did not call her, for the absence of a witness called against the prisoner, but supposed to be favorable to him, always counts against him.” “And you have no clue as who did it, Mr. Wakefield?” “Not a shadow,” the lawyer replied. “We have had a man down from town ever since you have been away, but we have done no good. He went up to Varley and tried to get into the confidence of the croppers, but somehow they suspected him to be a spy sent down to inquire into the Luddite business, and he had a pretty narrow escape of his life. He was terribly knocked about before he could get out of the public house, and they chased him all the way down into Marsden. Luckily he was a pretty good runner, and had the advantage of having lighter shoes on than they had, or they would have killed him to a certainty. No, my lad, we can prove nothing; we simply take the ground that you didn't do it; that he was a threatened man and unpopular with his hands; and there is not a shadow of proof against you except the fact that he had ill treated you just before.” “And that I was known to bear him ill will,” Ned said sadly. “Yes, of course that's unfortunate,” the lawyer said uneasily. “Of course they will make a point of that, but that proves nothing. Most boys of your age do object to a stepfather. Of course we shall put it to the jury that there is nothing uncommon about that. Oh! no, I do not think they have a strong case; and Mr. Grant, who is our leader, and who is considered the best man on the circuit, is convinced we shall get a verdict.” “But what do people think at Marsden, Mr. Wakefield? Do people generally think I am guilty?” “Pooh! pooh!” Mr. Wakefield said hastily. “What does it matter what people think? Most people are fools. The question we have to concern ourselves with is what do the jury think, or at any rate with what they think is proved, and Mr. Grant says he does not believe any jury could find you guilty upon the evidence. He will work them up. I know he is a wonderful fellow for working up.” Mr. Grant's experience of juries turned out to be well founded. Ned, as he stood pale, but firm and composed in the dock, felt that his case was well nigh desperate when he heard the speech for the prosecution: his long and notorious ill will against the deceased, “one of the most genial and popular gentlemen in that part of the great county of Yorkshire,” was dwelt upon. Evidence would be brought to show that even on the occasion of his mother's marriage the happiness of the ceremonial was marred by the scowls and menacing appearance of this most unfortunate and ill conditioned lad; how some time after the marriage this young fellow had violently assaulted his stepfather, and had used words in the hearing of the servants which could only be interpreted as a threat upon his life. This indeed, was not the first time that this boy had been placed in the dock as a prisoner. Upon a former occasion he had been charged with assaulting and threatening the life of his schoolmaster, and although upon that occasion he had escaped the consequences of his conduct by what must now be considered as the ill timed leniency of the magistrates, yet the facts were undoubted and undenied. Then the counsel proceeded to narrate the circumstances of the evening up to the point when Mr. Mulready left the house. “Beyond that point, gentlemen of the jury,” the counsel said, “nothing certain is known. The rest must be mere conjecture; and yet it is not hard to imagine the facts. The prisoner was aware that the deceased had gone to the mill, which is situated a mile and a half from the town. You will be told the words which the prisoner used: 'It will be my turn next time, and when it comes I will kill you, you brute.' “With these words on his lips, with this thought in his heart, he started for the mill. What plan he intended to adopt, what form of vengeance he intended to take, it matters not, but assuredly it was with thoughts of vengeance in his heart that he followed that dark and lonely road to the mill. Once there he would have hung about waiting for his victim to issue forth. It may be that he had picked up a heavy stone, may be that he had an open knife in his hand; but while he was waiting, probably his foot struck against a coil of rope, which, as you will hear, had been carelessly thrown out a few minutes before. “Then doubtless the idea of a surer method of vengeance than that of which he had before thought came into his mind. A piece of the rope was hastily cut off, and with this the prisoner stole quietly off until he reached the spot where two gates facing each other on opposite sides of the lane afforded a suitable hold for the rope. Whether after fastening it across the road he remained at the spot to watch the catastrophe which he had brought about, or whether he hurried away into the darkness secure of his vengeance we cannot tell, nor does it matter. You will understand, gentlemen, that we are not in a position to prove these details of the tragedy. I am telling you the theory of the prosecution as to how it happened. Murders are not generally done in open day with plenty of trustworthy witnesses looking on. It is seldom that the act of slaying is witnessed by human eye. The evidence must therefore to some extent be circumstantial. The prosecution can only lay before juries the antecedent circumstances, show ill will and animus, and lead the jury step by step up to the point when the murderer and the victim meet in some spot at some time when none but the all seeing eye of God is upon them. This case is, as you see, no exception to the general rule. “I have shown you that between the prisoner and the deceased there was what may be termed a long standing feud, which came to a climax two or three hours before this murder. Up to that fatal evening I think I shall show you that the prisoner was wholly in fault, and that the deceased acted with great good temper and self command under a long series of provocations; but upon this evening his temper appears to have failed, and I will admit frankly that he seems to have committed a very outrageous and brutal assault upon the prisoner. Still, gentlemen, such an assault is no justification of the crime which took place. Unhappily it supplies the cause, but it does not supply an excuse for the crime. “Your duty in the case will be simple. You will have to say whether or not the murder of William Mulready is accounted for upon the theory which I have laid down to you and on no other. Should you entertain no doubt upon the subject it will be your duty to bring in a verdict of guilty; if you do not feel absolutely certain you will of course give the prisoner the benefit of the doubt.” The evidence called added nothing to what was known at the first examination. The two servants testified to the fact of the unpleasant relations which had from the first existed between the deceased and the prisoner, and detailed what they knew of the quarrel. Charlie's evidence was the most damaging, as he had to state the threat which Ned had uttered before he went out. The counsel for the defense asked but few questions in cross examination. He elicited from the servants, however, the fact that Mr. Mulready at home was a very different person from Mr. Mulready as known by people in general. They acknowledged that he was by no means a pleasant master, that he was irritable and fault finding, and that his temper was trying in the extreme, He only asked one or two questions of Charlie. “You did not find your stepfather a very pleasant man to deal with, did you?” “Not at all pleasant,” Charlie replied heartily. “Always snapping and snarling and finding fault, wasn't he?” “Yes, sir, always.” “Now about this threat of which we have heard so much on the part of your brother, did it impress you much? Were you frightened at it? Did you think that your brother intended to kill your stepfather?” “No, sir, I am sure he didn't; he just said it in a passion. He had been knocked about until he could hardly stand, and he just said the first thing that came into his head, like fellows do.” “You don't think that he went out with any deliberate idea of killing your stepfather?” “No, sir; I am sure he only went out to walk about till he got over his passion, just as he had done before.” “It was his way, was it, when anything put him out very much, to go and walk about till he got cool again?” “Yes, sir.” For the defense Mr. Simmonds was called, and produced the threatening letters which Mr. Mulready had laid before him. He stated that that gentleman was much alarmed, and had asked that a military force should be called into the town, and that he himself and his colleague had considered the danger so serious that they had applied for and obtained military protection. Luke Marner and several of the hands at the mill testified to the extreme unpopularity of their employer among his men, and said that they should never have been surprised any morning at hearing that he had been killed. Dr. Green and Mr. Porson testified very strongly in favor of Ned's character. This was all the evidence produced. Mr. Grant then addressed the jury, urging that beyond the fact of this unfortunate quarrel, in which the deceased appeared to have been entirely to blame and to have behaved with extreme brutality, there was nothing whatever to associate the prisoner with the crime. The young gentleman before them, as they had heard from the testimony of gentlemen of the highest respectability, bore an excellent character. That he had faults in temper he admitted, such faults being the result of the lad having been brought up among Indian servants; but Dr. Green and Mr. Porson had both told them that he had made the greatest efforts to master his temper, and that they believed that no ordinary provocation could arouse him. But after all what did what they had heard amount to? simply this, the lad's mother had been married a second time to a man who bore the outward reputation of being a pleasant, jovial man, a leading character among his townsmen, a popular fellow in the circle in which he moved. It had been proved, however, by the evidence of those who knew him best, of his workpeople, his servants, of this poor lad whom the prosecution had placed in the box as a witness against his brother, that this man's life was a long lie; that, smiling and pleasant as he appeared, he was a tyrant, a petty despot in his family, a hard master to his hands, a cruel master in his house, What wonder that between this lad and such a stepfather as this there was no love lost. There were scores, ay and thousands of boys in England who similarly hated their stepfathers, and was it to be said that, if any of the men came to a sudden and violent death, these boys were to be suspected of their murder. But in the present case, although he was not in a position to lay his finger upon the man who perpetrated this crime, they need not go far to look for him. Had they not heard that he was hated by his workpeople? Evidence had been laid before them to show that he was a marked man, that he had received threatening letters from secret associations which had, as was notorious, kept the south of Yorkshire, and indeed all that part of the country which was the seat of manufacture, in a state of alarm. So imminent was the danger considered that the magistrates had requested the aid of an armed force, and at the tame this murder was committed there were soldiers actually stationed in the mill, besides a strong force in the town for the protection of this man from his enemies. The counsel for the prosecution had given them his theory as to the actions of the prisoner, but he believed that that theory was altogether wide of the truth. It was known that an accident had taken place to the machinery, for the mill was standing idle for the day. It would be probable that the deceased would go over late in the evening to see how the work was progressing, as every effort was being made to get the machinery to run on the following morning. “What so probable, then, that the enemies of the deceased--and you know that he had enemies, who had sworn to take his life--should choose this opportunity for attacking him as he drove to or from the town. That an enemy was prowling round the mill, as has been suggested to you, I admit readily enough. That he stumbled upon the rope, that the idea occurred to him of upsetting the gig on its return, that he cut off a portion of the rope and fixed it between the two gateposts across the road, and that this rope caused the death of William Mulready. All this I allow; but I submit to you that the man who did this was a member of the secret association which is a terror to the land, and was the terror of William Mulready, and there is no proof whatever, not even the shadow not even the shadow of a proof, to connect this lad with the crime. “I am not speaking without a warrant when I assert my conviction that it was an emissary of the association known as the Luddites who had a hand in this matter, for I am in possession of a document, which unfortunately I am not in a position to place before you, as it is not legal evidence, which professes to be written by the man who perpetrated this deed, and who appears, although obedient to the behests of this secret association of which he is a member, to be yet a man not devoid of heart, who says that if this innocent young man is found guilty of this crime he will himself come forward and confess that he did it. “Therefore, gentlemen of the jury, there is every reason to believe that the slayer of William Mulready is indeed within these walls, but assuredly he is not the most unfortunate and ill treated young man who stands in the dock awaiting your verdict to set him free.” The summing up was brief. The judge commenced by telling the jury that they must dismiss altogether from their minds the document of which the counsel for the defense had spoken, and to which, as it had not been put into court, and indeed could not be put into court, it was highly irregular and improper for him to have alluded. They must, he said, dismiss it altogether from their minds. Their duty was simple, they were to consider the evidence before them. They had heard of the quarrel which had taken place between the deceased and the prisoner. They had heard the threat used by the prisoner that he would kill the deceased if he had an opportunity, and they had to decide whether he had, in accordance with the theory of the prosecution, carried that threat into effect; or whether on the other hand, as the defense suggested, the deceased had fallen a victim to the agent of the association which had threatened his life. He was bound to tell them that if they entertained any doubt as to the guilt of the prisoner at the bar they were bound to give him the benefit of the doubt. The jury consulted together for a short time and then expressed their desire to retire to consider their verdict. They were absent about half an hour and on their return the foreman said in reply to the question of the judge that they found the prisoner “Not Guilty.” A perfect silence reigned in the court when the jury entered the box, and something like a sigh of relief followed their verdict. It was expected, and indeed there was some surprise when the jury retired, for the general opinion was that whether guilty or innocent the prosecution had failed to bring home unmistakably the crime to the prisoner. That he might have committed it was certain, that he had committed it was probable, but it was assuredly not proved that he and none other had been the perpetrator of the crime. Of all the persons in the court the accused had appeared the least anxious as to the result. He received almost with indifference the assurances which Mr. Wakefield, who was sitting at the solicitor's table below him, rose to give him, that the jury could not find a verdict against him, and the expression of his face was unchanged when the foreman announced the verdict. He was at once released from the dock. His solicitor, Dr. Green, and Mr. Porson warmly shook his hand, and Charlie threw his arms round his neck and cried in his joy and excitement. “It is all right, I suppose,” Ned said as, surrounded by his friends, he left the court, “but I would just as lief the verdict had gone the other way.” “Oh! Ned, how can you say so?” Charlie exclaimed. “Well, no, Charlie,” Ned corrected himself. “I am glad for your sake and Lucy's that I am acquitted; it would have been awful for you if I had been hung--it is only for myself that I don't care. The verdict only means that they have not been able to prove me guilty, and I have got to go on living all my life knowing that I am suspected of being a murderer. It is not a nice sort of thing, you know,” and he laughed drearily. “Come, come, Ned,” Mr. Porson said cheerily, “you mustn't take too gloomy a view of it. It is natural enough that you should do so now, for you have gone through a great deal, and you are overwrought and worn out; but this will pass off, and you will find things are not as bad as you think. It is true that there may be some, not many, I hope, who will be of opinion that the verdict was like the Scotch verdict 'Not Proven,' rather than 'Not Guilty;' but I am sure the great majority will believe you innocent. You have got the doctor here on your side, and he is a host in himself. Mr. Simmonds told me when the jury were out of the court that he was convinced you were innocent, and his opinion will go a long way in Marsden, and you must hope and trust that the time will come when your innocence will be not only believed in, but proved to the satisfaction of all by the discovery of the actual murderer.” “Ah!” Ned said, “if we ever find that out it will be all right; but unless we can do so I shall have this dreadful thing hanging over me all my life.” They had scarcely reached the hotel where Mr. Porson, the doctor, and Charlie were stopping, when Mr. Simmonds arrived. “I have come to congratulate you, my boy,” he said, shaking hands with Ned. “I can see that at present the verdict does not give so much satisfaction to you as to your friends, but that is natural enough. You have been unjustly accused and have had a very hard time of it, and you are naturally not disposed to look at matters in a cheerful light; but this gives us time, my boy, and time is everything. It is hard for you that your innocence has not been fully demonstrated, but you have your life before you, and we must hope that some day you will be triumphantly vindicated.” “That is what I shall live for in future,” Ned said. “Of course now, Mr. Simmonds, there is an end of all idea of my going into the army. A man suspected of a murder, even if they have failed to bring it home to him, cannot ask for a commission in the army. I know there's an end to all that.” “No,” Mr. Simmonds agreed hesitatingly, “I fear that for the present that plan had better remain in abeyance; we can take it up again later on when this matter is put straight.” “That may be never,” Ned said decidedly, “so we need say no more about it.” “And now, my boy,” Mr. Porson said, “try and eat some lunch. I have just ordered a post chaise to be round at the door in half an hour. The sooner we start the better. The fresh air and the change will do you good, and we shall have plenty of time to talk on the road.”

16

LUKE MARNER'S SACRIFICE

Not until they had left York behind them did Ned ask after his mother. He knew that if there had been anything pleasant to tell about her he would have heard it at once, and the silence of his friends warned him that the subject was not an agreeable one. “How is my mother?” he asked at last abruptly. “Well, Ned,” Dr. Green replied, “I have been expecting your question, and I am sorry to say that I have nothing agreeable to tell you.” “That I was sure of,” Ned said with a hard laugh. “As I have received no message from her from the day I was arrested I guessed pretty well that whatever doubt other people might feel, my mother was positive that I had murdered her husband.” “The fact is, Ned,” Dr. Green said cautiously, “your mother is not at present quite accountable for her opinions. The shock which she has undergone has, I think, unhinged her mind. Worthless as I believe him to have been, this man had entirely gained her affections. She has not risen from her bed since he died. “Sometimes she is absolutely silent for hours, at others she talks incessantly; and painful as it is to tell you so, her first impression that you were responsible for his death is the one which still remains fixed on her mind. She is wholly incapable of reason or of argument. At times she appears sane and sensible enough and talks of other matters coherently; but the moment she touches on this topic she becomes excited and vehement. It has been a great comfort to me, and I am sure it will be to you, that your old servant Abijah has returned and taken up the position of housekeeper. “As soon as your mother's first excitement passed away I asked her if she would like this, and she eagerly assented. The woman was in the town, having come over on the morning after you gave yourself up, and to my great relief she at once consented to take up her former position. This is a great thing for your sister, who is, of course, entirely in her charge, as your mother is not in a condition to attend to anything. I was afraid at first that she would not remain, so indignant was she at your mother's believing your guilt; but when I assured her that the poor lady was not responsible for what she said, and that her mind was in fact unhinged altogether by the calamity, she overcame her feelings; but it is comic to see her struggling between her indignation at your mother's irresponsible talk and her consciousness that it is necessary to abstain from exciting her by contradiction.” Dr. Green had spoken as lightly as he could, but he knew how painful it must be to Ned to hear of his mother's conviction of his guilt, and how much it would add to the trials of his position. Ned himself had listened in silence. He sighed heavily when the doctor had finished. “Abijah will be a great comfort,” he said quietly, “a wonderful comfort; but as to my poor mother, it will of course be a trial. Still, no wonder that, when she heard me say those words when I went out, she thinks that I did it. However, I suppose that it is part of my punishment.” “Have you thought anything of your future plans, Ned?” Mr. Porson asked after they had driven in silence for some distance. “Yes, I have been thinking a good deal,” Ned replied, “all the time I was shut up and had nothing else to do. I did not believe that they would find me guilty, and of course I had to settle what I should do afterward. If it was only myself I think I should go away and take another name; but in that case there would be no chance of my ever clearing myself, and for father's sake and for the sake of Charlie and Lucy I must not throw away a chance of that. It would be awfully against them all their lives if people could say of them that their brother was the fellow who murdered their stepfather. Perhaps they will always say so now; still it is evidently my duty to stay, if it were only on the chance of clearing up the mystery. “In the next place I feel that I ought to stay for the sake of money matters. I don't think, in the present state of things, with the Luddites burning mills and threatening masters, any one would give anything like its real value for the mill now. I know that it did not pay with the old machinery, and it is not every one who would care to run the risk of working with the new. By the terms of the settlement that was made before my mother married again the mill is now hers, and she and Charlie and Lucy have nothing else to depend upon. As she is not capable of transacting business it falls upon me to take her place, and I intend to try, for a time at any rate, to run the mill myself. Of course I know nothing about it, but as the hands all know their work the foreman will be able to carry on the actual business of the mill till I master the details. “As to the office business, the clerk will know all about it. There was a man who used to travel about to buy wool, I know my mother's husband had every confidence in him, and he could go on just as before. As to the sales, the books will tell the names of the firms who dealt with us, and I suppose the business with them will go on as before. At any rate I can but try for a time. Of course I have quite made up my mind that I shall have no personal interest whatever in the business. They may think that I murdered Mulready, but they shall not say that I have profited by his death. I should suppose that my mother can pay me some very small salary, just sufficient to buy my clothes. So I shall go on till Charlie gets to an age when he can manage the business as its master; then if no clue has been obtained as to the murder I shall be able to give it up and go abroad, leaving him with, I hope, a good business for himself and Lucy.” “I think that is as good a plan as any,” Mr. Porson said; “but, however, there is no occasion to come to any sudden determination at present. I myself should advise a change of scene and thought before you decide anything finally. I have a brother living in London and he would, I am sure, very gladly take you in for a fortnight and show you the sights of London.” “Thank you, sir, you are very kind,” Ned said quietly; “but I have got to face it out at Marsden, and I would rather begin at once.” Mr. Porson saw by the set, steady look upon Ned's face that he had thoroughly made up his mind as to the part he had to play, and that any further argument would be of no avail. It was not until the postchaise was approaching Marsden that any further allusion was made to Ned's mother. Then the doctor, after consulting Mr. Porson by various upliftings of the eyebrows, returned to the subject. “Ned, my boy, we were speaking some little time ago of your mother. I think it is best that I should tell you frankly that I do not consider her any longer responsible for her actions. I tell you this in order that you may not be wounded by your reception. “Since that fatal day she has not left her bed. She declares that she has lost all power in her limbs. Of course that is nonsense, but the result is the same. She keeps her bed, and, as far as I can see, is likely to keep it. This is perhaps the less to be regretted, as you will thereby avoid being thrown into contact with her; for I tell you plainly such contact, in her present state of mind, could only be unpleasant to you. Were you to meet, it would probably at the least bring on a frightful attack of hysterics, which in her present state might be a serious matter. Therefore, my boy, you must make up your mind not to see her for awhile. I have talked the matter over with your old nurse, who will remain with your mother as housekeeper, with a girl under her. You will, of course, take your place as master of the house, with your brother and sister with you, until your mother is in a position to manage--if ever she should be. But I trust at any rate that she will ere long so far recover as to be able to receive you as the good son you have ever been to her.” “Thank you,” Ned said quietly. “I understand, doctor.” Ned did understand that his mother was convinced of his guilt and refused to see him; it was what he expected, and yet it was a heavy trial. Very cold and hard he looked as the postchaise drove through the streets of Marsden. People glanced at it curiously, and as they saw Ned sitting by the side of the men who were known as his champions they hurried away to spread the news that young Sankey had been acquitted. The hard look died out of Ned's face as the door opened, and Lucy sprang out and threw her arms round his neck and cried with delight at seeing him; and Abijah, crying too, greeted him inside with a motherly welcome. A feeling of relief came across his mind as he entered the sitting room. Dr. Green, who was one of the trustees in the marriage settlement, had, in the inability of Mrs. Mulready to give any orders, taken upon himself to dispose of much of the furniture, and to replace it with some of an entirely different fashion and appearance. The parlor was snug and cosy; a bright fire blazed on the hearth; a comfortable armchair stood beside it; the room looked warm and homely. Ned's two friends had followed him in, and tears stood in both their eyes. “Welcome back, dear boy!” Mr. Porson said, grasping his hand. “God grant that better times are in store for you, and that you may outlive this trial which has at present darkened your life. Now we will leave you to your brother and sister. I am sure you will be glad to be alone with them.” And so Ned took to the life he had marked out for himself. In two months he seemed to have aged years. The careless look of boyhood had altogether disappeared from his face. Except from his two friends he rejected all sympathy. When he walked through the streets of Marsden it was with a cold, stony face, as if he were wholly unaware of the existence of passersby. The thought that as he went along men drew aside to let him pass and whispered after he had gone, “That is the fellow who murdered his stepfather, but escaped because they could not bring it home to him,” was ever in his mind. His friends in vain argued with him against his thus shutting himself off from the world. They assured him that there were very many who, like themselves, were perfectly convinced of his innocence, and who would rally round him and support him if he would give them the least encouragement, but Ned shook his head. “I dare say what you say is true,” he would reply; “but I could not do it--I must go on alone. It is as much as I can bear now.” And his friends saw that it was useless to urge him further. On the day after his return to Marsden Luke Marner and Bill Swinton came back on the coach from York, and after it was dark Ned walked up to Varley and knocked at Bill's door. On hearing who it was Bill threw on his cap and came out to him. For a minute the lads stood with their hands clasped firmly in each other's without a word being spoken. “Thank God, Maister Ned,” Bill said at last, “we ha' got thee again!” “Thank God too!” Ned said; “though I think I would rather that it had gone the other way.” They walked along for some time without speaking again, and then Ned said suddenly: “Now, Bill, who is the real murderer?” Bill stopped his walk in astonishment. “The real murderer!” he repeated; “how ever should oi know, Maister Ned?” “I know that you know, Bill. It was you who wrote that letter to Mr. Wakefield saying that the man who did it would be at the trial, and that if I were found guilty he would give himself up. It's no use your denying it, for I knew your handwriting at once.” Bill was silent for some time, It had never occurred to him that this letter would be brought home to him. “Come, Bill, you must tell me,” Ned said. “Do not be afraid. I promise you that I will not use it against him. Mind, if I can bring it home to him in any other way I shall do so; but I promise you that no word shall ever pass my lips about the letter. I want to know who is the man of whose crime the world believes me guilty. The secret shall, as far as he is concerned, be just as much a secret as it was before.” “But oi dunno who is the man, Maister Ned. If oi did oi would ha' gone into the court and said so, even though oi had been sure they would ha' killed me for peaching when oi came back. Oi dunno no more than a child.” “Then you only wrote that letter to throw them on to a false scent, Bill? Who put you up to that, for I am sure it would never have occurred to you?” “No,” Bill said slowly, “oi should never ha' thought of it myself; Luke told oi what to wroit, and I wroited it.” “Oh, it was Luke! was it?” Ned said sharply. “Then the man who did it must have told him.” “Oi didn't mean to let out as it waar Luke,” Bill said in confusion; “and oi promised him solemn to say nowt about it.” “Well,” Ned said, turning sharp round and starting on his way back to the village, “I must see Luke himself.” Bill in great perplexity followed Ned, muttering: “Oh, Lor'! what ull Luke say to oi? What a fellow oi be to talk, to be sure!” Nothing further was said until they reached Luke's cottage. Ned knocked and entered at once, followed sheepishly by Bill. “Maister Ned, oi be main glad to see thee,” Luke said as he rose from his place by the fire; while Polly with a little cry, “Welcome!” dropped her work. “Thanks, Luke--thanks for coming over to York to give evidence. How are you, Polly? There! don't cry--I ain't worth crying over. At any rate, it is a satisfaction to be with three people who don't regard me as a murderer. Now, Polly, I want you to go into the other room, for I have a question which I must ask Luke, and I don't want even you to hear the answer.” Polly gathered her work together and went out. Then Ned went over to Luke, who was looking at him with surprise, and laid his hand on his shoulder. “Luke,” he said, “I want you to tell me exactly how it was that you came to tell Bill to write that letter to Mr. Wakefield?” Luke started and then looked savagely over at Bill, who stood twirling his cap in his hand. “Oi couldn't help it, Luke,” he said humbly. “Oi didn't mean vor to say it, but he got it out of me somehow. He knowed my fist on the paper, and, says he, sudden loike, 'Who war the man as murdered Foxey?' What was oi vor to say? He says at once as he knowed the idea of writing that letter would never ha' coom into my head; and so the long and short of it be, as your name slipped owt somehow, and there you be.” “Now, Luke,” Ned said soothingly, “I want to know whether there was a man who was ready to take my place in the dock had I been found guilty, and if so, who he was. I shall keep the name as a secret. I give you my word of honor. After he had promised to come forward and save my life that is the least I can do, though, as I told Bill, if I could bring it home to him in any other way I should feel myself justified in doing so. It may be that he would be willing to go across the seas, and when he is safe there to write home saying that he did it.” “Yes, oi was afraid that soom sich thawt might be in your moind, Maister Ned, but it can't be done that way. But oi doan't know,” he said thoughtfully, “perhaps it moight, arter all. Perhaps the chap as was a-coomin' forward moight take it into his head to go to Ameriky. Oi shouldn't wonder if he did, In fact, now oi thinks on't, oi am pretty sure as he will. Yes. Oi can say for sartin as that's what he intends. A loife vor a loife you know, Maister Nod, that be only fair, bean't it?” “And you think he will really go?” Ned asked eagerly. “Ay, he will go,” Luke said firmly, “it's as good as done; but,” he added slowly, “I dunno as he's got money vor to pay his passage wi'. There's some kids as have to go wi' him. He would want no more nor just the fare. But oi doan't see how he can go till he has laid that by, and in these hard toimes it ull take him some time to do that.” “I will provide the money,” Ned said eagerly. “Abijah would lend me some of her savings, and I can pay her back some day.” “Very well, Maister Ned. Oi expect as how he will take it as a loan. Moind, he will pay it hack if he lives, honest. Oi doan't think as how he bain't honest, that chap, though he did kill Foxey. Very well,” Luke went on slowly, “then the matter be as good as settled. Oi will send Bill down tomorrow, and he will see if thou canst let un have the money. A loife vor a loife, that's what oi says, Maister Ned. That be roight, bain't it?” “That's right enough, Luke,” Ned replied, “though I don't quite see what that has to do with it, except that the man who has taken this life should give his life to make amends.” “Yes, that be it, in course,” Luke replied. “Yes; just as you says, he ought vor to give his loife to make amends.” That night Ned arranged with Abijah, who was delighted to hand over her savings for the furtherance of any plan that would tend to clear Ned from the suspicion which hung over him. Bill came down next morning, and was told that a hundred pounds would be forthcoming in two days. Upon the following evening the servant came in and told Ned that a young woman wished to speak to him. He went down into the study, and, to his surprise, Mary Powlett was shown in. Her eyes were swollen with crying. “Master Ned,” she said, “I have come to say goodby.” “Good-by, Polly! Why, where are you going?” “We are all going away, sir, tomorrow across the seas, to Ameriky I believe. It's all come so sudden it seems like a dream, Feyther never spoke of such a thing afore, and now all at once we have got to start. I have run all the way down from Varley to say goodby. Feyther told me that I wasn't on no account to come down to you. Not on no account, he said. But how could I go away and know that you had thought us so strange and ungrateful as to go away without saying goodby after your dear feyther giving his life for little Jenny. I couldn't do it, sir. So when he started off to spend the evening for the last time at the 'Cow' I put on my bonnet and ran down here. I don't care if he beats me--not that he ever did beat sir, but he might now--for he was terrible stern in telling me as I wasn't to come and see you.” Ned heard her without an interruption. The truth flashed across his mind. It was Luke Marner himself who was going to America, and was going to write home to clear him. Yet surely Luke could never have done it--Luke, so different from the majority of the croppers--Luke, who had steadily refused to have anything to say to General Lud and his schemes against the masters. Mary's last words gave him a clue to the mystery--“Your dear feyther gave his life for little Jenny.” He coupled it with Luke's enigmatical words, “A loife for a loife.” For a minute or two he sat absolutely silent. Mary was hurt at the seeming indifference with which he received the news. She drew herself up a little, and said, in an altered voice, “I will say goodby, sir. I hope you won't think I was taking a liberty in thinking you would be sorry if we were all to go without your knowing it.” Ned roused himself at her words. “It is not that, Polly. It is far from being that. But I want to ask you a question. You remember the night of Mr. Mulready's murder? Do you remember whether your father was at home all that evening?” Polly opened her eyes in surprise at a question which seemed to her so irrelevant to the matter in hand; “Yes, sir,” she replied, still coldly. “I remember that night. We are not likely any of us to forget it. Feyther had not gone to the 'Cow.' He sat smoking at home. Bill had dropped in, and they sat talking of the doings of the Luddites till it was later than usual. Feyther was sorry afterward, because he said if he had been down at the 'Cow' he might have noticed by the talk if any one had an idea that anything was going to take place.” “Then he didn't go out at all that night, Polly?” “No, sir, not at all that night; and now, sir, I will say goodby.” “No, Polly, you won't, for I shall go back with you, and I don't think that you will go to America.” “I don't understand,” the girl faltered. “No, Polly, I don't suppose you do; and I have not understood till now. You will see when you get back.” “If you please,” Mary said hesitatingly, “I would rather that you would not be there when feyther comes back. Of course I shall tell him that I have been down to see you, and I know he will be very angry.” “I think I shall be able to put that straight. I can't let your father go. God knows I have few enough true friends, and I cannot spare him and you; and as for Bill Swinton, he would break his heart if you went.” “Bill's only a boy; he will get over it,” Polly said in a careless tone, but with a bright flush upon her cheek. “He is nearly as old as you are, Polly, and he is one of the best fellows in the world. I know he's not your equal in education, but a steadier, better fellow, never was.” Mary made no reply, and in another minute the two set out together for Varley. In spite of Ned's confident assurance that he would appease Luke's anger, Mary was frightened when, as they entered the cottage, she saw Luke standing moodily in front of the fire. “Oi expected this,” he said in a tone of deep bitterness. “Oi were a fool vor to think as you war different to other gals, and that you would give up your own wishes to your feyther's.” “Oh, feyther!” Polly cried, “don't speak so to me. Beat me if you like, I deserve to be beaten, but don't speak to me like that. I am ready to go anywhere you like, and to be a good daughter to you; forgive me for this once disobeying you.” “Luke, old friend,” Ned said earnestly, putting his hand on the cropper's shoulder, “don't be angry with Polly, she has done me a great service. I have learned the truth, and know what you meant now by a life for a life. You were going to sacrifice yourself for me. You were going to take upon yourself a crime which you never committed to clear me. You went to York to declare yourself the murderer of Mulready, in case I had been found guilty. You were going to emigrate to America to send home a written confession.” “Who says as how oi didn't kill Foxey?” Luke said doggedly. “If oi choose to give myself oop now who is to gainsay me?” “Mary and Bill can both gainsay you,” Ned said. “They can prove that you did not stir out of the house that night. Come, Luke, it's of no use. I feel with all my heart grateful to you for the sacrifice you were willing to make for me. I thank you as deeply and as heartily as if you had made it. It was a grand act of self sacrifice, and you must not be vexed with Polly that she has prevented you carrying it out. It would have made me very unhappy had she not done so. When I found that you were gone I should certainly have got out from Bill the truth of the matter, and when your confession came home I should have been in a position to prove that you had only made it to screen me. Besides, I cannot spare you. I have few friends, and I should be badly off indeed if the one who has proved himself the truest and best were to leave me. I am going to carry on the mill, and I must have your help. I have relied upon you to stand by me, and you must be the foreman of your department. Come, Luke, you must say you forgive Polly for opening my eyes just a little sooner than they would otherwise have been to the sacrifice you wanted to make for me.” Luke, who was sorely shaken by Mary's pitiful sobs, could resist no longer, but opened his arms, and the girl ran into them. “There, there,” he said, “don't ee go on a crying, girl; thou hasn't done no wrong, vor indeed it must have seemed to thee flying in the face of natur to go away wi' out saying goodby to Maister Ned. Well, sir, oi be main sorry as it has turned out so. Oi should ha' loiked to ha' cleared thee; but if thou won't have it oi caan't help it. Oi think thou beest wrong, but thou know'st best.” “Never mind, Luke, I shall be cleared in time, I trust,” Ned said. “I am going down to the mill tomorrow for the first time, and shall see you there. You have done me good, Luke. It is well, indeed, for a man to know that he has such a friend as you have proved yourself to be.”

17

A LONELY LIFE

The machinery had not started since the death of Mr. Mulready, the foreman having received several letters threatening his life if he ventured to use the new machinery; and the works had therefore been carried on on their old basis until something was settled as to their future management. The first few days after his return Ned spent his time in going carefully through the books with the clerk, and in making himself thoroughly acquainted with the financial part of the business. He was assisted by Mr. Porson, who came every evening to the house, and went through the accounts with him. The foreman and the men in charge of the different rooms were asked to give their opinion as to whether it was possible to reduce expenses in any way, but they were unanimous in saying that this could not be done. The pay was at present lower than in any other mill in the district, and every item of expenditure had been kept down by Mr. Mulready to the lowest point. “It is clear,” Ned said at last, “that if the mill is to be kept on we must use the new machinery. I was afraid it would be so, or he would never have taken to it and risked his life unless it had been absolutely necessary. I don't like it, for I have strong sympathies with the men, and although I am sure that in the long run the hands will benefit by the increased trade, it certainly cause great suffering at present, so if it had been possible I would gladly have let the new machinery stand idle until the feeling against it had passed away; but as I see that the mill has been running at a loss ever since prices fell, it is quite clear that we must use it at once.” The next morning Ned called the foreman into his office at the mill, and told him that he had determined to set the new machinery at work at once. “I am sorry to be obliged to do so,” he said, “as it will considerably reduce the number of hands at work; but it cannot be helped, it is either that or stopping altogether, which would be worse still for the men. Be as careful as you can in turning off the hands, and as far as possible retain all the married men with families. The only exception to that rule is young Swinton, who is to be kept on whoever goes.” That evening Luke Marner called at the house to see Ned. “Be it true, Maister Ned, as the voreman says, the new machines is to be put to work?” “It is true, Luke, I am sorry to say. I would have avoided it if possible; but I have gone into the matter with Mr. Porson, and I find I must either do that or shut up the mill altogether, which would be a good deal worse for you all. Handwork cannot compete with machinery, and the new machines will face a dozen yards of cloth while a cropper is doing one, and will do it much better and more evenly.” “That be so, surely, and it bain't no use my saying as it ain't, and it's true enough what you says, that it's better half the hands should be busy than none; but those as gets the sack won't see it, and oi fears there will be mischief. Oi don't hold with the Luddites, but oi tell ye the men be getting desperate, and oi be main sure as there will be trouble afore long. Your loife won't be safe, Maister Ned.” “I don't hold much to my life,” Ned laughed bitterly, “so the Luddites won't be able to frighten me there.” “I suppose thou wilt have some of the hands to sleep at the mill, as they do at some of the other places. If thou wilt get arms those as is at work will do their best to defend it. Cartwright has got a dozen or more sleeping in his mill.” “I will see about it,” Ned said, “but I don't think I shall do that. I don't want any men to get killed in defending our property.” “Then they will burn it, thou wilt see if they doan't,” Luke said earnestly. “I hope not, Luke. I shall do my best to prevent it anyhow.” “Oi will give ee warning if a whisper of it gets to moi ears, you may be sure, but the young uns doan't say much to us old hands, who be mostly agin them, and ov course they will say less now if oi be one of those kept on.” “We must chance it, Luke; but be sure, whatever I do I shan't let the mill be destroyed if I can help it.” And so on the Monday following the waterwheel was set going and the new machinery began to work. The number of hands at the mill was reduced by nearly one half, while the amount of cloth turned out each week was quadrupled. The machinery had all the latest improvements, and was excellently arranged. Mr. Mulready had thoroughly understood his business, and Ned soon saw that the profits under the new system of working would be fully as great as his stepfather had calculated. A very short time elapsed before threatening letters began to come in. Ned paid no heed to them, but quietly went on his way. The danger was, however, undoubted. The attitude of the Luddites had become more openly threatening. Throughout the whole of the West Riding open drilling was carried on. The mills at Marsden, Woodbottom, and Ottewells were all threatened. In answer to the appeals of the mill owners the number of troops in the district was largely increased. Infantry were stationed in Marsden, and the 10th King's Bays, the 15th Hussars, and the Scots Greys were alternately billeted in the place. The roads to Ottewells, Woodbottom, and Lugards Mill were patrolled regularly, and the whole country was excited and alarmed by constant rumors of attacks upon the mills. Ned went on his way quietly, asking for no special protection for his mill or person, seemingly indifferent to the excitement which prevailed. Except to the workmen in the mill, to the doctor, and Mr. Porson he seldom exchanged a word with any one during the day. Mr. Simmonds and several of his father's old friends had on his return made advances toward him, but he had resolutely declined to meet them. Mr. Porson and the doctor had remonstrated with him. “It is no use,” he replied. “They congratulated me on my acquittal, but I can tell by their tones that there is not one of them who thoroughly believes in his heart that I am innocent.” The only exception which Ned made was Mr. Cartwright, a mill owner at Liversedge. He had been slightly acquainted with Captain Sankey; and one day soon after Ned's return as he was walking along the street oblivious, as usual, of every one passing, Mr. Cartwright came up and placing himself in front of him, said heartily: “I congratulate you with all my heart, Sankey, on your escape from this rascally business. I knew that your innocence would be proved: I would have staked my life that your father's son never had any hand in such a black affair as this. I am heartily glad!” There was no withstanding the frank cordiality of the Yorkshireman's manner. Ned's reserve melted at once before it. “Thank you very much,” he said, returning the grasp of his hand; “but I am afraid that though I was acquitted my innocence wasn't proved, and never will be. You may think me innocent, but you will find but half a dozen people in Marsden to agree with you.” “Pooh! pooh!” Mr. Cartwright said. “You must not look at things in that light. Most men are fools, you know; never fear. We shall prove you innocent some day. I have no doubt these rascally Luddites are at the bottom of it. And now, look here, young fellow, I hear that you are going to run the mill. Of course you can't know much about it yet. Now I am an old hand and shall be happy to give you any advice in my power, both for your own sake and for that of your good father. Now I mean what I say, and I shall be hurt if you refuse. I am in here two or three times a week, and my road takes me within five hundred yards of your mill, so it will be no trouble to me to come round for half an hour as I pass, and give you a few hints until you get well into harness. There are dodges in our trade, you know, as well as in all others, and you must be put up to them if you are to keep up in the race. There is plenty of room for us all, and now that the hands are all banding themselves against us, we mill owners must stand together too.” Ned at once accepted the friendly offer, and two or three times a week Mr. Cartwright came round to the mill, went round the place with Ned, and gave him his advice as to the commercial transactions. Ned found this of inestimable benefit. Mr. Cartwright was acquainted with all the buyers in that part of Yorkshire, and was able several times to prevent Ned from entering into transactions with men willing to take advantage of his inexperience. Sometimes he went over with Mr. Cartwright to his mill at Liversedge and obtained many a useful hint there as to the management of his business. Only in the matter of having some of his hands to sleep at the mill Ned declined to act on the advice of his new friend. “No,” he said; “I am determined that I will have no lives risked in the defense of our property. It has cost us dearly enough already.” But though Ned refused to have any of his hands to sleep at the mill, he had a bed fitted up in his office, and every night at ten o'clock, after Charlie had gone to bed, he walked out to the mill and slept there: Heavy shutters were erected to all the lower windows, and bells were attached to these and to the doors, which would ring at the slightest motion. A cart one evening arrived from Huddersfield after the hands had left the mill, and under Ned's direction a number of small barrels were carried up to his office. Although three months had now elapsed since his return home he had never once seen his mother, and the knowledge that she still regarded him as the murderer of her husband greatly added to the bitterness of his life. Of an evening after Lucy had gone to bed he assisted Charlie with his lessons, and also worked for an hour with Bill Swinton, who came regularly every evening to be taught. Bill had a strong motive for self improvement. Ned had promised him that some day he should be foreman to the factory, but that before he could take such a position it would, of course, be necessary that he should be able to read and write well. But an even higher incentive was Bill's sense of his great inferiority in point of education to Polly Powlett. He entertained a deep affection for her, but he knew how she despised the rough and ignorant young fellows at Varley, and he felt that even if she loved him she would not consent to marry him unless he were in point of education in some way her equal; therefore he applied himself with all his heart to improving his education. It was no easy task, for Bill was naturally somewhat slow and heavy; but he had perseverance, which makes up for many deficiencies, and his heart being in his work he made really rapid progress. Sometimes Ned would start earlier than usual, and walk up with Bill Swinton, talking to him as they went over the subjects on which he had been working, the condition of the villagers, or the results of Bill's Sunday rambles over the moors. On arriving at Varley Ned generally went in for half an hour's talk with Luke Marner and Mary Powlett before going off for the night to sleep at the mill. With these three friends, who all were passionately convinced of his innocence, he was more at his ease than anywhere else, for at home the thought of the absent figure upstairs was a never ceasing pain. “The wind is very high tonight,” Ned said one evening as the cottage shook with a gust which swept down from the moor. “Ay, that it be,” Luke agreed; “but it is nowt to a storm oi saw when oi war a young chap on t' coast!” “I did not know you had ever been away from Varley,” Ned said, “tell me about it, Luke.” “Well, it coomed round i' this way. One of t' chaps from here had a darter who had married and gone to live nigh t' coast, and he went vor a week to see her. “Theere'd been a storm when he was there, and he told us aboot the water being all broke up into furrowes, vor all the world like a plowed field, only each ridge wur twice as high as one of our houses, and they came a moving along as fast as a horse could gallop, and when they hit the rocks vlew up into t' air as hoigh as the steeple o' Marsden church. It seemed to us as this must be a lie, and there war a lot of talk oor it, and at last vour on us made up our moinds as we would go over and see vor ourselves. “It war a longer tramp nor we had looked vor, and though we sometoimes got a lift i' a cart we was all pretty footsore when we got to the end of our journey. The village as we was bound for stood oop on t' top of a flattish hill, one side of which seemed to ha' been cut away by a knife, and when you got to the edge there you were a-standing at the end o' the world. Oi know when we got thar and stood and looked out from the top o' that wall o' rock thar warn't a word among us. “We was a noisy lot, and oi didn't think as nothing would ha' silenced a cropper; but thar we stood a-looking over at the end of the world, oi should say for five minutes, wi'out a word being spoke. Oi can see it now. There warn't a breath of wind nor a cloud i' the sky. It seemed to oi as if the sky went away as far as we could see, and then seemed to be doubled down in a line and to coom roight back agin to our feet. It joost took away our breath, and seemed somehow to bring a lump into the throat. Oi talked it over wi' the others afterward and we'd all felt just the same. “It beat us altogether, and you never see a lot of croppers so quiet and orderly as we war as we went up to t' village. Most o' t' men war away, as we arterward learned, fishing, and t' women didn't know what to make o' us, but gathered at their doors and watched us as if we had been a party o' robbers coom down to burn the place and carry 'em away. However, when we found Sally White--that war the name of the woman as had married from Varley--she went round the village and told 'em as we was a party of her friends who had joost walked across Yorkshire to ha' a lock at the sea. Another young chap, Jack Purcell war his name, as was Sally's brother, and oi, being his mate, we stopt at Sally's house. The other two got a lodging close handy. “Vor the vurst day or two vokes war shy of us, but arter that they began to see as we meant no harm. Of course they looked on us as foreigners, just as we croppers do here on anyone as cooms to Varley. Then Sally's husband coom back from sea and spoke up vor us, and that made things better, and as we war free wi' our money the fishermen took to us more koindly. “We soon found as the water warn't always smooth and blue like the sky as we had seen it at first. The wind coom on to blow the vurst night as we war thar, and the next morning the water war all tossing aboot joost as Sally's feyther had said, though not so high as he had talked on. Still the wind warn't a blowing much, as Sally pointed owt to us; in a regular storm it would be a different sort o' thing altogether. We said as we should loike to see one, as we had coom all that way o' purpose. The vorth noight arter we got there Sally's husband said: 'You be a going vor to have your wish; the wind be a getting up, and we are loike to have a big storm on the coast tomorrow.' And so it war. Oi can't tell you what it war loike, oi've tried over and over again to tell Polly, but no words as oi can speak can give any idee of it. “It war not loike anything as you can imagine. Standing down on the shore the water seemed all broke up into hills, and as if each hill was a-trying to get at you, and a-breaking itself up on the shore wi' a roar of rage when it found as it couldn't reach you. The noise war so great as you couldn't hear a man standing beside you speak to you. Not when he hallooed. One's words war blowed away. It felt somehow as if one war having a wrastle wi' a million wild beasts. They tells me as the ships at sea sometoimes floates and gets through a storm loike that; but oi doan't believe it, and shouldn't if they took their Bible oath to it, it bain't in reason. “One of them waves would ha' broaked this cottage up loike a eggshell. Oi do believes as it would ha' smashed Marsden church, and it doan't stand to reason as a ship, which is built, they tells me, of wood and plank, would stand agin waves as would knock doon a church. Arter the storm oi should ha' coom back next morning, vor I felt fairly frightened. There didn't seem no saying as to what t' water moight do next toime. We should ha' gone there and then, only Sally's husband told us as a vessel war expected in two or three days wi' a cargo of tubs and she was to run them in a creek a few miles away. “He said as loike as not there moight be a foight wi' the officers, and that being so we naterally made up our moinds vor to stop and lend un a hand. One night arter it got dark we started, and arter a tramp of two or three hours cam' to the place. It were a dark noight, and how the ship as was bringing the liquor was to foind oot the place was more nor oi could make oot. Jack he tried to explain how they did it, but oi couldn't make head nor tails on it except that when they got close they war to show a loight twice, and we war to show a loight twice if it war all roight for landing. “Oi asked what had becoom of the revenue men, and was told as a false letter had been writ saying a landing was to be made fifteen mile away. We went vorward to a place whar there war a break in the rocks, and a sort of valley ran down to the sea. There war a lot of men standing aboot, and just as we coom up thar war a movement and we hears as the loights had been shown and the vessel war running in close. Down we goes wi' the others, and soon a boat cooms ashore. As soon as she gets close the men runs out to her; the sailors hands out barrels and each man shoulders one and trudges off. We does the same and takes the kegs up to t' top, whar carts and horses was waiting for 'em. Oi went oop and down three toimes and began to think as there war moor hard work nor fun aboot it. Oi war a-going to knock off when some one says as one more trip would finish the cargo, so down oi goes again: Just when oi gets to t' bottom there war a great shouting oop at top. “'They're just too late,' a man says; 'the kegs be all safe away except this lot,' for the horses and carts had gone off the instant as they got their loads. 'Now we must run for it, for the revenue men will be as savage as may be when they voinds as they be too late.' 'Where be us to run?' says oi. 'Keep close to me, oi knows the place,' says he. “So we runs down and voinds as they had tumbled the bar'ls into t' boat again, and t' men war just pushing her off when there war a shout close to us. 'Shove, shove!' shouted the men, and oi runs into t' water loike t' rest and shooved. Then a lot o' men run up shouting, 'Stop! in the king's name!' and began vor to fire pistols. “Nateral oi wasn't a-going to be fired at for nowt, so oi clutches moi stick and goes at 'em wi' the rest, keeping close to t' chap as told me as he knew the coontry. There was a sharp foight vor a minute. Oi lays aboot me hearty and gets a crack on my ear wi' a cootlas, as they calls theer swords, as made me pretty wild. “We got the best o't. 'Coom on,' says the man to me, 'there's a lot moor on 'em a-cooming.' So oi makes off as hard as oi could arter him. He keeps straight along at t' edge o' t' water. It war soft rowing at first, vor t' place war as flat as a table, but arter running vor a vew minutes he says, 'Look owt!' Oi didn't know what to look owt vor, and down oi goes plump into t' water. Vor all at once we had coomed upon a lot o' rocks covered wi' a sort of slimy stuff, and so slippery as you could scarce keep a footing on 'em. Oi picks myself up and vollers him. By this toime, maister, oi war beginning vor to think as there warn't so mooch vun as oi had expected in this koind o' business. Oi had been working two hours loike a nigger a-carrying tubs. Oi had had moi ear pretty nigh cut off, and it smarted wi' the salt water awful. Oi war wet from head to foot and had knocked the skin off moi hands and knees when oi went down. However there warn't no toime vor to grumble. Oi vollers him till we gets to t' foot o' t' rocks, and we keeps along 'em vor aboot half a mile. “The water here coombed close oop to t' rocks, and presently we war a-walking through it. 'Be'st a going vor to drown us all?' says oi. 'We are jest there,' says he. 'Ten minutes later we couldn't ha' got along.' T' water war a-getting deeper and deeper, and t' loomps of water cooms along and well nigh took me off my feet. Oi was aboot to turn back, vor it war better, thinks oi, to be took by t' king's men than to be droonded, when he says, 'Here we be.' He climbs oop t' rocks and oi follows him. Arter climbing a short way he cooms to a hole i' rocks, joost big enough vor to squeeze through, but once inside it opened out into a big cave. A chap had struck a loight, and there war ten or twelve more on us thar. 'We had better wait another five minutes,' says one, 'to see if any more cooms along. Arter that the tide ull be too high.' “We waits, but no one else cooms; me and moi mate war t' last. Then we goes to t' back of the cave, whar t' rock sloped down lower and lower till we had to crawl along one arter t'other pretty nigh on our stomachs, like raats going into a hole. Oi wonders whar on aarth we war agoing, till at last oi found sudden as oi could stand oopright. Then two or three more torches war lighted, and we begins to climb oop some steps cut i' the face of t' rock. A rope had been fastened alongside to hold on by, which war a good job for me, vor oi should never ha' dared go oop wi'out it, vor if oi had missed my foot there warn't no saying how far oi would ha' fallen to t' bottom. At last the man avore me says, 'Here we be!' and grateful oi was, vor what wi' the crawling and the climbing, and the funk as oi was in o' falling, the swaat was a-running down me loike water. The torches war put out, and in another minute we pushes through some bushes and then we war on t' top of the cliff a hundred yards or so back from t' edge, and doon in a sort of hollow all covered thickly over wi' bushes. We stood and listened vor a moment, but no sound war to be heard. Then one on em says, 'We ha' done 'em agin. Now the sooner as we gets off to our homes the better.' Looky for me, Jack war one of the lot as had coom up through the cave. 'Coom along, Luke,' says he, 'oi be glad thou hast got out of it all roight. We must put our best foot foremost to get in afore day breaks.' So we sets off, and joost afore morning we gets back to village. As to t'other two from Varley, they never coom back agin. Oi heerd as how all as war caught war pressed for sea, and oi expect they war oot in a ship when a storm coom on, when in coorse they would be drownded. Oi started next day vor hoam, and from that day to this oi ha' never been five mile away, and what's more, oi ha' never grudged the price as they asked for brandy. It ud be cheap if it cost voive toimes as much, seeing the trouble and danger as there be in getting it ashore, to say nothing o' carrying it across the sea.” “That was an adventure, Luke,” Ned said, “and you were well out of it. I had no idea you had ever been engaged in defrauding the king's revenue. But now I must be off. I shall make straight across for the mill without going into Varley.” One night Ned had as usual gone to the mill, and having carried down the twelve barrels from the office and placed them in a pile in the center of the principal room of the mill he retired to bed. He had been asleep for some hours when he was awoke by the faint tingle of a bell. The office was over the principal entrance to the mill, and leaping from his bed he threw up the window and looked out. The night was dark, but he could see a crowd of at least two hundred men gathered in the yard. As the window was heard to open a sudden roar broke from the men, who had hitherto conducted their operations in silence. “There he be, there's the young fox; burn the mill over his head. Now to work, lads, burst in the door.” And at once a man armed with a mighty sledgehammer began to batter at the door. Ned tried to make himself heard, but his voice was lost in the roar without. Throwing on some clothes he ran rapidly downstairs and lighted several lamps in the machine room. Then he went to the door, which was already tottering under the heavy blows, shot back some of the bolts, and then took his place by the side of the pile of barrels with a pistol in his hand. In another moment the door yielded and fell with a crash, and the crowd with exultant cheers poured in. They paused surprised and irresolute at seeing Ned standing quiet and seemingly indifferent by the pile of barrels in the center of the room. “Hold!” he said in a quiet, clear voice, which sounded distinctly over the tumult. “Do not come any nearer, or it will be the worse for you. Do you know what I have got here, lads? This is powder. If you doubt it, one of you can come forward and look at this barrel with the head out by my side. Now I have only got to fire my pistol into it to blow the mill, and you with it, into the air, and I mean to do it. Of course I shall go too; but some of you with black masks over your faces, who, I suppose, live near here, may know something about me, and may know that my life is not so pleasant a one that I value it in the slightest. As far as I am concerned you might burn the mill and me with it without my lifting a finger; but this mill is the property of my mother, brother, and sister. Their living depends upon it, and I am going to defend it. Let one of you stir a single step forward and I fire this pistol into this barrel beside me.” And Ned held the pistol over the open barrel. A dead silence of astonishment and terror had fallen upon the crowd. The light was sufficient for them to see Ned's pale but determined face, and as his words came out cold and steady there was not one who doubted that he was in earnest, and that he was prepared to blow himself and them into the air if necessary. A cry of terror burst from them as he lowered the pistol to the barrel of powder. Then in wild dismay every man threw down his arms and fled, jostling each other fiercely to make their escape through the doorway from the fate which threatened them. In a few seconds the place was cleared and the assailants in full flight across the country. Ned laughed contemptuously. Then with some difficulty he lifted the broken door into its place, put some props behind it, fetched a couple of blankets from his bed, and lay down near the powder, and there slept quietly till morning. Luke and Bill Swinton were down at the factory an hour before the usual time. The assailants had for the most part come over from Huddersfield, but many of the men from Varley had been among them. The terror which Ned's attitude had inspired had been so great that the secret was less well kept than usual, and as soon as people were astir the events of the night were known to most in the village. The moment the news reached the ears of Luke and Bill they hurried down to the mill without going in as usual for their mug of beer and bit of bread and cheese at the “Brown Cow.” The sight of the shattered door at once told them that the rumors they had heard were well founded. They knocked loudly upon it. “Hullo!” Ned shouted, rousing himself from his slumbers; “who is there? What are you kicking up all this row about?” “It's oi, Maister Ned, oi and Bill, and glad oi am to hear your voice. It's true, then, they haven't hurt thee?” “Not a bit of it,” Ned said as he moved the supports of the door. “I think they got the worst of it.” “If so be as what oi ha' heard be true you may well say that, Maister Ned. Oi hear as you ha' gived 'em such a fright as they won't get over in a hurry. They say as you was a-sitting on the top of a heap of gunpowder up to the roof with a pistol in each hand.” “Not quite so terrible as that, Luke; but the effect would have been the same. Those twelve barrels of powder you see there would have blown the mill and all in it into atoms.” “Lord, Maister Ned,” Bill said, “where didst thou get that powder, and why didn't ye say nowt about it? Oi ha' seen it up in the office, now oi thinks on it. Oi wondered what them barrels piled up in a corner and covered over wi' sacking could be; but it warn't no business o' mine to ax.” “No, Bill, I did not want any of them to know about it, because these things get about, and half the effect is lost unless they come as a surprise; but I meant to do it if I had been driven to it, and if I had, King Lud would have had a lesson which he would not have forgotten in a hurry. Now, Luke, you and Bill had better help me carry them back to their usual place. I don't think they are likely to be wanted again.” “That they won't be,” Luke said confidently; “the Luddites ull never come near this mill agin, not if thou hast twenty toimes as many machines. They ha' got a froight they won't get over. They told me as how some of the chaps at Varley was so freighted that they will be a long toime afore they gets round. Oi'll go and ask tonight how that Methurdy chap, the blacksmith, be a feeling. Oi reckon he's at the bottom on it. Dang un for a mischievous rogue! Varley would ha' been quiet enough without him. Oi be wrong if oi shan't see him dangling from a gibbet one of these days, and a good riddance too.” The powder was stowed away before the hands began to arrive, all full of wonder and curiosity. They learned little at the mill, however. Ned went about the place as usual with an unchanged face, and the hands were soon at their work; but many during the day wondered how it was possible that their quiet and silent young employer should have been the hero of the desperate act of which every one had heard reports more or less exaggerated. A lad had been sent over to Marsden the first thing for some carpenters, and by nightfall a rough but strong door had been hung in place of that which had been shattered. By the next day rumor had carried the tale all over Marsden, and Ned on his return home was greeted by Charlie with: “Why, Ned, there is all sorts of talk in the place of an attack upon the mill the night before last. Why didn't you tell me about it?” “Yes, Maister Ned,” Abijah put in, “and they say as you blew up about a thousand of them.” “Yes, Abijah,” Ned said with a laugh, “and the pieces haven't come down yet.” “No! but really, Ned, what is it all about?” “There is not much to tell you, Charlie. The Luddites came and broke open the door. I had got several barrels of powder there, and when they came in I told them if they came any further I should blow the place up. That put them in a funk, and they all bolted, and I went to sleep again. That's the whole affair.” “Oh!” Charlie said in a disappointed voice, for this seemed rather tame after the thrilling reports he had heard. “Then you didn't blow up any of 'em, Maister Ned,” Abijah said doubtfully. “Not a man jack, Abijah. You see I could not very well have blown them up without going up myself too, so I thought it better to put it off for another time.” “They are very wicked, bad men,” Lucy said gravely. “Not so very wicked and bad, Lucy. You see they are almost starving, and they consider that the new machines have taken the bread out of their mouths, which is true enough. Now you know when people are starving, and have not bread for their wives and children, they are apt to get desperate. If I were to see you starving, and thought that somebody or something was keeping the bread out of your mouth, I dare say I should do something desperate.” “But it would be wrong all the same,” Lucy said doubtfully. “Yes, my dear, but it would be natural; and when human nature pulls one way, and what is right pulls the other, the human nature generally gets the best of it.” Lucy did not exactly understand, but she shook her head gravely in general dissent to Ned's view. “Why did you not tell us when you came home to breakfast yesterday?” Charlie asked. “Because I thought you were sure to hear sooner or later. I saw all the hands in the mill had got to know about it somehow or other, and I was sure it would soon get over the place; and I would rather that I could say, if any one asked me, that I had not talked about it to any one, and was in no way responsible for the absurd stories which had got about. I have been talked about enough in Marsden, goodness knows, and it is disgusting that just as I should think they must be getting tired of the subject here is something fresh for them to begin upon again.” As they were at tea the servant brought in a note which had just been left at the door. It was from Mr. Thompson, saying that in consequence of the rumors which were current in the town he should be glad to learn from Ned whether there was any foundation for them, and would therefore be obliged if he would call at eight o'clock that evening. His colleague, Mr. Simmonds, would be present. Ned gave an exclamation of disgust as he threw down the note. “Is there any answer, sir?” the servant asked. “The boy said he was to wait.” “Tell him to say to Mr. Thompson that I will be there at eight o'clock; but that--no, that will do. “It wouldn't be civil,” he said to Charlie as the door closed behind the servant, “to say that I wish to goodness he would let my affairs alone and look to his own.” When Ned reached the magistrates at the appointed hour he found that the inquiry was of a formal character. Besides the two justices, Major Browne, who commanded the troops at Marsden, was present; and the justices' clerk was there to take notes. Mr. Simmonds greeted Ned kindly, Mr. Thompson stiffly. He was one of those who had from the first been absolutely convinced that the lad had killed his stepfather. The officer, who was of course acquainted with the story, examined Ned with a close scrutiny. “Will you take a seat, Ned?” Mr. Simmonds, who was the senior magistrate, said. “We have asked you here to explain to us the meaning of certain rumors which are current in the town of an attack upon your mill.” “I will answer any questions that you may ask,” Ned said quietly, seating himself, while the magistrates' clerk dipped his pen in the ink and prepared to take notes of his statement. “Is it the case that the Luddites made an attack upon your mill the night before last?” “It is true, sir.” “Will you please state the exact circumstances.” “There is not much to tell,” Ned said quietly. “I have for some time been expecting an attack, having received many threatening letters. I have, therefore, made a habit of sleeping in the mill, and a month ago I got in twelve barrels of powder from Huddersfield. Before going to bed of a night I always pile these in the middle of the room where the looms are, which is the first as you enter. I have bells attached to the shutters and doors to give me notice of any attempt to enter. The night before last I was awoke by hearing one of them ring, and looking out of the window made out a crowd of two or three hundred men outside. They began to batter the door, so, taking a brace of pistols which I keep in readiness by my bed, I went down and took my place by the powder. When they broke down the door and entered I just told them that if they came any further I should fire my pistol into one of the barrels, the head of which I had knocked out, and, as I suppose they saw that I meant to do it, they went off. That is all I have to tell, so far as I know.” The clerk's pen ran swiftly over the paper as Ned quietly made his statement. Then there was a silence for a minute or two. “And did you really mean to carry out your threat, Mr. Sankey?” “Certainly,” Ned said. “But you would, of course, have been killed yourself.” “Naturally,” Ned said dryly; “but that would have been of no great consequence to me or any one else. As the country was lately about to take my life at its own expense it would not greatly disapprove of my doing so at my own, especially as the lesson to the Luddites would have been so wholesale a one that the services of the troops in this part of the country might have been dispensed with for some time.” “Did you recognize any of the men concerned?” “I am glad to say I did not,” Ned replied. “Some of them were masked. The others were, so far as I could see among such a crowd of faces in a not very bright light, all strangers to me.” “And you would not recognize any of them again were you to see them?” “I should not,” Ned replied. “None of them stood out prominently among the others.” “You speak, Mr. Sankey,” Mr. Thompson said, “as if your sympathies were rather on the side of these men, who would have burned your mill, and probably have murdered you, than against them.” “I do not sympathize with the measures the men are taking to obtain redress for what they regard as a grievance; but I do sympathize very deeply with the amount of suffering which they are undergoing from the introduction of machinery and the high prices of provisions; and I am not surprised that, desperate as they are, and ignorant as they are, they should be led astray by bad advice. Is there any other question that you wish to ask me?” “Nothing at present, I think,” Mr. Simmonds said after consulting his colleague by a look. “We shall, of course, forward a report of the affair to the proper authorities, and I may say that although you appear to take it in a very quiet and matter of fact way, you have evidently behaved with very great courage and coolness, and in a manner most creditable to yourself. I think, however, that you ought immediately to have made a report to us of the circumstances, in order that we might at once have determined what steps should be taken for the pursuit and apprehension of the rioters.” Ned made no reply, but rising, bowed slightly to the three gentlemen and walked quietly from the room. “A singular young fellow!” Major Browne remarked as the door closed behind him. “I don't quite know what to make of him, but I don't think he could have committed that murder. It was a cowardly business, and although I believe he might have a hand in any desperate affair, as indeed this story he has just told us shows, I would lay my life he would not do a cowardly one.” “I agree with you,” Mr. Simmonds said, “though I own that I have never been quite able to rid myself of a vague suspicion that he was guilty.” “And I believe he is so still,” Mr. Thompson said. “To me there is something almost devilish about that lad's manner.” “His manner was pleasant enough,” Mr. Simmonds said warmly, “before that affair of Mulready. He was as nice a lad as you would wish to see till his mother was fool enough to get engaged to that man, who, by the way, I never liked. No wonder his manner is queer now; so would yours be, or mine, if we were tried for murder and, though acquitted, knew there was still a general impression of our guilt.” “Yes, by Jove,” the officer said, “I should be inclined to shoot myself. You are wrong, Mr. Thompson, take my word for it. That young fellow never committed a cowardly murder. I think you told me, Mr. Simmonds, that he had intended to go into the army had it not been for this affair? Well, his majesty has lost a good officer, for that is just the sort of fellow who would lead a forlorn hope though he knew the breach was mined in a dozen places. It is a pity, a terrible pity!”

18

NED IS ATTACKED

As Ned had foreseen and resented, the affair at the mill again made him the chief topic of talk in the neighborhood, and the question of his guilt or innocence of the murder of his stepfather was again debated with as much earnestness as it had been when the murder was first committed. There was this difference, however, that whereas before he had found but few defenders, for the impression that he was guilty was almost universal, there were now many who took the other view. The one side argued that a lad who was ready to blow himself and two or three hundred men into the air was so desperate a character that he would not have been likely to hesitate a moment in taking the life of a man whom he hated, and who had certainly ill treated him. The other side insisted that one with so much cool courage would not have committed a murder in so cowardly a way as by tying a rope across the road which his enemy had to traverse. One party characterized his conduct at the mill as that of the captain of a pirate ship, the other likened it to any of the great deeds of devotion told in history--the death of Leonidas and his three hundred, or the devotion of Mutius Scaevola. Had Ned chosen now he might have gathered round himself a strong party of warm adherents, for there were many who, had they had the least encouragement, would have been glad to shake him by the hand and to show their partisanship openly and warmly; but Ned did not choose. The doctor and Mr. Porson strongly urged upon him that he should show some sort of willingness to meet the advances which many were anxious to make. “These people are all willing to admit that they have been wrong, Ned, and really anxious to atone as far as they can for their mistake in assuming that you were guilty. Now is your time, my boy; what they believe today others will believe tomorrow; it is the first step toward living it down. I always said it would come, but I hardly ventured to hope that it would come so soon.” “I can't do it, Mr. Porson; I would if I could, if only for the sake of the others; but I can't talk, and smile, and look pleasant. When a man knows that his mother lying at home thinks that he is a murderer how is he to go about like other people?” “But I have told you over and over again, Ned, that your mother is hardly responsible for her actions. She has never been a very reasonable being, and is less so than ever at present. Make an effort, my boy, and mix with others. Show yourself at the cricket match next week. You know the boys are all your firm champions, and I warrant that half the people there will flock round you and make much of you if you will but give them the chance.” But Ned could not, and did not, but went on his way as before, living as if Marsden had no existence for him, intent upon his work at the mill, and unbending only when at home with his brother and sister. His new friend, Cartwright, was, of course, one of the first to congratulate him on the escape the mill had had of destruction. “I was wondering what you would do if they came,” he said, “and was inclined to think you were a fool for not following my example and having some of your hands to sleep at the mill. Your plan was best, I am ready to allow; that is to say, it was best for any one who was ready to carry out his threat if driven to it. I shouldn't be, I tell you fairly. If the mill is attacked I shall fight and shall take my chance of being shot, but I could not blow myself up in cold blood.” “I don't suppose I could have done so either in the old times,” Ned said with a faint smile. “My blood used to be hot enough, a good deal too hot, but I don't think anything could get it up to boiling point now, so you see if this thing had to be done at all it must have been in cold blood.” “By the way, Sankey, I wish you would come over one day next week and dine with me; there will be no one else there except my daughter.” Ned hastily muttered an excuse. “Oh, that is all nonsense,” Mr. Cartwright said good humoredly; “you are not afraid of me, and you needn't be afraid of my daughter. She is only a child of fifteen, and of course takes you at my estimate, and is disposed to regard you as a remarkable mixture of the martyr and the hero, and to admire you accordingly. Pooh, pooh, lad! you can't be living like a hermit all your life; and at any rate if you make up your mind to have but a few friends you must be all the closer and more intimate with them. I know you dine with Porson and Green, and I am not going to let you keep me at arm's length; you must come, or else I shall be seriously offended.” So Ned had no resource left him, and had to consent to dine at Liversedge. Once there he often repeated the visit. With the kind and hearty manufacturer he was perfectly at home, and although at first he was uncomfortable with his daughter he gradually became at his ease with her, especially after she had driven over with her father to make friends with Lucy, and, again, a short time afterward, to carry her away for a week's visit at Liversedge. For this Ned was really grateful. Lucy's life had been a very dull one. She had no friends of her own age in Marsden, for naturally at the time of Mr. Mulready's death all intimacy with the few acquaintances they had in the place had been broken off, for few cared that their children should associate with a family among whom such a terrible tragedy had taken place. Charlie was better off, for he had his friends at school, and the boys at Porson's believed in Ned's innocence as a point of honor. In the first place, it would have been something like a reflection upon the whole school to admit the possibility of its first boy being a murderer; in the second, Ned had been generally popular among them, he was their best cricketer, the life and soul of all their games, never bullying himself and putting down all bullying among others with a strong hand. Their championship showed itself in the shape of friendship for Charlie; and at the midsummer following Mr. Mulready's death he had received invitations from many of them to stay with them during the holidays, and had indeed spent that time on a series of short visits among them. He himself would, had he had his choice, have remained at home with Ned, for he knew how lonely his brother's life was, and that his only pleasure consisted in the quiet evenings; but Ned would not hear of it. “You must go, Charlie, both for your sake and my own. The change will do you good; and if you were to stop at home and refuse to go out people would say that you were ashamed to be seen, and that you were crushed down with the weight of my guilt. You have got to keep up the honor of the family now, Charlie; I have proved a failure.” It was September now, and six months had elapsed since the death of Mr. Mulready. The getting in of the harvest had made no difference in the price of food, the general distress was as great as ever, and the people shook their heads and said that there would be bad doings when the winter with its long nights was at hand. The mill was flourishing under its new management. The goods turned out by the new machinery were of excellent quality and finish, and Ned had more orders on hand than he could execute. The profits were large, the hands well paid and contented. Ned had begged Dr. Green and the other trustees of his mother's property to allow him to devote a considerable part of the profits to assist, during the hard time of winter, the numerous hands in Varley and other villages round Marsden who were out of employment; but the trustees said they were unable to permit this. Mrs. Mulready absolutely refused to hear anything about the mill or to discuss any questions connected with money, therefore they had no resource but to allow the profits, after deducting all expenses of living, to accumulate until, at any rate, Lucy, the youngest of the children, came of age. Ned, however, was not to be easily thwarted, and he quietly reverted to the old method of giving out a large quantity of work to the men to be performed by the hand looms in their own cottages, while still keeping his new machinery fully employed. There was, indeed, a clear loss upon every yard of cloth so made, as it had, of course, to be sold at the lower prices which machinery had brought about; still the profits from the mill itself were large enough to bear the drain, and means of support would be given to a large number of families throughout the winter. Ned told Dr. Green what he had done. “You see, doctor,” he said, “this is altogether beyond your province. You and Mr. Lovejoy appointed me, as the senior representative of the family, to manage the mill. Of course I can manage it in my own way, and as long as the profits are sufficient to keep us in the position we have hitherto occupied I don't see that you have any reason to grumble.” “You are as obstinate as a mule, Ned,” the doctor said, smiling; “but I am glad enough to let you have your way so long as it is not clearly my duty to thwart you; and indeed I don't know how those poor people at Varley and at some of the other villages would get through the winter without some such help.” “I am very glad I hit upon the plan. I got Luke Marner to draw up a list of all the men who had families depending upon them; but indeed I find that I have been able to set pretty nearly all the looms in the neighborhood at work, and of course that will give employment to the spinners and croppers. I have made a close calculation, and find that with the profit the mill is making I shall just be able to clear our household expenses this winter, after selling at a loss all the cloth that can be made in the looms round.” “At any rate, Ned,” the doctor said, “your plan will be a relief to me in one way. Hitherto I have never gone to bed at night without an expectation of being awakened with the news that you have been shot on your way out to the mill at night. The fellows you frightened away last month must have a strong grudge against you in addition to their enmity against you as an employer. You will be safe enough in future, and can leave the mill to take care of itself at night if you like. You will have the blessings of all the poor fellows in the neighborhood, and may henceforth go where you will by night or day without the slightest risk of danger.” “You are right, no doubt,” Ned said, “though that did not enter my mind. When I took the step my only fear was that by helping them for a time I might be injuring them in the future. Hand weaving, spinning, and cropping are doomed. Nothing can save them, and the sooner the men learn this and take to other means of gaining a livelihood the better. Still the prices that I can give are of course very low, just enough to keep them from starvation, and we must hope that ere long new mills will be erected in which the present hand workers will gradually find employment.” Hardly less warm than the satisfaction that the announcement that Sankey was about to give out work to all the hand looms excited in the villages round Marsden, was that which Abijah felt at the news. Hitherto she had kept to herself the disapprobation which she felt at Ned's using the new machinery. She had seen in her own village the sufferings that had been caused by the change, and her sympathies were wholly with the Luddites, except of course when they attempted anything against the life and property of her boy. Strong in the prejudices of the class among whom she had been born and reared, she looked upon the new machinery as an invention of the evil one to ruin the working classes, and had been deeply grieved at Ned's adoption of its use. Nothing but the trouble in which he was could have compelled her to keep her opinion on the subject to herself. “I am main glad, Maister Ned. I b'lieve now as we may find out about that other affair. I never had no hope before, it warn't likely as things would come about as you wanted, when you was a-flying in the face of providence by driving poor folks to starvation with them noisy engines of yours; it warn't likely, and I felt as it was wrong to hope for it. I said my prayers every night, but it wasn't reasonable to expect a answer as long as that mill was a-grinding men to powder.” “I don't think it was as bad as all that, Abijah. In another ten years there will be twice as many hands employed as ever there were, and there is no saying how large the trade may not grow.” Abijah shook her head as if to imply her belief that an enlargement of trade by means of these new machines would be clearly flying in the face of providence, however, she was too pleased at the news that hand work was to be resumed in the district to care about arguing the question. Even the invalid upstairs took a feeble interest in the matter when Abijah told her that Master Ned had arranged to give work to scores of starving people through the winter. As a rule Abijah never mentioned his name to her mistress, for it was always the signal for a flood of tears, and caused an excitement and agitation which did not calm down for hours; but lately she had noticed that her mistress began to take a greater interest in the details she gave her of what was passing outside. She spoke more cheerfully when Lucy brought in her work and sat by her bedside, and she had even exerted herself sufficiently to get up two or three times and lie upon the sofa in her room. It was Charlie who, full of the news, had rushed in to tell her about Ned's defense at the mill. She had made no comment whatever, but her face had flushed and her lips trembled, and she had been very silent and quiet all that day. Altogether Abijah thought that she was mending, and Dr. Green was of the same opinion. Although the setting to work of the hand looms and spindles relieved the dire pressure of want immediately about Marsden, in other parts things were worse than ever that winter, and the military were kept busy by the many threatening letters which were received by the mill owners from King Lud. One day Mr. Cartwright entered Ned's office at the mill. “Have you heard the news, Sankey?” “No, I have heard no news in particular.” “Horsfall has been shot.” “You don't say so!” Ned exclaimed. “Yes, he has been threatened again and again. He was over at Huddersfield yesterday afternoon; he started from the 'George' on his way back at half past five. It seems that his friend Eastwood, of Slaithwaite, knowing how often his life had been threatened, offered to ride back with him, and though Horsfall laughed at the offer and rode off alone, Eastwood had his horse saddled and rode after him, but unfortunately did not overtake him. “About six o'clock Horsfall pulled up his horse at the Warren House Inn at Crossland Moor. There he gave a glass of liquor to two of his old work people who happened to be outside, drank a glass of rum and water as he sat in the saddle, and then rode off. A farmer named Parr was riding about a hundred and fifty yards behind him. As Horsfall came abreast of a plantation Parr noticed four men stooping behind a wall, and then saw two puffs of smoke shoot out. Horsfall's horse started round at the flash, and he fell forward on his saddle. “Parr galloped up, and jumping off caught him as he was falling. Horsfall could just say who he was and ask to be taken to his brother's house, which was near at hand. There were lots of people in the road, for it was market day in Huddersfield, you know, and the folks were on their way home, so he was soon put in a cart and taken back to the Warren House. It was found that both balls had struck him, one in the right side and one in the left thigh. I hear he is still alive this morning, but cannot live out the day.” “That is a bad business, indeed,” Ned said. “It is, indeed. Horsfall was a fine, generous, high spirited fellow, but he was specially obnoxious to the Luddites, whose doings he was always denouncing in the most violent way. Whose turn will it be next, I wonder? The success of this attempt is sure to encourage them, and we may expect to hear of some more bad doings. Of course there will be a reward offered for the apprehension of the murderers. A laborer saw them as they were hurrying away from the plantation, and says he should know them again if he saw them; but these fellows hang together so that I doubt if we shall ever find them out.” After Mr. Cartwright had gone Ned told Luke what had happened. “I hope, Luke, that none of the Varley people have had a hand in this business?” “Oi hoape not,” Luke said slowly, “but ther bain't no saying; oi hears little enough of what be going on. Oi was never much in the way of hearing, but now as I am head of the room, and all the hands here are known to be well contented, oi hears less nor ever. Still matters get talked over at the 'Cow.' Oi hears it said as many of the lads in the village has been wishing to leave King Lud since the work was put out, but they have had messages as how any man turning traitor would be put out of the way. It's been somewhat like that from the first, and more nor half of them as has joined has done so because they was afeared to stand out. They ain't tried to put the screw on us old hands, but most of the young uns has been forced into joining. “Bill has had a hard toime of it to stand out. He has partly managed because of his saying as how he has been sich good friends with you that he could not join to take part against the maisters; part, as oi hears, because his two brothers, who been in the thick of it from the first, has stuck up agin Bill being forced into it. Oi wish as we could get that blacksmith out of t' village; he be at the bottom of it all, and there's nowt would please me more than to hear as the constables had laid their hands on him. Oi hear as how he is more violent than ever at that meeting house. Of course he never mentions names or says anything direct, but he holds forth agin traitors as falls away after putting their hands to the plow, and as forsakes the cause of their starving brethren because their own stomachs is full.” “I wish we could stop him,” Ned said thoughtfully. “I might get a constable sent up to be present at the meetings, but the constables here are too well known, and if you were to get one from another place the sight of a stranger there would be so unusual that it would put him on his guard at once. Besides, as you say, it would be very difficult to prove that his expressions applied to the Luddites, although every one may understand what he means. One must have clear evidence in such a case. However, I hope we shall catch him tripping one of these days. These are the fellows who ought to be punished, not the poor ignorant men who are led away by them.” The feeling of gratitude and respect with which Ned was regarded by the workpeople of his district, owing to his action regarding the hand frames, did something toward lightening the load caused by the suspicion which still rested upon him. Although he still avoided all intercourse with those of his own station, he no longer felt the pressure so acutely. The hard, set expression of his face softened somewhat, and though he was still strangely quiet and reserved in his manner toward those with whom his business necessarily brought him in contact, he no longer felt absolutely cut off from the rest of his kind. Ned had continued his practice of occasionally walking up with Bill Swinton to Varley on his way to the mill. There was now little fear of an attempt upon his life by the hands in his neighborhood; but since the failure on the mill he had incurred the special enmity of the men who had come from a distance on that occasion, and he knew that any night he might be waylaid and shot by them. It was therefore safer to go round by Varley than by the direct road. One evening when he had been chatting rather later than usual at Luke Marner's, Luke said: “Oi think there's something i' t' wind. Oi heerd at t' Cow this evening that there are some straangers i' the village. They're at t' Dog. Oi thinks there's soom sort ov a council there. Oi heers as they be from Huddersfield, which be the headquarters o' General Lud in this part. However, maister, oi doan't think as there's any fear of another attack on thy mill; they war too badly scaared t'other noight vor to try that again.” When Ned got up to go Bill Swinton as usual put on his cap to accompany him, as he always walked across the moor with him until they came to the path leading down to the back of the mill, this being the road taken by the hands from Varley coming and going from work. When they had started a minute or two George, who had been sitting by the fire listening to the talk, got up and stretched himself preparatory to going to bed, and said in his usual slow way: “Oi wonders what they be a-doing tonoight. Twice while ye ha' been a-talking oi ha' seen a chap a-looking in at t' window.” “Thou hast!” Luke exclaimed, starting up. “Dang thee, thou young fool! Why didn't say so afore? Oi will hoide thee when oi comes back rarely! Polly, do thou run into Gardiner's, and Hoskings', and Burt's; tell 'em to cotch up a stick and to roon for their loives across t' moor toward t' mill. And do thou, Jarge, roon into Sykes' and Wilmot's and tell 'em the same; and be quick if thou would save thy skin. Tell 'em t' maister be loike to be attacked.” Catching up a heavy stick Luke hurried off, running into two cottages near and bringing on two more of the mill hands with him. He was nearly across the moor when they heard the sound of a shot. Luke, who was running at the top of his speed, gave a hoarse cry as of one who had received a mortal wound. Two shots followed in quick succession. A minute later Luke was dashing down the hollow through which the path ran down from the moor. Now he made out a group of moving figures and heard the sounds of conflict. His breath was coming in short gasps, his teeth were set; fast as he was running, he groaned that his limbs would carry him no faster. It was scarce two minutes from the time when the first shot was fired, but it seemed ages to him before he dashed into the group of men, knocking down two by the impetus of his rush. He was but just in time. A figure lay prostrate on the turf; another standing over him had just been beaten to his knee. But he sprang up again at Luke's onward rush. His assailants for a moment drew back. “Thou'rt joist in toime, Luke,” Bill panted out. “Oi war well nigh done.” “Be t' maister shot?” “No, nowt but a clip wi' a stick.” As the words passed between them the assailants again rushed forward with curses and execrations upon those who stood between them and their victim. “Moind, Luke, they ha' got knoives!” Bill exclaimed. “Oi ha' got more nor one slash already.” Luke and Bill fought vigorously, but they were overmatched. Anger and fear for Ned's safety nerved Luke's arm, the weight of the last twenty years seemed to drop off him, and he felt himself again the sturdy young cropper who could hold his own against any in the village. But he had not yet got back his breath, and was panting heavily. The assailants, six in number, were active and vigorous young men; and Bill, who was streaming with blood from several wounds, could only fight on the defensive. Luke then gave a short cry of relief as the two men who had started with him, but whom he had left behind from the speed which his intense eagerness had given him, ran up but a short minute after he had himself arrived and ranged themselves by him. The assailants hesitated now. “Ye'd best be off,” Luke said; “there ull be a score more here in a minute.” With oaths of disappointment and rage the assailants fell back and were about to make off when one of them exclaimed: “Ye must carry Tom off wi' thee. It ull never do to let un lay here.” The men gathered round a dark figure lying a few yards away. Four of them lifted it by the hands and feet, and then they hurried away across the moor. As they did so Bill Swinton with a sigh fell across Ned's body. In two or three minutes four more men, accompanied by George and Polly, whose anxiety would not let her stay behind, hurried up. Luke and his companions had raised Ned and Bill into a sitting posture. “Are they killed, feyther?” Polly cried as she ran up breathless to them. “Noa, lass; oi think as t' maister be only stunned, and Bill ha' fainted from loss o' blood. But oi doan't know how bad he be hurted yet. We had best carry 'em back to t' house; we can't see to do nowt here.” “Best let them stay here, feyther, till we can stop the bleeding. Moving would set the wounds off worse.” “Perhaps you are right, Polly. Jarge, do thou run back to t' house as hard as thou canst go. Loight t' lanterns and bring 'em along, wi' a can o' cold water.” Although the boy ran to the village and back at the top of his speed the time seemed long indeed to those who were waiting. When he returned they set to work at once to examine the injuries. Ned appeared to have received but one blow. The blood was slowly welling from a wound at the back of his head. “That war maade by a leaded stick, oi guess,” Luke said; “it's cut through his hat, and must pretty nigh ha' cracked his skool. One of you bathe un wi' the water while we looks arter Bill.” Polly gave an exclamation of horror as the light fell upon Bill Swinton. He was covered with blood. A clean cut extended from the top of the ear to the point of the chin, another from the left shoulder to the breast, while a third gash behind had cut through to the bone of the shoulder blade. “Never moind t' water, lass,” Luke said as Polly with trembling hands was about to wash the blood from the cut on the face, “the bluid won't do un no harm--thou must stop t' bleeding.” Polly tore three or four long strips from the bottom of her dress. While she was doing so one of the men by Luke's directions took the lantern and gathered some short dry moss from the side of the slope, and laid it in a ridge on the gaping wound. Then Luke with Polly's assistance tightly bandaged Bill's head, winding the strips from the back of the head round to the chin, and again across the temples and jaw. Luke took out his knife and cut off the coat and shirt from the arms and shoulder, and in the same way bandaged up the other two wounds. After George had started to fetch the lantern, Luke had at Polly's suggestion sent two men back to the village, and these had now returned with doors they had taken off the hinges. When Bill's wounds were bandaged he and Ned were placed on the doors, Ned giving a faint groan as he was moved. “That's roight,” Luke said encouragingly; “he be a-cooming round.” Two coats were wrapped up and placed under their heads, and they were then lifted and carried off, Polly hurrying on ahead to make up the fire and get hot water. “Say nowt to no one,” Luke said as he started. “Till t' master cooms round there ain't no saying what he'd loike done. Maybe he won't have nowt said aboot it.” The water was already hot when the party reached the cottage; the blood was carefully washed off Ned's head, and a great swelling with an ugly gash running across was shown. Cold water was dashed in his face, and with a gasp he opened his eyes. “It be all roight, Maister Ned,” Luke said soothingly; “it be all over now, and you be among vriends. Ye've had an ugly one on the back o' thy head, but I dowt thou wilt do rarely now.” Ned looked round vaguely, then a look of intelligence came into his face. “Where is Bill?” he asked. “He be hurted sorely, but oi think it be only loss o' blood, and he will coom round again; best lie still a few minutes, maister, thou wilt feel better then; Polly, she be tending Bill.” In a few minutes Ned was able to sit up; a drink of cold brandy and water further restored him. He went to the bed on which Bill had been placed. “He's not dead?” he asked with a gasp, as he saw the white face enveloped in bandages. “No, surelie,” Luke replied cheerfully; “he be a long way from dead yet, oi hoape, though he be badly cut about.” “Have you sent for the doctor?” Ned asked. “No!” “Then send for Dr. Green at once, and tell him from me to come up here instantly.” Ned sat down in a chair for a few minutes, for he was still dazed and stupid; but his brain was gradually clearing. Presently he looked up at the men who were still standing silently near the door. “I have no doubt,” he said, “that I have to thank you all for saving my life, but at present I do not know how it has all come about. I will see you tomorrow. But unless it has already got known, please say nothing about this. I don't want it talked about--at any rate until we see how Bill gets on. “Now, Luke,” he continued, when the men had gone, “tell me all about it. My brain is in a whirl, and I can hardly think.” Luke related the incidents of the fight and the flight of the assailants, and said that they had carried off a dead man with them. Ned sat for some time in silence. “Yes,” he said at last, “I shot one. I was walking along with Bill when suddenly a gun was fired from a bush close by; then a number of men jumped up and rushed upon us. I had my pistol, and had just time to fire two shots. I saw one man go straight down, and then they were upon us. They shouted to Bill to get out of the way, but he went at them like a lion. I don't think any of the others had guns; at any rate they only attacked us with sticks and knives. I fought with my back to Bill as well as I could, and we were keeping them off, till suddenly I don't remember any more.” “One on them hit ye from behind wi' a loaded stick,” Luke said, “and thou must ha' gone doon like a felled ox; then oi expects as Bill stood across thee and kept them off as well as he could, but they war too much for t' lad; beside that cut on the head he ha' one on shoulder and one behind. Oi war only joost in toime, another quarter of a minute and they'd ha' got their knives into thee.” “Poor old Bill,” Ned said sadly, going up to the bedside and laying his hand on the unconscious figure. “I fear you have given your life to save one of little value to myself or any one else.” “Don't say that, Master Ned,” Polly said softly; “you cannot say what your life may be as yet, and if so be that Bill is to die, and God grant it isn't so, he himself would not think his life thrown away if it were given to save yours.” But few words were spoken in the cottage until Dr. Green arrived. Ned's head was aching so that he was forced to lie down. Polly from time to time moistened Bill's lips with a few drops of brandy. George had been ordered off to bed, and Luke sat gazing at the fire, wishing that there was something he could do. At last the doctor arrived; the messenger had told him the nature of the case, and he had come provided with lint, plaster, and bandages. “Well, Ned,” he asked as he came in, “have you been in the wars again?” “I am all right, doctor. I had a knock on the head which a day or two will put right; but I fear Bill is very seriously hurt.” The doctor at once set to to examine the bandages. “You have done them up very well,” he said approvingly; “but the blood is still oozing from them. I must dress them afresh; get me plenty of hot water, Polly, I have brought a sponge with me. Can you look on without fainting?” “I don't think I shall faint, sir,” Polly said quietly; “if I do, feyther will take my place.” In a quarter of an hour the wounds were washed, drawn together, and bandaged. There was but little fresh bleeding, for the lad's stock of life blood had nearly all flowed away. “A very near case,” the doctor said critically; “as close a shave as ever I saw. Had the wound on the face been a quarter of an inch nearer the eyebrow it would have severed the temporal artery. As it is it has merely laid open the jaw. Neither of the other wounds are serious, though they might very well have been fatal.” “Then you think he will get round, doctor?” Ned asked in a low tone. “Get round! Of course he will,” Dr. Green replied cheerily. “Now that we have got him bound up we will soon bring him round. It is only a question of loss of blood.” “Hullo! this will never do,” he broke off as Ned suddenly reeled and would have fallen to the ground had not Luke caught him. “Pour this cordial down Swinton's throat, Polly, a little at a time, and lift his head as you do it, and when you see him open his eyes, put a pillow under his head; but don't do so till he begins to come round. Now let me look at Ned's head. “It must have been a tremendous blow, Luke,” he said seriously. “I, only hope it hasn't fractured the skull. However, all this swelling and suffusion of blood is a good sign. Give me that hot water. I shall put a lancet in here and get it to bleed freely. That will be a relief to him.” While he was doing this an exclamation of pleasure from Polly showed that Bill was showing signs of returning to life. His eyes presently opened. Polly bent over him. “Lie quiet, Bill, dear; you have been hurt, but the doctor says you will soon be well again. Yes; Master Ned is all right too. Don't worry yourself about him.” An hour later both were sleeping quietly. “They will sleep till morning,” Dr. Green said, “perhaps well on into the day; it is no use my waiting any longer. I will be up the first thing.” So he drove away, while Polly took her work and sat down to watch the sleepers during the night, and Luke, taking his stick and hat, set off to guard the mill till daylight. Ned woke first just as daylight was breaking; he felt stupid and heavy, with a splitting pain in his head. He tried to rise, but found that he could not do so. He accordingly told George to go down in an hour's time to Marsden, and to leave a message at the house saying that he was detained and should not be back to breakfast, and that probably he might not return that night. The doctor kept his head enveloped in wet bandages all day, and he was on the following morning able to go down to Marsden, although still terribly pale and shaken. His appearance excited the liveliest wonder and commiseration on the part of Charlie, Lucy, and Abijah; but he told them that he had had an accident, and had got a nasty knock on the back of his head. He kept his room for a day or two; but at the end of that time he was able to go to the mill as usual. Bill Swinton was longer away, but broths and jellies soon built up his strength again, and in three weeks he was able to resume work, although it was long before the ugly scar on his face was healed. The secret was well kept, and although in time the truth of the affair became known in Varley it never reached Marsden, and Ned escaped the talk and comment which it would have excited had it been known, and, what was worse, the official inquiry which would have followed. The Huddersfield men naturally kept their own council. They had hastily buried their dead comrade on the moor, and although several of them were so severely knocked about that they were unable to go to work for some time, no rumor of the affair got about outside the circle of the conspirators. It need hardly be said that this incident drew Ned and Bill even more closely together than before, and that the former henceforth regarded Bill Swinton in the light of a brother. At the end of the Christmas holidays Mr. Porson brought home a mistress to the schoolhouse. She was a bright, pleasant woman, and having heard from her husband all the particulars of Ned's case she did her best to make him feel that she fully shared in her husband's welcome whenever he came to the house, and although Ned was some little time in accustoming himself to the presence of one whom he had at first regarded as an intruder in the little circle of his friends, this feeling wore away under the influence of her cordiality and kindness. “Is it not shocking,” she said to her husband one day, “to think that for nearly a year that poor lad should never have seen his own mother, though she is in the house with him, still worse to know that she thinks him a murderer? Do you think it would be of any good if I were to go and see her, and tell her how wicked and wrong her conduct is?” “No, my dear,” Mr. Porson said, smiling, “I don't think that course would be at all likely to have a good effect. Green tells me that he is sure that this conviction which she has of Ned's guilt is a deep and terrible grief to her. He thinks that, weak and silly as she is, she has really a strong affection for Ned, as well as for her other children, and it is because this is so that she feels so terribly what she believes to be his guilt. She suffers in her way just as much, or more, than he does in his. He has his business, which occupies his mind and prevents him from brooding over his position; besides, the knowledge that a few of us are perfectly convinced of his innocence enables him to hold up. She has no distraction, nothing to turn her thoughts from this fatal subject. “Green says she has several times asked him whether a person could be tried twice for the same offense, after he has been acquitted the first time, and he believes that the fear is ever present in her mind that some fresh evidence may be forthcoming which may unmistakably bring the guilt home to him. I have talked it over with Ned several times, and he now takes the same view of it as I do. The idea of his guilt has become a sort of monomania with her, and nothing save the most clear and convincing proof of his innocence would have any effect upon her mind. If that is ever forthcoming she may recover, and the two may be brought together again. At the same time I think that you might very well call upon her, introducing yourself by saying that as I was a friend of Captain Sankey's and of her sons you were desirous of making her acquaintance, especially as you heard that she was such an invalid. She has no friends whatever. She was never a very popular woman, and the line every one knows she has taken in reference to the murder of her second husband has set those who would otherwise have been inclined to be kind against her. Other people may be convinced of Ned's guilt, but you see it seems to every one to be shocking that a mother should take part against her son.” Accordingly Mrs. Porson called. On the first occasion when she did so Mrs. Mulready sent down to say that she was sorry she could not see her, but that the state of her health did not permit her to receive visitors. Mrs. Porson, however, was not to be discouraged. First she made friends with Lucy, and when she knew that the girl was sure to have spoken pleasantly of her to her mother she opened a correspondence with Mrs. Mulready. At first she only wrote to ask that Lucy might be allowed to come and spend the day with her. Her next letter was on the subject of Lucy's music. The girl had long gone to a day school kept by a lady in Marsden, but her music had been neglected, and Mrs. Porson wrote to say that she found that Lucy had a taste for music, and that having been herself well taught she should be happy to give her lessons twice a week, and that if Mrs. Mulready felt well enough to see her she would like to have a little chat with her on the subject. This broke the ice. Lucy's backwardness in music had long been a grievance with her mother, who, as she lay in bed and listened to the girl practicing below had fretted over the thought that she could obtain no good teacher for her in Marsden. Mrs. Porson's offer was therefore too tempting to be refused, and as it was necessary to appear to reciprocate the kindness of that lady, she determined to make an effort to receive her. The meeting went off well. Having once made the effort Mrs. Mulready found, to her surprise, that it was pleasant to her after being cut off for so many months from all intercourse with the world, except such as she gained from the doctor, her two children, and the old servant, to be chatting with her visitor, who exerted herself to the utmost to make herself agreeable. The talk was at first confined to the ostensible subject of Mrs. Porson's visit; but after that was satisfactorily arranged the conversation turned to Marsden and the neighborhood. Many people had called upon Mrs. Porson, and as all of them were more or less known to Mrs. Mulready, her visitor asked her many questions concerning them, and the invalid was soon gossiping cheerfully over the family histories and personal peculiarities of her neighbors. “You have done me a world of good,” she said when Mrs. Porson rose to leave. “I never see any one but the doctor, and he is the worst person in the world for a gossip. He ought to know everything, but somehow he seems to know nothing. You will come again, won't you? It will be a real kindness, and you have taken so much interest in my daughter that it quite seems to me as if you were an old friend.” And so the visit was repeated: but not too often, for Mrs. Porson knew that it was better that her patient should wait and long for her coming, and now that the ice was once broken, Mrs. Mulready soon came to look forward with eagerness to these changes in her monotonous existence. For some time Ned's name was never mentioned between them. Then one day Mrs. Porson, in a careless manner, as if she had no idea whatever of the state of the relations between mother and son, mentioned that Ned had been at their house the previous evening, saying: “My husband has a wonderful liking and respect for your son; they are the greatest friends, though of course there is a good deal of difference in age between them. I don't know any one of whom John thinks so highly.” Mrs. Mulready turned very pale, and then in a constrained voice said: “Mr. Porson has always been very kind to my sons.” Then she sighed deeply and changed the subject of conversation. “Your wife is doing my patient a great deal more good than I have ever been able to do,” Dr. Green said one day to the schoolmaster. “She has become quite a different woman in the last five or six weeks. She is always up and on the sofa now when I call, and I notice that she begins to take pains with her dress again; and that, you know, is always a first rate sign with a woman. I think she would be able to go downstairs again soon, were it not for her feeling about Ned. She would not meet him, I am sure. You don't see any signs of a change in that quarter, I suppose?” “No,” Mrs. Porson replied. “The last time I mentioned his name she said: 'My son is a most unfortunate young man, and the subject pains me too much to discuss. Therefore, if you please, Mrs. Porson, I would rather leave it alone.' So I am afraid there is no chance of my making any progress there.”

19

THE ATTACK ON CARTWRIGHT'S MILL

Ned still slept at the mill. He was sure that there was no chance of a renewal of the attack by the workpeople near, but an assault might be again organized by parties from a distance. The murder of Mr. Horsfall had caused greater vigilance than ever among the military. At some of the mills the use of the new machinery had been discontinued and cropping by hand resumed. This was the case at the mills at Ottewells and Bankbottom, both of which belonged to Messrs. Abraham & John Horsfall, the father and uncle of the murdered man, and at other mills in the neighborhood. Mr. Cartwright and some of the other owners still continued the use of the new machinery. One night Ned had just gone to bed when he was startled by the ringing of the bell. He leaped from his bed. He hesitated to go to the window, as it was likely enough that men might be lying in wait to shoot him when he appeared. Seizing his pistols, therefore, he hurried down below. A continued knocking was going on at the front entrance. It was not, however, the noisy din which would be made by a party trying to force their way in, but rather the persistent call of one trying to attract attention. “Who is there?” he shouted through the door; “and what do you want?” “Open the door, please. It is I, Polly Powlett,” a voice replied. “I want to speak to you particularly, sir. “I have come down, sir,” she said as Ned threw open the door and she entered, still panting from her long run, “to tell you that Cartwright's mill is going to be attacked. I think some of the Varley men are concerned in it. Anyhow, the news has got about in the village. Feyther and Bill are both watched, and could not get away to give you the news; but feyther told me, and I slipped out at the back door and made my way round by the moor, for they have got a guard on the road to prevent any one passing. There is no time to spare, for they were to join a party from Longroyd Bridge, at ten o'clock at the steeple in Sir George Armitage's fields, which ain't more than three miles from the mill. It's half past ten now, but maybe they will be late. I couldn't get away before, and indeed feyther only learned the particulars just as I started. He told me to come straight to you, as you would know what to do. I said, 'Should I go and fetch the troops?' but he said No--it would be sure to be found out who had brought them, and our lives wouldn't be worth having. But I don't mind risking it, sir, if you think that's the best plan.” “No, Polly; on no account. You have risked quite enough in coming to tell me. I will go straight to Cartwright's. Do you get back as quickly as you can, and get in the same way you came. Be very careful that no one sees you.” So saying he dashed upstairs, pulled on his shoes, and then started at full speed for Liversedge. As he ran he calculated the probabilities of his being there in time. Had the men started exactly at the hour named they would be by this time attacking the mill; but it was not likely that they would be punctual--some of the hands would be sure to be late. There would be discussion and delay before starting. They might well be half an hour after the time named before they left the steeple, as the obelisk in Sir George Armitage's field was called by the country people. He might be in time yet, but it would be a close thing; and had his own life depended upon the result Ned could not have run more swiftly. He had hopes that as he went he might have come across a cavalry patrol and sent them to Marsden and Ottewells to bring up aid; but the road was quiet and deserted. Once or twice he paused for an instant, thinking he heard the sound of distant musketry. He held his breath, but no sound could he hear save the heavy thumping of his own heart. His hopes rose as he neared Liversedge. He was close now, but as he ran into the yard he heard a confused murmur and the dull tramping of many feet. He had won the race, but by a few seconds only. The great stone built building lay hushed in quiet; he could see its outline against the sky, and could even make out the great alarm bell which had recently been erected above the roof. He ran up to the doorway and knocked heavily. The deep barking of a dog within instantly resounded through the building. Half a minute later Mr. Cartwright's voice within demanded who was there. “It is I, Ned Sankey--open at once. The Luddites are upon you!” The bolts were hastily undrawn, and Ned rushed in and assisted to fasten the door behind him. “They will be here in a minute,” he panted out. “They are just behind.” The noise had already roused the ten men who slept in the building; five of these were Mr. Cartwright's workmen, the other five were soldiers. Hastily they threw on their clothes and seized their arms; but they were scarcely ready when a roar of musketry was heard, mingled with a clatter of falling glass, nearly every pane in the lower windows being smashed by the discharge of slugs, buckshot and bullets. This was followed by the thundering noise of a score of sledge hammers at the principal entrance and the side doors. Mr. Cartwright and one of his workmen ran to the bell rope, and in a moment its iron tongue was clanging out its summons for assistance to the country round. A roar of fury broke from the Luddites; many of them fired at the bell in hopes of cutting the rope, and the men plied their hammers more furiously than before. But the doors were tremendously strong and were backed with plates of iron. The defenders were not idle; all had their allotted places at the windows, and from these a steady return was kept up in answer to the scattering fire without. Ned had caught up the gun which Mr. Cartwright had laid down when he ran to the bell rope, and with it he kept up a steady fire at the dark figures below. There was a shout of “Bring up Enoch!” This was a name given to the exceedingly heavy hammers at that time used in the Yorkshire smithies. They were manufactured by the firm of Enoch & James Taylor, of Marsden, and were popularly known among the men by the name of their maker. A powerful smith now advanced with one of these heavy weapons and began to pound at the door, which, heavy as it was, shook under his blows. Ned, regardless of the fire of the Luddites, leaned far out of the window so as to be able to aim down at the group round the door, and fired. The gun was loaded with a heavy charge of buckshot. He heard a hoarse shout of pain and rage, and the hammer dropped to the ground. Another man caught up the hammer and the thundering din recommenced. Mr. Cartwright had now joined Ned, leaving his workmen to continue to pull the bell rope. “You had better come down, Sankey. The door must give way ere long; we must make a stand there. If they once break in, it will soon be all up with us.” Calling together three or four of the soldiers the manufacturer hurried down to the door. They were none too soon. The panels had already been splintered to pieces and the iron plates driven from their bolts by the tremendous blows of the hammer, but the stout bar still stood. Through the yawning holes in the upper part of the door the hammermen could be seen at work without. Five guns flashed out, and yells and heavy falls told that the discharge had taken serious effect. The hammering ceased, for the men could not face the fire. Leaving Ned and one of the soldiers there, Mr. Cartwright hurried round to the other doors, but the assault had been less determined there and they still resisted; then he went upstairs and renewed the firing from the upper windows. The fight had now continued for twenty minutes, and the fire of the Luddites was slackening; their supply of powder and ball was running short. The determined resistance, when they had hoped to have effected an easy entrance by surprise, had discouraged them; several had fallen and more were wounded, and at any time the soldiers might be upon them. Those who had been forced by fear to join the association--and these formed no small part of the whole--had long since begun to slink away quietly in the darkness, and the others now began to follow them. The groans and cries of the wounded men added to their discomfiture, and many eagerly seized the excuse of carrying these away to withdraw from the fight. Gradually the firing ceased, and a shout of triumph rose from the little party in the mill at the failure of the attack. The defenders gathered in the lower floor. “I think they are all gone now,” Ned said. “Shall we go out, Mr. Cartwright, and see what we can do for the wounded? There are several of them lying round the door and near the windows. I can hear them groaning.” “No, Ned,” Mr. Cartwright said firmly, “they must wait a little longer. The others may still be hiding close ready to make a rush if we come out; besides, it would likely enough be said of us that we went out and killed the wounded; we must wait awhile.” Presently a voice was heard shouting without: “Are you all right, Cartwright?” “Yes,” the manufacturer replied. “Who are you?” The questioner proved to be a friend who lived the other side of Liversedge, and who had been aroused by the ringing of the alarm bell. He had not ventured to approach until the firing had ceased, and had then come on to see the issue. Hearing that the rioters had all departed, Mr. Cartwright ordered the door to be opened. The wounded Luddites were lifted and carried into the mill, and Mr. Cartwright sent at once for the nearest surgeon, who was speedily upon the spot. Long before he arrived the hussars had ridden up, and had been dispatched over the country in search of the rioters, of whom, save the dead and wounded, no signs were visible. As day dawned the destruction which had been wrought was clearly visible. The doors were in splinters, the lower window frames were all smashed in, scarce a pane of glass remained in its place throughout the whole building, the stonework was dotted and splashed with bullet marks, the angles of the windows were chipped and broken, there were dark patches of blood in many places in the courtyard, and the yard itself and the roads leading from the mill were strewn with guns, picks, levers, hammers, and pikes, which had been thrown away by the discomfited rioters in their retreat. “They have had a lesson for once,” Mr. Cartwright said as he looked round, “they won't attack my mill again in a hurry. I need not say, Sankey, how deeply I am obliged to you for your timely warning. How did you get to know of it?” Ned related the story of his being awakened by Mary Powlett. He added, “I don't think, after all, my warning was of much use to you. You could have kept them out anyhow.” “I don't think so,” Mr. Cartwright said. “I imagine that your arrival upset all their plans; they were so close behind you that they must have heard the knocking and the door open and close. The appearance of lights in the mill and the barking of the dog, would, at any rate, have told them that we were on the alert, and seeing that they ran on and opened fire I have no doubt that their plan was to have stolen quietly up to the windows and commenced an attack upon these in several places, and had they done this they would probably have forced an entrance before we could have got together to resist them. No, my lad, you and that girl have saved the mill between you.” “You will not mention, Mr. Cartwright, to any one how I learned the news. The girl's life would not be safe were it known that she brought me word of the intention of the Luddites.” “You may rely on me for that; and now, if you please, we will go off home at once and get some breakfast. Amy may have heard of the attack and will be in a rare fright until she gets news of me.” Mr. Cartwright's house was about a mile from the mill. When they arrived there it was still closed and quiet, and it was evident that no alarm had been excited. Mr. Cartwright's knocking soon roused the servants, and a few minutes later Amy hurried down. “What is it, papa? What brings you back so early? it is only seven o'clock now. How do you do, Mr. Sankey? Why, papa, how dirty and black you both look! What have you been doing? And, oh, papa! you have got blood on your hands!” “It is not my own, my dear, and you need not be frightened. The attack on the mill has come at last and we have given the Luddites a handsome thrashing. The danger is all over now, for I do not think the mill is ever likely to be attacked again. But I will tell you all about it presently; run and get breakfast ready as soon as you can, for we are as hungry as hunters, I can tell you. We will go and have a wash, and will be ready in ten minutes.” “We can't be ready in ten minutes, papa, for the fires are not lighted yet, but we will be as quick as we can; and do please make haste and come and tell me all about this dreadful business.” In half an hour the party were seated at breakfast. Amy had already been told the incidents of the fight, and trembled as she heard how nearly the rioters had burst their way into the mill, and was deeply grateful to Ned for the timely warning which had frustrated the plans of the rioters. In vain did the soldiers scour the country. The Luddites on their retreat had scattered to their villages, the main body returning to Huddersfield and appearing at their work as usual in the morning. Large rewards were offered for information which would lead to the apprehension of any concerned in the attack, but these, as well as the notices offering two thousand pounds for the apprehension of the murderers of Mr. Horsfall, met with no responses. Scores of men must have known who were concerned in these affairs, but either fidelity to the cause or fear of the consequences of treachery kept them silent. Mr. Cartwright was anxious to offer a handsome reward to Mary Powlett for the service she had rendered him, but Ned told him that he was sure she would not accept anything. Mr. Cartwright, however, insisting on the point, Ned saw Mary and sounded her upon the subject. She was indignant at the idea. “No, Master Ned,” she said, “I would not take money, not ever so. I came down to tell you because I thought it wicked and wrong of the men to destroy the mill, and because they would no doubt have murdered Mr. Cartwright and the people there; but I would not take money for doing it. Even if nobody ever got to know of it, it would always seem to me as if I had sold the hands, and they have suffered enough, God knows.” “I don't think Mr. Cartwright thought of offering you money. I told him that I was sure that you wouldn't take it, but he hoped that he might be able to do something for you in some other way.” “No, thank you, sir,” Mary said with quiet dignity; “there isn't any way that I could take anything for doing what I did.” “Well, Mary, we won't say anything more about it. I only spoke, you know, because Mr. Cartwright insisted, and, of course, as he did not know you he could not tell how different you were from other girls. There is no suspicion, I hope, that you were away from the village?” “No, sir, I don't think so. Two of the men sat here talking with feyther till past eleven o'clock, but they thought that I was in bed, as I had said goodnight and had gone into my room an hour before, and I did not see any one about in the village as I came back over the moor behind.” “None of the hands belonging to the village are missing, I hope, Mary. I was glad to find that none of them were among the killed and wounded round the mill.” “No, sir, except that John Stukeley has not been about since. The smithy was not opened the next morning and the chapel was closed yesterday. They say as he has been taken suddenly ill, but feyther thinks that perhaps he was wounded. Of course men don't speak much before feyther, and I don't talk much to the other women of the village, so we don't know what's going on; anyhow the doctor has not been here to see him, and if he had been only ill I should think they would have had Dr. Green up. Old Sarah James is nursing him. I saw her this morning going to the shop and asked her how he was; she only said it was no business of mine. But she doesn't like me because sometimes I nurse people when they are ill, and she thinks it takes money from her; and so it does, but what can I do if people like me to sit by them better than her? and no wonder, for she is very deaf and horribly dirty.” “I don't think they are to be blamed, Polly,” Ned said, smiling. “If I were ill I should certainly like you to nurse me a great deal better than that bad tempered old woman.” The attack on Cartwright's mill made a great sensation through that part of the country. It was the most determined effort which the Luddites had yet made, and although it showed their determination to carry matters to an extremity, it also showed that a few determined men could successfully resist their attacks. Nothing else was talked about at Marsden, and as Mr. Cartwright everywhere said that the success of the resistance was due entirely to the upsetting of the plans of the rioters by the warning Ned had given him, the latter gained great credit in the eyes of all the peaceful inhabitants. But as it would make Ned still more obnoxious to the Luddites, Major Browne insisted on placing six soldiers permanently at the mill and on four accompanying him as an escort whenever he went backward or forward. Ned was very averse to these measures, but the magistrates agreed with Major Browne as to the danger of assassination to which Ned was exposed from the anger of the croppers at his having twice thwarted their attempts, and he the more readily agreed as the presence of this guard soothed the fears which Charlie and Lucy felt for his safety whenever he was absent from the town. What perhaps most influenced him was a conversation which he had with Mrs. Porson. “Your mother was speaking of you to me today, Ned,” she said; “it is the first time she has done so since I made her acquaintance. She began by saying, 'Please, Mrs. Porson, tell me all about this attack on George Cartwright's mill; Abijah and Lucy have been talking about it, but Abijah always gets confused in her stories, and of course Lucy knows only what she is told. I should like to know all about it.' Of course I told her the whole story, and how much Mr. Cartwright says he is indebted to you for the warning you brought him, and how every one is speaking in praise of your conduct, and what a good effect it has had. “I told her that of course the Luddites would be very much incensed against you and that it was adding to the risks that you already ran. She lay on the sofa quietly with her eyes shut all the time I was speaking. I could see her color come and go, and some tears fell down her cheeks; then she said in a tone which she tried to make hard and careless, but which really trembled, 'The military ought to put a guard over my son. Why does he go risking his life for other people? What business is it of his whether Cartwright's mill is burned or not?' I said that Mr. Cartwright had been very kind to you, and that I knew that you were much attached to him. I also said that the military were anxious that you should have an escort to and from the mill, but that you objected. I said that I was afraid that your life had not much value in your own eyes, for that it was by no means a happy one. 'It has value in other people's eyes,' she said irritably, 'in Lucy's and in his brother's. What would they do if he was to throw it away? Who would look after the mill and business then? He has no right to run such risks, Mrs. Porson, no right at all. Of course he is unhappy. People who let their tempers master them and do things are sure to be unhappy, and make other people unhappy, too; but that is no reason that he should cause more unhappiness by risking his own life needlessly, so, Mrs. Porson, please talk to your husband and tell him to make my son have an escort. I know he always listens to Mr. Porson.'” “Naturally my mother is anxious, for the sake of Charlie and Lucy, that I should live to carry on the mill until Charlie is old enough to run it himself,” Ned said bitterly. “I do not think that it is only that, Ned,” Mrs. Porson said kindly. “That was only the excuse that your mother made. I could see that she was deeply moved. I believe, Ned, that at heart she still loves you dearly. She has this unhappy fixed idea in her mind that you killed her husband, and believing this she cannot bear to see you; but I am sure she is most unhappy, most deeply to be pitied. I cannot imagine anything more dreadful than the state of mind of a woman who believes that a son of hers has murdered her husband. I think that if you quite realized what her feelings must be you would feel a little less bitter than you do. “I know, Ned, how much you have to try you, but I am sure that I would not exchange your position for that of your mother. Her pain must be far greater than yours. You know that you are innocent, and hope that some day you may be able to prove it. She thinks she knows that you are guilty, and is in constant dread that something may occur that may prove your guilt to the world.” “Perhaps you are right, Mrs. Porson,” Ned said wearily; “at any rate I will put up with the nuisance of this escort. I suppose it will not be for very long, for I expect that we shall not hear very much more of the Luddites. The failures upon Cartwright's mill and mine must have disheartened them, and the big rewards that are offered to any one who will come forward and betray the rest must make them horribly uncomfortable, for no one can be sure that some one may not be tempted to turn traitor.” “What is the matter with Bill?” Ned asked Luke Marner that afternoon. “I see he is away.” “Yes, sir, he be a-sitting with John Stukeley, who they say is main bad. It seems as how he has taken a fancy to t' lad, though why he should oi dunno, for Bill had nowt to do wi' his lot. Perhaps he thinks now as Bill were right and he were wrong; perhaps it only is as if Bill ha' got a name in the village of being a soft hearted chap, allus ready to sit up at noight wi' any one as is ill. Anyhow he sent last noight to ask him to go and sit wi' him, and Bill sent me word this morning as how he couldn't leave the man.” “Do you know what is the matter with him?” “I dunno for certain, Maister Ned, but I has my suspicions.” “So have I, Luke. I believe he got a gunshot wound in that affair at the mill.” Luke nodded significantly. “Dr. Green ought to see him,” Ned said. “A gunshot wound is not a thing to be trifled with.” “The doctor ha' been up twice a day on the last three e days,” Luke replied. “Oi suppose they got frighted and were obliged to call him in.” “They had better have done so at first,” Ned said; “they might have been quite sure that he would say nothing about it to the magistrates whatever was the matter with Stukeley. I thought that fellow would get into mischief before he had done.” “It war a bad day for the village when he coomed,” Luke said; “what wi' his preachings and his talk, he ha' turned the place upside down. I doan't say as Varley had ever a good name, or was a place where a quiet chap would have chosen to live, For fighting and drink there weren't a worse place in all Yorkshire, but there weren't no downright mischief till he came. Oi wur afraid vor a bit when he came a-hanging aboot Polly, as the gal might ha' took to him, for he can talk smooth and has had edication, and Polly thinks a wonderful lot of that. Oi were main glad when she sent him aboot his business.” “Well, there is one thing, Luke; if anything happens to him it will put an end to this Luddite business at Varley. Such a lesson as that in their midst would do more to convince them of the danger of their goings on than any amount of argument and advice.” “It will that,” Luke said. “Oi hear as they are all moighty down in the mouth over that affair at Cartwright's. If they could not win there, when they were thirty to one, what chance can they have o' stopping the mills? Oi consider as how that has been the best noight's work as ha' been done in Yorkshire for years and years. There ain't a-been anything else talked of in Varley since. I ha' heard a score of guesses as to how you found owt what was a-going on in toime to get to the mill--thank God there ain't one as suspects as our Polly brought you the news. My own boys doan't know, and ain't a-going to; not as they would say a word as would harm Polly for worlds, but as they gets a bit bigger and takes to drink, there's no saying what mightn't slip out when they are in liquor. So you and oi and Bill be the only ones as ull ever know the ins and outs o' that there business.”

20

CLEARED AT LAST.

The night was a wild one. The weather had changed suddenly, and the rain beat fiercely in the faces of the hands as they made their way back from the mill up to Varley. As the night came on the storm increased. The wind as it swept across the moor swirled down into the hollow in which Varley stood, as if it would scoop the houses out of their foundations, and the drops of rain were driven against roof and wall with the force of hailstones. Bill Swinton was sitting up again with John Stukeley, and as he bent over the sick man's bed and tenderly lifted his head while he held a cup with some cooling drink to his lips, the contrast between his broad, powerful figure, and his face, marked with the characteristics alike of good temper, kindness, and a resolute will, and the thin, emaciated invalid was very striking. Stukeley's face was without a vestige of color; his eyes were hollow and surrounded by dark circles; his cheeks were of an ashen gray pallor, which deepened almost to a lead color round his lips. “Thou ought'st not to talk so much, John,” Bill was saying. “Thou know'st the doctor said thou must not excite thyself.” “It makes no difference, Bill, no difference at all, talk or not talk. What does it matter? I am dying, and he knows it, and I know it--so do you. That bit of lead in my body has done its work. Strange, isn't it, that you should be here nursing me when I have thought of shooting you a score of times? A year ago it seemed absurd that Polly Powlett should like a boy like you better than a man like me, and yet I was sure it was because of you she would have nothing to say to me; but she was right, you will make the best husband of the two. I suppose it's because of that I sent for you. I was very fond of Polly, Bill, and when I felt that I was going, and there wasn't any use my being jealous any longer, I seemed to turn to you. I knew you would come, for you have been always ready to do a kindness to a chap who was down. You are different to the other lads here. I do believe you are fond of reading. Whenever you think I am asleep you take up your book.” “Oi am trying to improve myself,” Bill said quietly. “Maister Sankey put me in the roight way. He gives me an hour, and sometimes two, every evening. He has been wonderful kind to me, he has; there ain't nothing oi wouldn't do for him.” The sick man moved uneasily. “No more wouldn't Luke and Polly,” Bill went on. “His father gived his loife, you know, for little Jenny. No, there ain't nowt we wouldn't do for him,” he continued, glad to turn the subject from that of Stukeley's affection for Polly. “He be one of the best of maisters. Oi would give my life's blood if so be as oi could clear him of that business of Mulready's.” For a minute or two not a word was said. The wind roared round the building, and in the intervals of the gusts the high clock in the corner of the room ticked steadily and solemnly as if distinctly intimating that its movements were not to be hurried by the commotion without. Stukeley had closed his eyes, and Bill began to hope that he was going to doze off, when he asked suddenly; “Bill, do you know who sent that letter that was read at the trial--I mean the one from the chap as said he done it, and was ready to give himself up if the boy was found guilty?” Bill did not answer. “You can tell me, if you know,” Stukeley said impatiently. “You don't suppose as I am going to tell now! Maybe I shan't see any one to tell this side of the grave, for I doubt as I shall see the morning. Who wrote it?” “I wrote it,” Bill said; “but it warn't me as was coming forward, it war Luke's idee fust. He made up his moind as to own up as it was he as did it and to be hung for it to save Maister Ned, acause the captain lost his loife for little Jenny.” “But he didn't do it,” Stukeley said sharply. “No, he didn't do it,” Bill replied. There was a silence again for a long time; then Stukeley opened his eyes suddenly. “Bill, I should like to see Polly again. Dost think as she will come and say goodby?” “Oi am sure as she will,” Bill said steadily. “Shall oi go and fetch her?” “It's a wild night to ask a gal to come out on such an errand,” Stukeley said doubtfully. “Polly won't mind that,” Bill replied confidently. “She will just wrap her shawl round her head and come over. Oi will run across and fetch her. Oi will not be gone three minutes.” In little more than that time Bill returned with Mary Powlett. “I am awfully sorry to hear you are so bad, John,” the girl said frankly. “I am dying, Polly; I know that, or I wouldn't have sent for ye. It was a good day for you when you said no to what I asked you.” “Never mind that now, John; that's all past and gone.” “Ay, that's all past and gone. I only wanted to say as I wish you well, Polly, and I hope you will be happy, and I am pretty nigh sure of it. Bill here tells me that you set your heart on having young Sankey cleared of that business as was against him. Is that so?” “That is so, John; he has been very kind to us all, to feyther and all of us. He is a good master to his men, and has kept many a mouth full this winter as would have been short of food without him; but why do you ask me?” “Just a fancy of mine, gal, such a fancy as comes into the head of a man at the last. When you get back send Luke here. It is late and maybe he has gone to bed, but tell him I must speak to him. And now, goodby, Polly. God bless you! I don't know as I hasn't been wrong about all this business, but it didn't seem so to me afore. Just try and think that, will you, when you hear about it. I thought as I was a-acting for the good of the men.” “I will always remember that,” Polly said gently. Then she took the thin hand of the man in hers, glanced at Bill as if she would ask his approval, and reading acquiescence in his eyes she stooped over the bed and kissed Stukeley's forehead. Then without a word she left the cottage and hurried away through the darkness. A few minutes later Luke Marner came in, and to Bill's surprise Stukeley asked him to leave the room. In five minutes Luke came out again. “Go in to him, Bill,” he said hoarsely. “Oi think he be a-sinking. For God's sake keep him up. Give him that wine and broath stuff as thou canst. Keep him going till oi coom back again; thou doan't know what depends on it.” Hurrying back to his cottage Luke threw on a thick coat, and to the astonishment of Polly announced that he was going down into Marsden. “What! on such a night as this, feyther?” “Ay, lass, and would if it were ten toimes wurse. Get ye into thy room, and go down on thy knees, and pray God to keep John Stukeley alive and clear headed till oi coomes back again.” It was many years since Luke Marner's legs had carried him so fast as they now did into Marsden. The driving rain and hail which beat against him seemed unheeded as he ran down the hill at the top of his speed. He stopped at the doctor's and went in. Two or three minutes after the arrival of this late visitor Dr. Green's housekeeper was astonished at hearing the bell ring violently. On answering the bell she was ordered to arouse John, who had already gone to bed, and to tell him to put the horse into the gig instantly. “Not on such a night as this, doctor! sureley you are not a-going out on such a night as this!” “Hold your tongue, woman, and do as you are told instantly,” the doctor said with far greater spirit than usual, for his housekeeper was, as a general thing, mistress of the establishment. With an air of greatly offended dignity she retired to carry out his orders. Three minutes later the doctor ran out of his room as he heard the man servant descending the stairs. “John,” he said, “I am going on at once to Mr. Thompson's; bring the gig round there. I shan't want you to go further with me. Hurry up, man, and don't lose a moment--it is a matter of life and death.” A quarter of an hour later Dr. Green, with Mr. Thompson by his side, drove off through the tempest toward Varley. The next morning, as Ned was at breakfast, the doctor was announced. “What a pestilently early hour you breakfast at, Ned! I was not in bed till three o'clock, and I scarcely seemed to have been asleep an hour when I was obliged to get up to be in time to catch you before you were off.” “That is hard on you indeed, doctor,” Ned said, smiling; “but why this haste? Have you got some patient for whom you want my help? You need not have got up so early for that, you know. You could have ordered anything you wanted for him in my name. You might have been sure I should have honored the bill. But what made you so late last night? You were surely never out in such a gale!” “I was, Ned, and strange as it seems I never went in answer to a call which gave me so much satisfaction. My dear lad, I hardly know how to tell you. I have a piece of news for you; the greatest, the best news that man could have to tell you.” Ned drew a long breath and the color left his cheeks. “You don't mean, doctor, you can't mean”--and he paused. “That you are cleared, my boy. Yes; that is my news. Thank God, Ned, your innocence is proved.” Ned could not speak. For a minute he sat silent and motionless. Then he bent forward and covered his face with his hands, and his lips moved as he murmured a deep thanksgiving to God for this mercy, while Lucy and Charlie, with cries of surprise and delight, leaped from the table, and when Ned rose to his feet, threw their arms round his neck with enthusiastic delight; while the doctor wrung his hand, and then, taking out his pocket handkerchief, wiped his eyes, violently declaring, as he did so, that he was an old fool. “Tell me all about it, doctor. How has it happened? What has brought it about?” “Luke Marner came down to me at ten o'clock last night to tell me that John Stukeley was dying, which I knew very well, for when I saw him in the afternoon I saw he was sinking fast; but he told me, too, that the man was anxious to sign a declaration before a magistrate to the effect that it was he who killed your stepfather. I had my gig got out and hurried away to Thompson's. The old fellow was rather crusty at being called out on such a night, but to do him justice, I must say he went readily enough when he found what he was required for, though it must have given him a twinge of conscience, for you know he has never been one of your partisans. However, off we drove, and got there in time. “Stukeley made a full confession. It all happened just as we thought. It had been determined by the Luddites to kill Mulready, and Stukeley determined to carry out the business himself, convinced, as he says, that the man was a tyrant and an oppressor, and that his death was not only richly deserved, but that such a blow was necessary to encourage the Luddites. He did not care, however, to run the risk of taking any of the others into his confidence, and therefore carried it out alone, and to this day, although some of the others may have their suspicions, no one knows for certain that he was the perpetrator of the act. “He had armed himself with a pistol and went down to the mill, intending to shoot Mulready as he came out at night, but, stumbling upon the rope, thought that it was a safer and more certain means. After fastening it across the road he sat down and waited, intending to shoot your stepfather if the accident didn't turn out fatal. After the crash, finding that Mulready's neck was broken and that he was dead, he made off home. He wished it specially to be placed on his deposition that he made his confession not from any regret at having killed Mulready, but simply to oblige Mary Powlett, whose heart was bent upon your innocence being proved. He signed the deposition in the presence of Thompson, myself, and Bill Swinton.” “And you think it is true, doctor, you really think it is true? It is not like Luke's attempt to save me?” “I am certain it is true, Ned. The man was dying, and there was no mistake about his earnestness. There is not a shadow of doubt. I sent Swinton back in the gig with Thompson and stayed with the man till half past two. He was unconscious then. He may linger a few hours, but will not live out the day, and there is little chance of his again recovering consciousness. Thompson will today send a copy of the deposition to the home secretary, with a request that it may be made public through the newspapers. It will appear in all the Yorkshire papers next Saturday, and all the world will know that you are innocent.” “What will my mother say?” Ned exclaimed, turning pale again. “I don't know what she will say, my lad, but I know what she ought to say. I am going round to Thompson's now for a copy of the deposition, and will bring it for her to see. Thompson will read it aloud at the meeting of the court today, so by this afternoon every one will know that you are cleared.” Abijah's joy when she heard that Ned's innocence was proved was no less than that of his brother and sister. She would have rushed upstairs at once to tell the news to her mistress, but Ned persuaded her not to do so until the doctor's return. “Then he will have to be quick,” Abijah said, “for if the mistress' bell rings, and I have to go up before he comes, I shall never be able to keep it to myself. She will see it in my face that something has happened. If the bell rings, Miss Lucy, you must go up, and if she asks for me, say that I am particular busy, and will be up in a few minutes.” The bell, however, did not ring before the doctor's return. After a short consultation between him and Ned, Abijah was called in. “Mr. Sankey agrees with me, Abijah, that you had better break the news. Your mistress is more accustomed to you than to any one else, and you understand her ways. Here is the deposition. I shall wait below here till you come down. There is no saying how she will take it. Be sure you break the news gently.” Abijah went upstairs with a hesitating step, strongly in contrast with her usual quick bustling walk. She had before felt rather aggrieved that the doctor should be the first to break the news; but she now felt the difficulty of the task, and would gladly have been spared the responsibility. “I have been expecting you for the last quarter of an hour, Abijah,” Mrs. Mulready said querulously. “You know how I hate to have the room untidy after I have dressed. “Why, what's the matter?” . she broke off sharply as she noticed Abijah's face. “Why, you have been crying!” “Yes, ma'am, I have been crying,” Abijah said unsteadily, “but I don't know as ever I shall cry again, for I have heard such good news as will last me the rest of my whole life.” “What news, Abijah?” Mrs. Mulready asked quickly. “What are you making a mystery about, and what is that paper in your hand?” “Well, ma'am, God has been very good to us all. I knew as he would be sooner or later, though sometimes I began to doubt whether it would be in my time, and it did break my heart to see Maister Ned going about so pale and unnatural like for a lad like him, and to know as there was people as thought that he was a murderer. And now, thank God, it is all over.” “All over! what do you mean, Abijah?” Mrs. Mulready exclaimed, rising suddenly from her invalid chair. “What do you mean by saying that it is all over?” and she seized the old nurse's arm with an eager grasp. “Don't excite yourself so, mistress. You have been sore tried, but it is over now, and today all the world will know as Maister Ned is proved to be innocent. This here paper is a copy of the confession of the man as did it, and who is, they say, dead by this time. It was taken all right and proper afore a magistrate.” “Innocent!” Mrs. Mulready gasped in a voice scarcely above a whisper. “Did you tell me, Abijah, that my boy, my boy Ned, is innocent?” “I never doubted as he was innocent, ma'am; but now, thank God, all the world will know it. There, ma'am, sit yourself down. Don't look like that. I know as how you must feel, but for mercy sake don't look like that.” Mrs. Mulready did not seem to hear her, did not seem to notice, as she passively permitted herself to be seated in the chair, while Abijah poured out a glass of wine. Her face was pale and rigid, her eyes wide open, her expression one of horror rather than relief. “Innocent! Proved innocent!” she murmured. “What must he think of me--me, his mother!” For some time she sat looking straight before her, taking no notice of the efforts of Abijah to call her attention, and unheeding the glass of wine which she in vain pressed her to drink. “I must go away,” she said at last, rising suddenly. “I must go away at once. Has he gone yet?” “Go away, ma'am! Why, what should you go away for, and where are you going?” “It does not matter; it makes no difference,” Mrs. Mulready said feverishly, “so that I get away. Put some of my things together, Abijah. What are you staring there for? Don't you hear what I say? I must go away directly he has started for the mill.” And with trembling fingers she began to open her drawers and pull out her clothes. “But you can't go away like that, mistress. You can't, indeed,” Abijah said, aghast. “I must go, Abijah. There is nothing else for me to do. Do you think I could see him after treating him as I have done? I should fall dead at his feet for shame.” “But where are you going, ma'am?” Abijah said, thinking it better not to attempt to argue with her in her present state. “I don't know, I don't know. Yes, I do. Do you know whether that cottage you were telling me about where you lived while you were away from here, is to let? That will do nicely, for there I should be away from every one. Get me a box from the lumber room, and tell Harriet to go out and get me a post chaise from the Red Lion as soon as my son has gone to the mill.” “Very well,” Abijah said. “I will do as you want me, 'm, if you will sit down quiet and not excite yourself. You know you have not been out of your room for a year, and if you go a-tiring yourself like this you will never be able to stand the journey. You sit down in the chair and I will do the packing for you. You can tell me what things you will take with you. I will get the box down.” So saying, Abijah left the room, and, running hastily downstairs, told Ned and the doctor the manner in which Mrs. Mulready had received the news. Ned, would have run up at once to his mother, but Dr. Green would not hear of it. “It would not do, Ned. In your mother's present state the shock of seeing you might have the worst effect. Run up, Abijah, and get the box down to her. I will go out and come back and knock at the door in two or three minutes, and will go up and see her, and, if necessary. I will give her a strong soothing draught. You had better tell her that from what you hear you believe Mr. Sankey is not going to the mill today. That will make her delay her preparations for moving until tomorrow, and will give us time to see what is best to be done.” “I have brought the box, mistress,” Abijah said as she entered Mrs. Mulready's room; “but I don't think as you will want to pack today, for I hear as Mr. Ned ain't a-going to the mill. You see all the town will be coming to see him to shake hands with him and tell him how glad they is that he is cleared.” “And only I can't!” Mrs. Mulready wailed. “To think of it, only I, his mother, can't see him! And I must stop in the house for another day! Oh! it is too hard! But I deserve it, and everything else.” “There is Dr. Green's knock,” Abijah said. “I can't see him, Abijah. I can't see him.” “I think you had better see him, ma'am. You always do see him, you know, and it will look so strange if you don't. There, I will pop these things into the drawers again and hide the box.” Abijah bustled about actively, and before Mrs. Mulready had time to take any decided step Dr. Green knocked at the door and came in. “How are you today, Mrs. Mulready?” he asked cheerfully. “This is a joyful day indeed for us all. The whole place is wild with the news, and I expect we shall be having a deputation presently to congratulate Ned.” “I am not feeling very well,” Mrs. Mulready said faintly. “The shock has been too much for me.” “Very natural, very natural, indeed,” Dr. Green said cheerily. “We could hardly hope it would be otherwise; but after this good news I expect we shall soon make a woman of you again. Your son will be the most popular man in the place. People will not know how to make enough of him. Porson and I, who have been cheering him all along, will have to snub him now or his head will be turned. Now let me feel your pulse. Dear! dear! this will not do at all; it's going like a mill engine. This will never do. If you do not calm yourself we shall be having you in bed again for a long bout. I will send you a bottle of soothing medicine. You must take it every two hours, and keep yourself perfectly quiet. There, I will not talk to you now about this good news, for I see that you are not fit to stand it. You must lie down on the sofa at once, and not get off again today. I will look in this evening and see how you are.” Frightened at the threat that if she were not quiet she might be confined to her bed for weeks; Mrs. Mulready obeyed orders, took her medicine when it arrived, and lay quiet on the sofa. For a long time the sedative failed to have any effect. Every five minutes throughout the day there were knocks at the door. Every one who knew Ned, and many who did not, called to congratulate him. Some, like Mr. Thompson, made a half apology for having so long doubted him. A few, like Mr. Simmonds, were able heartily to assure him that they had never in their hearts believed it. Ned was too full of gratitude and happiness to cherish the slightest animosity, and he received warmly and thankfully the congratulations which were showered upon him. “He looks another man,” was the universal comment of his visitors; and, indeed, it was so. The cloud which had so long overshadowed him had passed away, and the look of cold reserve had vanished with it, and he was prepared again to receive the world as a friend. He was most moved when, early in the day, Mr. Porson and the whole of the boys arrived. As soon as he had left Mrs. Mulready, Dr. Green had hurried down to the schoolhouse with the news, and Mr. Porson, as soon as he heard it, had announced it from his desk, adding that after such news as that he could not expect them to continue their lessons, and that the rest of the day must therefore be regarded as a holiday. He yielded a ready assent when the boys entreated that they might go in a body to congratulate Ned. Ned was speechless for some time as his old friend wrung his hand, and his former schoolfellows clustered round him with a very Babel of congratulations and good wishes. Only the knowledge that his mother was ill above prevented them from breaking into uproarious cheering. In the afternoon, hearing that his mother was still awake, Ned, accompanied by Mr. Porson, went out for a stroll, telling Harriet that she was to remain at the open door while he was away, so as to prevent any one from knocking. It was something of a trial to Ned to walk through the street which he had passed along so many times in the last year oblivious of all within it. Every man and woman he met insisted on shaking hands with him. Tradesmen left their shops and ran out to greet him, and there was no mistaking the general enthusiasm which was felt on the occasion, and the desire of every one to atone as far as possible for the unmerited suffering which had been inflicted on him. When he returned at six o'clock he found Harriet still on the watch, and she said in low tones that Abijah had just come downstairs with the news that her mistress had fallen asleep. “I should not think any one more will come, Harriet, but I will get you to stop here for a little longer. Then we must fasten up the knocker and take off the bell. The doctor says that it is all important that my mother should get a long and undisturbed sleep.” Dr. Green came in again in the evening, and had a long chat with Ned. It was nearly midnight before Mrs. Mulready awoke. On opening her eyes she saw Ned sitting at a short distance from the sofa. She gave a sudden start, and then a look of terror came into her face. Ned rose to his feet and held out his arms with the one word “Mother!” Mrs. Mulready slid from the sofa and threw herself on her knees with her hands clasped. “Oh! my boy, my boy!” she cried, “can you forgive me?” Then, as he raised her in his arms, she fainted. It was a happy party, indeed, that assembled round the breakfast table next morning. Mrs. Mulready was at the head of the table making tea, looking pale and weak, but with a look of quiet happiness and contentment on her face such as her children had never seen there before, but which was henceforth to be its habitual expression. Ned did not carry out his original intention of entering the army. Mr. Simmonds warmly offered to make the application for a commission for him, but Ned declined. He had made up his mind, he said, to stick to the mill; there was plenty of work to be done there, and he foresaw that with a continued improvement of machinery there was a great future for the manufacturing interests of England. The Luddite movement gradually died out. The high rewards offered for the discovery of the murderers of Mr. Horsfall and of the assailants of Cartwright's mill had their effect. Three croppers, Mellor, Thorpe and Smith, were denounced and brought to trial. All three had been concerned in the murder, together with Walker, who turned king's evidence for the reward--Mellor and Thorpe having fired the fatal shots. The same men had been the leaders in the attack on Cartwright's mill. They were tried at the assizes at York on the 2d of January, 1813, with sixty-four of their comrades, before Baron Thomas and Judge Le Blanc, and were found guilty, although they were defended by Henry (afterward Lord) Brougham. Mellor, Thorpe, and Smith were executed three days afterward. Fourteen of the others were hung, as were five Luddites who were tried before another tribunal. After this wholesale act of severity the Luddite disturbances soon came to an end. The non-success which had attended their efforts, and the execution of all their leaders, thoroughly cowed the rioters, and their ranks were speedily thinned by the number of hands who found employment in the rapidly increasing mills in the district. Anyhow from that time the Luddite conspiracy ceased to be formidable. The Sankeys' mill at Marsden flourished greatly under Ned's management. Every year saw additions to the buildings and machinery until it became one of the largest concerns in Yorkshire. He was not assisted, as he had at one time hoped he should be, by his brother in the management; but he was well contented when Charlie, on leaving school, declared his wish to go to Cambridge, and then to enter the church, a life for which he was far better suited by temperament than for the active life of a man of business. The trial through which Ned Sankey had passed had a lasting effect upon his character. Whatever afterward occurred to vex him in business he was never known to utter a hasty word, or to form a hasty judgment. He was ever busy in devising schemes for the benefit of his workpeople, and to be in Sankey's mill was considered as the greatest piece of good fortune which could befall a hand. Four years after the confession of John Stukeley Ned married the daughter of his friend George Cartwright, and settled down in a handsome house which he had built for himself a short distance out of Marsden. Lucy was soon afterward settled in a house of her own, having married a young landowner with ample estates. Mrs. Mulready, in spite of the urgent persuasions of her son and his young wife, refused to take up her residence with them, but established herself in a pretty little house close at hand, spending, however, a considerable portion of each day with him at his home. The trials through which she had gone had done even more for her than for Ned. All her querulous listlessness had disappeared. She was bright, cheerful, and even tempered. Ned used to tell her that she grew younger looking every day. Her pride and happiness in her son were unbounded, and these culminated when, ten years after his accession to the management of the mill, Ned acceded to the request of a large number of manufacturers in the district, to stand for Parliament as the representative of the mill owning interest, and was triumphantly returned at the head of the poll. Of the other characters of this story little need be said. Dr. Green and Mr. and Mrs. Porson remained Ned's closest friends to the end of their lives. Mary Powlett did not compel Bill Swinton to wait until the situation of foreman of the mill became vacant, but married him two years after the death of John Stukeley. Bill became in time not only foreman but the confidential manager of the mill, and he and his wife were all their lives on the footing of dear friends with Mr. and Mrs. Sankey. Luke Marner remained foreman of his room until too old for further work, when he retired on a comfortable pension, and was succeeded in his post by his son George. Ned and Amy Sankey had a large family, who used to listen with awe and admiration to the tale of the terrible trial which had once befallen their father, and of the way in which he had indeed been “tried in the fire.” THE END

1

A QUARREL.

The great Abbey of Westminster was approaching its completion; an army of masons and labourers swarmed like bees upon and around it, and although differing widely in its massive architecture, with round Saxon windows and arches, from the edifice that was two or three generations later to be reared in its place,--to serve as a still more fitting tomb for the ashes of its pious founder,--it was a stately abbey, rivalling the most famous of the English fanes of the period. From his palace hard by King Edward had watched with the deepest interest the erection of the minster that was the dearest object of his life. The King was surrounded by Normans, the people among whom he had lived until called from his retirement to ascend the throne of England, and whom he loved far better than those over whom he reigned. He himself still lived almost the life of a recluse. He was sincerely anxious for the good of his people, but took small pains to ensure it, his life being largely passed in religious devotions, and in watching over the rise of the abbey he had founded. A town had risen around minster and palace, and here the workmen employed found their lodgings, while craftsmen of all descriptions administered to the wants both of these and of the nobles of Edward's court. From one of the side doors of the palace a page, some fifteen or sixteen years of age, ran down the steps in haste. He was evidently a Saxon by his fair hair and fresh complexion, and any observer of the time would have seen that he must, therefore, be in the employment of Earl Harold, the great minister, who had for many years virtually ruled England in the name of its king. The young page was strongly and sturdily built. His garb was an English one, but with some admixture of Norman fashions. He wore tightly-fitting leg coverings, a garment somewhat resembling a blouse of blue cloth girded in by a belt at the waist, and falling in folds to the knee. Over his shoulders hung a short mantle of orange colour with a hood. On his head was a cap with a wide brim that was turned up closely behind, and projected in a pointed shovel shape in front. In his belt was a small dagger. He wore shoes of light yellow leather fastened by bands over the insteps. As he ran down the steps of the palace he came into sharp contact with another page who had just turned the corner of the street. "I crave your pardon, Walter Fitz-Urse," he said hurriedly, "but I was in haste and saw you not." The other lad was as clearly Norman as the speaker was Saxon. He was perhaps a year the senior in point of age, and taller by half a head, but was of slighter build. The expression of his face differed as widely from that of the Saxon as did his swarthy complexion and dark hair, for while the latter face wore a frank and pleasant expression, that of the Norman was haughty and arrogant. "You did it on purpose," he said angrily, "and were we not under the shadow of the palace I would chastise you as you deserve." The smile died suddenly out from the Saxon's face. "Chastise me!" he repeated. "You would find it somewhat difficult, Master Fitz-Urse. Do you think you are talking to a Norman serf? You will please to remember you are in England; but if you are not satisfied with my apology, I will ride with you a few miles into the country, and we will then try with equal arms where the chastisement is to fall." The Norman put his hand to his dagger, but there was an ominous growl from some men who had paused to listen to the quarrel. "You are an insolent boor, Wulf of Steyning, and some day I will punish you as you deserve." "Some day," the Saxon laughed, "we shall, I hope, see you and all your tribe sent across the Channel. There are few of us here who would not see your backs with pleasure." "What is this?" an imperious voice demanded; and turning round, Wulf saw William, the Norman Bishop of London, who, followed by several monks and pages, had pushed his way through the crowd. "Walter Fitz-Urse, what means this altercation?" "The Saxon ran against me of set purpose, my lord," Walter Fitz-Urse said, in tones of deep humility, "and because I complained he challenged me to ride with him into the country to fight, and then he said he hoped that some day all the Normans would be sent across the Channel." "Is this so?" the prelate said sternly to Wulf; "did you thus insult not only my page, but all of us, his countrymen?" "I ran against him by accident," Wulf said, looking up fearlessly in the prelate's face. "I apologized, though I know not that I was more in fault than he; but instead of taking my apology as one of gentle blood should do, he spoke like a churl, and threatened me with chastisement, and then I did say that I hoped he and all other Normans in the land would some day be packed across the Channel." "Your ears ought to be slit as an insolent varlet." "I meant no insolence, my Lord Bishop; and as to the slitting of my ears, I fancy Earl Harold, my master, would have something to say on that score." The prelate was about to reply, but glancing at the angry faces of the growing crowd, he said coldly: "I shall lay the matter before him. Come, Walter, enough of this. You are also somewhat to blame for not having received more courteously the apologies of this saucy page." The crowd fell back with angry mutterings as he turned, and, followed by Walter Fitz-Urse and the ecclesiastics, made his way along the street to the principal entrance of the palace. Without waiting to watch his departure, Wulf, the Saxon page, pushed his way through the crowd, and went off at full speed to carry the message with which he had been charged. "Our king is a good king," a squarely-built man,--whose bare arms with the knotted muscles showing through the skin, and hands begrimed with charcoal, indicated that he was a smith,--remarked to a gossip as the little crowd broke up, "but it is a grievous pity that he was brought up a Norman, still more that he was not left in peace to pass his life as a monk as he desired. He fills the land with his Normans; soon as an English bishop dies, straightway a Norman is clapped into his place. All the offices at court are filled with them, and it is seldom a word of honest English is spoken in the palace. The Norman castles are rising over the land, and his favourites divide among them the territory of every English earl or thane who incurs the king's displeasure. Were it not for Earl Harold, one might as well be under Norman sway altogether." "Nay, nay, neighbour Ulred, matters are not so bad as that. I dare say they would have been as you say had it not been for Earl Godwin and his sons. But it was a great check that Godwin gave them when he returned after his banishment, and the Norman bishops and nobles hurried across the seas in a panic. For years now the king has left all matters in the hands of Harold, and is well content if only he can fast and pray like any monk, and give all his thoughts and treasure to the building of yonder abbey." "We want neither a monk nor a Norman over us," the smith said roughly, "still less one who is both Norman and monk I would rather have a Dane, like Canute, who was a strong man and a firm one, than this king, who, I doubt not, is full of good intentions, and is a holy and pious monarch, but who is not strong enough for a ruler. He leaves it to another to preserve England in peace, to keep in order the great Earls of Mercia and the North, to hold the land against Harold of Norway, Sweyn, and others, and, above all, to watch the Normans across the water. A monk is well enough in a convent, but truly 'tis bad for a country to have a monk as its king." "There have been some war-loving prelates, Ulred; men as ambitious as any of the great earls, and more dangerous, because they have learning." "Ay, there have been great prelates," the smith agreed. "Look at Lyfing of Worcester, to whom next only to Godwin the king owed his throne. He was an Englishman first and a bishop afterwards, and was a proof, if needed, that a man can be a great churchman and a great patriot and statesman too. It was he rather than Godwin who overcame the opposition of the Danish party, and got the Witan at last to acquiesce in the choice of London and Wessex, and to give their vote to Edward. "Well was it he did so. For had he failed we should have had as great a struggle in England as when Alfred battled against the Danes. We of London and the men of Wessex under the great Earl were bent upon being ruled by a prince of our own blood. The last two Danish kings had shown us that anything is better than being governed by the Northmen. It was Lyfing who persuaded the Earl of Mercia to side with Wessex rather than with Northumbria, but since Lyfing, what great Englishman have we had in the church? Every bishopric was granted by Edward to Norman priests, until Godwin and his sons got the upper hand after their exile. Since then most of them have been given to Germans. It would seem that the king was so set against Englishmen that only by bringing in foreigners can Harold prevent all preferment going to Normans. But what is the consequence? They say now that our church is governed from Rome, whereas before Edward's time we Englishmen did not think of taking our orders from Italy. "There will trouble come of it all, neighbour. Perhaps not so long as Edward reigns, but at his death. There is but one of the royal race surviving, and he, like Edward, has lived all his life abroad. There can be no doubt what the choice of Englishmen will be. Harold has been our real ruler for years. He is wise and politic as well as brave, and a great general. He is our own earl, and will assuredly be chosen. Then we shall have trouble with the Normans. Already they bear themselves as if they were our masters, and they will not give up their hold without a struggle. Men say that William, their duke, makes no secret of his hope to become master of England, in which case God help us all. But that won't come as long as Harold lives and Englishmen can wield sword and battle-axe. As for myself, I have patched many a Norman suit of armour, but, by St. Swithin, I shall have far more pleasure in marring than I have ever had in mending them." "Know you who were the boys who had that contention just now?" "The Norman is a page of William, our Norman bishop; I know no more of him than that the other is Wulf, who is a ward and page of Earl Harold. His father was thane of Steyning in South Sussex, one of Godwin's men, and at his death two years ago Harold took the lad into his household, for he bore great affection for Gyrth, who had accompanied him in his pilgrimage to Rome, and fought by his side when he conquered the Welsh. It was there Gyrth got the wound that at last brought about his death. Wulf has been to my smithy many times, sometimes about matters of repairs to arms, but more often, I think, to see my son Osgod. He had seen him once or twice in calling at the shop, when one day Osgod, who is somewhat given to mischief, was playing at ball, and drove it into the face of a son of one of the Norman lords at court. The boy drew his dagger, and there would have been blood shed, but Wulf, who was passing at the time, and saw that the thing was a pure mishap and not the result of set intention, threw himself between them. "There was a great fuss over it, for the boy took his tale to his father, who demanded that Osgod should be punished, and would doubtless have gained his end had not Wulf spoken to Earl Harold, who intervened in the matter and persuaded the Norman to let it drop. Since then the boys have been great friends in their way. Osgod is a year older than the young thane, and has already made up his mind to be his man when he grows up, and he has got me to agree to it, though I would rather that he had stuck to my handicraft. Still, the prospect is not a bad one. Harold will be King of England, Wulf will be a powerful thane, and will doubtless some day hold high place at court, and as he seems to have taken a real liking to Osgod, the boy may have good chances. "Wulf will make a good fighting man one of these days. Harold sees that all his pages are well instructed in arms, and the two boys often have a bout with blunted swords when Wulf comes to my smithy; and, by my faith, though I have taught Osgod myself, and he already uses his arms well, the young thane is fully a match for him. You would hardly believe that the boy can read as well as a monk, but it is so. Earl Harold, you know, thinks a good deal of education, and has founded a college at Waltham. He persuaded Wulf's father to send him there, and, indeed, will take none as his pages unless they can read. I see not what good reading can do to most men, but doubtless for one who is at court and may hold some day a high post there, it is useful to be able to read deeds and grants of estates, instead of having to trust others' interpretation." "I wondered to see you press forward so suddenly into the crowd, neighbour, seeing that you are a busy man, but I understand now that you had an interest in the affair." "That had I. I was holding myself in readiness, if that Norman boy drew his dagger, to give him such a blow across the wrist with my cudgel that it would be long before he handled a weapon again. I fear Wulf has got himself into trouble. The bishop will doubtless complain to the king of the language used by one of Harold's pages, and though the earl is well able to see that no harm comes to the lad, it is likely he will send him away to his estates for a time. For he strives always to avoid quarrels and disputes, and though he will not give way a jot in matters where it seems to him that the good of the realm is concerned, he will go much farther lengths than most men would do in the way of conciliation. Look how he has borne with Tostig and with the Earls of Mercia. He seems to have no animosity in his nature, but is ready to forgive all injuries as soon as pardon is asked." The smith was not far wrong in his opinion as to what was likely to happen. As soon as Wulf returned to the palace he was told that the earl desired his presence, and he proceeded at once to the apartment where Harold transacted public business. It was a hall of considerable size; the floor was strewed with rushes; three scribes sat at a table, and to them the earl dictated his replies and decisions on the various matters brought before him. When he saw Wulf enter he rose from his seat, and, beckoning to him to follow, pushed aside the hangings across a door leading to an apartment behind and went in. Wulf had no fear whatever of any severe consequence to himself from his quarrel with Walter Fitz-Urse, but he was ashamed that his thoughtlessness should have given the slightest trouble to the earl, for, popular as he was among all classes of men in southern England, Harold was an object of love as well as respect to his dependents, and indeed to all who came in close contact with him. The earl was now forty-one years of age. He was very tall, and was considered the strongest man in England. His face was singularly handsome, with an expression of mingled gentleness and firmness. His bearing was courteous to all. He united a frank and straightforward manner with a polished address rare among his rough countrymen. Harold had travelled more and farther than any Englishman of his age. He had visited foreign courts and mingled with people more advanced in civilization than were those of England or Normandy, and was centuries ahead of the mass of his countrymen. He was an ardent advocate of education, a strong supporter of the national church, an upholder of the rights of all men, and although he occasionally gave way to bursts of passion, was of a singularly sweet and forgiving disposition. King Edward was respected by his people because, coming after two utterly worthless kings, he had an earnest desire for their good, although that desire seldom led to any very active results. He was a member of their own royal house. He was deeply religious. His life was pure and simple, and although all his tastes and sympathies were with the land in which he had been brought up, Englishmen forgave him this because at least he was a Saxon, while his predecessors had been Danes. But while they respected Edward, for Harold, their real ruler, they felt a passionate admiration. He was a worthy representative of all that was best in the Saxon character. He possessed in an eminent degree the openness of nature, the frank liberality, the indomitable bravery, and the endurance of hardship that distinguished the race. He was Earl of the West Saxons, and as such had special claims to their fealty. London, it was true, did not lie in his earldom, but in that of his brother Leofwyn, but Leofwyn and Harold were as one--true brothers in heart and in disposition. The gentleness and courtesy of manner that, although natural, had been softened and increased by Harold's contact with foreigners, was not only pardoned but admired because he was England's champion against foreigners. He had fought, and victoriously, alike against the Norwegians, the Danes of Northumbria, and the Welsh, and he struggled as sturdily, though peacefully, against Norman influence in England. Already the dread of Norman preponderance was present in the minds of Englishmen. It was no secret that in his early days Edward had held out hopes, if he had not given an actual promise, to William of Normandy that he should succeed him. Of late the king had been somewhat weaned from his Norman predilections, and had placed himself unreservedly in Harold's hands, giving to the latter all real power while he confined himself to the discharge of religious exercises, and to the supervision of the building of his abbey, varied occasionally by hunting expeditions, for he still retained a passionate love of the chase; but men knew that the warlike Duke of Normandy would not be likely to forget the promise, and that trouble might come to England from over the sea. Harold, then, they not only regarded as their present ruler, but as their future king, and as the national leader and champion. Edward had no children. The royal house was extinct save for Edward the Atheling, who, like the present king, had lived all his life abroad, and could have no sympathy with Englishmen. There being, then, no one of the royal house available, who but Harold, the head of the great house of Godwin, the earl of the West Saxons, the virtual ruler of England, could be chosen? The English kings, although generally selected from the royal house, ruled rather by the election of the people as declared by their representatives in the Witan than by their hereditary right. The prince next in succession by blood might, at the death of the sovereign, be called king, but he was not really a monarch until elected by the Witan and formally consecrated. It had been nine months after he had been acclaimed to the throne by the people of London that King Edward had been elected king by the Witan, and formally enthroned. Thus, then, the fact that Harold did not belong to the royal family mattered but little in the eyes of Englishmen. To them belonged the right of choosing their own monarch, and if they chose him, who was to say them nay? Wulf felt uncomfortable as he followed the stately figure into the inner room, but he faced the Earl as the door closed behind him with as fearless a look as that with which he had stood before the haughty prelate of London. A slight smile played upon Harold's face as he looked down upon the boy. "You are a troublesome varlet, Wulf, and the Lord Bishop has been making serious complaint of you to the king. He says that you brawled with his page, Walter Fitz-Urse; that you used insolent words against his countrymen; and that you even withstood himself. What have you to say to this?" "The brawling was on the part of the bishop's page and not of mine, my lord. I was running out to carry the message with which you charged me to Ernulf of Dover when I ran against Fitz-Urse. That was not my fault, but a pure mischance, nevertheless I expressed my regret in fitting terms. Instead of accepting them, he spoke insolently, talked of chastising me, and put his hand on the hilt of his dagger. Then, my lord, I grew angry too. Why should I, the page of Earl Harold, submit to be thus contemptuously spoken to by this young Norman, who is but the page of an upstart bishop, and whom, if your lordship will give permission, I would right willingly fight, with swords or any other weapons. Doubtless, in my anger, I did not speak respectfully of Walter's countrymen, and for this I am sorry, since it has been the ground of complaint and of trouble to you." "In fact, Wulf, you spoke as a quarrelsome boy and not as the page of one who has the cares of this kingdom on his shoulders, and whose great desire is to keep peace between all parties," the earl put in gravely. For the first time Wulf hung his head: "I was wrong, my lord." "You were wrong, Wulf; it is not good always to say what we think; and you, as my page, should bear in mind that here at court it behoves you to behave and to speak not as a headstrong boy, but as one whose words may, rightly or wrongly, be considered as an echo of those you may have heard from me. And now to the third charge, that you withstood the prelate; a matter that, in the king's eyes, is a very serious one." "The bishop would give ear to nought I had to say. He listened to his own page's account and not to mine, and when I said in my defence that though I did use the words about the Normans, I did so merely as one boy quarrelling with the other, he said I ought to have my ears slit. Surely, my lord, a free-born thane is not to be spoken to even by a Norman bishop as if he were a Norman serf. I only replied that before there was any slitting of ears your lordship would have a say in the matter. So far, I admit, I did withstand the bishop, and I see not how I could have made other reply." "It would have been better to have held your peace altogether, Wulf." "It would, my lord, but it would also surely have been better had the bishop abstained from talking about slitting ears." "That would have been better also, but two wrongs do not make a right. I was present when the bishop made his complaint, and upon my inquiring more into the matter, his version was somewhat similar to yours. I then pointed out to him that if holy bishops lost their tempers and used threats that were beyond their power to carry into effect, they must not be too severe upon boys who forget the respect due to their office. Nevertheless, I admitted that you were wrong, and I promised the king, who was perhaps more disturbed by this incident than there was any occasion for, that I would take you to task seriously, and that to avoid any further brawl between you and young Fitz-Urse, you should for a time be sent away from court. I did this on the agreement that the bishop should, on his part, admonish Walter Fitz-Urse against discourteous behaviour and unseemly brawling, and had I known that he had put his hand on his dagger, I would have gone further. Have you any witnesses that he did so?" "Yes, my lord; I saw the smith Ulred among those standing by, and doubtless he would see the action." "That is well," Harold said. "I shall acquaint the bishop with the fact when I tell him that I have ordered you to leave for your estate at Steyning, and that if his page denies it, I have witnesses to prove the truth of your assertions. I think in that case he will be glad to drop the matter, for were I to mention the fact to the king, he, who has a horror of the drawing of weapons, would order Walter Fitz-Urse to be sent back to Normandy. So your exile is not likely to be of long duration. You understand, Wulf, that I am not seriously angered with you in this matter. You are but a boy, and one cannot expect that you will behave as a prudent man; but remember, lad, even a boy's words may do mischief, especially when placed as you are. There may come a time when you shall show by deeds and not by words your feelings against the Normans, but till then bear yourself prudently. We Saxons are over given to hasty words, and this is a fault. I myself, as all men know, have no love for the Normans, but no one has heard me speak against them. The king loves them, as is but natural, seeing that he was brought up amongst them, and I have not withstood his wishes in the matter, trying only that a certain amount of preferment in the land should be bestowed upon those who are its owners and not strangers to it and its tongue. You will ride this afternoon for Steyning, Wulf, but I hope it will not be long before you are back again. If I had my own way in the matter, I should think that sufficient had already been said and done in so trifling a matter as a boys' quarrel; but as it has been brought before our king by a bishop, it is in the king's eyes a serious business, for assuredly he himself would have borne a reproof from William of London more meekly than you did, and having therefore become a church matter, it is altogether beyond my power to interfere. At any rate, a short sojourn on your estate will do you no harm; it is sometime since you were there, and it is a good thing that the lord of the soil should be well known by those over whom he is placed." Wulf bowed deeply and withdrew. The prospect of a visit for a few weeks or even months to Steyning was not a terrible one. It was some years since he had stayed there for any time. He had been two years at Waltham, and since his father's death had been for the most part with Harold, and the thought of an unrestricted life and of spending his time as he chose, hunting and hawking, and going about among his tenants, was by no means unpleasant. He was quite satisfied that Harold was not seriously angered with him, and for anything else he cared little. As he understood that his duties as a page were at present at an end, he thought he would first call upon Ulred the smith, to ask him if he had seen Walter Fitz-Urse handle his dagger, and also to tell Osgod that he was going away for a time. He found the smith at work. "Good morning, Master Wulf; though this is not the first time I have seen you today, for I was at hand when you had that quarrel with the Norman page." "Yes, I caught sight of your face, Ulred. It was about that I have come to you. The bishop has made complaint against me to the king, and Earl Harold has ordered me to go down to Steyning for a time. Of course I acted wrongly in speaking as I did to the bishop, but so far as Walter Fitz-Urse is concerned I maintain that I did no wrong. I told my lord as much, and that the Norman put hand upon his dagger. The earl said that if I could prove that it would benefit my case. I told him that I had seen you close by, but that I did not know whether you saw the page do it." "Assuredly I did," the smith replied, "and had my cudgel in readiness to tap him on the wrist if he had drawn his dagger. I would testify the same before King Edward himself." "Thank you, Ulred, I will tell my lord so." "I am sorry you are to be sent away from court. That is a bad job, Master Wulf, and Osgod here will miss you greatly." "That shall I," the lad said. "Could you not take me down with you, young master? You could teach me there how to comport myself as your squire, so that when the time comes that you need one, I should know my duties. Besides, you could practise on me with sword and battle-axe." "I could not do much in the way of teaching you, Osgod, seeing as yet I am myself but a learner, but I should be glad, in truth, to have you with me, and it would be good for me to keep up my practice in arms. I shall feel almost like a stranger there, and should like to have one I know with me. I could ask Earl Harold to let me have a horse for you from his stables, where he has two or three score doing nothing." "With your favour, sir, I would rather trust to my own feet. I am a stout walker, and though I shall not be able to keep up with you, I think that each night I can get to the hostelrie where you may put up; but, if not, it matters little, I can make my way after you and join you there--that is, if my father will give me permission to go." "You may as well go sooner as later," the smith said. "Since you have taken into your head that you will be Master Wulf's man, I see not that it will benefit you remaining in the forge. You know enough now to mend a broken rivet and to do such repairs to helm and armour as may be needed on an expedition; therefore, if the young thane is minded to take you I have naught to say against it." "Then so shall it be," Wulf said, "I shall see my Lord Harold before I start, and will tell him that you are minded to be my man, and that I am minded so to take you. He will not object, I am sure, but it were best to ask him, since, when I return to court, I shall have you about me." "When do you start, Master Wulf?" "I am ordered to go to-day; therefore, as soon as I have seen the earl again I shall be off." "Where will you sleep to-night?" "I shall ride to Guildford this afternoon." "Then you had better lay aside your hammer at once, Osgod," the smith said, "and don fresh clothes, and make your best suit into a bundle and start without delay; it is but ten o'clock, and you may be at Guildford before sunset. 'Tis but thirty miles, and eight hours' walking will take you there. If the young thane tells you that Lord Harold makes objection to his taking you, you can turn your face backward to-morrow and no harm will be done." "I shall overtake you before you are half-way, Osgod, and can then take you up behind me on my horse; and now I will go back to the palace. I may have to wait some time before I can see Earl Harold. From sunrise to sunset he has but a few moments to himself, and I shall have to watch my time to get a word with him." It was not, indeed, until two o'clock in the afternoon that Wulf had a chance of speaking to the duke. Then, seeing that he was for the moment alone, he entered the room and stood with bowed head waiting for Harold to address him. "So you have come to say good-bye, Wulf," the latter said kindly; "it is best so, boy. A time in the country will do you good, and there will be much for you to do down there. I have ordered two of my men to be in readiness to mount and ride with you, for I would not that you should go unattended. One of them will bear a message from me and a letter under my hand to the steward, and will tell him that although you will, of course, remain as my ward until you come of age, you are in all respects to be treated as if you were already my sworn man, and thane. It would be well if you could gather among your tenants twenty stout men as house-carls. The steward is ordered to pay to you whatever moneys you may require, and to account for them to me when he sends me in his checkers. These house-carls will, of course, be paid. There must be ample store of armour at Steyning for them, for your father was followed by forty house-carls when he went with me to the Welsh wars. One of the men who goes with you is a stout man-at-arms and is one of my own house-carls; he will remain with you and will instruct your men in arms and teach them to fight shoulder to shoulder. There may be bad times ere long, and it is upon trained troops and not upon hasty levies that we must most depend. In time I trust you will be able to place fifty such men in the field, but at present twenty will suffice. Have you aught to say to me before you go?" "Yes, my lord; first, to thank you for your kindness, and to say that I will carry out your instructions; secondly, to tell you that Ulred the smith saw Walter Fitz-Urse handle his dagger, and was standing ready to knock it from his hand did he draw it. Lastly, that Ulred's son Osgod, who is a stout lad a year older than myself, and for his age well accustomed to arms, desires to be sworn as my man and to serve me in hall and in field. I like him much and have almost daily practised with him in arms, and I should be glad to have him with me if you see no objection." "Not at all, Wulf; it is well that a man should have at his side one in whom he can altogether trust, be he of gentle blood or simple man-at-arms." "Then I may take him down with me, my lord?" "Yes, if it pleases you. Can he ride?" "Not as yet, my lord, I will see that he is instructed down at Steyning. He started to walk this morning, understanding that if you refused him permission to be my man he would at once return. We shall overtake him on the road." "Bid one of your escort take him up behind," the earl said, "I like his spirit. See that he is fittingly apparelled. You shall hear from me ere long." Half an hour later Wulf mounted, and with his two followers rode from Westminster.

2

COUNTRY LIFE.

Far from being depressed, Wulf felt his spirits rise as he rode away on his banishment from court, for instead of feeling it a disgrace he regarded it as a step forward in life. Earl Harold could certainly, had he been so inclined, have smoothed down the angry prelate, and could have retained him at court; but by the way he had spoken, Wulf was convinced that the earl let him go because he thought that it was good for him to be away. For four years he had been under tutelage, first at Waltham, and then at the court. In the last position his life had indeed been a pleasant one, for as one of Harold's pages he had mixed with all the noble youths of the court, and had had a place at every festive gathering. Still, he had been but a page, and treated as a boy. Now he was to go forth, and to learn his duties as his father's successor. Harold's steward, who had since the thane's death acted as the earl's agent in the management of the estate, would instruct him doubtless in his civil duties, while the soldier who rode behind him would teach him how to lead men in battle, and how to make the fighting force of the estate efficient. Beyond these duties his time would be his own. He would have responsibilities, but they would be the responsibilities of a thane towards his tenants, and not of a page towards his master. He was going away a boy, but if it pleased Harold that he should remain away for two years he would return a thane. A young one, indeed, but one who had learned the duties of his station, and who, if needs be, could take his place in the field of battle at the head of his followers. For, even putting aside the Normans, from whom the earl seemed to think the greatest danger would come, there was never any long cessation of fighting in England. There were the Welsh, who were always turbulent; the Danes of Northumbria, who were still a distinct people, although throughout the rest of England their identity was fast being merged into that of the Saxons. There were the Norsemen, still ready to take every opportunity of interfering in the affairs of England, or, if none offered, to plunder and harry the coast. There were the earls of Mercia, who bore no great love to the house of Godwin, and who resented the ascendency of the West Saxons. Lastly, there was Harold's brother Tostig, a fiery and turbulent noble, now Earl of Northumbria, who was jealous of Harold, ever ready to join in plots, and in close alliance with Norway already; he had several times withstood the royal authority, and would assuredly again become a fomenter of trouble should he see a favourable opportunity. At the king's death, if not before, that opportunity would be sure to present itself. Harold would be certainly chosen king by the people of London and by the West Saxons, but almost as certainly would his claim be disputed by the earls of Mercia on one hand, and by Tostig and the Danes on the other. Wulf was sure, therefore, that the work spent in preparing his tenants to take the field when called upon to do so, would not be wasted. Full of these thoughts he rode for some miles from Westminster without addressing himself to the two men behind him; then, bethinking him that these were trusted followers of the earl, and had been specially told off by him to accompany and stay with him, he called them up to his side. Wulf had donned a riding suit instead of court attire, which, in deference to the king's partiality for the Normans, was, even among the staunchest opposers of the foreigners, a compromise between Saxon and Norman fashions. He now wore a tunic of a bright green cloth, girded in at the waist and reaching only to the knee. Over this was worn a garment closely resembling the Roman toga, though somewhat less ample. The folds in front fell below the waist, but it was looped up at each shoulder by a brooch, leaving the arms bare. His legs were clad in tightly-fitting trousers, and his feet in somewhat high shoes. On his head he wore a cap in shape closely resembling the Phrygian bonnet. He was armed with a dagger, and a short sword, which hung by a leather strap, two or three inches long, from his belt. The outer garment had a hood which could in bad weather be drawn over the head. The man who was the bearer of Harold's orders to the steward wore a civilian dress, not unlike that of Wulf's. He occupied the position of a confidential scribe to Harold. The other wore the garb of a soldier. He was clothed from head to foot in a tight fitting leather suit, upon which were sewn iron rings overlapping each other, and strongly resembling in appearance the chain-armour of later days. His casque, with a curtain of leather similarly covered and affording a protection to the neck, cheeks, and throat, hung from his saddle-bow, and he wore a cap with a long projecting peak, while a cloak was thrown over his shoulders and fell almost to his feet. "I am afraid you will find it but dull time with me, Leof," Wulf said as they came up abreast of him, "for the earl says that he has charged you to remain with me at Steyning." "I shall not be sorry for that," the soldier said bluntly, "for I shall be right glad to be away from these Normans who fill every place at court and swagger there as if Englishmen were but dirt under their feet. Moreover, I love not London nor its ways, and shall be glad to be down again among honest country folk, though I would still rather be following my lord the earl in the field." "And you, Master Gurth, will your stay down at Steyning be a long one?" "No, indeed. I have but to bear my master's wishes and instructions to the steward, and to stay for a few days to see that they are carried out according to his desires. I am not like Leof, for I prefer life in London, where one meets with learned monks and others, can obtain sometimes the use of a choice manuscript, and can hear the news from beyond the seas, whereas in the country there is nought to talk about save beeves and sheep. I like the journey well enough, though I would that the animal I bestrode were more gentle in his paces. He has for the last half-hour been fretting on the rein to place himself by the side of yours. Horses are well enough for nobles and fighting men, but for a peaceful scrivener like myself a chair makes a far more comfortable seat." The soldier gave a contemptuous grunt, and Wulf laughed. "It is well that we have not all the same tastes, but for my part a seat in a chair tires me more than one in a saddle, and I am never more happy than when galloping briskly along," and he shook the reins, a signal which the horse had been expecting for a considerable time, and at once responded to by breaking into a canter. "Stay you, I pray, Master Wulf," the scrivener cried in great tribulation as his horse followed the example of its companion. "Even if the animal does not break my neck he will jolt the life out of me. I pray you curb him in if you would not see me prone in the dust; and if I am disabled, who is to carry the earl's message to the steward?" Wulf reined in his horse. "Pardon me, good Gurth. I had forgotten that you are not accustomed to journey on horseback. I was scarce conscious, indeed, that I touched my horse, but he is used to travel more rapidly, and was so eager to be off at the slightest hint that I was willing that he should do so. We will try and journey soberly for the rest of the distance." Osgod was overtaken, plodding steadily along the road, fifteen miles from town. Leof took him up on his horse, and they reached Guildford just as the sun was setting. The inn, which stood in the principal street of the town, was a low building built with a massive framework filled in with bricks. The ground-floor was occupied by a single room. At one end was the great fireplace where, over a pile of blazing logs, were hung many cauldrons and pots. Round the room ran a raised bench some six feet wide on which the guests disposed themselves for sleep at night; rough tables and benches occupied the rest of the room. Some twenty or thirty travellers were seated at these. Few were eating, but the greater portion had horns of beer or mead before them. As Wulf and his companions entered, after giving over their horses to one of the helpers, the host, seeing by his attire that he was of condition above the ordinary, came forward and led him to the end of the room nearest the fire, where the floor was raised a foot and a half above the general level, forming a sort of dais where travellers of distinction could take their meals apart from the rest of the guests. Leof was now spokesman. "We will have supper, and of your best, master host, for we have ridden from London. We are in the service of Earl Harold, and are riding with this young thane, Wulf of Steyning." The name of Earl Harold was sufficient to gain for them the best attentions of their host, and in twenty minutes supper was served, consisting of trout broiled over the fire, swine's flesh, and a stew of fowls and smoked bacon flavoured with herbs. Wulf took the head of the table, and the other three sat a short distance below him. The dishes were handed round, and each with his dagger cut off his portion and ate it on his wooden platter with the assistance of dagger and fingers only, for the utility of forks was at that time a matter undreamt of. After the meal was over, the host brought a ewer of water with a napkin, and each dipped his fingers into the water, an operation necessary even for the most dainty feeder. Presently a glee singer came in, and for an hour amused the guests with songs, for the most part of a patriotic character. Wulf was then conducted by the host to a small chamber upstairs, where there was the luxury of a bed stuffed with straw. The rest of the travellers, including Wulf's companions, merely wrapped themselves in their cloaks and lay down on the raised bench which ran round the room. On the afternoon of the third day the party arrived at Steyning. It was four years since Wulf had been at home, and he gave a shout of pleasure as his eye fell on the long low house with its background of trees, and touching his horse with his heel he left his companions behind and galloped towards the door. An old servitor came out. "Why, Cedric, do you not know me? I am Wulf, whom you first taught to play single-stick and to draw a bow." "Why, surely it is my young master," Cedric said, taking the hand that Wulf held out to him and placing it to his lips; "this is a glad day indeed for us all. We have longed sorely for a sight of you, for though I say nought against Master Egbert the steward, who is well liked by all, it is not the same as having our lord with us. You have come to stay, I trust." "For a time at any rate, Cedric. Earl Harold wishes me to learn my duties as a thane and to fit myself to lead my people in the field if it be necessary." "I trust that it never will be so," Cedric said, "but as we fought under your father so will we all be ready to fight under you should it be needful. The men of Steyning were never backward when there was fighting to be done, and in my young days there was no lack of that, though we have had quiet times since King Edward came to the throne." The house was not built for the purpose of resistance, for, unlike the Normans, the Saxons did not deem it necessary to convert their houses into castles. It was, however, massively framed, the windows on the ground-floor were barred, the door was strong and solid, and after nightfall none could come in or go out without the knowledge and consent of the master. Wulf's companions came up just as the steward himself appeared at the door. He knew both Gurth and Leof, having himself been in the service of Harold before being deputed by him to manage the estates of Steyning during the earl's guardianship of its thane. "The earl sends his greetings to you, Egbert," Gurth said, "and he has sent us hither with the young thane, who, as the letter I bring from the earl will inform you, has come down to take up his position as lord here, and to learn from you all things connected with his estate." "Welcome to Steyning, thane," the steward said, doffing his cap; "it is well that you should be here. I have done my best to carry out the earl's commands to keep all things in readiness for your coming, and to be just and fair to the tenants, seeing that they pay their dues, and yet not pressing too hardly upon them if things go not well with them; but it is always best that the master should be in his own place, and right willingly do I give over my authority to you." "The authority has been in good hands, I know well," Wulf said, "and right heartily do I thank you for having so well filled my place; but I would not take up my thaneship as yet I am but a boy, and have to learn my duties from you, and shall account myself but as your pupil. I know something of the ways of court, but nothing at all of those of the country, and it will be long before I am fit to take the control of things into my own hands." They had by this time entered the great hall which formed the common room of the establishment. Its arrangement was similar to that of the room at the inn, with its raised dais for the master, his family, and guests, while the rest of the room was devoted to the retainers and servants. The cooking, however, was carried on in a room apart. There were two fireplaces, one upon the dais and the other in the body of the hall. On the walls hung trophies of the chase and arms of all sorts. The wooden roof was supported by massive beams, and with the exception of the trophies on the walls there was no attempt at decoration of any kind. During the residence of the family at the house, however, the hangings of tapestry, the work of generations of dames of Steyning, their daughters and maids, hung upon the walls round the dais. The news quickly spread of the arrival of the young thane, and a score of men and eight or ten women and maids flocked into the hall to welcome him, and as he stood on the dais each in turn came forward to kiss his hand and salute him. "I think my first order must be," he said to the steward, "that a cask of your best ale be broached." "That shall be done at once," Egbert replied; "there is never a lack of drink here, but the best is none too good for the occasion. And who is this youth with you?" he went on when he had given the necessary orders, pointing to Osgod, who was standing somewhat shyly apart. "He is my friend, and is going to be my body attendant and squire," Wulf said. "He, like myself, knows nothing as yet of his duties, but that he will be faithful and trusty I know full well, and the earl himself said that I did wisely to bring him with me." "I will myself instruct him in his duties," Egbert said, "which indeed are not hard to learn by one of willing mind. He will stand behind you at table, will hand you your cup and take your orders. In the old times it would have been his duty to see that you were not struck down by a traitorous blow while you drank, but those days are passed. When in the field he will carry your helmet till you need to put it on; will keep close to you in the fight and guard you with his shield from arrows, and with his sword from attacks from behind; he will carry your banner, and see that as long as he has strength to hold it, it floats fairly out as a rallying point for your men. In the field indeed his duties are numerous, but at home in peace, beyond seeing that your arms are bright and clean, and that your orders are carried out properly, he will have but little to do. It is well that you brought him with you, for otherwise you would have had to choose one of the sons of your tenants, and the choice would have been a difficult one, for each would have desired the honour, and whichever you chose there would have been sore jealousy among the others." The next day there was a great gathering in the hall. The whole of the tenants attended, and took the oath to be Wulf's men, as they had been those of his father, to obey his orders, and to follow him in the field with the due number of men according to the size of their holdings; while Wulf on his part swore to protect them from all wrong and oppression, to be a just master, calling upon them only for such service as he was entitled to demand, and exacting no feus or payments beyond those customary. A bullock had been killed, and after the ceremony was over all present sat down to a banquet at which much ale was drunk and feasting went on till nightfall. The next morning Wulf, accompanied by Leof and Egbert, rode round the estate, choosing among the sons of the tenants thirty stout young men willing to enrol themselves as house-carls, receiving a regular rate of pay, and ready at all times to give service under arms, and to remain in the field as long as they might be required, whereas the general levy could only be kept under arms for a limited time. He had already gone into the matter with Leof, who pointed out that, as at present he had no wish to keep up any show or to have a body of armed men in the house, it would suffice if the men were exercised every day for a month, and after that merely practised with sword and battle-axe for two or three hours once a week. On these terms he had no difficulty in obtaining considerably more than the number he asked for, and finally fifty men were enrolled. For those carls helmets were bought and coats of ringed armour made, and for a month they exercised daily. Of manoeuvring there was little indeed. The Saxons and Danes alike fought in line, with but room enough between them to swing their battle-axes. Each carried a spear as well as an axe, and when repelling the assault of an enemy closed up so that their shields well-nigh touched each other. Their exercise was generally either to engage in combats between chosen pairs, or, dividing into two parties, to fight line against line with blunted poles for spears and with stout cudgels for axes. Leof in these combats acted as judge, decided which side had gained the victory, praised the skilful, and chided the careless and sluggish. He gave lessons in the use of the sword and battle-axe to Wulf and Osgod, sometimes pitting them against each other, sometimes fighting himself against Wulf, and teaching Osgod how to assist his master by covering him with his shield. Sometimes he would order three or four of the men to shoot with blunted arrows at Wulf, whom he taught to catch them on his shield or to sever the shafts with a blow of his sword, while Osgod standing by helped to cover him when two or three arrows flew at him together. This was a daily exercise, and even after the month's regular work was over some of the men came up every day to shoot, until Wulf had attained such coolness and skill that he could in the great majority of cases cut the shafts in two with his sword. But the whole day was by no means given up to warlike exercises. Wulf rode out with the steward inspecting the houses and farms, learning what there was to be learned of the rude processes of agriculture, investigating the complaints of the depredations committed by errant herds of swine or by neighbours' cattle and sheep, seeing what was required in the repairs of farmhouses, and learning from Egbert to discriminate between those who were unable to pay their dues owing to misfortune, illness, or murrain among the animals, and those whose losses were due to their own sloth or carelessness. Upon these visits, too, the arms of the tenants were inspected to ascertain that they could properly fulfil their service if summoned to take the field. The lands embraced by Wulf's feof were of considerable extent, reaching down to the sea, where they were some eight miles broad, and running back twelve miles beyond Steyning. Several small hamlets lay within it, and in case of war he could summon more than three hundred men to his banner. Several of the neighbouring thanes rode in as soon as they heard that Wulf had returned to fill his father's place at Steyning, and these visits were duly returned. But accustomed as Wulf had been to the orderliness of the court of the ascetic King Edward the rude manners and nightly revelry of these rough thanes by no means pleased him, so that he was glad when the visits were over, and he could remain quietly at home, where he was not without frequent guests. The most regular of his visitors was the prior of the monastery at Bramber, which had been founded by the piety of one of Wulf's ancestors. The prior had, though Wulf was ignorant of it, received a letter from Earl Harold asking him to befriend Wulf, to encourage him to keep up the studies he had followed at Waltham, and to see that he did not fall into the drinking habit so common among the Saxons. The priest was well fitted for the mission. He was by no means a strict disciplinarian, but the monastery had the reputation of being one of the best managed in Sussex, and among the monks were many of good blood. He was passionately fond of art, and encouraged its exercise among the monks, so that the illuminated missals of Bramber were highly prized, and added largely to the revenues of the monastery. The prior had been one of the monks at Waltham, and owed his elevation to the influence of Earl Harold with the late thane of Steyning. He was well taught in all the learning of the day, and having been for a time at Westminster, knew more of court life than the majority of the priors of isolated monasteries, and could suit his conversation to his hearer. Harold had said in his letter, "The lad has good parts. He is somewhat full of mischief, and has got into a scrape here by a quarrel with a Norman page, and by failing somewhat in the respect due to William of London, who took his compatriot's part with too much zeal. But Wulf is shrewd, and benefited greatly by his stay at Waltham, and both for the lad's own sake and for my friendship with the good thane, his father, I would fain that he grew up not only a sturdy Englishman, as to which I have no manner of doubt, but one who may some day play his part at court, and be a worthy friend and counsellor of an English king. Therefore I pray you, father, to keep an eye on the lad, and spare him what time you can from your duties. Tell him not that I have written to you, for it is the nature of youth to be averse to anything that looks like guardianship." Such a request from Earl Harold was regarded by the prior as an order, and a few days after Wulf was installed at Steyning the prior rode over on his palfrey, accompanied only by the almoner of the convent. "Peace to you, my son," he said, as Wulf bowed respectfully to him, "I have called not only as the prior of the monastery founded by the piety of one of the thanes of Steyning, but to welcome one who was a pupil at Earl Harold's college of Waltham, in which I at one time was a preceptor. Not when you were there, for I was installed here just before your good father's death." "I left there two years since," Wulf said, "in order to be one of Earl Harold's pages; but I have not forgotten my reading, for the earl insists that his pages give two hours a day to study." "Tis a good rule," the prior said, "for learning is like a weapon, it soon becomes rusted when thrown aside. You will, I hope, continue the habit." "I should wish to do so, father, but there are no manuscripts here." "In that at least I can supply your wants," the prior said. "My monastery has a good library, and it will be quite at your service, and also my advice in any matters that may concern you. My almoner here, brother John, knows pretty well the circumstances of most of your people, and may be able to tell you where your alms may be well bestowed, and where they would do more harm than good. The worthless are ever the most importunate, and for every honest man in need there are twenty rogues abegging." The ice once broken, the prior came over frequently. His conversation was bright and interesting. He himself was engaged in writing a history of the Saxon and Danish monarchs from the times of Alfred, and had stores of anecdotes of people and events of whom Wulf had before heard only vague traditions from the wandering singers and story-tellers who travelled the country, and were welcome guests in every household. As Wulf was urged by the prior to come over whenever time hung on his hands, his visits to the monastery were naturally very much more frequent than those of the prior to Steyning. Sometimes he would sit in the private apartment of the prior, but more often he spent his time studying the rare manuscripts, or watching the monks at their work of copying and illuminating. If he went in the evening he generally sat in the refectory, where the monks for the most part spent their evening in talk and harmless amusement, for the strict rules and discipline that prevailed in monastic establishments on the Continent had been unknown up to that time in England, although some of the Norman bishops were doing their best to introduce them into the establishments in their dioceses,--a proceeding that caused great discontent, and was strongly opposed by the English monks. These had, hitherto, regarded monastic life as one of work for the good of the poor, and as affording for those who wished it a tranquil retirement from the trials of the world. Moreover, it offered special attractions to those of quiet and studious tastes, since the monasteries provided the architects and the painters, the teachers and the writers, and it was here alone that learning was maintained and fostered. Consequently, at Bramber there was none of that monastic asceticism that prevailed abroad, and later became the rule in England also. During the day the monks had their pursuits according to their tastes. There were those who worked in the copying and painting room. There were some who drew plans for churches or the dwellings of the wealthy, and who sometimes went out and superintended the carrying out of their designs. Some were in charge of the garden, where the work was chiefly done by the lay servitors, and where the herbs and simples were grown that were used in the concoction of the medicines distributed among the sick, and highly prized throughout the country round. Two or three were skilled in music, and these taught and conducted the choir, while two acted as teachers to youths, the sons of thanes and others, who, moved by the ardour with which their earl advocated learning, intrusted their sons to the monks for education. Then when the day's work was done, and vespers sung in the chapel, the monks gathered in the refectory. The conversation was of a bright and varied description, and as Wulf moved about from group to group he listened to the talk with far greater pleasure than he had ever derived from that at court, and largely increased his knowledge in many respects. National matters were discussed with keen interest, for the monks were all English, and viewed with bitter hostility the elevation of foreigners to the chief dignities of the church, not only because they were foreigners, but because they introduced innovations of all kinds, and sought to reduce the Church of England to subjection to Rome, whereas previously it had been wholly independent of Papal authority. In secular matters, too, there were dangers that threatened the tranquillity of the country. Chief among these were the turbulence and ambition of Tostig, and the menace to the kingdom by his extensive earldom of Northumbria with its alien Danish population, which was rendered more serious by his alliance with the kings of Norway. Then, too, it was doubtful whether the great central earldom of Mercia could be relied upon to act cordially with the West Saxons; Griffith of Wales was still restless and turbulent; and lastly, there was the ever-present menace of the Norman duke. Had England been united it could have laughed at the pretensions of the Duke of Normandy; but with Northumbria ready at any moment to break into civil war, and with Mercia doubtful, the claim of Normandy, however shadowy and indefensible, could not but be considered as a grave element of danger. Listening to the talk of the monks Wulf learned much more as to the actual situation than he had done in the court of the Normanized king, and his feelings of patriotism became more and more developed and strengthened, while he applied himself with even greater ardour to his military exercises, as he recognized more fully the necessity that might arise for every West Saxon to be ready to take his place in the line of battle. The evenings that he spent at home were by no means dull. It was only in considerable towns that there were inns for the accommodation of travellers. Everywhere else these were dependent upon hospitality, and no door was ever closed in their faces. It was seldom that less than five or six travellers rested for the night at Steyning, and often that number was largely exceeded. Besides the wayfarers there were the professional wanderers, the minstrels, the story-tellers, and occasionally a troupe of buffoons. All these were welcome, for they brought the news from without; the last rumours in London concerning the quarrels of the earls; the movements of the Danish ships that were harrying the coast, and those of the vessels Earl Harold despatched to cope with them; the prices of wool and hides in the chief markets; and even reports of what was happening beyond the seas. Leaving the dais, Wulf would go down and listen to the talk of the travellers, or, when they were of a degree above the common, have them up beside him, and question them as to their journeyings, the places they had visited, and the personages they had seen. Thus his hours were fully occupied from morning until night. He found far less time than he had expected for sport, and although he occasionally went out with his falcons or hunted the stag in the forest, which covered a wide extent of country beyond the hills, it was but seldom that he could find leisure for these amusements. "It seems to me that you are always doing something, Wulf," Osgod said one day. "It is not at all the sort of life I should have thought a young thane would live. Why, you work many more hours a day than I did in my father's forge. It is either books, or the affairs of the tenants, or visiting the monastery all day when you are not at work with your sword exercises. When I have done with my work with Leof I like to lie down in the sun and take it quietly, and I cannot understand how you can be for ever on foot." "I have so many things to do, Osgod; there is so much to learn, and I do not wish to grow up a mere beer swiller like Edmund of Angmering or Ethelred of Arundel. Their lives are, as far as I can see, no whit higher or more worthy than that of their own serfs, from whom they differ only that they eat more, drink more, and sleep on softer beds. Earl Harold expects better things than that of me, and I want to make myself worthy of being one of those in whom he can place confidence and on whom he can depend in case of trouble. I have heard him say how bad it is for England that our thanes are, in learning and culture, so far behind the nobles of other countries, and that if England is ever to take her place among great nations it must be by her thanes first raising themselves to the level of the nobles abroad, who are the counsellors of their kings. I can never hope to be anything like Earl Harold, who is the wisest and greatest of Englishmen, but I do hope so to fit myself that some day he may think me worthy of trust and confidence." "Well, master," Osgod said lazily, "every one to his liking. I hope to be a good soldier and your true servant, but as for all this thinking and learning it would weary me to death."

3

AT COURT.

Two months after Wulf had gone down to Steyning one of Harold's men brought a short letter from the earl himself. "I am glad to hear, Wulf," it began, "from my steward, Egbert, that you are applying yourself so heartily to your work. I have also good accounts of you from the Prior of Bramber, who sometimes writes to me. He is a good and wise man, as well as a learned one, and I am right glad to hear that you are spending your time so well. I told you that you should hear if there was any alteration in your affair. Some change was made as soon as you had left; for, two days later, meeting William of London in the presence of the king, I told him that I had inquired further into the matter, and had found that you were by no means the aggressor in the quarrel with young Fitz-Urse, for that he had fingered his dagger, and would doubtless have drawn it had there not been many bystanders. I also said that, with all respect to the bishop, it would have been better had he not inclined his ears solely to the tale of his page, and that under the circumstances it was scarcely wonderful that, being but a boy, you had defended yourself when you were, as you deemed, unjustly accused. "The prelate sent at once for his page, who stoutly denied that he had touched the hilt of his dagger, but I too had sent off for Ulred, the armourer, and he brought with him a gossip who had also been present. I asked the king's permission to introduce them, and they entirely confirmed your story. Fitz-Urse exclaimed that it was a Saxon plot to do him harm, and I could see that the bishop was of the same opinion; but the king, who is ever anxious to do justice, declared at once that he was sure that the two craftsmen were but speaking the truth. He sternly rebuked Fitz-Urse as a liar, and signified to the bishop that he would do well to punish him severely by sending him back to Normandy, for that he would not tolerate his presence at court--an order which the bishop obeyed with very bad grace. But at any rate the lad was sent away by a ship a week later. "After the bishop had left the audience-chamber the king said that he was afraid he had acted with harshness to you, as it seemed that the fault was by no means wholly on your side, and that I could at once recall you if I wished to do so. I thanked his majesty dutifully, but said I thought it were best in all ways that for a time you should remain away from court. In the first place, you deserved some punishment for your want of respect for the bishop, to whom you should have submitted yourself, even if you had thought him unjust. In the second place, as Fitz-Urse had been sent away, it would create an animosity against you on the part of his countrymen at court were you to reappear at once; and lastly, that I considered it would be to your benefit to pass at least some months on your estates, learning your duties as thane, and making the acquaintance of your people. Therefore, I wished you to continue at Steyning. It will assuredly be pleasant for you to know that you are no longer to be considered as being there in consequence of having fallen under the king's displeasure, but simply because it is my wish that you should for a time dwell among your people, and fit yourself to be a wise lord to them." Wulf was much pleased at the receipt of this letter, partly because the fact that he had been sent away in disgrace stung him, and he had felt obliged frankly to acknowledge to the neighbouring thanes that he had been sent down on account of a quarrel with a Norman page; but chiefly because it showed the kindly interest that Harold felt in him, and that although absent he had still thought of him. It was nigh ten months before he heard again. During that time he had grown a good deal, and although he would never be tall, his frame had so widened out that it was evident he would grow into an exceptionally powerful man. At sixteen he was still a boy, and although his position at Steyning, where, although still under the nominal tutelage of the earl's steward, he was practically lord and master, accustomed to play the part of host within its walls, and that of feudal lord over the wide estates, had given him the habits of authority and the bearing of one who respected himself, the merry expression of his face, aided by a slight upward turn of his nose, showed that in other respects he was unchanged. He had learned with his weapons all that Leof could teach him. He could wield a light battle-axe, and with his sword could turn aside or sever an arrow however sharply shot at him, provided that he had time to mark its flight. With a quarter-staff he was a match for any youth on the estate, and he could hurl a dart with unerring aim. Osgod had sprung up into a powerful young fellow, taller than his master by well-nigh a head, and his equal in exercises requiring strength rather than quickness and skill. His duties at table had been delegated to another, for there was a certain clumsiness in Osgod's strength that no teaching could correct; and in his eagerness to serve his master he so frequently spilled the contents of a cup, or upset a platter, that even Egbert acknowledged that it was hopeless to attempt to make a skilful servitor of him. The earl's second letter contained only the words: "Come up to London as soon as you receive this. Leave Egbert in charge of everything as before." Although the time had not seemed long, and his occupations were so varied that he had never felt dull since he had come down, Wulf was delighted to receive the summons. He had, unconsciously to himself, begun to feel restless, and to wonder whether Earl Harold had altogether forgotten his existence. "We are going back to London, Osgod," he shouted. "I am right glad of it," the young giant said, stretching his arms lazily. "I am grievously tired of the country, and had it not been that nothing would induce me to leave your service, I have thought sometimes that I would gladly be back again in my father's smithy, hammering away on hot iron. I used to think it would be the grandest thing possible to have nothing to do, but I have found that one can have too much of a good thing. Certainly I am glad to be going back, but I am not sure whether it won't be worse at court than it is here." "Perhaps we may not be staying there," Wulf said encouragingly. "Maybe the earl is going to start on some expedition; though we have heard of no trouble, either in the North or in Wales. But even if I stay at court, Osgod, you will often be able to be away, and can spend some hours a day at the smithy, where, if you like, you can take off your smock and belabour iron to your heart's content. I should say you would be a rare help to your father, for, as Leof says, for a downright solid blow there are not many men who could surpass you." Osgod laughed. "Leof has not forgiven that blow I dealt him a month ago, when I flattened in his helmet with my blunted axe and stretched him senseless on the ground; in faith, I meant not to hit so hard, but he had been taunting me with my slowness, and seeing an opening for a blow at his head I could not resist it, and struck, as he was always telling me to do, quickly." "You well-nigh killed him," Wulf said, shaking his head; "he has not taken an axe in his hand since, at least not with either of us. He said to me the first time I invited him to a bout, it was high time a man should give up teaching when he came to be struck senseless by a boy." "Not much of a boy," Osgod replied, "seeing that I stand over six feet high, and got my muscles hardened early at the forge. However, he bears me no ill-will; all he ever said to me on the matter was, 'I am glad to see that you can shake off your sluggishness sometimes, Osgod; I should have been less earnest in my advice to you to strike more quickly if I had thought that you were going to do it at my expense. Keep those blows for your master's enemies, lad. If you deal them to his friends you will lessen their number.'" "Have my horse brought round at once, Osgod, have the wallets packed, and be ready to start in an hour's time. I cannot go without riding over to say good-bye to the prior and some of the monks. Do you, when you have packed, follow me; it is not greatly out of the way, and I shall meet you on the road. A short half-hour will suffice for me there." "So Harold has sent for you, Wulf?" the prior said, when the young thane told him that he was on the point of starting for London. " 'Tis as well. Come back when you may, you will now be fit to rule at Steyning, and to rule well, but I foresee that we are likely to have you but seldom down here. You are in good train to rise high among Englishmen. You already possess the favour of Earl Harold, who is, in all respects but name, King of England. You possess far more learning than most young men of your rank, and as Harold rightly thinks much of such knowledge, you are likely, if you live, to learn more. But better than this, so far as your prospects are concerned in the troubled times that may be coming, you are quick witted and ready. I hear that you are already very proficient in arms, and a match for most grown men. Best of all, so far as your future happiness is concerned, you have a kind heart and a good disposition. You could scarce be a page of Earl Harold's and not be a true Englishman and patriot; therefore, my son, I think that I can predict a bright and honourable future for you if Harold lives and reigns King of England. Be steadfast and firm, lad. Act ever in what your heart tells you is the right; be neither hasty nor quarrelsome. But,"--he broke off with a smile, "you have had one lesson that way already. Now I will detain you no longer. _Pax vobiscum_, may God keep and guard you! If opportunity offer, and a messenger comes this way, write me a few lines; news of you will be always welcome at Bramber." Leaving the prior, Wulf paid a hurried visit to the chambers where the monks were engaged in their various avocations, and then started at a canter and met Osgod coming along with a sumpter-horse carrying the wallets, a store of provisions for the way, and Wulf's arms and armour fastened to the crupper of his saddle. "You have done well, Osgod," Wulf said as he turned his horse, and at a quieter pace proceeded beside him. "I forgot to give you any directions or to speak about your bringing a pack-horse with you, but I am glad you thought of it, for our steeds would have been heavily burdened had all that baggage been divided between them." "We go back more heavily laden than we came," Osgod remarked. "My wardrobe was then of the scantiest, and your own has been considerably added to since we came here. Truly, Wulf, I feel that I have changed mightily in this year, and can scarce believe that it is but a twelvemonth back since I flung down my hammer and started on my tramp to Guildford with a change of clothes dangling from the end of my cudgel. I was glad when you and your party overtook me, for I was badly scared once or twice when I met a rough fellow or two on the way, though, fortunately, they did not deem me worth robbing. We could give a good account of four or five of such knaves now." "There has been a change indeed, Osgod, and in me as much as in you, though I have not shot up into such huge proportions. I was a page then, and had learned but to obey. I am a boy still, but I have begun to learn to rule; at any rate, to rule myself. I have not conquered my fault of hastiness altogether." Osgod smiled broadly. "You are quick in temper still, Wulf. You remember it was but yesterday that you rated me soundly because I had fed your hawks early, and they were too lazy to fly when you wanted them." "Well, it was annoying," Wulf laughed; "and you deserved rating, since you have been told over and over again that the hawks were not to be fed early in the morning. Besides, the rating did you no harm." "None at all, master. I know that you mean not what you say, and hard words break no bones. I should have thought no more of it had you yourself not remarked that you were still somewhat hasty of temper." "I was wrong, Osgod," Wulf said, holding out his hand, "but you know that I love you, and that though your carelessness and forgetfulness chafe me sorely at times, I mean not what I say." "I know it, master, and I would not have you other than you are. I suppose it is the thickness of my skull that prevents me from taking in all that I am told, and perhaps if I had more to do I might do it better. I shall be able to play my part when it comes to hard blows, and you must remember that no one can excel in all things. A staghound is trusty and sure when on the chase, but he could not be taught to fetch and to carry and to perform all sorts of tricks such as were done by the little mongrel cur that danced to the order of the mountebank the other evening. My father always said I was a fool, and that, though for a piece of rough hammering I was by no means amiss, I should never learn the real intricacies of repairing fine armour. Everything has its good, you see, Master Wulf; for had my father thought better of me in his trade, I doubt if he would ever have given me leave to quit it, and go as your man." "I have no doubt that is so, Osgod, and heartily glad am I that you showed no genius for smith's work. Nature evidently intended you to damage casques and armour rather than to repair them. You have not got all my clothes with you," he added, as he looked round at the led horse. "No indeed, Wulf," Osgod said, "nor a quarter of them, for in truth your wardrobe has grown prodigiously since we came here. I had to talk it over with Egbert, having but little faith in my own wits. He advised me to take the two suits that were most fitted for court, saying that if he heard you were going to remain there he would send on the rest in charge of a couple of well-armed men." "That is the best plan, doubtless," Wulf agreed. "My hawking suit and some of the others would be useless to me at court, and it would have been folly to have burdened ourselves with them if we are likely to return hither shortly." "Where shall we stop to-night?" Osgod asked. "At the monastery of the Grey Friars, where we put up on our way from London. It will not be a long ride, but we started late. To-morrow we shall of course make a long day's journey to Guildford. I don't know what travellers would do were it not for the priories." "Sleep in the woods, Wulf, and be none the worse for it. For myself, I would rather lie on the sward with a blazing fire and the greenwood overhead, than sleep on the cold stones in a monk's kitchen, especially if it happened to be a fast-day and one had gone to rest on a well-nigh empty stomach." "It is never so bad as that," Wulf laughed; "as a rule, however much the monks may fast, they entertain their guests well." "If it is an English monastery they do," Osgod admitted, "but not where there is a Norman prior, with his new-fangled notions, and his vigils and fasts and flagellations. If I ever become a monk, which I trust is not likely, I will take care to enter a Saxon house, where a man may laugh without its being held to be a deadly sin, and can sleep honestly without being wakened up half a dozen times by the chapel bell." "You would assuredly make but a bad monk, Osgod, and come what will I do not think you will ever take to that vocation. But let us urge on our horses to a better pace, or the kitchen will be closed, and there will be but a poor chance of supper when we reach the priory." "Well, Osgod," Wulf asked the next morning as they rode on their way, "how did you fare last night?" "Well enough as to the eating, there was a haunch of cold venison that a king needn't have grumbled at, but truly my bones ache now with the hardness of my couch. Couch! there was but the barest handful of rushes on the cold stone floor, and I woke a score of times feeling as if my bones were coming through the skin." "You have been spoilt, Osgod, by a year of sleeping softly. I marked more than once how thickly the rushes were strewn in that corner in which you always slept. How will it be when you have to stand the hardships of a soldier's life?" "I can sleep well on the ground with my cloak round me," Osgod said steadily, "and if the place be hard you have but to take up a sod under your hip-bone and another under your shoulder, and you need not envy one who sleeps on a straw bed. As to cold and wet, I have never tried sleeping out of doors, but I doubt not that I can stand it as well as another. As to eating and drinking, they say that Earl Harold always looks closely after his men, and holds that if soldiers are to fight well they must be fed well. At any rate, Master Wulf, I shall be better off than you will, for I have never been accustomed, as you have, to such luxuries as a straw bed; and I doubt whether you ever went hungry to bed as I have done many and many a time, for in the days when my father hoped to make an armourer of me I was sent off supperless whenever I bungled a job or neglected his instructions. I wonder what the earl can want you for in such haste?" "I do not suppose he wants me in any haste at all. He may have spoken to the king about me, and when Edward again spoke of my returning he would simply send for me to come at once." Such indeed proved to be the case. When he waited on Harold as soon as he arrived the latter held out his hand; "I am glad to see you back again, Wulf. A year of country air and exercise has done wonders for you, and though you are not as tall as you might be, you have truly widened out into fair proportions, and should be able to swing a battle-axe of full weight. Thinking it was time for you to return here, I spoke to the king, who was in high good-humour, for he had been mightily pleased that morning at some of the figures the monks have wrought in stone for the adornment of his Church of St. Peter; therefore he not only consented to your return, but chided me gently for not having called you up to town before. 'The matter had altogether slipped my mind,' he said; 'I told you that he might return directly it was shown that it was the bishop's page who was in fault, and from that day I have never thought of it.' "I told the king that I had purposely kept silence, for I thought the day had come when you should learn your duties down there instead of dawdling away your time at court. You need not put on a page's attire any more. You will remain here as my ward, and I have had so good an account from the good prior of Bramber that in a short time I shall be able to receive your oath as Thane of Steyning. You will attend me to court this evening as one of my gentlemen, and I will then present you to the king, whom it is well that you should thank for having pardoned you. I hear from the prior that the varlet you took down with you has grown into a big man, and is well-nigh as tall as I am already. He must have lodging with my followers while you are here." Finding that he was to remain for the present at Westminster, Wulf sent off a messenger at once to request Egbert to forward the rest of his clothes immediately. That evening the earl took him into a chamber, where the king was seated surrounded by a few of his favourites. "This is Wulf of Steyning, my lord king," Harold said, "the youth who was unfortunate enough to incur your royal displeasure a year since, and who has upon your order returned from his estates. I have had excellent accounts of him from my good friend the prior of Bramber, who speaks well alike of his love of study and his attention to the affairs of his estate. I have also heard from other hands of his progress in military exercises, and that he bids fair to become a valiant and skilful soldier of your majesty. He has prayed me to express his thanks to your majesty for having pardoned him, and having authorized me to enrol him again in the ranks of my followers here." The king nodded pleasantly in answer to the deep bow that Wulf made. "I was somewhat hasty in your matter," he said graciously, "and dealt out somewhat hard measure to you, but doubtless, as Earl Harold said, your stay in the country has been for your good, and I am glad to hear that the worthy prior of Bramber speaks so well of you." The earl gave a little nod to Wulf, and the latter, gathering that his case was concluded, and that he could now go at once, retired with another deep obeisance. Leaving the palace he made his way to the armourer's, whither he had sent Osgod as soon as they arrived. The smith doffed his cap as he entered. "I am right glad to see you back again, young master. My son gave me a rare surprise, for truly when he walked in I did not know him again, not having had him in my thoughts or having heard of his arrival. The varlet saw that I did not know him, and said, 'Canst mend me a broken dagger, master armourer?' " 'That can I,' I answered, and would have said more, when a laugh came from his great mouth that well-nigh shook the house, and I knew that it was my son, though the note was deeper than his used to be, and was, as I told him, more like the bellow of a bull than the laugh of a young fellow of eighteen. His mother looked in from behind the shop and said, 'Surely that must have been Osgod's laugh.' 'It was,' I said, 'and there he stands before you. The impudent rascal has topped me by over half a head, though I am a fair height myself.' Then she carried him away, and I saw no more of him until I had finished my work. Since supper he has been telling me somewhat of what he has been doing down with you, which, as far as I can learn, amounts to nothing, save the exercising of his arms and the devouring of victuals." "He did all there was to do, Ulred, except that he could not bring that long body and those loose arms of his to offer me cup or platter without risk to my garments, and even Egbert was forced to agree that he should never be able to make a courtly servant of him; but save in that matter Osgod has got on right well. He has always been ready when I wanted him, and prepared at once to start with me either on foot or horseback whenever I wished to go out. He is growing into a mighty man-at-arms, and well-nigh broke the skull as well as the casque of the captain and teacher of my house carls. Another two years, if he goes on as he has done and we go into battle again, no thane in the land will have a stouter body-guard." "Are you going to stay in London, Master Wulf?" "Yes; that is, while the earl is here. When he is away hunting or attending to the affairs of the state I suppose I shall go with him. Osgod of course will go with me. While here I shall have but little use for his services, and he can be at home most part of the day." "Then I trust you will soon be off," the smith said bluntly, "for to have a youth six feet and a hand in height hanging about doing nothing would set all the men thinking it well that they too should be idle. Osgod was always ready enough for a talk, though I do not say he could not work when it was necessary, but now that he is in your worship's service and under no orders of mine, his tongue will never cease wagging." "Oh, I am ready to work a bit, father. I know how long it took me to hammer out a bar before, and I shall be curious to find out in what time I can do it now." "I doubt you will spoil more than you make, Osgod. Still, I too shall be curious to see how many strokes you can give with the big hammer, and how quickly you can beat a bar into a blade." The stay in town was, however, of short duration, for four days later the earl told him that he was going down to his house at Bosham, and that he was to accompany him. " 'Tis three months since I was away from London," he said. "The king is going down into Hereford to hunt, and I am therefore free for a while, as there are no matters of state that press at present, though I fear that ere very long the Welsh will be up again. I hear that their King Griffith, not content with the beating he had a short time since, is again preparing for war. Still it may be some time before the storm bursts, and I am longing to be down again among the green woods or afloat on the water." Harold took with him a large party of personal friends, his brother Wulfnoth, and his nephew Hakon. Among the party was Beorn, a young thane, who also was a ward of the earl. He was two years older than Wulf, but there had been a close friendship between them at Edward's court. Shortly after Wulf's departure Beorn had also been sent by the earl to his estates in Hampshire, and had been recalled at the same time. Beorn was far less strong and active than Wulf, having been very weakly during the early years of his life, nor had he had the same advantages of education, as he only became Harold's ward a year after Wulf was installed as a page at Westminster. He was a youth of good and generous disposition, and looked with feelings of admiration upon the strength and skill in arms of the younger lad, and especially at his power of reading. "I can never be like you there, Wulf," he would say, "but I hope I may some day grow as strong as you and as skilful in arms." Beorn's stay in the country had done much for him, his thin tall frame had filled out and there was a healthy colour on his cheek. He had practised diligently at military exercises, and although he found when, on the first day after Wulf's arrival in London, he challenged him to a trial in arms, he was still very greatly his inferior in skill and strength, he bade fair to become a gallant fighter. "It is a disappointment to me, Wulf," he said as he picked up the battle-axe that had been struck from his hand and sent flying across the hall by a sweeping blow of Wulf's weapon. "I have really worked very hard, and I did think that I ought to have caught you up, seeing that I am two years the elder. But you have gained more than I have. I did as well as the other youths who were taught with me by the house-carl Harold sent down with me, but I am sure I shall never be as quick or hit as strongly as you do." "Oh yes, you will, Beorn. Age is nothing. You see you were sick and ailing till you were fifteen years old, so those years counted for nothing, and instead of being two years older than I am you are many years younger. In another four or five years you will come to your full strength, and will be able to strike a far heavier blow than I can now; although I do not say heavier than I may be able to do then, as you are neither so wide nor so deep chested as I am. But what does it matter, one only fights sometimes. You have other advantages, you are gentler in speech and manner and have a handsome face. When we were pages together the bower-maidens of the queen always made much of you, while they called me impudent, and would give me many a slap on the cheek." "Well, you deserved it richly, Wulf, for you were always playing tricks upon them--hiding their distaffs or tangling their thread, and giving them pert answers when they wanted you to do their errands. Well, I hope we shall be always great friends, Wulf. Your estates lie not far from mine, and though we can scarce be called neighbours we shall be within a day's ride of each other, and I trust that we shall fight together under the good earl, and often spend our time at each other's houses, and hunt and feast together." "I hope we shall be much together, Beorn," Wulf said warmly, "and that we shall be sworn friends; but as for feasting, I care but little for it. We Saxon thanes are too fond both of food and wine-cup, and though I am no monk I would that our customs could be altered. I hate foreigners, but their ways are in many respects better than ours. The Normans, it is true, may not be much better than we are, but then they are but Northmen a little civilized; but I have heard the earl say that the French, and still more the Italians, are vastly ahead of us in all arts, and bear themselves with a courtesy and gentleness to each other that puts to shame our rough manners." "We should be neither happier nor better that I can see, Wulf, did we adopt the manners of these Italians you speak of instead of our own." "Perhaps not, Beorn, but we should be able to make the people happier and better if we could raise them." "I will not even grant that, Wulf. Think you that the smith and the shepherd, the bowmaker and the weaver, would be any the happier could they read or even write than they are as they sing Saxon songs over their work? I should like to be able to read, because Harold thinks much of it, but except for that I see not that it would do me much good. If the king makes me any further grant of land it will be doubtless properly made out, and I can get a clerk or a monk to read it to me. My steward will keep the tallies of the tenants' payments. I can learn the history of our forefathers as well from the songs and tales of the gleemen as from books." "You are as bad as my man Osgod," Wulf said indignantly. "Well, you need not get hot about it, good Wulf," Beorn laughed. "When you come to see me I will have gleemen to sing the deeds of our fathers to you. When I come to you I will sit as mum as a mouse while you read to me from some monk's missal. I will force you neither to eat nor to drink more than it pleases you, and you shall give me as much to eat and drink as it pleases me, then we shall be both well satisfied. As for your man Osgod, I wish I had such a fellow. He will be well-nigh a giant one of these days, and in strength may come to rival the earl, who is said to be the strongest man on English soil." "He is a good fellow, Beorn, and I could wish for no better to hold a shield over me in the day of battle or to stand back to back with me in a hand-to-hand fight." "You should get him to stand in front of you," Beorn laughed. "He would be a rare screen against arrows and javelins." The friends were well pleased when they heard they were both to accompany Harold to Bosham, which was one of the favourite abodes of the Earls of Wessex. It had originally been built as a hunting-seat, but Godwin had grown to love the place, with its woods extending for miles back and its quiet landlocked harbour, and additions had been made until it had grown to be, in point of size at least, a residence worthy of the great earls, and Harold preferred it to any of the many mansions belonging to him. It was a large and gay party that rode down the road through the quiet woods of Surrey and Sussex. They put up each night at the houses of thanes, where, as notice had been sent of their coming, they were royally entertained, and those selected were proud to afford hospitality to the earl. For a week they stayed at Bosham, hunting in the forests, going off in parties under the guidance of the foresters, some who cared not for hard labour, hunting in the woods between Bosham and the hills, while others went far inland into the weald, which was for the most part covered by a great forest, with but a few scattered hamlets here and there. Smoke rising among the trees showed where the charcoal-burners were at work, or where the furnaces were glowing, converting the ore into the tough iron that furnished arms and armour for the greater portion of the men of the south. At the end of the week the earl announced to his guests that he had provided a new diversion for them. "You see those three ships in the harbour," he said. "They were brought here last night, and three hundred men have been at work all day preparing them for our reception. I propose that we all embark with our dogs and servants, and sail along the coast, landing where we please and taking our sport. As we sail eastward there are abundant forests, and the game is far more plentiful than here, and our trip will partake of the character of an adventure in thus dropping upon unknown places. Tents have been stored on board the vessels, with abundance of good cheer of all kinds, so that we can establish ourselves where we will, and sleep on shore instead of rocking uneasily on the waves." The proposal was received with acclamation, and the following morning the whole party embarked upon the three ships. The largest was occupied by Harold himself, his brother and nephew, and six or seven of his principal thanes. In this craft too went Wulf and Beorn with their men. On issuing from the harbour the ships' heads were turned to the east. The wind was light and fitful, the sails therefore were not loosed, and they proceeded under oars. There was but little tide until they reached the extremity of the long point of Selsea, past which they were hurried at great speed by the rapid current. Rowing closer inshore they got into quieter water, and continued their way until tide turned, when they anchored, and landing with their dogs hunted in the woods for some hours. On their return to the sea-shore they found the tents erected and supper prepared, and the sport having been good they remained another day. The tide took them the next day past the shore of Wulf's estate, and he begged the earl to land there and to pass a day or two with his company at Steyning; but all were bent upon the chase, and they kept on until they reached the point where the white cliffs began to rise from the edge of the water. Here they landed again, and spent two or three days in hunting. Neither Wulf nor Beorn had been to sea before, and the quiet motion of the ships with their bellying sails and banks of sturdy oarsmen delighted them. There had been scarcely any motion, and neither had felt the qualms which they had been warned were generally experienced for a while by those who went upon the sea for the first time. When the journey was resumed Wulf was struck with surprise and almost awe by the mighty cliffs that rose up from the water's edge. Neither he nor Beorn had seen anything like this, for although both their estates bordered the sea, the shores were flat, and vessels, if needs be, could be hauled up on shore. "What would happen if a gale were to burst upon us here?" Wulf said to his companion. "If the waves were to dash us against those white rocks the ships would be broken up like egg-shells." "Your question is answered," Beorn said, as a bay suddenly opened to their sight. "You see we are going in here, and shall anchor snugly somewhere up this river in front of us, which is truly the best haven we have seen since we left Bosham." Half an hour later the vessels were moored to the bank, close to a wooden bridge which spanned the little river.

4

A STORM.

After hunting for two days in the forests lying behind Newhaven, and in the valley in which Lewes lies, they again embarked. The master of Harold's ship had expressed some doubts as to the weather, but as he stated that it was but some eight miles round the great cliff that they saw to the east, and that beyond this the rocks ceased and there was a bay in which they could ride at anchor, or if necessary beach their vessels, it was determined to proceed, as Harold had the day before been visited by a thane whose house lay but two miles from the shore, and had accepted his invitation for the party to take up their abode there for a few days, as he promised them good sport in the forest. The cliffs rose higher as they proceeded. They kept closer inshore, and although they could see that the clouds were flying rapidly overhead they felt no breeze whatever, being protected from the wind by the lofty cliffs. The master was evidently uneasy, for he urged the rowers to exert themselves to the utmost. Wulf and Beorn stood looking with amazement at the cliffs towering up beside them. "Is it not strange that they should rise like this--like a wall from the water?" Wulf said. "Had they been built up by human hands they could scarcely have been more erect and regular. I have never seen anything at all like it on land." "Then it must be something formed by the sea, Wulf. Do you see those caverns at the foot of the cliff, and in some places you see there is a mound of rocks as if newly formed? It may be that this white stone is soft, and that the sea beating against the foot wears it away in time, and then the rock overhead gives way by its weight and so leaves an upright wall. Perhaps, long back, these hills were like other hills, sloping gradually down into the sea; but in time, perhaps many, many years before the Romans landed here, the sea began to eat them away, and has continued to do so ever since, until they are as we see them." "That may be so, Beorn. My father has told me that he could remember when our estates stretched a good half-mile farther seaward, but had since been eaten away by the waves, and he says that his father had told him the same thing; therefore, as you say, in many hundreds of years even hills, if the stone were soft, might also be worn away. There we are rounding the point, and beyond there are no more cliffs; doubtless it is in this bay that the Shipmaster Edred thinks to anchor." At that moment their conversation was cut short by a tremendous gust of wind rushing down the sloping hill into the bay striking them with such terrible force that the ship heeled over until the water rushed above the bulwark. The men were thrown against each other, and several fell down to leeward. The confusion was heightened by the fact that the great sail, which was but loosely furled to its yard, burst the ropes, and the wind catching it buried the craft still further, and she would have filled and sunk had not the ship-master seized the tiller, and aided by the two sailors there pushed it up, and so the boat's head payed off from the wind and ran before it. The master shouted to the men to lower the sail, which was bellying and flapping violently, but before his orders could be obeyed there was a crash. The mast snapped off at the slings of the yard, and the wreck fell over the bow of the boat. All hands were employed for some minutes in getting the sail on board and furling it to its yard, which was laid lengthways along the thwarts. It was found that three men standing in the bows had been killed, and several others badly hurt. The vessel was by this time some distance from shore. Nothing could be done until she was freed of the water, with which she was nigh half-full, and all hands were employed in bailing it out. The squall had increased rather than lessened in fury, and by the time the water was cleared out they were two miles from the headland. Orders were then given to man the oars again but it was found that several of these had been lost, having been washed away when the men leapt up, believing that the boat would capsize, or had slipped from the rowlocks unnoticed while they were engaged in getting in the sail. This was a serious misfortune, for every oar was needed to force her through the water in the teeth of the wind, which was blowing directly off shore. The remaining oars were all double-banked, Harold himself and his thanes taking their places among the rowers. For an hour they laboured their hardest, but at the end of that time they were farther from shore than when they began, the force of the wind acting on the poop and broad hull driving her seaward faster than the rowers could force her shoreward. The sea, too, was now getting up, and the motion of the vessel rendered it increasingly difficult to row. Edred left his place at the tiller and went forward to Harold. "My lord," he said, "it is useless. In spite of your efforts we are drifting farther and farther out, and from the look of the sky I fear that we are going to have a great gale, and there is nothing to do but to set a little sail and to run before it. Maybe there will presently be a shift of wind, which may enable us to make for shore. At present you are but exhausting yourselves in vain, and the sea will soon get up so much that it will be impossible to use the oars." "So be it," Harold replied; and at the master's orders the oars were laid in, and the men prepared to get sail upon her. A sailor climbed up the mast and fastened the stays close to the point which was broken off. Then another joined him, and a block was lashed to the mast just below the stays, and the halliards were rove through it; then Edred brought out a small sail, and this was hoisted, and the vessel, which had before been rolling heavily, began to glide swiftly through the water. They had had the satisfaction of seeing that their consorts, although like themselves nearly capsized by the squall, had suffered no damage, but after lowering their sails and yards to the deck, had succeeded in rowing into the bay, their lighter hull and draught enabling the oars to drive them through the water in the teeth of the wind. "She is going along finely now," Wulf said. "Yes," Beorn agreed; "but before night there is like to be a sea that will try her." Harold held a consultation with the master, and presently all the men were called to work. The great sail was unrolled from its yard and a portion cut off, somewhat wider than the beam of the boat, and in length reaching from the bow to the mast. Nails and hammers were brought up from the little cabin, and the canvas was stretched from bulwark to bulwark and strongly nailed to the wood on either side, oars being first lashed across at short intervals to support it. "I suppose that is for us to lie under, Master Wulf?" Osgod said. "It is a pity it was not erected before, for there is not a man on board who is not drenched to the skin." "It is not put there to keep you dry, Osgod, but to keep the waves from coming into the ship. But she goes over them well. The wind is getting up, Osgod, and we shall have a great sea presently." "Then why don't we turn and sail back again? It seems to me to be folly to be running away from the land if such is going to be the weather." "How can we sail back again? Do you not see that it is the wind that is blowing us off, and the vessel must go as the wind takes her. One can go a little this way or that, but no man ever yet sailed in the teeth of the wind." "This is the first time I have ever been to sea," Osgod said, "and I trust it will be the last. The tossing of the ship makes me strangely giddy, and many of the servants are downright ill with it. Why men should go on the water when they can walk upon the land is more than I can say. I think I will go and lie down under the shelter of the sail, for indeed I feel as if I were about to die." Wulf himself was feeling strangely uncomfortable. As long as they had been at work he had not felt unwell, for the necessity of holding on to the bulwarks or ropes, and the excitement of their strange position, had saved him from experiencing many qualms; but both he and Beorn were soon glad to follow Osgod's example, and to lie down on the boards under the rowers' benches. Fiercer and fiercer blew the wind, more and more violent became the motion of the ship; masses of water fell on the canvas forward, as she plunged into the waves, and would have soon beaten it in had it not been for the support of the oars. By evening most of the men were lying under the shelter, while Harold's brother and friends had retired to the little cabin in the stern. The earl himself remained by the side of the ship-master, who had taken his place close to the tiller, which was worked by four men. "Think you that she will weather it, Edred?" "I have little fear about that, my lord. She is a staunch boat, and I have been aboard her in seas as heavy as this. Besides, that thought of yours of stretching the canvas across her bow has greatly improved her chances. The water runs off as fast as it falls on it, and none comes on board. Had it not been for this every man would have had to bail all night. No, I have no fear of her weathering the gale. What I am afraid of is, that if this wind continues to blow we shall assuredly be lost on the coast of Normandy." "That would be an ill fortune, indeed, for I know that the Normans count all that are cast on their shores as lawful prey; and even if we reach the land in safety and escape murder at the hands of the lord of the soil and his people, I may fall into the hands of Duke William, who is assuredly no friend of mine, seeing that I stand in the way of his designs upon the throne of England. Truly it was an evil moment when the thought of taking to the sea occurred to me, and I would give a broad slice of my earldom to be back at Bosham." Hour by hour the waves increased in size and violence, and often poured in over the sides. The number of men on board was too great for all to work effectively. They therefore were divided into two parties, one being engaged in bailing while the other lay under cover, the change being made every hour. Wulf preferred working to lying still, for as the craft rolled the water washed over them, while the din of the waves striking the ship's side, and the cataracts of spray falling on to the canvas above were deafening, and it was impossible to get a moment's sleep. All were glad when morning broke, although the scene that met their eyes was the reverse of comforting. Small as was the amount of sail the vessel tore through the water under the pressure of the following wind. Great waves with white crests pursued her, and as they neared her stern it seemed to Wulf that they must inevitably fall over and crush her. The spray torn from the crest by the wind filled the air. The wind shrieked in the cordage, and the vessel creaked and groaned as she rolled from side to side. "I would not have believed if I had not seen it, that the sea could be so violent and ill-behaved," Wulf shouted to Osgod, who was then standing beside him. "If my clothes were but dry and my stomach full I would not mind so much," Osgod replied; "but to be drenched in water all night and to have nought to eat in the morning, takes the courage out of one mightily. How long, think you, will this go on?" "That no one can say. It may last two or three days." "And no food all that time!" Osgod exclaimed in dismay. "We could stand that well enough, Osgod; but I do not think there is much chance of our being called upon to do so, for I heard one of the sailors say that unless the storm abates marvellously we are likely to be cast upon the French coast before nightfall." "I should be glad to be cast anywhere so it were out of this. At least, whether it be France or England, there must be food to be had on shore." "You do not understand, Osgod. Unless we happen to be cast upon a shelving coast with sand or gravel the craft may be dashed to pieces, and all lose their lives; for assuredly none could swim long in such a sea as this." "Well, we must hope that we shall find a shore such as you speak of," Osgod said tranquilly; "but for my part, I am content to take the risk rather than wait another three days before getting anything to eat." "And I would rather fast for a week than run the risk of the ship being broken up on the rocks," Wulf replied. "I can swim but little even in calm water, and I am sure that I could do nothing among those waves." "I can swim, and will look after you," Osgod said confidently. "I used to swim every day in the Thames." Wulf shook his head. "I daresay you might look after me if I fell into the Thames, Osgod, but it is a very different thing in a sea like this. These waves would dash a swimmer hither and thither as if he were but a chip of wood; besides, the spray would smother him. Even at this height above the water it is difficult to breathe when one turns round and faces the wind. I think that our only hope lies in running upon a flat shore, where the waves will wash the vessel up so high that we may be able to leap out from the bow on to the land beyond the reach of their fury." Late in the afternoon one of the sailors on the poop astern shouted out that land was visible, and it was not long before it could be seen from the deck. All eyes were directed anxiously towards it. "It is a rocky coast," Edred said, "but the rocks are not high, and if we can manage to direct the vessel between two of them we may escape. At present it is needful that most of the crew should keep in the stern, but when we are about to strike they must all run suddenly forward, so as to leap out as soon as she touches the ground. There will be but little time given to them, for assuredly the seas will batter her to pieces the moment she falls among the rocks." Harold issued the order. All were to remain at their posts until he gave the word, and were then to run forward. The master scanned the shore anxiously. "See you, my lord, that opening right ahead of us? It seems to me barely the width of the ship, but if I can direct her truly between the rocks methinks that most of the crew will gain the land. I shall myself take the helm. That is my duty and my right, and should I not succeed in making the shore, I shall at least die well contented with the thought that you who are the hope of England will be saved." "I would fain stay with you, Edred." "That cannot be, my lord. As it is my duty to stay by the ship to the last, so it is your first duty to save your life for England. I need no aid, for the vessel steers well, and by the help of a rope round the tiller I can manage her alone. Farewell, my lord, if we are not to meet again on earth. A very few minutes will decide our fate." "Swimming will be of no use there, Osgod," Wulf said. "Look how the spray dashes itself against the black rocks." "I thought not that it would be so bad," Osgod replied. "I wonder the master does not cast anchor." "The ropes would not hold for a moment," Wulf said, "and when they broke we might drift broadside on to the rocks, which would mean destruction for all. The master is steering for that narrow opening between these two great rocks ahead. It will be but two or three minutes now before our fate is decided." At this moment Harold shouted: "Let each man make his peace with God." And baring his head he stood silently for a minute or two, imitated by all on board. Then Harold again raised his voice in a shout that was heard above the storm: "Move forward now all of you, but not further forward than the mast; for if her head were too far down the master could not hold her straight. Moreover, the mast will assuredly fall forward and crush those in front of it. Therefore, let no man go forward of it until the ship strikes." The sailors had already cut away the canvas stretched across the bow, and all on board clustered just aft the mast. Wulf looked back, and saw the master standing alone on the poop, with his eyes fixed in front of him and a look of grim resolve on his face. Then he turned again to look ahead. The scene was terrible. On either side extended a long line of white foam. Great masses of water were hurled against the rocks with a thundering crash, and the spray flew high up into the air, and then, caught by the wind, was carried far inland. The rocks were now but a few lengths ahead, and the passage between them looked terribly narrow, so narrow that he doubted if the ship could possibly pass through them. Not a word was spoken on board as the ship neared the opening. Now she swerved a little to one side, now a little to the other, as the waves lifted her stern and swept her along, but the hand of the master checked her immediately, and brought her head back to the line. She was but a length away from the passage when there was a crash that shook her from stem to stern; then another great wave lifted her, and Wulf saw a black wall of rock gleaming with the water that streamed down it. The wall of rock flashed past the bulwarks so closely that he could have touched it. A moment later the ship struck again, this time with a force that threw many off their feet, while the mast fell over the bow. Then once more she lifted, shot a few feet further, then struck with tremendous force and remained stationary. There was a grinding and splintering of planks, as the men rushed forward, and then a wave swept over the vessel, carrying all on deck before it into the cove beyond the rock, rolling them over and over up a sandy shore behind. Some managed to dig their hands and feet into the sand and to scramble out; more were sucked back again by the receding waters. As Wulf found himself in the water he felt his arm clutched, and Osgod shouted in his ear: "Do not struggle, I can keep you up!" When thrown up on the sand Wulf tried in vain to resist the backward rush of the water; he and Osgod were borne out again. When the next wave again swept them up Wulf saw the earl standing knee-deep in the water, and as he was swept past, Harold seized him and Osgod, and with tremendous strength lifted them right out of the water. "Keep still!" he shouted; "your weight will help me to keep my feet." Wulf felt his supporter quiver as the water rushed out, for he was waist-deep now; but directly afterwards he set them both down on their feet, saying, "Run before the next wave comes." Ten yards farther and they were beyond the reach of the sea. Harold was with them, and directed those who had got ashore to form lines, taking hold of each other's hands, and so to advance far into the surf and grasp their comrades as they were swept up. Many were saved in this way, although some of the rescuers were badly hurt by floating pieces of wreckage, for the vessel had entirely broken up immediately after her course had been arrested. As soon as all who could be seen were brought ashore it was found that ten men were missing, among whom was the master of the ship, most of them having probably been struck by floating timbers. As soon as it was certain that no more would come ashore alive Harold called the men together. Rough litters were made of oars and pieces of sail, for the conveyance of those who had broken limbs or were too much injured to walk, and the party prepared for a start. By this time several men, apparently of the fishing class, had approached, but stood a short distance away, evidently waiting for the departure of the party before beginning the work of collecting whatever the sea might cast up. Harold went over to them, and asked in the Norman tongue: "What shore is this, and how far is it to the nearest town where we can obtain shelter and assistance?" "You are in Ponthieu, in the territories of Count Conrad. The town of St. Valery is but two miles along the coast. There you can obtain all you need." Returning to his men, Harold ordered the wounded to be raised, and the party at once set out. Harold had already taken off his gold chain and rings, and had told his companions to do the same, in order that the cupidity of the natives might not be excited nor their rank guessed at. As soon as they started Wulf went up to him. "My lord," he said, "I fear that you have already been recognized by one of the fishermen. I saw him looking earnestly at you, and then whisper to one of his companions. After doing so he hurried away." "That is bad news, Wulf; but I could hardly expect that I should be long unrecognized. There are many vessels come and go between the northern ports and our own, and in St. Valery there must be numbers of sailors and fishermen who have seen me in London. Besides, we are sure to be questioned by the count as to our rank and condition, and even could we conceal it for a while, the news is certain to be brought ere long from England of our having been blown off the coast, and when it was known it would be speedily guessed that we were the missing party. Hark you, Wulf; I have never heard aught good of Count Conrad, and one cannot say what steps he may take to force us to pay a heavy ransom, but it is like enough that he will do all he can to prevent the news of my being in his hands from reaching the ears of the duke. It is likely that you and Beorn, being but lads, will be watched less rigorously than the rest of us. Should this be so, try, if you find an opportunity, to send the news to the duke that we are all held prisoners here. I shall, of course, endeavour to communicate with him, but some chance may occur by which you can do so more readily than I can." "I will try to do so, my lord; but I trust this Norman count will treat you with all due honour and courtesy." Wulf then fell back to Beorn's side, and half an hour later the shipwrecked party entered the gates of St. Valery. The townspeople flocked round them, and as soon as they learned that they were a party of shipwrecked Saxons who had been blown by the gale from England, they were led to the house of the officer in command of the town. He asked them a few questions, saying, "I must refer the matter to the count. By the usages of our land all who are cast upon it become his prisoners, to be put to ransom or otherwise as he may decide. However, food shall be supplied you at once, but you must be content to remain under guard until his pleasure is known." They were accordingly at once placed in a disused granary, under the charge of a strong guard. Food was brought to them, and as soon as they had consumed this, most of the men threw themselves on the ground, worn out by their long exertions. "This is a sorry welcome, Wulf, after our escape from the sea," Beorn said. "Truly the land seems as inhospitable as the ocean." "It is not pleasant, Beorn, but at present I feel so thankful for my escape from those terrible waves that even the thought that we are all prisoners to this petty noble does not greatly concern me. Doubtless William of Normandy, who is the liege lord of the land, will speedily take us out of his hands. Were we alone it may be that we should suffer a long stay in his dungeons, but Harold and his brother are far too important personages to be allowed to remain in the hands of one of the duke's vassals." "It is shameful," Beorn said indignantly. "I do not say that those who are cast on our shores may not be often pillaged and ill-treated by the common folk, but surely none of gentle blood would fail to show them kindness and hospitality." "That is so on our coast of Sussex, but I have heard that further west, and certainly among the Danes of Northumbria, vessels cast on the coast are considered as gifts from the sea, and even the lives of those who gain the shore are not often respected. I regret much that Harold should be with us. It is true that his being here will doubtless shorten the term of our imprisonment, but it is unfortunate that he should fall into the hands of William, who is as famous for craft and subtlety as he is for bravery and skill as a leader." "But what can he gain from Harold?" Beorn asked. "Our earl is well-nigh as much known throughout Europe as William of Normandy, and all Christendom would cry out with shame were he treated with ought but courtesy by the duke." "I doubt not that he will treat him with courtesy, Beorn, but he may well wring some concessions from him before he lets him depart. He may bargain that the Normans may be again allowed to hold land in England, and to build their castles, as they did before Godwin and his sons returned from exile, and the Normans had to fly the land, save those around the person of the king. He may beg so many bishoprics for Norman priests. There is no saying what concessions he may extort. Of all princes in Europe I had rather Harold had fallen into the hands of any other than into those of William of Normandy." "Truly I have never troubled my head about such matters, Wulf, and thought that it would be time to do so when I became a thane, and had a vote at the Witan." "I have heard much of them from the prior of Bramber, who is a true Englishman, and though a priest, learned in all matters that appertain to the history of times past and of our own; he impressed upon me that just as a boy must practise arms if he is to bear them worthily as a man, so he should study the story of our kings, and learn what is passing, not only in our own country but in others, if he is ever to raise his voice in council." Harold and his thanes sat apart discussing the position, their conclusion being very similar to that arrived at by Wulf. Chivalry had but slight influence as yet in the West of Europe. Kings and princes cared little as to the means by which they attained an end. Rivals to a throne were put out of the way without scruple; the profession of arms was a business like any other, carried on for gain; a captured foe was valued chiefly for the amount of ransom that could be obtained for him; petty barons and powerful nobles alike levied exactions on those who might fall into their hands, unless previously provided with a safe-conduct. Years later, when King Richard was made a prisoner on his return from the Holy Land, it was only because of his great exploits for the recapture of the Holy Sepulchre that any feeling of reprobation was excited against his captors. Thus then, although Normandy was at peace with England, it did not seem an unnatural thing to Harold and his companions that the noble into whose hands they had fallen should demand a heavy ransom, or that the Duke of Normandy himself should utilize the opportunity for his advantage. On the following morning they heard a large body of horsemen ride up. A minute later the governor accompanied by a Norman noble entered. They were followed by a number of men-at-arms, among whom was a fisherman. "Now, fellow," the count said to this man, "which is the Saxon Harold?" "I am," Harold said, advancing a step before his companions. "I am Harold, Earl of Wessex. I have with my companions been cast on your shores. I expect honourable treatment, and am willing to pay any reasonable ransom should you demand one." "We will talk of that afterwards," the count said roughly; "for the present you go with me to my castle at Beaurain. But first do you and your men hand over all valuables that you may possess; they are forfeited to me, being cast up on my land." Without a word Harold produced his chain of office and other ornaments, and dropped them into a helmet which a soldier at the orders of the count held out for them. His companions did the same, the thanes first and then the two lads. "That will do," the count said to the soldiers. "That is my share, you can search the rest yourselves." "I protest against this robbery," Harold said haughtily, "and will proclaim you in all the courts of Europe as one who is false to his station, and who condescends to pillage those whom fortune has cast on his shores." "You can wait until you get an opportunity to do so," the count sneered; "it is not likely to come for some time. You can do as you like to the others," he went on to the governor, "I want not to be cumbered with them. You can doubtless find work for them on the fortifications, but if you can put them to no use or they are troublesome, cut their throats and throw them into the sea." The Saxons fingered their knives, but Harold said in their own tongue, "Resistance would be folly, the time may come when we may turn the tables on this fellow." The soldiers now closed round Harold and the thanes and led them out of the house. Here they were ordered to mount each behind a soldier, and as soon as they had done so they rode out from St. Valery, and crossing the river Somme at Abbeville, and the Authie by a ford near Crecy, reached the fortress of Beaurain on the river Canche near the town of Hesdin before nightfall. On the road Wulf watched anxiously for a chance to escape, but none offered itself. Soldiers rode on both sides of the captives, and had he slipped from the horse he could not have hoped to make his escape across an open country. As soon as they entered the fortress Harold and the thanes were all consigned to dungeons, but the count, learning that the two lads had been Harold's pages, said they should wait on himself. "And see," he said to them, "that your service is good, if you do not wish to dangle over the moat at the end of a rope." "It is a shame that such a man should be a nobleman," Beorn exclaimed indignantly to Wulf, as he saw that the soldiers were placing chains upon Harold before they led him away. "He is a hateful-looking villain," Wulf said. "It is but lately that he revolted against William. I heard of it from the prior. His brother, the last Count of Ponthieu, joined France in an invasion of Normandy. He fell in an ambush at St. Aubin, and this man became count. For a time he was held prisoner by the duke, but afterwards he was freed, and received back his dominions as a vassal. His face is at once cruel and base. I told you the instructions Harold gave me, Beorn; the need for carrying them out has arrived, and I will try to make my escape without loss of time from this fortress to bear the tidings to the duke." "I will escape with you, Wulf; two can get on better than one." "That is so, Beorn, and I would gladly have you with me, but maybe I shall be detected in attempting to escape and be slain, or I may fall into the hands of peasants and be brought back here, and if we were together all hope of letting the duke know of our lord's captivity would be at an end. Therefore it were best that I made the attempt first. If I fail, which is like enough, then do you in turn try to get away and bear the news to the duke." Beorn did not like to stay behind, but he saw that Wulf's plan was best, and accordingly fell in with it. "Will you go at once?" he asked. "No; I will stay for a day or two to lull suspicion. They may watch us just at first, but if they see that we do as we are ordered with good-will they will cease to regard us so narrowly; moreover, it will be needful to know the place well before I devise a plan of escape."

5

ROUEN.

For the next two days the lives of the two young Saxons were well-nigh unbearable. At meals the count by turns abused and jeered at them, and his companions, following his example, lost no opportunity of insulting them in every way. "If this goes on, Wulf," Beorn said as they threw themselves down on the ground late that night, when the carousal was ended, "I shall snatch the count's dagger from his belt and bury it in his heart, though they put me to death by torture afterwards." "I thought of doing so myself, Beorn, to-night, when he threw a cup of wine over me. But I said to myself my life is not my own, Harold's rescue depends on it. We are bound as his men to suffer in patience whatever may befall us. In another hour I shall try to make my escape. When it was your turn to wait this evening I stole away for a time, and went to the shed where they keep the war-engines and took thence a coil of rope, which I have hidden in the courtyard. You know that we noticed last night where the sentries were placed, and decided where I might best drop from the wall unobserved. Fortunately the moat is dry at present, though they can turn water into it from the stream at will, so that once down I shall have no difficulty in getting away. Now I want you to go to sleep directly, I shall not stir until you do so, then when you are questioned in the morning you can say that I was by your side when you went to sleep, and that when you woke in the morning the place was vacant. You can say that I told you during the day that I could not suffer these insults much longer, and that you suppose that after you had gone to sleep I must have got up and either killed myself or in some way made my escape." Beorn lay quiet for a time and then Wulf said suddenly, "I have changed my mind, Beorn; we will go together. I feel it is likely that in his wrath at my escape the count may slay you, and thus the object with which you remained behind would come to nothing, therefore it is best that you go with me." "I was thinking so myself, Wulf, though I would not say it; but in truth I think the risks we may run in making our way to Rouen are small compared to those of staying here." "We must lose no time, Beorn. The castle is quiet now, and we must be many miles away from here before morning, for you may be sure the count's horsemen will scour the country far and wide in pursuit of us." They had that morning, before the count was up and their services were required, wandered about the fortress, apparently paying no attention to anything, but really closely observing the approaches to the walls and the general features of the country outside. They now stole out, keeping in the shadow of the building, until they reached the staircase leading up to the battlements, close to the point Wulf had fixed upon for making their descent. This had been chosen chiefly because no sentry was placed on that part of the wall, the watch generally being careless, as Normandy was at present at peace with its neighbours. When they reached the top of the steps they listened for a short time, but everything was silent. Then they stepped out on to the narrow pathway along the battlements, fastened one end of the rope round a piece of stonework and let the other end drop down into the fosse. "Shall we both go down together, the rope is strong enough?" Beorn asked. "It is strong enough, but we had better go separately, Beorn; we are neither of us accustomed to climb ropes, and if the upper one were to slip down too fast he might knock the other off the rope. It makes no matter who goes first. I will if you like, only mind if you hear a footstep approaching let yourself down at once whether I am off the rope or not. Be sure and twist your legs tightly round it, or it will run through your fingers." Taking hold of the rope he at once swung himself over, and without much difficulty reached the bottom in safety. He had scarcely done so when Beorn came down beside him with a rush. "What made you come down like that, you narrowly missed coming on my head?" "I believe I have cut my fingers to the bone," Beorn groaned; "I feel as if I were holding a bar of hot iron. You had scarcely started before I heard voices; they were evidently those of men going their rounds, so I caught hold of the rope and swung myself off, but before I got my legs fairly round the rope I began to slip, and though I gripped it as hard as I could I could not stop myself, but slid down like lightning." "Hush!" Wulf whispered, "they are coming along above." The voices came nearer until they sounded directly overhead Wulf knew that it was very unlikely they would notice the rope in the dark, but he felt much relieved as he heard them pass on. He waited until they could no longer be heard. "Now, Beorn, we can safely be off." It was muddy at the bottom of the fosse, but not so deep as they thought it would be, and they scrambled up the opposite side and then struck across the country south. Presently they came upon a road, which they followed, until after three hours' walking they reached the Authie river, at a spot where the bank was broken down. "This must be a ford, we had best try to wade across. Anyhow there cannot be very many yards to swim, and we can both manage that." They found that the bottom was pebbly, and that even in the middle the water was not much above their waists. "That is something done, at any rate," Beorn said. "Now which way shall we go? This road we are on seems to lead south and we cannot do better than follow it, the stars give us light enough, now that our eyes are accustomed to the darkness." "Yes, we can keep this road, which is no doubt that by which we travelled before, as far as the village which I heard them call Noyelle, then we shall have to strike off to the left, for that place was not far from Abbeville, and shall have to follow the Somme up some distance, unless we can find means of crossing it." "I should think we had better leave the road before we get to the village, so as to be well away from it. If any peasant were going to work early and caught sight of us he would be sure to mention it to any horseman who might come along searching for us. I noticed that there were several woods on our right as we rode along." "That would be the safest way, no doubt," Wulf agreed. "Fortunately we can do without food for to-morrow"--for both had managed to get some supper after they had finished in the hall,--"and having made up my mind to escape to-night I hid away a large piece of bread under my smock. We can manage very well on that." Accordingly after an hour's walking they left the road and bore to the south-west. But little of the land was cultivated, and they were fortunate in not coming upon any woodland until light began to break in the sky. Then they made their way to the nearest wood, went in for some distance and then threw themselves down, and in a few minutes were fast asleep. Accustomed to judge time by the position of the sun, they saw when they awoke that it was already past noon, and after eating a few mouthfuls of bread they continued their journey. For the most part their course lay among woods, and they did not venture across an open piece of country until after a careful examination to see that no one was in sight. Shortly after starting they caught sight of a village in the distance, which they afterwards learned was St. Riguier, but with these exceptions saw no human habitation. Late in the afternoon they came down on the bank of the Somme. This was thickly covered with long reeds and rushes, and among these they sat down and ate the rest of their bread, confident that however vigilant the search they would not be traced. "This is a very different matter to the last crossing," Beorn said. "This is a wide river, and I fear that I could not swim across it." "Nor should I like to try. But fortunately there is no occasion for us to trust to swimming; for we can pull up or break off a number of these great rushes and make them into two bunches; these will give us ample support for our passage." "So they will, Wulf; I should never have thought of that." Two large bundles were soon made, the reeds being tied together by a tough climber that wreathed itself everywhere among them, and as soon as it was quite dark they went down to the water's edge, and found to their satisfaction that the reeds possessed ample buoyancy for their purpose. Wading in they started swimming, resting their chests on the reeds and striking out with their legs, and in a few minutes were on the southern bank of the river. "Now we must make to the east of south," Wulf said. "I should say if we walk steadily all night we shall be beyond the territory of this vile count. I hope before long we shall strike on some road leading in the right direction, for if we get among the woods again we shall be able to make no progress. But any road we may come upon going at all in the right direction is likely to lead to Rouen." "How far is it, do you think?" "I have a very vague idea. The prior had a map of Normandy, and on this he pointed out to me how the duchy had grown since William came as a boy to be its duke. I can remember the general position of the town, but not more than that. I should think from the Somme to Rouen must be over seventy miles and less than a hundred, but more closely than that I cannot guess." They came upon no road before morning, but as the country was open they made good progress, and when they lay down in a thicket as the day was breaking they calculated that they must be nearly thirty miles south of the Somme. "I feel that I want sleep," Beorn said, "but still more that I want food. If it is another sixty miles to Rouen I know not how we are going to travel the distance fasting." "No, we must get some food to morrow or rather to day, Beorn. We have nothing of any value to offer for it. They searched us too closely for anything to escape them. We dare not go into any town or village until we are quite sure that we are beyond the count's territories, but we might enter some solitary hut and pray for a piece of bread for charity, or we can walk all day, by which time we shall surely be well beyond the Count of Ponthieu's territory, and could boldly go into a town. If we are seized, we can demand to be sent to Rouen, saying we are bearers of an important message to Duke William, and even if they do not send us straight on, they would hardly keep us without food." After sleeping for four or five hours they again started, and after walking some miles came upon a herdsman's cottage The man was out, and his wife looked with surprise at the two lads, whose garments, though stained by sea water and travel, were evidently those of youths of a class above the common. Beorn addressed her in her own language, and told her that they were wayfarers who had lost their road and were grievously in need of food. She at once invited them to come in, and set before them some black bread and some cheese made from goats' milk. They learned to their satisfaction that they had long passed the limits of Ponthieu, and that Rouen was distant about fifty miles. "The road from Amiens lies five miles to the east," she said; "but it would be shorter for you to keep due south, for it inclines in that direction. You will strike it after seven miles' walking, and after that you cannot miss your way." After warmly thanking the woman for her hospitality the lads again started, feeling greatly strengthened and refreshed by their meal; but want of sleep told upon them, and when they got within sight of the road they again lay down, and slept until the sun was setting. Resuming their journey they followed the road, and before morning crossed over a range of hills, and presently arrived at a small hamlet close to which was a monastery. Towards this they directed their steps, and seating themselves on the ground near the door, waited until it was unbarred. "You are early wayfarers, my sons," the monk who opened the gates said as they went up, "and you seem to have travelled far." "That have we, father, and are sorely in need of food." The hospitality of the monasteries was unbounded, and the monk at once led them into the kitchen, where bread, meat, and wine were placed before them. "Truly you were hungry," the monk said smilingly as he watched their onslaught upon the joint. "We were well-nigh starving, father. For two days we have had nought to eat save a crust of bread we had brought with us, and some that a shepherd's wife bestowed upon us out of charity, and we have walked from near Hesdin." "I do not ask out of curiosity, my sons," the monk said after a pause, "and you know it is not our custom to question wayfarers who come in to ask our hospitality; but it is strange to see two youths, who by their dress and manner seem to belong to a superior station, in so pitiable a state as you are, and wandering alone, as it would seem, penniless through the country. I ask not your confidence, but if you chose to give it maybe we might aid or advise you. Our prior is a kindly man and very gentle with the faults of others." "We are Saxons, father. We were wrecked four days since near St. Valery, and are now bound on an errand of high importance to Duke William, to whom it is urgent we should arrive as soon as possible. We have run sore peril on the way, and have been stripped of our money and valuables." "Is your mission of importance to the duke as well as to yourselves?" the monk asked gravely. "It is of great importance to him. I am sure that he would consider that any one who assisted us on our way had done him good service." The monk look earnestly at them. "I will speak to the prior," he said. He returned in a few minutes and bade them follow him. The prior was a tall, gentle old man. "I have heard your story from brother Gregory," he said, "and I wished to see you that I might judge for myself whether so strange a tale, as that two shipwrecked boys should have important business with our duke, could be believed, before I did aught to help you forward. You look to me honest of purpose and of gentle blood, and not, I am sure, belonging to the class of wayfarer who will trump up any story for the purpose of gaining alms. Whether your errand with the duke is of the importance you deem it I cannot say, but if you give me your word that you consider it an urgent matter, I will aid you to proceed at once." "We do indeed consider it most urgent, father, and we are sure that the duke will so regard it. We should not have walked well-nigh a hundred miles in two days and nights, and that almost without food, had we not deemed it so." "Brother Gregory," the prior said, "bid lay-brother Philip at once prepare three palfreys, and tell him he is to ride himself with these two Saxon youths to Rouen. The distance is thirty miles," he went on as the monk left the room. "It is not yet six o'clock, and though our palfreys are not accustomed to travel at rapid speed, you will be there this afternoon in time to have audience with the duke." The lads returned their warm thanks to the prior. "We would gladly tell you the purport of our mission," Beorn said, "but we are only the bearers of news, and the duke might be displeased did he know that we had confided to any before it reached his own ear." "I wish not to learn it, my son. It is sufficient for me that you have a mission to our duke, and that I am possibly furthering his interest by aiding you to reach him. But, in sooth, I am more moved by the desire to aid two stranger youths, whom the sea and man alike seem to have treated hardly. Is it long since you left England?" "We have well-nigh lost account of time, father, so much has taken place in a few days. 'Tis but a week since we were sailing along the English coast with a large company in three ships, when a sudden tempest arose, carried away our sail, blew us off the shore, and then increasing in fury drove us before it until we were wrecked on the coast of Ponthieu, near St. Valery. Since then we have been prisoners, have escaped, and have journeyed here on foot." "Truly a bad week's work for you," the prior said. "Were all your ships wrecked?" "No; our two consorts, being lighter and more easily rowed, regained the land when we were blown off it." "Conrad of Ponthieu is an evil man," the prior said. "Had you come ashore twenty miles farther south you would have been beyond his jurisdiction. I fear that all the seacoast people view the goods obtained from vessels cast ashore as a lawful prey, but your company would assuredly have received fair hospitality if cast on the shores of Normandy itself. But now methinks I hear the patter of the palfreys' hoofs. Farewell, my sons, and may God who has protected you through these dangers give you his blessing." The lads knelt before him as he placed his hands on their heads and gave them his benediction. As they rose brother Gregory entered to say that the horses were ready, and with renewed thanks to the prior they followed him to the courtyard, mounted, and rode off with the lay-brother, glad indeed to find their journey on foot thus abridged. Impatient as they were to reach Rouen, the gentle pace at which the palfreys ambled along fretted them very much. Brother Philip kept up a constant string of talk on the monastery, its estates, the kindness of the prior, the strictness of the subprior, and other matters of great interest to himself, but of none to the boys, whose thoughts were with Harold, chained and in prison. The palfreys, however, made very fair progress, and it was but three o'clock when they rode into the streets of Rouen, whose size and grandeur would at any other time have impressed them much, for it was an incomparably finer city than London. "That is the duke's palace," brother Philip said, as they approached a stately building. "I will put up the horses at the convent at the farther corner of this square, and will then go with you to the palace, as I have orders to tell any officer who may make a difficulty about you entering, that I am bid by the prior of Forges to say that you are here on urgent business with the duke, and to pray that you may have immediate audience with him." In those days great men were easy accessible, and one of the ushers, on receiving the message from the prior, at once led the boys to an apartment in which the duke was sitting. He looked up in some surprise on seeing the two lads standing bareheaded at the door, while the usher repeated the message he had received. "Advance," he said. "What is this business of which the prior of Forges has sent me word?" The two boys advanced and knelt before the duke. He was a man of about the same age as Harold, with dark hair and complexion, less tall than the earl, but of a powerful figure, and a stern, resolute face. The boys had discussed among themselves which should be the speaker. Wulf had desired that Beorn, being the elder, should deliver the message, but Beorn insisted that as Wulf himself had received it from Harold, it was he who should be the one to deliver it to the duke. "My Lord Duke," Wulf said, "we are Saxons, pages of Earl Harold, and we bring you by his orders the news that the vessel in which he was sailing along his coast had been blown off by a tempest and cast on the shore of Ponthieu, near St. Valery, and that he and his companions have been villainously ill-treated by Conrad, Count of Ponthieu, who has seized them and cast them into dungeons in his fortress of Beaurain, Harold and his companions being fettered like malefactors." The duke was astounded at the news. No greater piece of good fortune could have befallen him, for he had it in his power to lay his great rival under an obligation to him, to show himself a generous prince, and at the same time to obtain substantial benefits. He rose at once to his feet. "By the Host," he exclaimed, "but this is foul treatment indeed of the noble earl, and brings disgrace alike upon the Count of Ponthieu and upon me, his liege lord. This wrong shall be remedied, and speedily. You shall see that I waste no moment in rescuing your lord from this unmannerly count." He struck his hand on the table, and an attendant entered, "Pray the knights Fitz-Osberne and Warren to come hither at once. And how is it, boys," he went on, as the attendant hurried away, "that you were enabled to bear this message to me?" "While Harold and his thanes were cast into prison," Wulf said, "the count kept us to wait upon him; not for our services, but that he might flout and ill-treat us. We obtained possession of a rope, and let ourselves down at night from the battlements, and made our way on foot as far as Forges, where the good prior, learning from us that we had a message of importance to you, though nothing of its import, sent us forward on palfreys, so that no time might be lost." "When did you leave Beaurain?" "It will be three days come midnight," Wulf said. "And how did you live by the way?" "We took a piece of bread with us, and once obtained food at a shepherd's hut, and this morning we were well entertained at the convent of Forges." "You have proved yourselves good and trusty messengers," the duke said. "Would I were always as well served. As you are the earl's pages you are of course of gentle blood?" "We are both his wards, my lord, and shall be thanes when we come of age." "And how is it that you, young sir, who seem to be younger than your companion, are the spokesman?" "It happened thus," Wulf said modestly. "Some fishermen came up just after we had gained the shore with the loss of many of our company. I marked that one of them started on seeing Earl Harold, and whispered to a companion, and feeling sure that he had recognized my lord, I told the earl of it as we walked towards St. Valery. He then charged me if he was taken prisoner by the count to endeavour to bear the news to you, and to give the same orders to my comrade Beorn, saying it was likely that we might not be so strictly watched as the men of the company, and might therefore succeed in slipping away, as indeed turned out to be the case. I was desirous that Beorn should tell you the tale, being older and more accustomed to the speech of the court than I was, but he held that the message, being first given to me, it was I who should deliver it." "He judged rightly," the duke said, "and deserves credit for thus standing aside." At this moment two knights entered. "Fitz-Osberne, Warren," the duke said, "a foul wrong has been done by Conrad of Ponthieu to Earl Harold of Wessex, the foremost of Englishmen next to the king himself, who has, with a company of his thanes, been cast ashore near St. Valery. Instead of receiving honourable treatment, as was his due, he has been most foully seized, chained, and with his friends thrown into prison by the count, who has sent no intimation of what has taken place to me, his lord, and had it not been for these two brave and faithful youths, who effected their escape over the battlements of Beaurain in order to bring me the news, the earl might have lingered in shameful captivity. I pray you take horse at once, with twenty chosen spears, and ride at the top of your speed to Beaurain. There express in fitting terms to Conrad my indignation at his foul treatment of one who should have been received as a most honoured guest. Say that the earl and his company must at once be released, and be accorded the treatment due not only to themselves, but to them as my guests, and bid the count mount with them and ride to my fortress of Eu, to which I myself will at once journey to receive them. Tell Conrad that I will account to him for any fair ransom he may claim, and if he demur to obey my orders warn him that the whole force of Normandy shall at once be set on foot against him. After having been for two years my prisoner, methinks he will not care to run the risk of again being shut up within my walls." "We will use all haste," Fitz-Osberne said. "Conrad's conduct is a disgrace to every Norman noble, for all Europe will cry shame when the news of the earl's treatment gets abroad. That Conrad should hold him to ransom is only in accordance with his strict rights, but that he should imprison and chain him is, by the saints, almost beyond belief." As soon as the knights had left, the duke sent for his chamberlain, and ordered him to conduct Beorn and Wulf to an apartment and to see that they were at once furnished with garments befitting young nobles, together with a purse of money for their immediate wants. Then taking a long and heavy gold chain from his neck he placed it on the table, and with a blow with his dagger cut it in sunder, and handed half to each of the lads. "Take this," he said, "in token of my thanks for having brought me this news, and remember, that if at any time you should have a boon to ask that it is within my power to grant, I swear to you upon my ducal honour that it shall be yours. Never have I received more joyful news than that the great Earl of Wessex will shortly be my guest." The lads bowed deeply, and then followed the chamberlain from the apartment. "Well, what think you of it, Beorn?" Wulf said, when they found themselves alone in a handsome chamber. "So far as rescuing Harold from the power of the Count of Ponthieu we have surely succeeded even beyond our hopes. As to the rest, I know not. As you were speaking I marked the satisfaction and joy on the duke's face, and I said to myself that it was greater than need have been caused by the thought that Earl Harold was to be his guest." "So I thought myself, Beorn. There can be no doubt that, as he said, he deemed it the best news he had ever received, and I fear greatly that Harold will but exchange one captivity for another. It will doubtless be a more pleasant one, but methinks Harold will find himself as much a prisoner, although treated as an honoured guest by William, as he was while lying in the dungeon of Conrad. It is a bad business, and I greatly fear indeed that Harold will long rue the unfortunate scheme of hunting along the coast that has brought him to this pass." In a short time an attendant arrived with ewers, water, and four suits of handsome garments, belts embroidered with gold thread, and daggers, together with two plumed caps and purses, each containing ten gold pieces; he informed them that two horses had been provided for their use, and that they were to take their meals with the duke's household, and to consider themselves in all respects as his guests. "We look finer birds than we did when we rode in with brother Philip," Beorn laughed when they had attired themselves in their new garments. "The more sober of these suits are a good deal gayer than those we wore at home even at court ceremonies." "King Edward objects to show," Wulf said, "and his own pages are so sober in their attire that the earl likes not that we should outshine them, and we usually cut a poor figure beside those of William of London and the other Normans of his court." In a short time the chamberlain came in and informed them that supper was served, and conducted them to the hall, where he presented them to the duke's gentlemen and pages as William's guests, and wards and pages of the Earl of Wessex. The news of Harold's shipwreck and imprisonment travelled quickly, for orders had already been issued for the court to prepare to start early the next morning to accompany the duke to Eu, in order to receive with due honour William's guest and friend, Harold of England; and while the meal went on many questions were asked as to the shipwreck and prisonment of the earl, and the liveliest indignation was expressed at the conduct of Conrad of Ponthieu. "Truly all Normans will be reckoned churls," one of the gentlemen exclaimed indignantly. "The fame of Harold's bravery, wisdom, and courtesy to all men is known in every court in Europe, and that the duke's vassal should have dared to imprison and chain him will excite universal indignation. Why, the rudest of our own Norse ancestors would not have so foully treated one so noble whom fate had cast into his hands. Had we been at war with England it would be shameful, but being at peace there are no words that can fitly describe the outrage." When the meal was over, one of the duke's pages who was about the same age as Beorn asked him what they were going to do with themselves. "If you have nothing better," he said, "will you ride with me to my father's castle, it is but five miles away? My name is De Burg. I can promise you a hearty welcome. My father was one of the knights who accompanied the duke when he paid his visit to England some fifteen years ago, and he liked the country much, and has ever since spoken of the princely hospitality with which they were received by your king. He did not meet Earl Harold then." "No, the earl with his father and brothers was away in exile," Wulf said rather shortly, for that visit had been a most unpleasant one to Englishmen. It had happened when the Norman influence was altogether in the ascendant. The king was filling the chief places at court and in the church with Normans, had bestowed wide domains upon them, and their castles were everywhere rising to dominate the land. Englishmen then regarded with hostility this visit of the young Norman duke with his great train of knights, and although at the return of Godwin and his sons the greater portion of the intruders had been driven out, their influence still remained at court, and it was even said that Edward had promised the duke that he should be his successor. It was true that Englishmen laughed at the promise. The King of England was chosen by the nation, and Edward had no shadow of right to bequeath the throne even to one of his sons much less to a foreign prince, who, although related to himself by marriage, had no drop of English blood in his veins. Still, that the promise should ever have been made rankled in the minds of the English people, the more so as the power of Normandy increased, and the ambition as well as the valour of its duke became more and more manifest According to English law the promise was but an empty breath, absolutely without effect or value. According to Norman law it constituted a powerful claim, and Duke William was assuredly not a man to let such a claim drop unpressed. Wulf had heard all this again and again, and the prior of Bramber had explained it to him in all its bearings, showing him that little as Englishmen might think of the promise given by Edward so long ago, it would be likely to bring grievous trouble on the land at his death. He might perhaps have said more in reference to William's visit had not Beorn at once accepted the invitation to ride with young De Burg to his father's castle.

6

RELEASE OF THE EARL

In a few minutes the three horses were brought out. Wulf and Beorn were much pleased with the animals that had been placed at their service. They were powerful horses, which could carry a knight in his full armour with ease, and seemed full of spirit and fire. They were handsomely caparisoned, and the lads felt as they sprang on to their backs that they had never been so well mounted before. "You would have made the journey more quickly and easily if you had had these horses three days ago," young De Burg laughed. "Yes, indeed. There would have been no occasion to hide in the woods then. With our light weight on their backs they would have made nothing of the journey." "You must not expect to see a castle," De Burg said presently, "though I call it one. In his early days the duke set himself to destroy the great majority of castles throughout Normandy, for as you know he had no little trouble with his nobles, and held that while the strength of these fortresses disposes men to engage either in civil war or in private feuds with each other, they were of no avail against the enemies of the country. My father, who is just the age of the duke, was his loyal follower from the first, and of his free will levelled his walls as did many others of the duke's friends, in the first place because it gave the duke pleasure, and in the second because, had only the castles of those opposed to the duke been destroyed, there would have been such jealousy and animosity on the part of their owners that matters would never have quieted down in the country. Thus it is that throughout the land you will find but few castles remaining. The nobles felt it strange at first to be thus dwelling in houses undefended against attack, but they soon learnt that it was far more convenient than to be shut up within massive walls, and the present dwellings are much larger and more comfortable than those of former days. The duke said rightly that the abolition of fortresses well-nigh doubled his fighting power, for that so many men were required to garrison them as to greatly diminish the number their lords could take with them into the field. You do not have castles in England, do you?" "No, we live in open houses, and hold that it is far better and more pleasant to do so. There is no fighting between neighbours with us. The great earls may quarrel and lead their forces into the field, or may gather them against Danish and Norwegian pirates, but except on these occasions, which are rare, all dwell peaceably in their homes." The horses were fresh, and the five miles quickly passed over. "There is the house," De Burg said, pointing to a large building standing on an eminence. It was castellated in form, and much of the old building had been incorporated with the additions, but the outer wall had been pulled down and the moat filled up. Broad casements had replaced the narrow loopholes, and though the flag of the De Burgs still waved over the keep, which stood a little apart from the rest, the family no longer dwelt in it. "It is chiefly used as a storehouse now," Guy De Burg explained; "but there, as you see, the old loopholes still remain, and in case of trouble it might be held for a time. But of that, however, there is little chance; the duke's hand is a heavy one, and he has shown himself a great leader. He has raised Normandy well-nigh level with France, and so long as he lives and reigns there is no fear of domestic trouble." The gate stood open and they rode into a courtyard, when several men came out and took the horses. Guy de Burg ran up a broad staircase to the entrance of the house itself, and passed beneath a noble entrance with a lofty pointed arch supported by clustered pillars. Inside was a spacious hall paved with stone, and from this De Burg turned into an apartment whose walls were covered with rich hangings. Here a lady was at work embroidering, surrounded by several of her maids similarly engaged. A girl some fourteen years old was reading a missal, while the master of the castle was sitting in a chair with low arms, and was playing with the ears of a hound whose head was lying on his knee. "Well, Guy, what is your news?" he asked as his son entered. "Half an hour since I received a message from the duke desiring me to appear with ten men-at-arms in their best trappings to ride with him to Eu. Is Conrad of Ponthieu giving trouble again, and who are these young gentlemen with you?" Guy went down on one knee to kiss his father's hand, and then did the same to his mother, then he said, "I will with your permission answer the last question first, father. My friends are young Saxon thanes, pages to Earl Harold, and at present guests of the duke." "You are bearers, doubtless, of some message from the king to our duke?" "No, my lord," Beorn said, "we were bearers of a message from Earl Harold." "It is to meet him, father, that we are to ride to Eu to-morrow. He has been wrecked on the shores of Ponthieu, and has been foully imprisoned and even fettered by Count Conrad. Beorn and Wulf escaped from the prison and brought the news to the duke, who this afternoon dispatched Fitz-Osberne and Warren at full speed to bid the count at once free his prisoners, and deliver them over to him at Eu under pain of his direst displeasure." "Harold in Normandy and a prisoner! This is strange news indeed. We shall surely make him welcome, for he is in all respects a great man, and save our own duke has a reputation second to none in Europe." Wulf thought as he looked at the speaker that at least he had no second thought in his mind. It was a frank honest face, martial in its outline, but softened by a pleasant smile. He had spoken in a genial tone of affection to his son, and Wulf thought, that although no doubt he was ready to take the field at the summons of his lord, he preferred a quiet life in this stately home. "This is news for you, wife," he went on. "You will have to furbish up your gayest attire, for we shall be having grand doings in honour of this great English earl, and our dames will have to look their best in order that he may carry home a fair report of them to the Saxon ladies. And how did you manage to escape, young sirs, and when did you arrive with the news?" Beorn, who as the elder was specially addressed, shortly related the story of their escape and journey. "You have done well," the baron said when he had concluded. "Guy, you may learn from these young Saxons that even pages may be called upon to do work of more importance than handing wine-cups and standing behind their lord on state occasions. Had it not been for their readiness and courage Harold might have lain weeks in prison, maybe months, while the count was striving to wring the utmost ransom from him. The lads would doubtless have been slain had they been detected in making their escape or overtaken on the way, and the attempt was therefore one that required courage as well as devotion to their lord. I doubt not that you would exhibit both qualities did opportunity offer, but I question whether you could have walked the distance they did, and that on such scanty fare. We Normans are too apt to trust wholly to our horses' legs to the neglect of our own, and although I have no doubt that you could ride as far as a horse could carry you, I warrant that you could hardly have performed on foot the journey from Beaurain in twice the time in which they did it. They must have exercised their legs as well as their arms, and although in a campaign a Norman noble depends upon his war horse both on the march and on the day of battle, there may often be times when it is well that a knight should be able to march as far as any of the footmen in the army. Well, Agnes, and what have you to say to these Saxon youths? Methinks your eyes are paying more attention to them than to your missal." "I can read my missal at any hour, father, but this is the first time that I have seen young Saxon nobles. I thought there would have been more difference between them and us. Their hair is fairer and more golden and their eyes bluer, but their dress differs in no way from our own." She spoke in a matter-of-fact and serious air, as if it were a horse or a dog that she was commenting upon, and both Beorn and Wulf smiled, while Guy laughed outright. "It is little wonder that their attire is like ours, Agnes," he said, "seeing that they were furnished with it by the duke's orders. You do not suppose that after being tossed about on the sea and well-nigh drowned in landing, and being made prisoners, and then travelling through the country and sleeping in the woods, Beorn and Wulf would arrive here with their garments new and spotless. That would indeed have been a miracle." "But, indeed," Beorn said, "our garments differ not greatly from those we now have on, for Norman fashions are prevalent at King Edward's court, and we had no choice but to conform to them. Your language is always spoken there, and methinks that were you to visit Westminster you would see but little difference between King Edward's court and that of your own duke." "And your sisters, do they too dress like us?" "Queen Edith's ladies dress like her in Norman fashion, but away from the court the attire is different and more simple. Sisters, Wulf and I have none; we are orphans both, and wards of Earl Harold, who holds our estates until we are of age to take the oaths to him and to lead our men in battle." "And will you be barons like my father, or counts, or simple knights?" "We shall be none of these things, Lady Agnes. We have our great earls as in France you have your great dukes, but below that we have no titles. We are thanes, that is land owners, who hold their land direct from our earls. Some have wider lands than others, but as free thanes we are all equal. As to knights, we have not in England the titles and ceremonies which are so much thought of in France and in other courts." "That is a pity," the girl said gravely, "for the vows of knighthood make a knight courteous and gentle to enemies and friends alike." "Or rather, Agnes," her mother put in, "they should do so; but in truth, looking round at the cruel wars we have had in Normandy, I do not see that men have been more gentle or courteous than they would have been had they never taken the vows or had knightly spurs buckled on; and in truth it seems to me from the news of what has taken place beyond the sea, that in the civil troubles they have had in England men are much more gentle with each other, and foes are far more easily reconciled than with us in Normandy, who are supposed to be bound by the laws of chivalry. Had our duke been cast upon the shores of England as Harold has been cast upon that of Ponthieu, I think that he would not have been so dishonourably treated by one of the English thanes as Harold has been by Count Conrad. When Godwin and his sons returned from the exile into which they had been driven, and again became all powerful, there was not, as I have heard from your father, a single drop of blood shed, nor any vengeance taken upon the men who had brought about their exile. It would have been very different had such things happened here." "You speak rightly, wife. The English are of a more gentle disposition than we are, though nowise backward in battle. But now, Guy, it is time that you were returning. You have already made a longer stay than usual. I shall see you again to-morrow when we start for Eu. Young sirs, I hope that on your return you will often ride over here when your lord does not require you. We shall always be pleased to see you, and although the forest lies some miles away, Guy can show you good hunting, though not so good as that which, as I hear, you can get in England, where the population is not so thick as it is in this part of Normandy." The horses were brought round, and the three lads rode into Rouen just as night was falling. Long before daybreak there was a stir in the streets of the city, as parties of knights and nobles rode in with bodies of their retainers in obedience to the orders of the duke. All in the palace were awake early. A hasty breakfast was eaten, while just as the sun rose the duke mounted his horse, and at the head of an array, composed of some twenty barons and knights and four hundred men-at-arms, rode out of the city. "There is a good deal more pomp and show here than there was when we rode with Harold from London," Wulf said. "In truth these Norman nobles make a far braver appearance in their armour and robes, and with their banners carried behind them, than we do. Were the king himself to ride in state through London he would scarce be so gaily attended." "Duke William does not look as if he cared for show," Beorn said. "Nor does he," Guy, who was riding beside them, put in. "For himself he is simple in his tastes, but he knows that the people are impressed by pomp, and love to see a brave cavalcade, therefore he insists on the observance of outward forms; and his court here on state occasions vies, as they tell me, with that of Henry of France." "Where shall we rest tonight?" Wulf asked. "Methinks from the appearance of the sky that we shall have rain, and unless we sleep under shelter, many of these fine robes that we see are like to be as much dabbled in mud as were those in which we arrived." "We shall sleep in no town, for there is no place on the road between this and Eu that could receive so large a party; but soon after we rode out yesterday a train of waggons with tents and all else needful started from Rouen, and half-way to Eu we shall find the camp erected and everything in readiness for our reception." This was indeed the case. The camp had been erected in a sheltered valley, through which ran a stream that supplied the needs of man and horses. The tents were placed in regular order, that of the duke in the centre, those of his chief nobles in order of rank on either side. Behind was a line for the use of the court officials, pages, and knights of less degree, while the soldiers would sleep in the open. As the party rode up a chamberlain with three or four assistants met them. Each was provided with lists containing the names of all the duke's following, and these were at once conducted to the tents alloted to them, so that in a few minutes all were housed without the slightest confusion or trouble. The squires of the knights and nobles and the attendants of the officers and pages at once took the horses and picketed them in lines behind the tents, rubbing them down and cleaning them with the greatest care, and then supplying them with forage from the piles that had that morning been brought in from the neighbouring farms. Fuel in abundance had also been stacked. A number of cooks had come on with the tent equipage, and supper was already prepared for the duke and his party, while animals had been slaughtered and cut up, and the men-at-arms soon had the joints hanging over their bivouac fires. "This is all wonderfully well managed, Beorn," Wulf said. "I doubt whether it could be done so well and orderly with us at home." "What does it matter?" Beorn said contemptuously. "It makes no difference whether one sups five minutes after arrival or an hour." "It matters nothing, Beorn; but what is but a question of an hour's waiting in a small party is one of going altogether supperless to bed when it is a large one. The Normans have been constantly fighting for the last twenty years, and you see they have learned how important it is that everything should be regular and orderly. If they manage matters with a large force as well as they do with a small one, as it is probable that they do, see what an advantage it gives to them. Were two armies to arrive near each other with the intention of fighting in the morning, and one knew exactly what to do, and could get their food in comfort and then lie down to rest, while the other was all in confusion, no one knowing where he should go or where to bestow himself, and, being unable to obtain food, forced to lie down supperless, the first army would obtain a great advantage when they met the next morning, especially if it had breakfasted well while the other went into the fight still fasting. Look at ourselves how weak we were that morning when we had lain down hungry and got up fasting, while on the morning when the woman gave us that food, simple as it was, we stepped out boldly and in spirits." "That is true enough, Wulf, but you know that among us it is said that Earl Harold is always most careful for the comfort of his soldiers." "Yes, the earl always thinks of those around him. As I have never been in the field I know not what the arrangements are, but I cannot think they would be so well ordered in a great gathering of Englishmen, or that we should manage matters as well as the Normans with all their experience have learnt to do." "Well, Wulf," Beorn laughed, "you had best study the matter, and then ask the earl to appoint you to take charge of the arrangements when he takes the field." "One could hardly have a more useful office," Wulf said earnestly; "but it would need a man of experience and of high rank and position, for our Saxon thanes are not accustomed to discipline as are these Norman barons, and only one of great authority could induce them to observe regulations and carry out any plan in due order." Beorn nodded. "That is true enough, Wulf, and it is therefore clear that a good many years must pass before you can properly fill the post of chief chamberlain to the army. For myself, I shall be well content to do what fighting is required, and to leave all these matters in your hands." "Yes; but it can't be left in the hands of one officer," Wulf said warmly, "unless all give their aid willingly to carry out his plans." "Well, you need not be angry about it, Wulf. There will be time enough for that when you get to be grand chamberlain. You know what the Saxon thanes are--how ease-loving, and averse to trouble themselves with aught save the chase. I would as soon marshal a flock of sheep in military order and teach each to keep its place as get the thanes to conform to strict orders and regulations." "And yet, Beorn," said Baron De Burg, who had just entered the tent unnoticed by them in order to speak to his son, who with another page shared it with them, "unless all will conform to strict orders and regulations an army is but a mere gathering of armed men, animated not by one will, but by as many wills as it contains men. Such an army may be valiant; every man may be a hero, and yet it may be shattered to pieces by another which gives itself up wholly to the direction of one will. That is why we Normans have so badly beaten the French. Every mail has his place in battle. He charges when he is ordered to charge, or he is held in reserve the whole day, and the battle ended without his ever striking a blow. We may fret under inaction, we may see what we think chances of falling upon the enemy wasted, but we know that our duke is a great leader, that he has a plan for the battle and will carry it through, and that disobedience to his orders would be an offence as great as that of riding from the field. Hence we have learned to obey, and consequently we have always been victorious against men as brave as ourselves, but each obeying his own feudal lord, and so fighting in detached bodies rather than as a whole. Your young companion is in the right. In a duel between two men strength and skill is everything; in a struggle between two armies obedience to orders is a virtue even higher than bravery and skill at arms. Where is Guy?" "He is in attendance on the duke, my lord," Beorn said. "We presented ourselves also at his tent, but he told us that he required no duty from us." "Let him come to my tent when he returns," the baron said; "that is as soon as he has finished supper. I shall be glad if you will also come, unless the duke sends for you, which methinks he is not likely to do. He is in thoughtful mood to-day, and will probably be alone." Two or three other knights were assembled in Baron de Burg's tent when the three lads went in. De Burg said a few words to his companions, explaining who they were, and then continued his conversation with the others. Beorn and Wulf, as they stood behind the chairs and listened to the talk, could not help being struck with the difference between it and the conversations they had heard at the houses of Saxon thanes. With Harold they had been accustomed to hear matters of state touched on. The church and the struggle going on between the Norman prelates and monks on the one hand and the English clergy on the other was one that was frequently talked over, as were also the projects Harold had at heart for encouraging the spread of education and raising the condition of people generally. At the houses of the thanes, however, the evenings were passed in feasting and song, and it was seldom that there was anything like discussion upon general affairs. Indeed, between men heated with wine and accustomed to state their opinions bluntly anything like friendly argument was well nigh impossible. De Burg and his companions made no allusion at all to public affairs, but discussed gravely and calmly, and with a courteous respect for each other's opinions, questions connected with the art of war, hunting, the changed conditions brought about by the demolition of castles, the improvements gradually being introduced in armour, and other kindred topics. The other nobles were men of about the same age as De Burg, and although the latter's page from time to time carried round wine the goblets were rarely emptied. Certain topics were touched upon only to be dropped at once, and Wulf saw that subjects upon which there was any disagreement among them were carefully avoided. When the boys returned to their tent Wulf said, "Their talk reminds me of the evenings I spent with the prior, his almoner, and two or three other monks, rather than of those at the houses of Saxon thanes." Beorn nodded. "I am not so much against our customs of feasting and merriment as you are, Wulf, and should not care to spend my evenings often in listening to such grave talk, but truly these Norman barons and knights are far more courteous in their speech than our own thanes, and seem to care but little for the wine cup. I admit that such men must be far wiser advisers for a king than are our Saxons, saving of course Harold and his brothers." "The Normans are not all so abstemious as my father and those you saw with him," Guy laughed. "Listen. You can hear songs and loud laughter from many of the tents, ay, and might hear quarrels too did you listen long enough. But those you saw were all men high in the confidence of the duke. They have fought together under his banner in many a field, and are all powerful barons. They are content to hold their own, and have nothing to gain at the expense of others. Their value is well established, and I believe that all of them would be well pleased were they never called upon to set lance in rest again. Methinks this evening they avoided all public questions chiefly because we were present; and you see no word was spoken of the unexpected accident that has thrown Harold on our shores, although it must have been in all their minds; and doubtless they talked it over as they rode hither to-day. I should not be surprised if my father had us in his tent for the very reason that your being there would prevent more being said about it. I do not suppose any of them know exactly what is in the duke's mind--possibly he has not even made it up himself; and it is assuredly wise here in Normandy to express no strong opinion until the duke's own mind is manifest." "I daresay you are right, Guy. I rather wondered why your father had asked us as well as you to his tent when he had others with him; but it is like enough that he thought our presence would prevent any discussion on delicate topics." The next morning the cavalcade mounted early, and in the afternoon rode into the fortress of Eu. It stood upon the river Bresle, and had, previous to the conquest of Ponthieu, been the frontier guard of Normandy on the north. It lay only some ten miles from the spot where the Saxon galley had been wrecked. A messenger had arrived there early in the day from Fitz-Osberne saying that Conrad of Ponthieu had assented to the demand of the duke for the surrender of his captives, that these had been at once released from their confinement, and were now honourably entertained. They would start on the following morning from Beaurain, and would be accompanied by Conrad, who desired to come to Eu to pay his respects to the duke. Although it had been certain that Conrad would not venture to refuse the command of his powerful over-lord, Wulf and Beorn were greatly delighted to hear that Harold and his companions had at once been released from their imprisonment, and that they would so speedily arrive at Eu. In the afternoon of the following day a messenger arrived stating that the cavalcade was but an hour's ride away, and preparations were at once made to receive it with all honour. The garrison of the castle in their bravest attire lined the courtyard, hangings brought from Rouen were disposed round the walls of the great hall, two chairs of state were placed on the dais, the men-at-arms who had come from Rouen were drawn up on either side of the great entrance, and here William with his nobles assembled when the cavalcade approached the castle. The procession was headed by the Norman men-at-arms of Fitz-Osberne and Warren. After them rode Conrad of Ponthieu with Harold by his side. Both carried hawks on their wrists, and were, apparently, on the most amiable terms. Behind them rode Harold's brother and nephew and the two Norman barons; they were followed by the Saxon thanes and the officers of the count's household. Behind these came on foot the Saxons of inferior degree who had been left at St. Valery, and who had by Conrad's orders been sent to join the cavalcade where it crossed the Somme at Abbeville; the procession was closed by a strong body of the count's men-at-arms. They rode through the double line of spearmen until they reached the entrance. Then as Harold dismounted, the duke descended the steps and embraced him with the warmest expressions of satisfaction at thus meeting the most illustrious of Englishmen. Harold replied in suitable terms, and the duke then turned to Conrad and thanked him warmly for having acceded to his request. Ponthieu was but newly conquered, and might yet be a thorn in the side of Normandy in the event of a renewal of war with France. It was therefore to William's interest to treat Conrad's obedience to his orders as if it had been a voluntary submission, and to ignore his discourteous treatment of his captives. In order to eradicate all sense of injury on the part of his vassal, he not only paid him the ransom for Harold but gave him a considerable grant of territory. The duke now presented his nobles and principal officers to Harold, and then with his arm placed familiarly on his guest's shoulder led him into the hall, and placed him in the chair of state beside his own, other seats being placed for Wulfnoth and Hakon and for some of the principal Norman barons, while the rest mingled with the Saxon thanes in the body of the hall. As soon as the reception was over Wulf hurried out into the courtyard to speak to Osgod. "Right glad am I to see you again, Osgod; I have been troubled as to how you were faring." "In truth we have fared badly enough, master; we have been working like beasts of burden, without having food that would suffice for an ass. However, it was not for long, and will do us no harm, though there are more than one of those fellows at St. Valery with whom I would gladly have ten minutes play with cudgel or quarter-staff. You may guess how surprised we were yesterday evening when we were suddenly called out from the shed where we were sleeping, and with many professions of regret and apology for our treatment conducted to better quarters, where a good honest meal was set before us, and we were then told that the duke himself had just arrived at Eu, and that Harold and all his following were there to be given up to him. We had fresh rushes for our beds, and a hearty breakfast this morning, and were then placed in boats and taken up to Abbeville. We had been there but an hour when the earl arrived with the thanes, and glad were we, as you may imagine, to see his face again. They stopped there for an hour to rest their steeds and to dine, and then we marched hither as you saw. I had missed you and Beorn from Harold's party, and made shift to approach the earl and humbly ask him what had become of you. 'No harm has befallen your master and his friend, good fellow,' the earl said. 'They have indeed done me good service, for they made their escape from Beaurain and carried the news of our detention to Duke William, and it is thus that we have all obtained our liberty.' You seem to have fared bravely, Wulf, judging from your attire." "Yes, we were in sore plight when we arrived at Rouen, but the duke saw that we were provided with clothes and with horses for our journey here." At this moment an attendant came out from the hall and informed Wulf that the duke desired speech with him. Beorn was already at the entrance, and they were conducted on to the dais. "Here are your two pages," the duke said to Harold. "I hold myself to be greatly their debtor for having carried me the news that has brought about this meeting, and given me the pleasure of having you as my guest. They are faithful lads and quick-witted, for no men could have carried out the mission better or more promptly than they did." "Still more am I indebted to them," Harold said as he held out his hand to the two lads, who bent on one knee while they kissed it. "I knew not of their going until I learnt from your barons that they had reached Rouen with the news. They are wards of mine, and although at one time my pages they have ceased to be so for more than a year, and have both been down upon their estates learning the duties of their station, which I deemed better for them than wasting their time and getting into mischief at court." The duke nodded. "The result shows that your course was a wise one. At court youths learn but little good. The atmosphere is not healthy for men still less for boys, and these youths will shortly be of an age when they will be fit to render men's service, as indeed they have already done." The lads now retired from the dais. "It has been a fortunate week's work for us," Beorn said. "We have obtained the freedom of our lord and have gained his approbation and that of Duke William; though, indeed, it matters not greatly as to the duke." "I don't know, Beorn; one cannot look into the future, and there is no saying what may happen. Anyhow, even now it may be of advantage to us. Honourably as the duke is treating Harold, the earl is still wholly in his power, and until we hear something of his intentions we are all just as much prisoners as we were to Conrad, although I admit the captivity is a very much more pleasant one."

7

THE OATH.

From Eu the party travelled back to Rouen where there were feastings and entertainments in honour of Harold. Nothing could be more courteous than the duke's manner to his guest. He professed an almost fraternal affection for him, and handsome lodgings were assigned in the town to his thanes. A solemn court was held, at which Harold was knighted by William himself with much state and ceremonial, according to the rites of chivalry, which had then been but recently introduced, and had not as yet extended into England. There were great hunting parties in the forest, and to all outward appearance the friendship between William and Harold was of the warmest and most sincere nature. Harold himself was really gratified at the pains that William took to show the esteem in which he held him, and his thanes were all well satisfied with the attentions bestowed upon them by the Norman barons. Beorn and Wulf had nothing to do save to make friends with young Normans of their own age, to visit their castles and to join in the hunting parties. The duke lost no opportunity of showing the sincerity of the feelings of gratitude he had expressed to them for bringing him the news of Harold's presence in his dominions, and they were always specially invited to all court ceremonials, enjoying themselves exceedingly. Wulf occasionally expressed his surprise to his companion that no word was said as to their return to England, but Beorn's answer always silenced him. "The earl himself seems well satisfied, Wulf. Why should you be more anxious for him than he is for himself?" Once indeed he replied, "Harold is of so open and generous nature, Beorn, that he would be the last person to suspect another of dishonourable motives. Moreover, it is not because he is apparently well content here that we must judge him to be without uneasiness. Whatever he felt it would be impolitic to show it, and we see but little of him now save when in company of the Normans. He cannot but know that his presence is required in England." It was a matter of satisfaction to Wulf that Walter Fitz-Urse was not at the court, he having a few weeks before returned to England, where he was again in the suite of the Norman bishop of London. He himself had become firm friends with Guy de Burg, and often rode over with him to his father's residence, where they hunted in the forest together or rode out with falcons on their wrists, Agnes de Burg often accompanying them on her pony. Three weeks after their arrival at Rouen the Bretons broke out in insurrection, and the duke invited Harold to accompany him on an expedition to subdue them, courteously saying that he should obtain great advantage from the military experience of his guest. Harold accepted the invitation, and with his thanes set out with the duke. Against the disciplined forces of Normandy the Breton peasants had no chance whatever in the open field, but their wild and broken country, well-nigh covered with forest, afforded them an opportunity for the display of their own method of fighting by sudden surprises and attacks, and they defended their rough but formidable intrenchments with desperate valour. Harold's experience gained in his warfare with the Welsh was of much utility, and the duke committed to his hands the formal command of the troops engaged, averring that he himself knew comparatively little of warfare such as this. Harold conducted the operations with equal vigour and prudence. Stronghold after stronghold was attacked and captured, a small portion of the force only being engaged in active operations, whilst the rest were posted so as to repel the attempts of the Bretons to aid the besieged. By his advice clemency was always shown to the garrisons when the fortresses were stormed, and they were permitted to return unharmed to their people, bearing the news that the duke bore no ill-will towards them, and was ready to show mercy to all who laid down their arms. Wulf and Beorn were permitted to share in the assaults, and with the Saxon thanes followed Harold, as he led the way on foot up to the intrenchments at one point, while the duke with a party of his barons attacked at another. More than once the English banner was carried into the heart of the Breton fortress before the Normans had fought their way in, and on each of these occasions the duke warmly expressed his admiration for the courage of his English allies. At last there remained but one formidable stronghold to be captured, and so strong was this by nature, and so desperately defended, that for some time the efforts of the besiegers were fruitless. One evening Guy de Burg had been with Wulf in his tent. Beorn was out spending the evening with some of his Norman friends. When Guy rose to go Wulf said that he would walk with him to his father's tent, which was situated some little distance away. As there had been strict regulations that none were to move about without arms, he buckled on his sword and put on his helmet before starting. Osgod, who was lying outside the tent, rose when they issued out and followed them at a short distance. They went along at the rear of the tents, when Wulf suddenly said: "It seems to me that I hear sounds in the forest, Guy." "De Launey's men are posted behind us," Guy said carelessly; "there is no fear of an attack." "Not if they are vigilant," Wulf agreed. "But the Bretons have for some time abstained from night surprises, and De Launey's men may be keeping a poor watch." Suddenly there was a loud cry, followed immediately by the Breton war-shout, and by a confusion of shouts, cries, and the sound of the clashing of arms. The lads drew their swords and ran towards the scene of conflict, when, from some bushes a short distance from them, a number of wild figures sprung out. It was a party of the enemy who had made their way through De Launey's sleeping men unobserved, and who now, knowing that further concealment was useless, were rushing forward towards the tents. Wulf's first impulse was to turn back, but young de Burg, shouting his father's battle-cry, ran forward, and without hesitation Wulf followed him. A moment later they were engaged with the Bretons. "Back to back, Guy!" Wulf exclaimed, as he ran his sword through the first man who attacked him. He had scarcely spoken when Osgod ran up and joined them, and wielding the heavy axe he carried as if it had been a featherweight, struck down several of the Bretons who ventured within its swing. Wulf defended himself as firmly, but had to shift his ground continually to avoid the blows of the heavy spiked clubs with which his assailants were armed. Presently he heard his name shouted, and an instant later a crash, as Guy de Burg was struck down. "Stand over him, Osgod!" he shouted, and with a bound was beside his companion, cutting down a Breton who was about to thrust his spear into him. At the same moment a club descended on his helmet, bringing him for a moment to his knee. He sprang up again, Osgod striking his opponent to the ground before he could repeat his blow. For two or three minutes the fight went on. Wulf received more than one stab from the Breton knives, as two or three of them often rushed in upon him at once, but each time when he was hard pressed Osgod's axe freed him from his assailants, for so terrible were the blows dealt by the tall Saxon that the Bretons shrank from assailing him, and thus left him free at times to render assistance to Wulf. But the combat was too unequal to last long. A pike-thrust disabled Wulf for a moment, and as his arm fell a blow from a club stretched him beside Guy. Osgod had also received several wounds, but furious at his master's fall he still defended himself with such vigour that the Bretons again fell back. They were on the point of attacking him anew, when there was a shout, and William and Harold, bareheaded as they had leapt from the table, and followed by a score or two of Norman barons and soldiers, fell upon the Bretons. The latter with cries of alarm at once fled. By this time the Norman trumpets were everywhere sounding, and the troops hastening out to repel the attack, which a few minutes later ceased as suddenly as it began, the Bretons flying into the forest, where pursuit by the heavily-armed Normans was hopeless. Returning to the tents, the duke and Harold paused where Osgod, who had sunk to the ground as soon as the Breton attack had ceased, was sitting by the side of his master. "Whom have we here?" the duke asked. "Whoever they are we owe our safety to them, Harold, for had it not been for the resistance they made, the Bretons would have been among our tents before we had time to catch up our arms. Bring a torch here!" he shouted; and two or three soldiers came running up from the tents with lights. "Methinks it is one of my men," Harold said, and repeated the duke's question in Saxon. "I am Osgod, my lord, the servant of Wulf of Steyning, who with his friend, Guy de Burg, lies here beside me, I fear done to death." "I trust not, indeed," Harold said, stooping over the bodies. At this moment the men came up with the lights. "By the rood," William exclaimed, "but they fought stoutly, whoever they are. The ground round them is covered with the bodies of these Breton rascals. There must be at least a score of them, while so far as I can see there are but three of our men. Who are they, Harold?" "One is Guy, son of the Baron de Burg," Harold replied. "Another is young Wulf, and this stout fellow is his man." "Right gallantly have they done," the duke exclaimed, "and I trust that their lives are not spent. Let someone summon De Burg here quickly. Carry his son to his tent, and bid my leech attend at once to his wounds and to those of these brave Saxons." "I will carry Wulf to his tent myself," Harold said, raising the lad and carrying him off, while four soldiers followed bearing Osgod. They were laid down together in Wulf's tent. As the young thane's helmet was removed, he opened his eyes and looked round in bewilderment as he saw, by the light of the torches, Harold and several others standing beside him. "What has happened?" he asked faintly. "The best thing that has happened is that you have come to yourself and are able to speak, Wulf," Harold said. "But do not try to talk, lad, until the leech comes and examines your wounds. You have done us all a rare service to-night, for thanks to the carelessness of De Launey's men, most of whom have paid for their error with their lives, we should all have been taken by surprise had it not been for the brave stand you made. Now we will take off your garments and see where you are wounded. They seem to be soaked everywhere with blood." "I received three or four gashes with their knives," Wulf said feebly, "and I think a spear wound. How are the others?" "I know not about Guy," Harold said, "but your man is able to speak, and has not, I hope, received mortal injuries." "Don't trouble yourself about me, Master Wulf," Osgod put in. "I have got a few pricks with the knaves' knives, and a spear-thrust or two, but as I was able to keep on my feet until the earl arrived with help, I think the wounds are of no great consequence." "If aught happens to me," Wulf said to Harold, "I pray you to see to him, my lord, and to take him as one of your own men. Had it not been for him the Bretons would have made short work of us." He could barely utter the words, and again became insensible from loss of blood. When he recovered the leech was kneeling beside him, pouring oil into his wounds and applying bandages. "Do not try to talk," he said quietly, as Wulf opened his eyes. "Lie quite still, the least movement might cause your wounds to break out afresh. They are serious, but I think not of a mortal nature." "Guy?" Wulf whispered. "He is in a more perilous condition than you are, but it is possible that he too may live. As for your man here, I have as yet but glanced at his wounds; but though cut sorely, I have no fear for his life. Now drink this potion, and then go off to sleep if you can." Wulf drank off the contents of the goblet placed to his lips, and in a few minutes was fast asleep. When he woke it was broad daylight, and Beorn was sitting by his side. The latter put his finger to his lips. "You are not to talk, Wulf. The leech gave me the strictest orders when he was here a short time since, and said that you seemed to be doing well. Osgod he says will surely recover, and be none the worse for the letting out of some of his blood. The Bretons were too hasty with their strokes, and although he has a dozen wounds none of them are serious. Guy de Burg is alive, but as yet the leech can say nothing. It has been a bad business. It seems that De Launey's men were most of them killed whilst they were asleep. The bodies of the sentries were found at their posts, but whether they were asleep, or whether, as is thought more likely, their foes stole up and killed them before they had time to utter a cry, we know not. The Bretons attacked at two or three other points, but nowhere with such success, though many Normans have fallen. Everyone says that the party which passed through De Launey's men would have reached the tents and probably killed most of those in them had they not stopped while some of their number attacked you and Guy de Burg. The duke and Harold have both said that your bravery saved us from a great disaster. I would that I had been with you, but the tent I was in was the farthest along the line, and the Bretons were in full flight before we came upon the scene." Presently the Baron de Burg came to the side of the pallet on which Wulf was lying. "I cannot say that I owe you the life of my son," he said, laying his hand gently upon Wulf's, "for I know not as yet whether he will live, but he was sensible when we brought him to my tent, and he told me that you had stood over him and defended him from the Bretons until you too fell. He was sensible all the time, though unable to move." "It was Osgod who did most of the fighting, my lord," Wulf said. "He did much, Wulf, and it will be my pleasure to reward him, but the duke, who is full of admiration at the slaughter done by three alone, has caused the bodies to be examined. Twelve of them were killed with axe wounds, nine by sword wounds. Guy tells me that he knows that only two fell to his sword, therefore you must have slain seven. Truly a feat that any man might be proud of, to say nothing of a lad of your age. Guy is anxious to have you with him, and the leech said that if you keep quiet to-day, and none of your wounds break out afresh, it will do you no harm to be carried to my tent." Accordingly the next day Wulf was carried across to Lord de Burg's, and his pallet set down by the side of Guy's. The latter was a little better, and the leech had faint hopes of his recovery. His right arm had been broken by a blow with a club, and so badly fractured that it had already been taken off near the shoulder. His most dangerous wound was a pike-thrust on the left side, which had penetrated his lungs. He smiled faintly as Wulf was placed by his side. Wulf tried to smile back again, but he was too much shocked at the change in his friend's appearance. His cheeks had fallen in, and his face was deadly pale. His lips were almost colourless, and his eyes seemed unnaturally large. Wulf made an effort to speak cheerfully. "We did not expect to come to this so soon, Guy," he said. "We have often talked about fighting, but we never thought that our first serious fight would end like this." "You have nothing to regret," Baron de Burg said. "You have both done your duty nobly, and one of gentle blood can wish for no better end than to die doing his duty against great odds. God grant that you may both be spared, but if it be otherwise, death could not come to you more gloriously than in giving your lives to save your lords from surprise." Wulf's recovery was comparatively rapid. He was greatly pleased when, a week after his removal, Osgod was brought into the tent by Harold. He was still pale and feeble, but was able to walk, and assured his young lord that he should soon be ready for another fight with the Bretons. "There will be no more fighting," Harold said. "Yesterday their chiefs came in to make their submission and ask for mercy, and on this being granted their fortress has surrendered this morning. They will pay a heavy fine in cattle, and their two strongest fortresses are to be garrisoned by Norman troops. A considerable slice of their territory is to be taken from them. In a week I hope we shall all be on our way back to Rouen." Guy was mending very slowly. Even yet the leech could not say with certainty that his life would be saved, and warned his father that in any case he would for a very long time be an invalid. In another week the camp was broken up. Wulf declared that he was well enough to sit a horse, but the leech insisted that he should be carried on a litter. "In another fortnight," he said, "you may be able to ride, but it would not be safe to attempt to do so now. You are going on as well as could be wished, and it would be madness to risk everything by haste." Accordingly he and Guy were transported in litters to the baron's residence, where Wulf steadily recovered his health and strength. Osgod, who had received a heavy purse of gold from the baron, had at the end of that time entirely recovered; Guy still lay pale and feeble on his couch. "I scarcely wish to live," he said one day to his father. "I can never be a warrior now. What have I got to live for?" "You have much to live for, Guy," his father said, "even if you never bestride a war-horse. You have made a name for yourself for bravery, and will always be held in respect. It is not as if you had been from your birth weak and feeble. You will in time, I hope, come to be lord of our estates and to look after our people, and be beloved by them; and, if you cannot yourself lead them in the field, you can see that they go well equipped, and do honour to your banner. There are other things besides fighting to live for." "I would that you had had another son, father, and that Wulf had been my brother. I should not so much have minded then that I could not myself carry the banner of De Burg into the field." "Had he been one of ourselves, Guy, that might have come about," his father said, "for if I have no other son I have a daughter. But this young Saxon has his own estates in his own country. He would not settle down here as a Norman baron, and I would not lose Agnes nor be willing that she should go from us to dwell in a foreign land. But no one can say what the future will bring about. The duke has promised one of his daughters to Harold, and should the marriage come off it will bind the two peoples more closely together. Besides, you know, Edward of England has promised to Duke William that he should succeed him." "I was speaking to Wulf about that one day, father, and he said that Edward had no power to make the gift, for that the people of England chose their king themselves, and that Edward's promise would go for nothing with them. It is not with them as it is with us, where a prince can name his successor." "That may be Saxon opinion, Guy, but it is not Norman, and assuredly it is not the duke's; and friendly as are the relations between him and Harold, it is clear that until this question is settled no permanent friendship can be looked for between the two nations." Wulf was sorry when the time came that he could no longer linger at Baron de Burg's chateau. The earl had more than once sent over to say that his presence was looked for at court as soon as he was sufficiently recovered to attend there, but he stayed on until he felt so thoroughly strong and well that he could not make his health any longer an excuse. On leaving, De Burg and his wife both pressed him to come over whenever he could spare time. "You know, Wulf," the former said, "how warm is the affection Guy has for you, and he will look very eagerly for your visits. Just at present he has very few pleasures in life, and chief among them will be your comings. We are all dull here, lad, and Agnes will miss you sorely." "I will ride over whenever I can. I should be ungrateful indeed did I not do so, after the great kindness you and Lady de Burg have shown me; but even putting this aside I will come every day if I can, if only for half an hour's talk with Guy." "I am glad to see you back again, Wulf," Earl Harold said as the lad entered his room. "You look strong and well again, and might, methinks, have come to us before now." "I could have done so, doubtless, my lord, but it pained me to leave Guy, who is still on his couch, and will, I fear, never be strong and well again." "We heard but a poor account of him from the duke's leech," Harold said. "It is a sad thing; for one, who as a lad has shown such bravery, would have turned out a gallant knight. I should have let you linger there for some time yet, but the duke has frequently asked after you, and I thought it were best that you came over; though, in truth, there will be little for you to do here, and you will be able to ride and see your friend when you will." "Are we likely to go back to England soon, my lord?" "I trust it will not be long. I have spoken of it more than once to the duke, but he chides me for being weary of his company; which indeed I am not, for no man could have treated another better than he has done me. Still," he said, walking up and down the room, "I am impatient to be off, but I am no more free to choose my time here that I was at Beaurain. It is a velvet glove that is placed on my shoulder, but there is an iron hand in it, I know right well." "Is there no possibility of escaping, my lord?" Harold looked keenly at the boy. "No, Wulf, treated as I am as a guest I cannot fly without incurring the reproach of the basest ingratitude, nor even if I wished it could I escape. Under the excuse of doing me honour, there are Norman soldiers at the gate, and a Norman sentry stands at my door. I must go through with it now, and if need be promise all that William asks. This time there is nowhere to send you to fetch aid for me. You have heard, I suppose, that William has promised me his daughter in marriage?" "Yes, my lord, I have heard it. Is the marriage to take place soon?" Harold smiled. "The duke will not wish it to take place until he sees that he can secure my services by the marriage. If that time should never come I shall probably hear no more of it. Engagements have been broken off before now many a time, and absolution for a broken promise of that kind is not hard to obtain. You must attend the court this evening, Wulf." Wulf bowed and withdrew, and in the evening attended the court in the suite of Harold. As soon as the duke's eye fell upon him he called him up. "Messieurs," he said to the barons present, "this lad is Wulf, Thane of Steyning, and a follower of Earl Harold. He it was who, with the young Guy de Burg, and aided only by a Saxon man-at-arms, withstood the first rush of the Bretons, and so gained time by which I myself and my barons were able to prepare ourselves to resist the attack. Had it not been for them we should all have been taken by surprise, and maybe slain. The Saxon and the two lads, Wulf and De Burg, all fell wounded well-nigh to death, but not before twenty-one Bretons lay dead around them. This was indeed a feat of arms that any of you, valiant knights and barons as you are, might have been proud to perform. "Already I had promised him any boon that in reason he may ask for having borne to me the news that Earl Harold, my honoured guest and brother-in-arms, had been cast on our shores, and I promise him now, that should at any time it happen that I have any power or influence in England, his estates shall remain to him and to his heirs free from all service or dues, even though he has withstood me in arms;--nay, more, that they shall be largely added to. Should such issue never arise, and aught occur to render him desirous of crossing the seas hither, I promise him a baron's feu as a token of my gratitude for the great service he rendered me; and I am well assured that, whether to a King of England or to a Duke of Normandy, he will prove himself a true and faithful follower. I call on you all here to witness this promise that I have made, and should there be need, to recall it to my memory." The Normans above all things admired valour, and when Wulf, after kneeling and kissing the duke's hand, retired shamefacedly to a corner of the room, where he was joined by Beorn, one after another came up to him and said a few words of approbation. "You have done well, young sir," Fitz-Osberne, one of the duke's most trusted councillors said to him. "The duke is not given to overpraise, and assuredly no one of your age has ever won such commendation from his lips. After making so fair a commencement, it will be your own fault indeed if you do not make a great name for yourself in the future. There is not one of us who was in the duke's camp that evening but feels that he owes you much for the few minutes' delay that saved us from being taken altogether by surprise. You are young, and may think but little of the promise the duke has given you this evening, but the day may come when you will find it stand you in good stead." Harold said nearly the same thing to Wulf when he saw him the next morning. "But there is no chance of the duke ever having power in England, my lord," Wulf said. "I trust not, Wulf, but there is no doubt that his whole mind is bent upon obtaining the throne of England. He has spoken to me openly about it, and has more than hinted to me that I, if married to his daughter, would still, as Earl of Wessex, be the foremost man in the land next to its sovereign should he ever gain the kingdom." "And what said you, my lord, if I may be so bold as to ask?" "I said but little, lad. I am a prisoner, and I am well assured that I shall never return to England until William thinks that he can depend upon me. It is needful that I should return, and that quickly, for I hear that there is fresh trouble in Wales, and I have received an urgent message from the king to hasten to his side. It is hard to see what it is best to do." Four days later a grand ceremony was announced to take place, but few knew what its nature was to be. That it was something beyond the ordinary was certain by the number of barons and knights that were bidden to attend. A dais was erected in the courtyard of the palace, and on this a table covered with a cloth was placed. "I don't like this business," Wulf said to Beorn, as with the other Saxons they took their place near the dais. "There is something very mysterious about it, and I believe that at last we are going to see what William's full intentions are." A religious ceremony was first held, and then the duke rose to his feet and addressed the barons. He first recalled to them the promise that Edward of England had made to him, and then went on: "The saints have worked in my favour," he said, "by sending here as my guest my well-beloved brother-in-arms, the great Earl of Wessex. Between us there is the closest friendship, and to cement and make even closer the bonds between us, he has become betrothed to my daughter, and through the lands I shall bestow upon her he will become a baron of Normandy. Relying upon his affection and friendship, I have called you here together to hear him swear in public that which he has already told me privately--that he will be my faithful feudatory, and will in all ways aid me to gain my lawful rights." Harold changed colour. The matter had come upon him as a surprise. Doubtless he had in a vague way when discussing his future relations as son-in-law to the duke, expressed his warm friendship and a general willingness to be of service to him, but to be called upon to take an oath publicly was a different matter. Most of those present had taken oaths of allegiance to William and had broken them again and again, and William himself had not less frequently broken his feudal oaths to his suzerain, the King of France. But Harold was a man with a deep sense of religion, and did not esteem as lightly as these Norman barons an oath thus sworn; but he felt that he had fallen into a trap, and that resistance would but consign him to a prison, if not a grave. He at once understood how hollow had been the pretended friendship of his host; but he was in William's power, and unless as a friend the duke would never permit so formidable a rival to quit his shores. As he hesitated he saw a movement on the part of the Norman knights near the dais, and understood that they had been previously informed of William's intentions, and were there to enforce them. Their brows were bent on him angrily as he hesitated, and more than one hand went to the hilt of the wearer's sword. There was no drawing back, and placing his hand on the table he swore the oath William had dictated. When he concluded William snatched the cloth from the table, and below it were seen a number of bones and sacred relics that had been brought from the cathedral. Enlightened as Harold was, he was not altogether free from the superstitions of the age. For a moment he shuddered slightly and grew paler than before, then he drew himself up to his full height, and looked calmly into the exulting face of William. "I call you all to witness," the duke said in a loud voice, "that Harold, Earl of Wessex, has taken a solemn oath upon the holy relics to be my faithful feudatory." The shout that answered him was by no means universal, for there were many among the Norman nobles who were shocked at the base trick that the duke had played upon a guest for whom he had professed the warmest friendship. The Saxon thanes could scarce contain their expressions of indignation, but Harold as he sat down among them made a gesture commanding silence. "We sail for England to-morrow night," he said in low tones. "The duke told me so as we came hither. The two ships will be in readiness for us to embark in the morning. I did not understand then the price I was to pay. Restrain yourselves now; when we are free men we can talk this over." An hour later they returned to the palace, where there was a brief and formal interview between Harold and the duke. Both dissembled their real feelings. The duke said that he regretted that the King of England's wishes forced his guest to start so suddenly, and that he much regretted his departure. Harold thanked him for the hospitality he had shown him, but neither made any allusion whatever to the scene that had taken place in the courtyard. Wulf rode over to say good-bye to Guy and his father. The latter was walking up and down the hall with a gloomy face. "I blush for what has taken place to-day, Wulf," he said. "Tell the earl that had we known what was going to occur there are few indeed who would have attended at the ceremony, and that I for one shall hold him in no way dishonoured if he breaks the vow that has thus been dishonourably extorted from him. It was a trick and a base one, and I would tell Duke William so to his face. What will men think of Norman faith when guests are thus tricked to their disadvantage?" For an hour Wulf remained talking with the baron and his family. "I hope to see you again, Wulf," De Burg said, as the lad rose to take leave. "Guy regards you as a brother, and though assuredly no Saxon will set foot on Norman soil after to-day's doings, we may yet meet again." "I shall come over to England to see you, Wulf, if you come not here," Guy said. "I begin to think that I shall get over this, although I may never be really strong again. We shall often think and talk of you, Agnes and I; and I should like, of all things, to come and stay in your Saxon home." "No one would be so welcome, Guy. If we are never to be brothers-in-arms as we once talked of, we shall surely be brothers in heart, whether absent or present." A few more words and Wulf took leave of them all and rode back to Rouen. In the morning the duke accompanied Harold to the river bank and there took a courteous farewell of him. It is not probable that he thought for a moment that Harold would observe the oath, but he saw that its breach would be almost as useful to him as its fulfilment, for it would enable him to denounce his rival as a perjured and faithless man, and to represent any expedition against England as being a sort of crusade to punish one who had broken the most solemn vows made on the holy relics. Harold himself preserved his usual calmness of demeanour, and stood talking quietly to the duke while the latter's presents of hawks and hounds were taken on board the ship, and the Saxons, silent and sullen, had passed over the gangway. Then an apparently affectionate embrace was exchanged between the two rivals. Harold crossed on to the ship, the great sails were hoisted, and the two vessels proceeded down the river.

8

TROUBLE WITH WALES.

Harold took his place on the poop as the vessel started, and remained looking fixedly at the duke, until the latter with the group of barons turned and entered the town. "Farewell, William of Normandy," he said; "false friend and dishonoured host. How shall we meet next time, I wonder, and where?" Hitherto the presence of the Norman attendants had prevented any private converse between Harold and his followers, but having the poop to themselves they now broke out into angry exclamations against the duke. "It was an unworthy and unknightly trick," Harold said calmly; "but let us not talk of it now; it will be for the English people to decide the question some day, and for English bishops to determine whether I am bound by a vow thus extorted. Better at all events that I should be held for all time to have been false and perjured, than that the English people should fall under the Norman yoke. But maybe there will be no occasion for the oath ever to come in question, William of Normandy or I may die before the king, and then there will be an end of it. Let us talk of other things. Thank God we are free men again, and our faces are set towards England, where, from what I hear, we may have to meet open foes instead of false friends, and may have to teach the Welsh, once and for all, that they and their king cannot with impunity continually rise in rebellion against England. "Well, Wulf, you are the only one among us who has brought back aught from Normandy, at least you and Beorn, for you have your horses and chains, and the promise of the duke to grant you a boon. But these are small things. You have gained great credit, and have shown yourself a gallant fighter, and have further promises from the duke." "I care not for his promises," Wulf said hotly. "I hold him to be a dishonoured noble, and I would take naught from his hands." "You are young yet, Wulf," Harold smiled, "and the duke's promise, made before his nobles, will be held binding by him if ever the time should come for you to claim it. Do not refuse benefits, lad, because you do not like the hands that grant them. You rendered him a service, and need feel no shame at receiving the reward for it. As soon as we return I shall take steps to raise you and Beorn to the full dignity of thanes, with all rights and privileges. My brother and my friends here can all testify to the service you rendered to us, for much as I may have to complain of the ending of my visit, it has at least been vastly better than our lot would have been had we remained in the hands of Conrad of Ponthieu. You are both very young to be placed in the position of rulers of your people, and in ordinary cases you would not have been sworn to thane's services for some years to come; but, as Earl of Wessex, I see good reason for departing from the rule on this occasion, and I think that my thanes here will all be of that opinion." There was a warm expression of approval from the Saxons. "Then as soon as we set foot on English soil we will hold a court, and invest you with your full rank." They started from the mouth of the Seine, and as there was no nearer port than that from which they had sailed, Harold directed the masters of the ships to make for Bosham. "It is like to be a fairer voyage than the last," he said, as with a light breeze blowing behind them they sailed out from the mouth of the Seine. "It will be longer, but assuredly more pleasant." No incident whatever marked the voyage. The Saxons gave a shout of joy when they first made out the outline of the hills of the Isle of Wight, some twelve hours after leaving the mouth of the river; but it was not until eight hours afterwards that they entered the harbour of Bosham. As soon as the two Norman vessels were seen sailing up the quiet sheet of water, everywhere fringed with forest, boats put out to meet them, to ascertain the reason of their coming and to inquire for news of Harold and his companions. As soon as his figure was made out standing on the poop, one of the boats rowed off with the news, and by the time the vessels dropped anchor off Bosham the whole of the inhabitants had gathered on the shore, with loud shouts of joy and welcome. As soon as they landed Harold and his companions proceeded at once to the church, where a solemn service of thanksgiving was held for their preservation from the dangers of the sea and for their safe return to England. As soon as the service was over Harold sent off two horsemen to bear to the king the news of his return, and to state that he himself would ride to London on the following day. Then the earl bestowed handsome presents upon the masters and crews of the ships that had brought them over, and gave into their charge hawks and hounds, rich armour, and other presents for the Duke of Normandy, and jewelled cups and other gifts to the principal barons of his court. The gifts were indeed of royal magnificence; but Harold's wealth was vast, and, as he said to his brother, "We will at least show these Normans, that in point of generosity an English earl is not to be outdone by a Norman duke." As soon as these matters were attended to Harold held a court in the great hall of Bosham, and there received the oaths of fealty from Wulf and Beorn, and confirmed to them the possessions held by their fathers, and invested them with the gold chains worn by thanes as the sign of their rank. He afterwards bestowed a purse of gold upon Osgod, equal in value to the one he had received from the Duke of Normandy. "Should aught ever happen to your master," he said, "come you to me and you shall be one of my own men, and shall not lack advancement in my service." "In faith, Master Wulf," Osgod said after the ceremony, "my father warned me that the trade of a soldier was but a poor one, and that a good handicraftsman could gain far more money. He will open his eyes when I jingle these purses before him, for I might have hammered armour for years before I gained as much as I have done in the three months since I left England. I have enough to buy a farm and settle down did it so please me, and I have clothes enough to last me well-nigh a lifetime, and rings enough to set up a goldsmith's shop. For scarce one of the duke's barons and knights but followed his example, and gave me a present for my share in that little fight with the Bretons." "As for the clothes, they will always be useful, Osgod; but were I you I would get a stout leathern bag and put the purses and rings into it, and bury them in some place known only to yourself, and where none are ever likely to light upon them. You have no occasion for money now, and we may hope that ere long all occasion for fighting will be over, and then, as you say, you can buy a farm and marry." "I am going always to remain your man," Osgod said in an aggrieved tone. "Certainly, Osgod, I should wish for nothing else. You will always be my friend, and shall have any post on the estates or in the house that you may prefer. There will be no occasion for you to farm your land yourself, you can let it, receiving the value of half the produce, and so taking rank as a landowner, for which you yourself may care nothing, but which will enable your wife to hold her head higher." "I am not thinking of wives, my lord." "Nonsense, Osgod, I want not to be called my lord." "But you are a thane now and must be called so," Osgod said sternly; "and it would be ill-becoming indeed if I your man did not so address you. But I will take your advice about the gold, and when I get down to Steyning will bury it deeply under the roots of a tree. It will be safer there than if I buried it in my father's forge, for London is ever the centre of troubles, and might be sacked and burnt down should there ever be war between Mercia or Northumbria and Wessex." "Heaven forbid that we should have more civil wars, Osgod." "Amen to that, but there is never any saying. Assuredly Edwin and Morcar love not our earl, and as to Tostig, though he is his brother, he is hot-headed and passionate enough to play any part. And then there are the Normans, and there is no doubt the duke will have to be reckoned with. Altogether methinks my money will be safer under an oak-tree down at Steyning than at Westminster." "You are right enough there, Osgod; by all means carry out your ideas. But there is the bell for supper, and I must go." The next morning the party started at daybreak, and late that night arrived at Westminster. There were great rejoicings in London and throughout the south of England when it was known that the great earl had returned from Normandy. Much uneasiness had been felt at his long absence, and although accounts had come from time to time of the honour with which he had been treated by Duke William, many felt that his prolonged stay was an enforced one, and that he was a prisoner rather than a guest of the duke. The king himself was as rejoiced as his subjects at Harold's return. Although in the early years of his reign he had been bitterly opposed to the powerful family of Earl Godwin, to whom he owed his throne, he had of late years learnt to appreciate the wisdom of Harold; and although still Norman in his tastes as in his language, he had become much more English at heart, and bitterly regretted the promise that he had years before rashly given to the Duke of Normandy. Harold too had relieved him of all the cares of government, which he hated, and had enabled him to give his whole time and thought to religious exercises, and to the rearing of the splendid abbey which was his chief pleasure and pride. In his absence Edward had been obliged to attend to state business. He was worried with the jealousies and demands of the Earl of Mercia, with the constant complaints of the Northumbrians against their harsh and imperious master Tostig, and by the fact that the Welsh were taking advantage of the absence of Harold to cause fresh troubles. It was just Christmas when Harold returned, and the snow fell heavily on the night of his arrival at Westminster. "It was lucky it did not come a few hours earlier, Beorn," Wulf said, as he looked out of the casement. "We had a long and heavy ride yesterday, and we could not have done it in one day had the snow been on the ground. I suppose there will be a number of court festivities over Harold's return. We have had enough of that sort of thing in Normandy, and I hope that Harold will let us return at once to our estates." "Speak for yourself, Wulf; for myself I love the court, and now that I am a thane I shall enjoy it all the more." "And I all the less," Wulf said. "Fifteen months ago we were but pages and could at least have some fun, now we shall have to bear ourselves as men, and the ladies of the court will be laughing at us and calling us the little thanes, and there will be no getting away and going round to the smithy to watch Osgod's father and men forging weapons. It will be all very stupid." In a short time an attendant summoned them to breakfast, and here they sat down with the other thanes, Harold's wing of the palace being distinct from that of the king. The earl sat at the head of the table, and talked in undertones to his brother Gurth and two or three of his principal thanes. The personal retainers of the nobles stood behind their seats and served them with food, while Harold's pages waited on him and those sitting next to him. "We were a merrier party in the pages' room," Beorn whispered to Wulf, for but few words were spoken as the meal went on. "I think there is something in the air," Wulf said, "the earl looks more serious than usual. Generally the meals are cheerful enough." As soon as it was finished Harold said, "The king will receive you all in half an hour, he desires to express to you his pleasure at your return home. After that I beg that you will again gather here, as I have occasion to speak to you." The court was a more formal one than usual, the king's Norman functionaries were all present as were several ecclesiastics. Among them the Bishop of London, behind whom stood Wulf's old adversary, Walter Fitz-Urse. Earl Harold introduced his companions in captivity, the king receiving them very graciously. "I am glad to see that you have all returned safely," he said. "The earl tells me that you have all borne yourselves well in the battles you have fought under the banner of my friend and ally Duke William of Normandy, and that you have proved to his countrymen that the English are in no whit inferior to themselves in courage. The earl specially recommended to me his newly-made thanes, Wulf of Steyning and Beorn of Fareham, who did him the greatest service by effecting their escape from the castle of Beaurain, and at great risk bearing the news of his imprisonment to Duke William. Wulf of Steyning, he tells me, gained the highest approval of the duke and his knights by a deed of bravery when their camp was surprised by the Bretons. The earl has informed me that in consideration of these services he has advanced them to the rank of thanes, and confirmed them in their father's possessions, and as service rendered to him is service rendered to me, I thus bestow upon them a token of my approval;" and beckoning to the young thanes to advance, he took two heavy gold bracelets from his arm, and himself fastened them on those of the kneeling lads. When the ceremony was over, Harold's party returned to the room where they had breakfasted. It was an hour before the earl joined them. "I have been in council with the king," he said, "and have thus been forced to keep you waiting. We heard when abroad that the Welsh were again becoming troublesome, but I find that matters are much worse than I had supposed. Griffith has broken out into open rebellion; he has ravaged all the borders, has entered the diocese of Wulfstan, the new Bishop of Worcester, and carried his arms beyond the Severn, laying waste part of my own earldom of Hereford. Edwin, who has just succeeded his father in the earldom of Worcester, is young and new to his government, and, moreover, his father was an ally of Griffith's. In any case, he needs far larger forces than those at his command to undertake a war with the Welsh. This time we must finish with them; treaties are of no avail they are ever broken on the first opportunity, and a blow must be dealt that will render them powerless for harm for generations to come. "Therefore the king has commissioned me forthwith to act in the matter, not only as Lord of Hereford but as Earl of the West Saxons. Winter is upon us, and it will be impossible to undertake a regular campaign. Still a blow must be struck, and that quickly and heavily in order to stop the depredation and ruin they are spreading in the west counties. The preparations must be secret and the blow sudden. There is no time for calling out levies, that must be done in the spring. I must act only with mounted men. I have already sent off a messenger to Bosham to bid my housecarls mount and ride to Salisbury. They will number two hundred. I pray you all to leave at once for your estates, or to send an order by a swift messenger for your housecarls to ride to Salisbury, whither I myself shall proceed in three days. Will each of you give me the tale of the number of armed men who can take horse at an hour's notice." Each of those present gave the number of housecarls in his service, and they all expressed their willingness to ride themselves, in order to get them ready the more speedily. The total mounted to three hundred and fifty men. "That with my own two hundred will be well-nigh sufficient," Harold said; "but I will send off messengers at once to some of the thanes of Dorset and Somerset to join us at Gloucester with their men, so that we shall be fully a thousand strong, which will be ample for my purpose. I need not impress upon you all to preserve an absolute silence as to the object for which you are calling out your men. News spreads fast, and an incautious word might ruin our enterprise. There is no occasion for you all to accompany your men. Those of you who have been with me in Normandy will doubtless desire to stay for a while with your wives and families, and you may do equally good service by making preparations there for a more serious campaign in the spring. I beg these to send with their housecarls a trusted officer, and bid him place himself and his men under my orders." The meeting at once broke up. "I suppose you young warriors will bring your own men to Salisbury?" Harold said, as Wulf and Beorn came up to take their leave of him. "Certainly, my lord," Beorn said. "We have neither family nor relations to keep us at home, and even if we had it would not suffice to keep us from following your banner." "It will be a warfare like that in which you have been engaged across the sea," Harold said. "The Bretons you there fought with are kinsfolk of the Welsh, speaking the same language, and being alike in customs and in fighting. They trust to surprises, and to their speed of foot and knowledge of their wild country, rather than to hard fighting in the open plain. They have few towns to capture, and it is therefore hard to execute reprisals upon them. Like the Bretons they are brave, and fight savagely until the last, neither giving nor asking for quarter. They believe that their country, which is so wild and hilly as to be a great natural fortress, is unconquerable, and certainly neither Saxon nor Dane has ever succeeded in getting any foothold there. But when the spring comes I hope to teach them that even their wild hills are no defence, and that their habits of savage plundering must be abandoned or we will exterminate them altogether. But I have no thought of undertaking such a campaign now. Of course you will take that tall follower of yours with you, Wulf." "I fear that he would not stay behind even if I ordered him to do so," Wulf laughed. "He will be overjoyed when I tell him there is a prospect of fighting again, and all the more if it is against kinsmen of the Bretons, against whom he feels a special grudge." "The feeling would be more natural the other way," Harold said smiling, "seeing that he inflicted upon them far greater damage than he received. You will find fresh horses awaiting you. None of those that carried us from Bosham yesterday are fit for another such journey to-day." Wulf had told Osgod the first thing in the morning that he could return to his family for a few days, only coming to the palace to serve his meals, and he now hurried away to the armourer's shop, where he found that but little work was going on, the men being absorbed in listening to Osgod's account of his adventures. Ulred and the men rose and saluted respectfully as Wulf entered. "I am sorry to disturb you, Ulred," he said, "but I have come to fetch Osgod away again. That is if he would prefer riding with me to remaining quiet with you at home." "If you are going, master, assuredly I am going with you," Osgod said. "I am dry with talking already, and father must wait for the rest of my story until I come back again. Are we going down to Steyning, my lord?" "There first and afterwards elsewhere, but that is all I can tell you now. The horses are ready, and there is not a moment to lose. We must get as far on our way as possible before nightfall, for the matter is an urgent one." "I am ready," Osgod said, girding on his sword and putting his cap on his head. "Good-bye, father. Tell mother I shall be back when I am back, and that is all I can say about it." They reached Steyning at two o'clock on the following afternoon, and messengers were instantly sent round to the farms, bidding the men who were bound as housecarls to appear on horseback and armed, with two days' food in their wallets, an hour before daybreak next morning. Then a messenger was despatched with a letter to the prior of Bramber, telling him of Wulf's safe return, and begging him to excuse his coming over to see him, as he had ridden nigh a hundred and fifty miles in three days, and was forced to set out again at daybreak the next morning. As Wulf had hoped, the letter was answered by the prior in person, and to him Wulf related that evening the incidents of their stay in Normandy. The prior shook his head. "I have feared ever since I heard that Harold had fallen into the clutches of the duke, that he would never get off scot free, but would either have to pay a heavy ransom or make some concessions that would be even worse for England. It is a bad business, Wulf, a bad business. The church has ever been ready to grant absolution from oaths extracted by violence, but this affair of the relics makes it more serious, and you may be sure that William will make the most of the advantage he has gained. Harold is absolutely powerless to fulfil his oath. Neither he nor the king, nor any other man, can force a foreign monarch upon free England. And did Harold declare for the Duke of Normandy, powerful and beloved as he is, he would be driven into exile instantly. If he himself is elected king by the people, as there is no doubt whatever will be the case, he must needs obey their voice, and will have no choice between being King of England or an exile. Still it is unfortunate. He will be branded as a perjurer. William's influence may even induce the pope to excommunicate him, and although the ban would go for but little here, it would serve as an excuse for the other great earls to refuse to submit to his authority. Now tell me, how is it that you have to ride again so suddenly when but just arrived?" "I can tell you, father, though I can tell no one else. Harold has ordered us to bring out our housecarls, and with them he means to deal a blow against the Welsh, who have been devastating our western counties. The expedition is to be secret and sudden, although against what point and in what manner the blow is to be struck Harold has kept his own counsel." "The Welsh are ever a thorn in our side," the prior said, "and treaties with them are useless. I trust that Harold will succeed in thoroughly reducing them to obedience, for whenever there is trouble in the kingdom they take advantage of it, and are ready to form alliances with any ambitious earl who hoists the standard of revolt. And so you say Harold has already made you full thane? I am well pleased to hear it, if for no other reason than that it is good for people when they are ruled over by their own lord and not by a stranger; though I say nothing against Egbert, Harold's steward. Still no man can rule like the master himself." At the first dawn of day Wulf mounted, and rode away from the palace followed by Osgod. He was clad now in the ringed armour, a suit of which he had had made of lighter material than usual. Only on the shoulders and over the chest was the leather of the usual thickness, elsewhere it was thin and extremely soft, and the rings did not overlap each other as much as usual. The weight, therefore, was much less than that ordinarily worn by thanes, although it differed but little from it in appearance. The helmet, also, was of stout leather, thickly covered with metal rings, and the flap fell down over the neck and ears, having a bar coming down in front to protect the nose. Osgod's suit was thicker and heavier, and was similar to that of the forty men who were drawn up in two lines under the soldier whom Harold had sent down to train them. They were a stout set of young fellows, well mounted and armed, and as they broke into a cry of "Welcome to our thane," Wulf felt proud to command such a body. "Thanks, my friends," he said heartily. "I am glad to see that not one is missing from your number, and feel sure that you will do credit to my banner." They rode that day to Fareham, where they received a hearty welcome from Beorn, and starting in the morning with his troop of thirty men, reached Salisbury late that evening. They were met at the entrance to the town by one of Harold's officers, who conducted them to a large barn, where straw had been thickly strewn for the men to sleep on. The horses were fastened outside. "Earl Harold arrived an hour since," the officer said, "and bade me tell you that he is lodged at the reeve's, where he expects you." They found on arriving at the house that many of the thanes had already come in, and that some six hundred horsemen were bestowed in the town. On a great sideboard were pies, cold joints of meat, wine and ale, and each thane as he arrived helped himself to such food as he desired, and then joined the party gathered round Harold. "We shall pick up another hundred or two as we march along to-morrow," Harold was saying when the two young thanes joined the group, "and shall have a good nine hundred men by the time we reach Gloucester, where I expect to find four or five hundred more awaiting us. I hear that our coming has made a great stir here in Salisbury, the citizens do not know what to make of so large a body of housecarls arriving in their midst. The reeve tells me that they were in some fear of being eaten out of house and home until they heard that we were to march on in the morning; after that they did their best for us, and have arranged that every man shall have his fill of meat and ale to-night, and again before starting." Travelling as fast and as far as the horses could carry them, the force reached Gloucester. Here they received an even warmer welcome than had greeted them elsewhere, for the citizens had been greatly alarmed at the Welsh forays, and as soon as they knew that the great earl himself was with the troops they had no doubt that he had come to give them protection and to punish their enemies. The contingents from Somerset and Dorset had already arrived, and without the delay of a single day the troops again started. The housecarls, although mounted, were not trained to fight on horseback. Their steeds were valuable only as enabling them to move with greater celerity across the country than they could do on foot, and to bring them fresh and in fighting condition to the scene of action. Once there they dismounted, and a portion being told off to look after the horses, the main body advanced on foot against the enemy. There was yet a long ride before them. Following the Severn on its western side so as to avoid the passage of the Avon, they rode to Worcester, and then up through Dudley and Shrewsbury. It would have been shorter to have passed through Hereford and Ludlow, but Harold feared that they might there come upon some marauding party of the Welsh, and any of these who escaped might carry the news across the border, when the fleet-footed mountaineers would quickly have conveyed it to the Welsh king at his castle at Rhuddlaw. Rhuddlaw, now a small village, is situated in Denbighshire, and was an important military position, situated as it was at no great distance from the sea, and commanding the Vale of Clwyd, the most important avenue into Wales from the north. From Shrewsbury they pushed forward as rapidly as possible to Rhuddlaw; but quickly as they had journeyed, the news of their coming was borne more rapidly. Griffith received the news an hour before their arrival, and mounting, rode down to the Avon and embarked on board ship. Great was the disappointment of the earl and his followers when they found that the object of their long march across England had failed, and that the capture of the Welsh king, which would have put an end to the trouble, had been missed so narrowly. The castle was at once set on fire, the Welsh ships on the Avon were also given to the flames, and the very same day Harold led his troops away and by easy marches took them back to Gloucester. Here they halted. The housecarls from the south, who had never been in contact with the Welsh, were inclined to murmur among themselves at having been led back without striking a blow, but the contingents from the western counties, who had had experience of this wild warfare, told them that they might consider themselves fortunate. "You know not what a war with these savages is," an old housecarl who had fought them again and again said to a listening group of Wulf's men. "You might as well fight with the evil spirits of the air as with them. Fight! there is no fighting in it, save when they have with them Danes from the North, or Norwegians. With these to bear the brunt of the battle the Welsh will fight valiantly in their fashion, but alone they know that they cannot withstand us for a moment. I have been after them a score of times, and it is a night-mare. You go up hills and through forests, you plunge into morasses, you scramble up precipices; you are wet, you are hungry, you are worn out, but never do you catch sight of one of them. "Now and then, as you wind along the face of a hill, rocks will come thundering down; in the woods and swamps you hear their mocking yells and laughter. At the end of the day you drop down where you halt, and then just as you fall off to sleep there is a wild yell, and in a moment they are swarming among you, slashing and ripping with their long knives, crawling on the ground and springing upon you, getting among the horses and hamstringing or cutting them open. By the time those of you that are alive have got together they have gone, and all is so quiet that were it not for the scattered bodies you might believe that it was all a dream. Two or three times before morning the attack will be repeated, until you are forced to keep under arms in military array. As soon as it is light you recommence your march, and so it goes on day after day, until at last, worn-out and spent, and less in strength by half than when you started, you gather under the shelter of the walls of one of the border towns. "I should have been glad indeed if we had caught their king, for if he had been held hostage in London we might have had peace; but well content am I that Harold has abstained from entering upon a campaign which, terrible as it is even in summer, would be beyond endurance of the strongest in winter." "Well, for my part," Osgod, who was one of the listeners, remarked, "I would rather go on by myself and take the chance of getting a good blow at some of these wild men than ride all the way back to Steyning to be laughed at by the women there, as brave soldiers who have marched across England and back and never unsheathed their swords. Nor will I believe that Earl Harold can intend so to make a laughing-stock of us. The Bretons were just as active as are these Welshmen, but he brought them to reason there, and I warrant me he will do the same here. At any rate, he seems in no hurry to move. We have been here nigh a week already, and why should he keep us here if we are not to be employed?" It was not very long before it became known that Harold had no intention of marching away and leaving the Welsh unpunished, and that in the spring a campaign on a great scale was to be undertaken against them. The thanes of all the western counties were ordered to hold themselves in readiness to join with their levies in the spring. The Somerset and Devon men were to gather at Bristol, and thence to be conveyed by ships to the southern coast of Wales; the troops at Gloucester were to march west, and Tostig was to bring down a body of Northumbrian horse, and to enter Wales from Chester. The housecarls, to their surprise, were ordered to lay aside their ringed armour and heavy helmets, in place of which leather jerkins and caps were served out to them; their heavy axes were to be left behind, and they were to trust to the sword alone. They were to abandon the tactics in which they had been trained of fighting shoulder to shoulder, with shield overlapping shield, and were to exercise themselves in running and climbing, in skirmishing with an imaginary foe, and rapidly gathering in close formation to resist anticipated attack. Harold himself gave them these instructions. "You will have no foe to meet breast to breast," he said; "if we are to conquer and to root out these hornets it must be by showing ourselves even more active than they are. Speed and activity go for everything in a war like this, while our own methods of fighting are absolutely useless. Unless we make an end of this matter you may be called away from your homes once a year to repel these attacks, while if you conquer now there will be no Welsh foray again during your lifetime. Therefore it is worth while to make a great effort, and for once to lay aside our own method of fighting. Your commanders will see that all the exercises are well carried out, and will report to me regarding those who show most zeal and energy. Extra pay will be given to all, and I shall know how to reward those who are reported to me as most deserving of it." The troops set to work with great energy, and soon recognized the advantage they gained by laying aside their heavy arms and armour. Swimming, running, and climbing were practised incessantly, and when May arrived, and with it the time for the commencement of the campaign, all felt confident of their ability to cope with the Welsh in their own methods of warfare.

9

IN THE WELSH VALLEYS.

Wulf and Beorn did not form part of the expedition which was to embark with Harold from Bristol, and to enter Wales by one of its southern valleys. It was necessary that the gathering of the levies at Gloucester should be strengthened by having as a nucleus three hundred trained soldiers. The levies were lightly armed, and accustomed to fight in the same irregular manner as their Welsh adversaries, whom they held in considerable dread, for the fierce hillmen had again and again proved themselves more than a match for the peaceable natives on the English side of the border. The addition then of three hundred housecarls was required to give them confidence. These had indeed abandoned for the time their armour, heavy weapons, and solid formation, but they could still were it necessary gather in a line, behind which the levies could rally, and which would be impregnable to the undisciplined attacks of the Welsh. The young thanes were somewhat disappointed at finding that they were not to accompany the earl, but, as he told them, it was a mark of his confidence that he should post them with the force where the fighting was likely to be more severe and the risk greater than with that he himself led. "I shall penetrate into the heart of Wales," he said. "I shall have horsemen with me, a strong force of trained soldiers and the levies, and the enemy will, I feel sure, be unable to oppose us successfully; but it is likely enough that when the Welsh find that my force from the south and Tostig's from the north cannot be withstood, they will pour out on their eastern frontier, and try to light such a flame in Worcester, Hereford, and Gloucester, that we should be obliged to abandon our work, and hurry back to stem the tide of their invasion. It is necessary therefore that from this side also there should be a forward movement. My brother, Gurth, will command here. I have strongly recommended you to him. Your experience in the Breton war will be of assistance to you, and I have told him that you can be far better trusted than many older than yourselves in carrying out expeditions among their hills and valleys. "I do not anticipate there will be any pitched battles; the Welsh know that they cannot withstand our trained soldiers. It will be a war of skirmishes, of detached fighting, of surprises, long marches, and great fatigues. Every valley in the country is to be harried with fire and sword. They are to be made to feel that even in their mountains they are not safe from us, and as they never take prisoners nor give quarter in the forays on our side of the border, so we will hunt them down like wolves in their own forests. The work must be done so thoroughly that for a hundred years at least the lesson will not be forgotten." In the last week of May Gurth moved forward, marching first to Hereford as a more central point of attack, and then crossing the border and entering Wales. The troops carried no heavy baggage. Meat they expected to find; flour was carried on two hundred pack-horses. The force was about 4000 strong. The housecarls marched in a body, keeping solid order. Behind them came the pack animals, each led separately, so that they could the more easily make their way through forests or over broken ground. They marched in lines, forty abreast. The light-armed levies, led by their respective thanes, moved as they chose on the flanks of the trained troops or followed in the rear. When they halted on the first evening after crossing the frontier they lighted their fires and bivouacked. Wulf and Beorn walked together through the camp. "In spite of the fact that they are all dressed somewhat alike in leather jerkins, it is easy to see which are the trained soldiers," Wulf said. "The housecarls are as merry over the food they have brought with them as if they were going upon a march of pleasure through the hills, while the border levies evidently regard the business as a serious one." "That is no wonder," Beorn replied, "seeing how for years they have suffered at the hands of the Welsh. Look at those hills, Wulf, I can count a dozen beacons alight. Of course, they have heard of the preparations for attack, and they are flashing the news from hill to hill of the advance of our force. It will not be long before they gather to oppose us." "It is like enough they may attack us to-night, Beorn. They may have had spies at Hereford, and will have known two days ago of our coming. They may reckon that we should anticipate no attack until farther among their hills, and that we shall in consequence be careless, as in truth we seem to be. I think it would be well to offer Gurth our housecarls to stand sentry to-night." "He might laugh at us," Beorn said doubtfully. "Well, let him laugh; he will laugh good-humouredly anyhow, for he is of a kindly and light-hearted disposition. At any rate there cannot be any harm in proposing it, and after the surprise we got from the Bretons we cannot be too cautious." They walked to the fire where Gurth was sitting with four or five of his friends, all of whom had furnished bodies of housecarls. The border thanes had by his orders each remained with his own following, so that at all times they should be in readiness to give orders and lead them in case of surprise. "Where have you been, young thanes?" Gurth asked. "You slipped away as soon as our meal was finished, as if you were afraid of the wine-cup." "We care not much for drinking," Beorn said, "and have been going through the force to see how it was disposed. We have come to offer that our men shall to-night furnish guards for the camp." "There is no occasion for it," Gurth said, "the Welshmen will not attack us until we are entangled among their hills." "It depends upon how well they are led, my Lord Gurth," Wulf said. "If they are well led they may attack us to-night, for they must know of our approach, and will think it probable that we shall, being so near our own border, be at first careless. The Bretons gave us just such a lesson, and inflicted heavy loss upon the Norman army." "Well, post your men as you like," Gurth said; "though it seems to me that it would be better for them to husband their strength for to-morrow's march." "They shall have half a night's sleep each," Wulf said. "If I had not known how stoutly you fought, and how your courage saved the Norman camp, I should have said you were over-cautious," Gurth laughed. "However I will not refuse your offer, young thanes, though methinks there is no chance whatever of the Welsh disturbing us here." Having obtained the permission, Beorn and Wulf returned to the fires of their men. "We are to have the honour of furnishing the guards to-night, Osgod. Tell the men that Gurth relies upon our watchfulness. We don't want a repetition of the surprise we had from the Bretons. It will be but a short night's watch. 'Tis nine now, and by four it will be broad daylight. Beorn's men and ours will march a hundred yards out from the camp. Half can lie down to sleep at once, the other half we can post as sentries and relieve them at half-past twelve. An attack if it comes will come from the front, therefore we will post the men twenty or thirty yards apart along there, and for some distance round the flanks. One of us will remain with the party that lies down, so as to be in readiness to lead them at once against any point attacked, the other will move round and round to see that the sentries are vigilant." "That is good news to me," Osgod said. "Methinks that affair in the Breton wood has shaken my courage, for I have been looking at those trees in front of us, and wondering whether the Welsh are gathering there, and thinking how it would be with all these raw levies if they came down upon us to-night It went hard for a bit with the Normans, tried soldiers though they were, but I would not trust these levies to stand for a moment, for they hold the Welsh in mighty respect." The men cheerfully took their arms and fell in. They considered it a compliment that they had been chosen to furnish the first guard. Beorn's men, with a portion of Wulf's, were to furnish the first line of sentries. The two young thanes, accompanied by Osgod, went round with them and posted them, after giving them strict injunctions to be watchful and vigilant. "These savages," Beorn said, "will creep up through the grass as noiselessly as cats, so you must keep your ears as well as your eyes well open; and if you hear but the breaking of a twig challenge at once. Then, if they rise, shout the alarm at the top of your voice, and do the whole of you run back to us here if the cry comes from the front, if from either flank hurry to that spot, and we shall do the same from here; but be careful not to rouse the camp by a false alarm, for if you do, instead of gaining credit we shall become the jest of the whole force." When the sentries were placed, Beorn, with the leader of his band, began to go the rounds, while Wulf and Osgod returned to their party. "You can sleep, master, while I watch beside you," Osgod said. "I could not sleep if I lay down, for I have got the yells of those Bretons in my ears, and could not close an eye." "Very well, Osgod; in that case I may as well take a nap." He was soon sound asleep, and remained so until Osgod touched him. He sat up in a moment. "By the stars it is past midnight, my lord, and it is time for us to relieve Beorn's party." The men were at once called to their feet, and the relief effected. "If an attack comes," Wulf said, as with Osgod he proceeded to walk backwards and forwards along the line of sentries, "I fancy it will be just before daybreak. Many of them may come from long distances, and their leader would wait until the last moment in order to gather as large a force together as possible. Besides, men sleep heaviest at that time, and they would reckon that hour as best for a surprise." As they walked they frequently paused to listen intently, and though once or twice they thought they heard distant sounds, these might be caused by the passage of a wild animal through the bushes. The sentries were all vigilant. It was the first time that the Sussex lads had been in face of an enemy, and the stillness of the night, the sombre forest in front of them, and the possibility of a savage and unknown foe lurking there, kept them thoroughly on the alert. Once or twice Wulf and Osgod went forward to examine some bush that had seemed to the imagination of a sentry to have moved, but in each case the alarm was groundless. "It must be nearly three o'clock now, Osgod," Wulf said at last. "Another half hour will decide it. I shall be glad when the morning comes, for this work is trying, and I keep on fancying I hear noises." "I fancy so too," Osgod said. "It seems to me like a sort of whisper or rustling of leaves." "That is just what it seems to me, Osgod. Let us stay where we are. We are just in the centre of the line now." "There are certainly sounds, my lord. I thought it was fancy before, but I am sure now." "I hear something," Wulf said. "It comes from the front. Run round to the right and bring the sentries from that flank and post them in the intervals of those in front, while I do the same on the left." They had but just returned, when they heard a sharp sound like the cracking of a stick a short distance in front. A dozen of the sentries at once challenged. In an instant a number of figures sprang to their feet at a distance of some fifty yards in front of them. Then a wild yell was raised, and swarms of men came rushing towards them, while a volley of arrows and javelins whizzed through the air. "Fall back on the others, men!" Wulf shouted at the top of his voice, and the line of sentries rushed back to Beorn's party, who leapt to their feet at the sound of the Welsh war-cry. They had scarce formed in line when the enemy were upon them. They received them with a volley of javelins, and then shield to shield they withstood the attack They were fighting in their own way now, and numerous as the Welsh were, they were unable, as they ran up in scattered order, to break through the line. "Steady, men, steady!" Wulf shouted out from his post in the middle of the line. "Our friends will soon be up. Show a stout front. Do not give way a foot." In vain the Welshmen, with wild yells, strove to beat back the Saxon line. Their very numbers were a hindrance to them. Those in front pressed forward, so that those behind were unable to use their javelins or arrows. Many creeping between the legs of the fighters of the front rank leapt with a cat-like spring upon the Saxons, and strove to rip them with their knives, but the light wicker-work shields covered with leather, which had taken the place of the solid and heavy ones generally carried by the housecarls, stood Wulf's followers in good stead; and although many of the shields were penetrated by the knives of the Welsh, they in most cases effectually screened the bodies of the soldiers. The lightly-armed Welsh, on the other hand, were hewn down by the long swords of the Saxons in the front rank, while the javelins of those behind them flew with terrible effect among their assailants. There was, however, no pause in the fury of the attacks of the Welsh, until, with a great shout, the main body of the Saxons came up, and pressed forward in line with the little body who had hitherto borne the brunt of the battle, while on their flank the thane's levies poured in volley after volley of darts and arrows. The fight ceased as suddenly as it began. The sound of a deep-toned horn rose in the air, whereupon the Welsh instantly abandoned the struggle, and before the Saxons had time to realize that the fighting was over, they had disappeared in the forest. "By St. Peter, young thanes!" Earl Gurth exclaimed as he came up to Wulf's band, who were panting from their exertions, "you have saved us from a grievous mishap this night. I take shame unto myself that I treated your suggestion so lightly; for, by the saints, we should have fared badly indeed had this wild foe taken us asleep. The thanks of the whole force are due to you, and I will take care that my brother Harold knows how narrow an escape we have had, and in telling the tale I shall not spare either myself or the older thanes, who were disposed to mock your proposal to keep guard over the camp, as showing an amount of caution altogether unnecessary. The attack has been a lesson to me that I shall not forget, and henceforth I shall select you and your force for any special service requiring watchfulness and valour." In going among their men Wulf and Beorn found that but six had fallen, for the most part under the shower of javelins with which the Welsh had heralded their attack. Many of the others had received wounds more or less severe, but few of them were so badly hurt as to render it necessary to leave them behind. Gurth called the thanes at once to a council. Fresh wood was thrown on to his fire, and some twenty of the thanes took their places round it. Wulf and Beorn were specially asked by Gurth to attend. The attack of the Welsh had shown that they were by no means dismayed at the extent of the preparations for the invasion of their mountains, and that the advance must be conducted with the greatest caution and prudence. "It is well," Gurth said, "that in the absence of Griffith they have many leaders, and will therefore fight without any general plan. Did their whole force fall upon one or other of our columns it might go very hard with it; but we may be sure that each chief will desire to keep his followers by him, in order to defend his own valleys. Nevertheless, they have shown to-night that they can gather rapidly and in considerable force, and we shall have to root them out piecemeal, and shall not be able to scatter our force too widely. I am told that the valley at whose mouth we now are contains a large number of villages, and to this we must confine ourselves until we have done the work there. I trust that they will oppose us stoutly. In that case we shall have the less trouble with them when we come to undertake the more difficult task of pursuing them among their hills." The next morning the advance began, and they had proceeded but a short distance when the Welsh again poured down upon them. This time the force was prepared for the attack, and although the Welsh fought obstinately, they were driven back without much difficulty. As soon as the attack ceased Gurth gave the order for pursuit, and the housecarls held their course straight up the valley at full speed, while the levies swarmed up the hillsides to prevent the Welsh from rallying and attacking in flank. The troops now felt the benefit of the abandonment of their heavy armour and weapons, and pressed so hotly upon the flying Welsh that they entered the first village with them. For a time the natives turned and fought desperately in defence of their homes, but they were unable to withstand the skill and discipline of the Saxon troops, and the measure that they had so frequently dealt out to the Saxon villagers now fell on them. No quarter was given. Every man, woman, and child was slaughtered, and the houses given to the flames. Village after village was captured and burnt, but the resistance became fainter and fainter, and the last three villages at the head of the valley were found to be entirely deserted. Then, just as the sun set, the force bivouacked for the night, the horns calling in the scattered levies, who gradually rejoined them. The next morning the force was broken up into five or six columns, each having a proportion of the regular soldiers and a body of the levies. These penetrated side valleys and climbed the hills. In many cases they encountered resistance, stones being rolled down upon them, and the Welsh defending strong barricades of felled trees. But everywhere the Saxons were successful, and day after day continued the work, until at the end of five days they were able to move where they would without encountering any resistance. The force now marched forward from the head of the valley, crossed a range of hills, and descended into another valley. They had now grown more confident in themselves, and while a third of the force proceeded to lay waste the valley, the rest, broken up into small columns, ascended the hills on either side, carrying fire and sword into every hamlet they came upon. Several of the fortalices of the Welsh chiefs, perched on almost inaccessible eminences, gave great trouble, and were only taken after serious loss. One day Beorn and Wulf, with their own following and two hundred and fifty light-armed levies, were despatched by Gurth to Porthwyn, a stronghold belonging to a powerful chief named Llewellyn ap Rhys. "It is, from all I hear," he said, "a very strong place, and will require all our force to capture it. Indeed it is reported to be so strong that it may be necessary to leave it unmolested until we form a junction with Harold, and can besiege it regularly. It would not do to make an unsuccessful attack, for that would raise the spirits of the Welsh. All that I wish of you is to obtain a view of the castle from all sides if possible, to bring me back an exact account of its defences, and to give me your opinion as to our chances of capturing it if we decide to lay siege to it." Porthwyn was forty miles distant, and Beorn and Wulf determined to march some thirty of these, and then to push forward at daybreak so as to obtain a view of the fortress in the early morning. They took with them a Welsh boy as a guide. He had been spared in the last village captured, and had been told that his life depended upon his guiding them faithfully. The places of ten men who had fallen during the various fights had been filled up by an equal number of Gurth's own housecarls. The seventy soldiers kept with their leaders and the guide, the levies spreading out on either side. Two of the irregulars who spoke a little Welsh accompanied the young thanes to question the guide if necessary. The march was a heavy one. At times they passed through thick forests in the valleys and on the lower hillsides, at times crossed over bare hills, on whose summits the ground was frequently so boggy that the men had to march with the greatest caution. The guide, a sullen lad with matted hair, whose only attire was a sheep-skin, was several times questioned sharply as to whether he was certain of the way. He answered in monosyllables, saying that he knew every foot of the road, and indeed he never hesitated for a moment. "I suppose he is right," Wulf said, "although I thought it lay more to the west than we are going, but we have wound about so among these forests and hills that I am quite confused. There is one comfort, Beorn, if the guide proves treacherous and we lose ourselves altogether, we have but to set our faces to the rising sun and we shall find ourselves back on the border, for I am sure that we could not retrace our steps to Gurth's camp." The sun was just setting when they found themselves on a bare plateau on the crest of a range of hills higher than any they had before crossed. "Ask him how far we are from Porthwyn," Wulf said to the interpreter. "He says twelve miles, my lord." "Then when we get across this flat, which looks full two miles wide, we will camp in the first valley we come to." As they advanced the ground became more and more boggy, and the troops had to move carefully, stepping from one tussock of coarse grass to another, the intervals being filled with black slimy mud. "Ask him if this gets deeper," Beorn said angrily, "for if it does so we are like to be all swallowed up. I believe he must be leading us wrong." Osgod had charge of the boy, and was walking close beside him. As the question was put by the interpreter the boy muttered that he knew the way. The man turned to translate his answer to Beorn, when there was a sudden shout. At the moment that Osgod was making a long step from one tuft to another the boy stooped and caught his foot, and with a roar of surprise and fury Osgod fell head-foremost into the morass. At the same moment the lad darted away with a yell of defiance, leaping from tuft to tuft with the agility of a hare. Several of the men started after him, but unaccustomed to the treacherous bog four or five were immersed in it to their waist before they had gone a dozen paces. "Shoot! shoot!" Beorn shouted, and a dozen javelins were thrown, but the boy was almost beyond distance, and his rapid and irregular movements rendered it well-nigh impossible to take aim with any accuracy. Most of the javelins flew wide of him, and he was soon beyond reach. Osgod was well-nigh smothered before he could be rescued, and some of the other men were only hauled out with the greatest difficulty. Three or four of the most active men were sent forward, but presently returned with the news that the bog became worse. "The sun has already set," Wulf said, "and if darkness catches us here our plight will be a bad one. Let us retrace our steps at once, Beorn." It was with great difficulty that they made their way back to firm ground. By the time they did so darkness had fallen. "This is a bad business altogether, Beorn," Wulf said. "In the first place we have lost our guide; in the second place we have no idea where we are, for we may for aught we know have been going in the wrong direction all the time; and, besides this, the boy will raise the country against us, and in the morning we may be attacked by an overwhelming force." "What do you think we had better do, Wulf?" "Well, I should say we had better, in the first place, retrace our steps to the valley, there we will light fires and cook the meat we have brought with us. Then I should say we had best march for some hours. It matters not in what direction so that we get as far as possible from here." As Beorn could suggest nothing better, Wulf's counsel was carried out. Supper was cooked and eaten in the forest, and after two hours for rest, for the march had been a very fatiguing one, they started. The night was moonless, and in the shadow of the trees the darkness was intense. The housecarls kept together, moving as closely as possible to each other. The levies were ordered to follow them. After proceeding for two hours, Wulf said, "Let us halt and see if we are all together." The housecarls halted, but when he went to the rear Wulf could see no signs of the irregulars. "Let no man speak or move," he said, "I want to listen." But no sound broke the stillness of the wood. "How foolish of Oswald and Edred," he said to Beorn. "We told them to follow with their levies close behind us, and they must have allowed them to fall to the rear. However, they can't be far behind." They waited for half an hour, but the silence continued unbroken. "Do you shout, Osgod," Wulf said; "they ought to hear miles away on a still night like this." Osgod--who had scarcely spoken since his fall, so furious was he at having been outwitted by a boy, and having not only allowed him to escape, but being himself rolled in the mire--raised his voice in a tremendous shout. All listened intently, but no answering sound came back. "They must have gone altogether wrong," Wulf said. "You know that we crossed a streamlet that ran into this brook soon after we started. They must have followed that up, thinking we had done so, and have gone up some other valley. What is to be done, Beorn?" "We crossed that streamlet half an hour after starting," Beorn said, "and as we have spent half an hour here they must have by this time marched up it two-hours' journey, and if we retrace our steps to that point they will have got an hour and a half farther away; besides, they may have gone back when they missed us. There is no saying which way to look for them. I think we had better go on as before. In the morning we shall be able to see the nature of the country, but to look for people who may be miles and miles away, when one cannot see one's own hand, would be but lost time and labour, and methinks we shall have need to husband all our strength before we get out of the scrape into which we have fallen. If the two thanes had obeyed orders and kept closer this would not have happened. They have lost us by their own carelessness, and must manage as they can. We shall have all our work to do to look out for ourselves. Seventy men lost in the heart of these savage hills, which by to-morrow morning will swarm with Welsh, have but a poor chance of ever seeing the English border again." "It is not so bad as that, Beorn. I do not say that we are not in an unpleasant position, but at any rate we are a great deal better off than we were when we were driving headlong on to the coast of Normandy, or when there were but three of us in the midst of the Bretons. They have to find us in the first place, and it will need a good many of them to overcome us when they do. I fancy that we are very near the head of this valley, the ground is rising rapidly. I propose that we push on now till the trees cease, and lie down there till morning breaks, and then cross the next hill so as to find shelter in some other valley before the sun is fairly up. From the top of the hill we may get a general view of the country, and shall have some idea as to the course to take. We must first of all try to find a native who can tell us which is the direction of Porthwyn and how far it lies away. Our orders are to reconnoitre it and that must be done before there is any question of return. Even if I were absolutely alone, I would carry out that order." Beorn was silent for a minute, and then said doubtfully, "Perhaps you are right, Wulf; but when Gurth gave us the order he gave us more than three hundred men to carry it out, and we have now but seventy." By this time they were on their way up the valley, followed by their men. "The fact that two hundred and fifty men have left us really makes the matter easier than it would otherwise have been," Wulf said. "Of course our guide carried the news of our coming straight to Porthwyn, and it is like enough that fires are at present blazing on the hills. The larger division is more likely to be seen than ours, and to be attacked, and we shall have all the more chance of getting up unobserved. I sincerely trust that the thanes, when they discover that they have lost us, will at once lead their men back to Gurth's camp. In that case they may escape before the Welsh can assemble and attack them; and as it would naturally be supposed that as soon as we had lost our guide we retreated in a body, the Welsh will imagine that there is no occasion for further vigilance." "You are always too full of arguments for me, Wulf," Beorn laughed; "and if you have made up your mind to go on, it is not of the least use my saying anything against it; so have your own way." At last the forest became less dense, and when they reached its edge they lay down. Wulf slept for two or three hours, and then roused himself and waited for the first sign of dawn. It was a heavy responsibility, for though Beorn was of equal rank with himself he always gave way to his opinion. He thought over whether it would not be better that Beorn should march with all speed with the force to the east, and that he himself with Osgod and perhaps two other men should make their way to Porthwyn; already the Welsh might be out all over the mountains, and it was the larger body that would be likely to be discovered and attacked. The Welsh would know that on such a dark night, and in a strange country, they could not have got a very long distance from the bog where the guide had escaped from them, and the valley at whose head he now was would be the first place to be searched. However, he did not like severing himself from the men who had marched under his banner from Steyning, and he finally determined that the whole should stay together. It was about half-past two when he roused the band, and they at once started up the bare hillside. "As it gets lighter," he said, "scatter and proceed singly. We shall be far less likely to be noticed by anyone at a distance than if we march together in a solid body. We must travel as fast as possible, so as to get under shelter again before the sun is really up." The men were all by this time well accustomed to climbing and hardened by exercise, and at a rapid pace they breasted the hill, although it was in some places exceedingly steep. By the time they reached its crest there was light enough to permit of a view of the country round. In all directions hills rose around them, bare and brown, and the growing light in the sky showed that the east lay behind them. After waiting for a minute or two to recover breath, they proceeded at a brisk trot. They met with no bogs of importance, and after running for a mile the ground began to slope downwards again, and they saw below them a wooded valley, similar to that which they had left. By this time the hilltops were all lit up by the rising sun. The spot where they stood, however, was still in shadow, and in scattered order they ran rapidly down the hillside until they reached the cover of the trees.

10

PORTHWYN.

There was a short halt to enable the band to quench their thirst at a little rivulet that trickled down the centre of the valley; then they prepared to continue their march, Wulf impressing upon them the necessity for moving as silently as possible. "If we come upon a village of any size," he said, "we must avoid it. The main point is to capture a native, and find out exactly where we are." After walking for an hour they came suddenly upon a hut. It stood in a cleared patch of ground; a small herd of goats were browsing round, and some smoke curled up from a hole in the roof. Wulf halted his men. "Beorn, you and I and Osgod and one of the interpreters had best go in alone; there are not likely to be more than one or two men within, and it will be well at any rate that our numbers should not be known." Before advancing, however, he told the band to surround the clearing. "Let no one escape," he said; "it would cost us our lives did one get away to tell of our being here. See, too, that you bring down two or three of the goats. Our meat is nearly exhausted, and it is well to replenish our store." After waiting until the men were in their places, Wulf ran forward across the open ground with his three companions. There was no door to the hut, and on entering it they saw that its only occupant was a decrepit old woman. She gave a cry of dismay at the entrance of the strangers. "Tell her not to be alarmed," Wulf said to the interpreter. "We do not desire to do her any harm. Now ask her if she lives here by herself," he went on, when the interpreter had spoken to the old woman. "She lives here with her two sons," the man said; "they are away. There were beacon-fires on the hills last evening, and they went out. She does not know when they will return." "Ask her how far it is to Porthwyn." The answer was most satisfactory. "It is but three miles away, my lord. It lies in the valley of which this is a branch." "That is good news indeed, Beorn," Wulf said. "The boy led us in the right direction, perhaps because he thought that if he did not do so we should perceive it and tax him with treachery. But it is more likely that he wished to lead us so close that he could, when he escaped, carry the news of our being in the neighbourhood, in time for the Welshmen to surround and cut us off before we could return. As she says that the beacon-fires were lighted in the evening he can have lost no time, and the country must be aroused. I wish we had the whole force here." "What shall we do with this old crone?" Beorn said. "It would never do to risk her giving an alarm, and though she looks feeble she might be able to get down to Porthwyn." "We will tie her securely, Beorn; we can't hurt the poor old creature. Her sons are no doubt out with the Welsh bands hunting for us; but they will return here sooner or later, so that no harm will come to her." By his orders Osgod securely bound the old woman with a rope he found in the hut, and then leaving her they went outside and called upon the men to close in. Eight of the goats were killed, and were then cut up and divided among the men. After a consultation Wulf and Beorn agreed that instead of following the valley down, where they might meet with other huts, or even a good-sized village, they had best keep along on the hillside, just inside the line of trees, as in that way they would come out high up on the side of the main valley, and probably obtain a good view of the fortalice. In single file they made their way among the trees, and in an hour the valley that they were in opened considerably, and through the trees they saw a large village at their feet. A quarter of a mile farther and they stood on the side of a wide valley. There were numerous flocks and herds to be seen grazing in it, and four or five villages could be made out; their attention, however, was chiefly directed to the object of their journey. Some three hundred feet below the spot where they stood a rock jutted out from the hillside, and extended some five or six hundred feet into the valley. Its sides were perpendicular save where it stood out from the hill. Here a strong wall some forty feet high ran across it; two square towers stood at the angles, but there was no gateway visible. The wall was continued right round the top of the rock, which was crossed by two other walls each defended by flanking towers. The castle itself stood at the extremity of the rock, and was a strong and massive-looking building. The men were all ordered to lie down as soon as the castle was visible between the trees, and among these Wulf and Beorn followed by Osgod moved cautiously, until they reached a spot whence they could obtain through the foliage a full view of the building. "It is a formidable place," said Beorn. "The chief who first planted himself here knew what he was doing. Yes. I should fancy from the look of it the castle at the end was built first, then gradually the walls were added until the whole rock was inclosed. This bit nearest to us is evidently an addition during the last few years. You can see that by the colour of the stone. You see the other two walls have gateways in them while this has none. I should say until this was built the entrance to the castle was along the neck, but they must have got some other way now, and so shut it up altogether. How on earth can they get in?" "Certainly not at the sides," Wulf said, "for they are as near perpendicular as possible. It must be at the other end of the rock, which we can't see. It may slope a little more gradually there, and they may have cut a zigzag road up. Suppose we climb the hill behind us, till we get high enough to see over the trees and get a complete view of the valley. There is no fear of our being noticed. We are a good five hundred feet above it now, and even if anyone did see us up there they would take us for two herdsmen. Of course we will leave our shields and weapons behind us." On attaining a spot from which a clear view of the whole valley could be obtained, Wulf said: "There, Beorn, do you see the hill juts out into the plain on the right, half a mile from the castle, and is wooded to its foot. I think if we were to make our way down there we should be able to obtain a view of the face of the rock below the castle without leaving the shelter of the trees." Beorn agreed that it was worth trying, and they returned to the men, rearmed themselves, and spoke to Osgod. "We are going to reconnoitre, Osgod, and may be an hour away. As we shall not leave the forest there is no danger, and even were we seen we can climb the hill again as fast as any Welshman can follow us. Do you keep an eye on the castle, but do not stir until we return even if you hear shouts. I have no doubt that we shall be able to rejoin you, and it is most important that even if they do make us out they should have no reason for supposing that there is any force behind us." After half an hour's walking Beorn and Wulf found themselves at the edge of the wood in the valley. "There is the road, you see," Wulf exclaimed. "It goes straight up that gradual slope to the bottom of the rock, then it makes two zigzags to the edge of that point that juts out a little, whence there is a bridge thrown across a gap to the point where there is a turret. I can't see it beyond that. I should think they must have driven a tunnel from there right up into the castle, for you see there are fifty feet of perpendicular rock above that turret. In case of attack, of course, they would cut away the bridge, and it would be next to impossible to throw another across. They could overwhelm any force attempting it with stones from above, besides sweeping the zigzag road below." Beorn agreed that the place was absolutely impregnable on that side, and that it could only be attacked from the hillside, and by carrying the walls in succession. "Well, there is nothing more to see," Wulf said, "so we may as well return. You see there is a large village nestling down there just at the foot of the rock. We could not see it from where we were before. "Well, Osgod, have you seen anything going on in the castle?" "No, my lord, everything has been very quiet It seems to me that there are very few men about for such a strong place." "No doubt most of them are out in pursuit of us, Osgod; we know that the country was roused by the beacons, and that there must be a big force somewhere in the hills. I only hope they wont find Oswald and Edred, or I fear it will go hard with them. The levies fight well when they have the housecarls with them, but by themselves and in a strange country I am afraid they would lose heart. Now, Beorn, I am going down to the wall on this side. We can see that there is no sentry on it, and I want to find out if there is any other defence besides what we can see. It is very important to know that, as we agreed that this is the side from which the attack must be made." Descending among the trees Wulf cautiously approached the wall. He found on nearing it that a perpendicular cut some thirty feet wide and twenty feet deep had been made across the rock. It stretched from the foot of one flanking tower to the foot of the other, the wall between them being some ten feet from its edge. Having ascertained this he returned to Beorn. Having told him what he had seen, he sat looking at the castle. "What are you thinking of, Wulf?" Beorn asked. "I suppose we had better stop where we are till nightfall and then make eastward." "I am thinking, in the first place, that it would cost a great number of lives to take that place by assault." "That it would," Beorn agreed. "We have seen no place of anything like equal strength in Wales, or indeed anywhere else." "There is no doubt about that," Wulf agreed. "If well defended it ought to hold out for weeks, for when we have taken that wall in front of us only a third of the work has been done. In the next place, I am thinking that Llewellyn and the greater part of his garrison are away in the hills." Beorn nodded. "And that being so, it seems to me that the best plan will be to take it ourselves." Beorn looked at his friend to see if he were serious, but there was no smile on Wulf's face. "Do you really mean it, Wulf?" "Yes I mean it, certainly. What is to prevent our taking it? There may never be such a good opportunity again. We have not seen a dozen men on the walls, and I don't suppose there are fifty there altogether. But even if there are a hundred, they will have no chance with our men if we are once among them. You see the gates through those inner walls are open, and once over this first one the place will be all open to us." "That is true enough, but how in the world are we to climb that wall?" "That is what I am puzzling over, Beorn. You see there is no time to lose, for Llewellyn and his men may be back to-night. If they find Oswald's party this morning they will return at once, if they don't they may not be back till the morning. But we cannot count on that, what has to be done must be done at once." He sat thinking a little longer. "We must cut down a couple of trees and make a ladder, Beorn. The pine-trees grew very close together where we passed through them a quarter of a mile before we got here, and were very slender for their height. We have no axes or we could fell a couple of them in a few minutes; but even if we had them, we should not dare use them, for the chances are that the villagers are forbidden to cut down trees anywhere near the castle, and the sound might bring people up from below to see who was chopping. I was thinking of burning two of them down, but in this dry weather the flames might run up them, and we should get a blaze that would bring all the villagers up here." He beckoned to Osgod, and when he came up told him that Beorn and he had agreed to try and take the place. "That is good," Osgod said joyfully. "I have been thinking of it, but I did not see how you were to climb that wall." "We must cut down two young pine-trees, but we must not chop them down." "It would take a long time with our knives," Osgod said doubtfully. "It is easy enough to cut through a pole three inches thick, but when it comes to nine or ten it is a different matter." "Then we must cut down small ones and tie them together. Bring twenty men at once with you, Osgod, let the rest lie quiet, the less movement there is the better." As soon as the men were ready Wulf led them back to the point where the pine-trees grew, then he selected eight of the tallest and slightest. They were about three inches through at the foot, and were, he judged, at least an inch and a half at twenty feet from the ground. Two men were set to work at each tree, and in less than half an hour the eight trees were on the ground. The branches were then lopped off, and four of the stems were cut across five-and-twenty feet from the foot. The thin ends were then placed together so as to overlap five feet. There was no difficulty about lashings, as thongs were cut off the bottom of the men's leather jerkins. The joint was made stronger by a light pole fifteen feet long being firmly lashed across the junction. Thus the two poles for the ladder forty-five feet long were ready for use. It needed only to lash cross-pieces for steps, and in little over an hour from the time that work was begun the ladder was complete. From the other young trees two ladders, each twenty-five feet long, had been constructed in the meantime, and the whole were then raised and carried back to the place where the band was lying. "Now, men," Wulf said, "we are going to take this castle at once. I should wait until nightfall were it not that I fear the return of the Welsh, but as they may come back at any time there is not a minute to be lost. Now let each understand his work. The short ladders are to enable us to cross a cut twenty feet deep they have made through the rock; when we get over this we can plant the long ladder against the wall. As soon as we gain the top every man must lie down and crawl along over those who have preceded him. If we are seen before a few of us are on the top of the wall we shall fail, because they will have time to give the alarm, and shut the inner gates. "So far we have seen no one go in or out of the courts between these walls, and have every hope that we shall find no one there. I expect they are places where the cattle are kept in case of siege. Our great danger is in the chance of our being noticed by men on other parts of the walls or on the castle. However, as far as we can see their attention is entirely directed the other way, for they are no doubt on the look-out for news from their chief or for his return. My intention is that all shall gain the top of the wall before a movement is made, but if an alarm is given, those who have got to the top are at once to follow us down the staircase into the courtyard and run at full speed to the gate. Not a moment's halt is to be made there; we must run on to the next gate and there defend ourselves until the rest come to our aid. They will be taken so completely by surprise that, even if we are but four or five, we can hold the gate until the rest come up, and each man, as soon as he gains the top of the ladder, must run on at full speed to our aid. Cut down all with arms in their hands, but do not hurt women or children. Tell off six men, Osgod, to carry the ladder and place it against the wall, and to be the first to follow us. Let the others follow in the order in which they stand in rank." They made their way down through the trees. As soon as they reached the cut one short ladder was lowered, and the other was handed down and placed against the opposite side of the cut. The end of the long ladder was then lowered, and it was swung over and the upper end placed against the wall. Six men then ascended the short ladder, and raised the long one until it stood on the rock at the foot of the castle-wall. "Now, Beorn, do you mount first and I will follow you." "You should go first," Beorn said, "but I will do as you tell me." As soon as Beorn was half-way up Wulf began to follow him, saying to Osgod and the men, "Keep the same distance apart. Do not let more than two be on the ladder at once whatever happens inside, if it were to break it would be fatal to us all." As soon as he gained the top Wulf threw himself down by the side of Beorn, and lay there watching the men on the other walls and on the summit of the castle. Osgod and four men had joined them when Wulf noticed a sudden stir and heard a shout. He leapt to his feet. "Follow quickly, but be careful of the ladder," he called to those below; then he dashed along the wall to the top of the staircase, and closely followed by the others ran down and on through the gate in the next wall. Here some five or six men were asleep in its shade, while some women were standing in front of some low huts which bordered the yard on either side. They gazed in astonishment for a moment at the seven men who appeared so suddenly from the outer yard, and then set up a shrill cry of alarm. Without heeding them Wulf ran on to the next gateway. Just as he reached it a number of men came running up from the other side. "Osgod, do you and Alfred cover our rear while we keep these men in front at bay." The five men held the gate without difficulty against the Welsh who first arrived, for these, at the shout of one of their comrades that men were climbing the wall, had run down only with their knives, and could do nothing against the Saxon shields and long swords. Presently, others with spears and axes ran up, but the two young thanes and their three followers still kept them back, for in the narrow gateway they could not be attacked by more than their own number. Amid the yells of the Welsh Wulf could hear nothing of what was passing behind them, and he was delighted when he heard the voice of Osgod in his ear. "There are eight here now, Wulf; we have finished with the Welshmen in the courtyard, so you are clear behind. Our men are coming down from the wall fast. In five minutes we shall have the whole band here. Now let me have a turn;" and he stepped forward and took the place of one of the Saxons who staggered back with a javelin in his shoulder. Every moment added to the number of the Saxons. "Let me know when they are all up," Wulf said to one of those behind him, as he cut down a Welshman who sprang at him with uplifted knife. The attack was growing weaker, as their assailants saw that instead of five men they had now to face a considerable number, and Wulf had difficulty in restraining his men. "Keep back!" he shouted; "we must wait until we are all up, and then drive them headlong before us and follow them into the castle. If they have once time to shut the doors there we shall have a troublesome task." As he spoke he yielded his place in the front rank to one of his followers, and turned to see how matters stood behind. "Are they all up?" he asked. "The last man told me that there were six more to come, my lord." "Then we need wait no longer. Now, Beorn, all is ready--charge!" and with a rush the Saxons swept through the gate, carrying the Welsh before them and hewing down the front ranks. In an instant the defenders turned and fled, but the Saxons pressed hard on their heels. Some of the Welsh ran up the staircases to the walls, and many of the Saxons would have followed them, but at Wulf's "To the castle, to the castle, we can deal with them afterwards!" they followed him at once. On the steps up to the gateway of the castle a desperate struggle was going on among the Welsh themselves. Seeing the Saxons pressing on the rear of the fugitives, those within the castle strove to shut the door, but strove in vain, as the terror-stricken men outside tried to force their way in. The two young thanes, with Osgod and many of their followers, cut their way through the struggling mass and reached the door. Those trying to shut it had already seen the hopelessness of the endeavour, and had fled into the hall beyond, in which a number of terrified women were wailing and shrieking. As Wulf burst in he shouted to the Welsh, "Throw down your arms and surrender, and your lives shall be spared" but his words were not understood, and as the Welsh never gave quarter themselves they had no thought of quarter being offered to them. The women ceased screaming and broke into a death chant, many of them seizing weapons from the walls, and joining the men in a last desperate effort to drive back the Saxons. For a moment those who had entered had difficulty in resisting the desperate attack, but as others poured in they advanced, and although Wulf continued to shout, "Spare all who throw down their arms," his orders were of no avail, for the Welsh continued to fight desperately until the last fell under the Saxon swords, most of the women, who fought with even greater fury than the men, sharing their fate. As soon as the struggle was over Wulf ordered Osgod to take eight or ten men, to find the entrance to the tunnel leading down to the road on the face of the cliff, and to guard it against any attack from without. Then, through his interpreters, he called to the Welshmen on the walls that their lives should be spared if they would lay down their arms. He was answered by derisive shouts and a shower of javelins. "We should lose a good many men in storming those two narrow staircases, Beorn. There are but twenty or thirty of them, but that is enough to defend such steep approaches. Let us take twenty men up to the top of the castle, from there they can hurl javelins down at them, and they will soon see that resistance is useless." They ascended the stairs, but paused at the end of the room over the hall which had been the scene of the conflict. An aged woman, whose dress showed her high rank, was seated on a settle; beside her was a white-headed harper, while two little children, a boy and a girl, stood at her knee and looked fearlessly at the intruders. Wulf despatched one of the men down to the hall to bring up the interpreter. As soon as he arrived Wulf doffed his helmet and stepped forward. "Ask who this lady is and who are these children." At a gesture from the old lady the harper answered: "This is my mistress, Gweneth, the mother of Prince Llewellyn ap Rhys; these are his children. In his name she bids you defiance. You have taken his castle, but he will know how to avenge her and his children." "I have no desire or intention of acting with any disrespect, still less of injuring either your mistress or the children of Llewellyn," Wulf replied, when this was translated to him. "My friend and I are Saxon thanes, who have been forced to leave our homes and to embark on this war in order to put a stop to the ravages committed across the border--the burning of towns and villages, and the massacre of men, women, and children by your countrymen. Llewellyn ap Rhys has brought this misfortune upon himself, and did we render him motherless and childless, it would be but the fate that he and his followers have inflicted upon many an Englishman. But we do not make war upon women or children. Prisoners, of course, you must be, but be assured of honourable treatment. None shall enter this room save with your permission, and you can have your female attendants to serve you as usual." While the interpreter was repeating his speech Wulf and Beorn left the room, and with the men ascended to the top of the castle, where they were joined by the interpreter, who addressed the Welsh on the walls. These replied with shouts of defiance, and a volley of javelins was poured down upon them. Three or four were struck, the rest, seeing that all hope was gone, rapidly gathered in a body at the head of the staircase leading from the wall. "They are going to run down," Beorn exclaimed, and leaning over the parapet shouted to the Saxons in the courtyard below to stand on their guard. A minute later the Welsh rushed down, each intent on killing at least one foe before he died. The Saxons' weapons and discipline were, however, too much for them; but they fought until the last, not one of them throwing down his weapon or asking for quarter. "They are brave men. I would that we were not forced to slay them; but it is their choosing and not ours, Beorn, and if they would but leave us alone I am sure that nobody would wish to interfere with these wild countrymen." "What is the next thing to be done, Wulf?" "I should say let us turn all the women and children, save the old lady's attendants, out of the castle, they would only be a trouble to us. Then we must examine the store of provisions, plant sentries and cut away that bridge, or, at any rate, cut away so much of it that a blow or two with an axe will suffice to send it down. We must not forget to haul up our ladders. Llewellyn and his men may be back at any moment. Let us go down together to that turret we saw on the face of the rock." Orders were at once given, and the women and children collected and told to leave the castle. They were allowed to carry away with them some eight or ten men who were found to be still living. They went for the most part in silence, but some of the elder women poured out voluble curses on the Saxons. Beorn and Wulf had already gone down to the turret. There was a very strong gateway in the courtyard, beyond this a tunnel sloping steeply down, eight feet high and four feet wide, had been cut in the solid rock. Following it they emerged upon a platform, principally occupied by the turret. The path led through a strong gateway under this on to the wooden bridge. Here Osgod with his ten men had taken their station. "The women and children and a few wounded will be coming down directly, Osgod. As soon as they have passed do you set to work with your men and pull up the planking of the bridge, all save a single plank; loosen that, so that you can if necessary at once cast it down after the rest. If you see the Welshmen pouring up the road, throw it over at once without waiting for further orders, then close the gate and take your station in the turret." "We are all getting very hungry, master. We have eaten nothing this morning, and fighting sharpens the appetite." "I had forgotten all about it, Osgod. I will see that food is cooked at once, and will send down a portion for you and your men, and some tankards of whatever liquor we can find in the cellars. We are going to make an examination of them at once." Returning to the courtyard, they told off a body of men to search the cellars and granaries, and were glad to find that there was an ample store of grain to last for months, together with large quantities of ale and a few casks of wine. "So far all is well," Beorn said, "but would it not be prudent to send off at once to Gurth, to let him know that though we are masters of the castle at present, we may in a few hours be surrounded by a swarm of angry Welshmen?" "That certainly is most desirable," Wulf agreed. "The question is, who are we to send? It would be a terribly dangerous enterprise. Even now there are a score of men from the village watching our movements from the wood above. At any rate we must wait until nightfall." Four sentries were posted on the wall by which they had ascended, as after making a circuit of the place, this was they agreed the only point at which a surprise was possible, unless there existed some secret passage into the castle. They had just finished their inspection of the walls, when there was a shout from their look-out at the top of the castle. "A great number of men are coming down the valley," he cried to the thanes in the courtyard below, and they at once mounted to the battlements. A mile away great numbers of men could be seen running at the top of their speed. There was neither order nor formation. Among them were a few horsemen riding in a knot together, and round these a number of the footmen were running in a close mass; but by far the greater proportion straggled across the valley, some being a considerable distance behind the rest. "They are like a swarm of bees," Beorn said. "Yes, and are just as angry. Of course, the news of what has happened here was sent off to them at once, and has brought them back again. I trust that it reached them before they came upon Oswald's party." "They must have been on their return," Beorn said. "It was but two hours ago that we won the castle. Had a swift messenger started the moment the news reached the village, and had he known exactly the position where he would find Llewellyn, he could not have taken the news to him and brought them back here had they been some eight miles away. It must be farther than that to the spot where we lost Oswald, and as the thanes would surely be making their way either back to camp or eastward to the border, they must have been many miles from here an hour since. We know that the Welsh levies were summoned in the evening, and probably reached the spot where we were deserted by the guide, before daybreak, and took up the search at once. Therefore I think, Wulf, there can be no doubt that the messenger from here must have met them as they were returning; but whether they had overtaken and destroyed Oswald's command, or had failed in their search for them, we cannot tell." Wulf shook his head. "I fear the former is most likely. The Welsh here must know every foot of their mountains, so that by scattering through the valleys they could scarcely fail to come upon the traces of Oswald's passage, and they would pursue him as hotly as wolves chase a deer. My only hope is that Oswald may have established himself at daybreak this morning in some strong position, and fortified himself there, in hopes that we might rejoin him, and that Llewellyn had not begun the attack upon it when the news reached him of the capture of his castle. How many, think you, are there in that approaching throng?" "Some four or five thousand I should say." "Yes, quite five thousand, Beorn." At the call of the watchmen the men had, of their own accord, all mounted to the walls. "We had better divide our commands," Beorn said. "Your force is double mine. For the present I will undertake the defence of the rear walls if you will take the front. Of course till an attack actually commences it will not be necessary to keep more than a strong guard on duty." "Certainly not," Wulf agreed. "The danger will be far greater at night than by day, and we must give the men as much rest as possible. But I think that you with your men and half of mine ought to take the command in front, while I with the rest defend the rear." "Not at all, Wulf, this is your affair altogether. I should never have thought of trying to take the castle. It was your idea, and has been carried out by you altogether. You are much fuller of plans than I am. I will do my best to second you, but you must continue to be the head in the matter." "Very well, Beorn. I refuse to be considered in command, but we will apportion our forces as you suggest. We will take care that at any rate the Welsh shall not capture the castle as rapidly as we did, and so will put four men always on duty at each of the gates in the interior walls, so that if by any chance they manage to effect an entrance into one of the yards they will be able to get no farther until our whole force can assemble to oppose them."

11

THE SECRET PASSAGE.

Beorn called his men together and distributed them along the rear wall, while Wulf made a fresh examination of the front. He had before noticed that great piles of stone in blocks from fifty to a hundred pounds in weight were piled along by the parapet, in readiness to hurl down upon any foe attempting to ascend the road, while in the courtyard below was an immense reserve of these missiles. He placed twenty of his men here, and posted the other ten as sentries on the side walls, and then went down through the passage to Osgod. The bridge was entirely demolished as he had directed, with the exception of a single plank, which could be thrown over in a moment. Osgod had closed the gate, and had fastened a rope from the top of the turret to the plank, so that this could be hauled up, without those engaged in the operation being exposed to missiles from the other side of the chasm. "One feels almost ashamed at being so safe," Osgod said, as Wulf joined him on the turret. "It does not give one the chance of a fight." "You have had one good fight to-day, Osgod, and can do without another. I should be glad if we did not have to strike a blow till we see Gurth's banner coming down the valley." "We have done very well," Osgod agreed; "and I should be quite contented if I had but come across that rascal who nearly smothered me in the bog." "You need not bear malice against him, Osgod; for if he had not deserted us and led Llewellyn's force away to the spot where he left us, we should not be masters of the place as at present, and it would have been a terrible business had we been obliged to take this stronghold by storm." "That is true enough, master; except by hunger or by a surprise, such as we carried out, I don't see how the place is to be taken if stoutly defended. There is no reason why the Welsh should have been in such a hurry to return, for they must know as well as we do that there is but little chance of their getting in again. They have come to a halt now down there, and half of them have thrown themselves on the ground like a pack of tired hounds." "I have no fear whatever of an open attack, Osgod. They can see for themselves that the bridge is destroyed, and I do not think they will dream of coming up that road, which, as they know, we can sweep with stones from above. If they attack openly at all, it will be by the wall we scaled. If they make twenty ladders such as we had they may think they might gain a footing, especially as their archers high among the trees would be able to fire down on the defenders of the wall. But what I am really afraid of is that there may be some secret passage." "Do you think so?" Osgod said, startled. "Where could it come from?" "Well, Osgod, you see they have cut this winding road up the rock and have made the tunnel hence to the courtyard, so the chiefs have had abundance of labour at their disposal. They would naturally wish to provide a means of escape if the castle were besieged, and like to fall by force or famine; moreover it would enable them to send out messengers or receive messages from without. A passage four feet high and two feet wide would suffice. They may have driven such a passage from some place in the wood behind and it may come up somewhere in the courtyard, perhaps in one of the little huts along the side. Of course the entrance would be covered here by a stone, and would be hidden among the bushes at the other end. Still I do not think that this is likely, for a hostile force would almost certainly take up its post in that wood, and attack the place in the rear. If there is such a passage I think that it must open somewhere on the face of the rock, on one side or the other. It looks to us almost perpendicular, but there may be inequalities by which active men might ascend at some point or other. For a considerable distance we could see there were tufts of shrubs growing here and there, and one of these may conceal a small opening. From this point a staircase may have been driven up into the castle." "That would be very awkward, master, if it were so." "It would indeed. To-night all the force except the sentries shall gather in the castle, where ten men by turns shall keep guard, one or two being placed in the lower chambers. In this way we shall be safe; for before more than three or four can enter we should be all on foot, and as they can but come up in single file, could repulse them without difficulty. Tomorrow we will lower men down with ropes from the walls, and examine every clump of bushes growing on the face of the rock If we find any signs of a path or entrance we shall have no difficulty in discovering where it enters into the castle, and can effectually block it up. I shall then feel much more comfortable than I do at present." "I was looking forward to a good night's sleep," Osgod grumbled, "but your idea, master, has quite done away with that. If I went off I should dream that I had one of those Welsh wolves at my throat. However, it is a good thing that you thought of it." "I think, my lord," one of the soldiers said, "there are a number of our men among the Welsh. I can make out helmets and shields, and I think many are clad in leather jerkins." Wulf looked attentively. "Yes, there are certainly shields and helmets," he said. "I fear there is no doubt they have overtaken Oswald's levies." "And have made them prisoners?" Wulf shook his head. "They never take prisoners, you know. I fear they have slain them all and possessed themselves of their arms and clothes. In no other way can there be Saxon shields and helmets among them." "By St. Nicholas!" Osgod exclaimed, "it is too bad that we should be standing here doing nothing. Why doesn't Llewellyn attack us instead of keeping his men gaping there at the castle?" "Because at present he can do nothing, and is not fool enough to throw away hundreds of lives; besides, he must know that his mother and children are in our hands." Presently a white flag was raised among the Welsh. Wulf had expected this, and had ordered a white cloth to be held in readiness to raise in reply. As soon as this flew out to the wind three men were seen to advance with the flag towards the foot of the road up to the castle. Wulf at once sent for the two interpreters to join him. "Shall you let them come up, master?" Osgod asked. "They are as treacherous as snakes. See how that boy led us astray in the bog." "You cannot get that boy out of your head, Osgod," Wulf laughed. "There is no conceivable way by which three men could recapture this castle. There is nothing for them to learn. They know its strength and everything connected with it, and they can see for themselves that we have destroyed the bridge. I shall be glad to hear what they have to say. Llewellyn himself is, most likely, one of the number." The little party mounted the road until they stood on the platform from which the bridge started. One of them was a tall figure, dressed in armour, and with long black hair flowing down from under his helmet over his shoulders. Wulf at once, from the descriptions he had heard of the chief's appearance, recognized him as Llewellyn ap Rhys. "I would speak with the commander of the Saxons who have, in my absence, taken my castle by treachery." "I am the commander," Wulf said. The Welshman's fingers clenched, and he glanced furiously at the young Saxon. By a great effort, however, he restrained his passion, and said courteously: "I am Llewellyn ap Rhys. To whom have I the pleasure of speaking?" "I am Wulf of Steyning, prince. I don't know altogether that I have taken your castle by treachery, indeed I claim to have won it by fair fighting. You went out with your force to attack me among the hills, and during your absence I attacked and captured your castle. I will do your garrison credit to say they fought bravely in spite of the surprise. I would gladly have given them quarter, but they refused my offers, and, save a few wounded, whom I allowed the women to carry off, died to a man fighting bravely. No women were hurt or insulted, save those who took up arms and fought among the men, and it was no fault of ours that they were killed. Methinks that in your incursions into England you have not always shown the same mercy." Llewellyn was silent for a minute. He had indeed never shown any pity in his forays, but had never expected that his castle and family would be in the hands of the Saxons. "I learn," he said at last, "from the women, that my mother and my children are alive in your hands, and I thank you for the honorable treatment I hear that they have received." "They are safe and well," Wulf replied. "We Saxons do not massacre women and children in cold blood. They will be honourably treated until I can hand them over to the care of Earl Gurth, who will doubtless send them to England as hostages." "I shall try to win back my castle," Llewellyn said. "May I be sure that whatever happens they will be safe?" "You may. Even were you forcing your way into the castle I will guarantee that no hair of their heads shall be injured. And now, prince, it is my turn to question. I see Saxon helmets and shields among your followers. Whence come they?" A cloud passed over Llewellyn's face. He had not reckoned on their being observed from the castle. Concealment was now out of question, and he said boldly: "I defeated a party of your countrymen this morning. They came with hostile intent into my territory, and they have been destroyed." Although he had expected the answer, Wulf was shocked at the confirmation of his fears. Llewellyn, indeed, had fallen on Oswald's levies and annihilated them soon after daybreak. Having no idea that a party had separated from them during the night, he was returning exulting in the idea that he had destroyed the whole of the invaders, when the news had reached him of the capture of his castle. Wulf was silent. "It is the fortune of war," he said gravely. "It is not to me that you have to reckon for the deed, but with Earl Gurth, for whom I hold this castle." Llewellyn made no reply, but with a wave of his hand turned and went down the hill again. "I am even more than before convinced, Osgod, that there is a secret passage. I was watching him closely when the interpreter told him that I should hand his mother and children over to Gurth. He pressed his lips together, and his face lighted up with exultation for a moment." "What do you think he came here for, master?" "He came here to assure himself if possible that their lives would not be sacrificed in the event of his attacking." "It is a pity you told him they would be safe," Osgod said. "But they will be safe, and even if we are surprised and slain I would not that Llewellyn should say that it was only the suddenness of his attack that saved their lives. I will place two of our best men at their door with orders that come what may they are to prevent anyone from entering. But I don't think it will come to that. Should the passage enter into the castle, as, if it exists, I have no doubt it does, we shall be prepared to deal with them, if it opens elsewhere we shall have all our force save a few sentries assembled, and though all the walls fall into their hands, we ought to be able to hold it successfully till Gurth arrives to our rescue." Wulf returned to the castle, and then joined Beorn at his post on the wall facing the wood. He communicated to him his ideas as to the probable existence of a secret passage. "We must provide a mode of retreat for your men on guard here, Beorn, in case the Welsh enter by either of these yards instead of by the castle. These flanking towers at the angles of the walls cut off all passage. We will construct bridges with two or three planks across these towers, so that your sentries can retreat from the rear wall to the next, and again on to the inner wall. The doors between the courtyards shall be closed, so that should they enter either of these outer courts they will be delayed, and your men will have plenty of time to join us in the defence of the last wall. However, I am convinced the castle itself will be the scene of action. Five sentries will be enough to place on this wall. I will put two on each of the cross walls, so that if your men give the alarm it will be passed along speedily. I shall remove the last plank of the bridge at nightfall, and have Osgod and four men in the turret and two on the wall above them. We shall therefore have fifty-five men in the castle, and that should be ample. They can keep watch and watch, so there will be over twenty-five men under arms, and ready to throw themselves upon the Welsh wherever they may enter." These arrangements were carried out. At ten o'clock all lights were extinguished, save a torch burning in each room on the ground floor. The floors and walls had been carefully examined and sounded, but nothing suspicious had been discovered. Four men were told off to each room except the great hall, where twenty were gathered in reserve. Half were to keep watch, but all were to lie down. The orders to those who were to keep awake were strict If they heard a noise or saw a stone move they were to keep silent, until two or three men had stepped out, then they were to give the alarm, leap up, and throw themselves upon them. "Were the alarm given," he said, "before they fairly issued out the stone might be moved back again, and it would give us immense trouble before we could demolish it or find the secret of the spring. Therefore, let them get a footing first." From time to time either Beorn or Wulf got up and went noiselessly round to the different rooms to see that the watch was vigilant. As had been arranged, each of those on guard raised a hand as they entered a room, so as to show that they were awake. Wulf did not expect that any attempt would be made before midnight. After that hour he sat in a corner of the dais, leaning as if asleep, but with his eyes wandering round the room watching every stone, and his ears listening for the faintest sound. He had no feeling of sleepiness whatever, his senses being all strung up to the highest pitch. From time to time he held up a hand, and ten others were at once elevated, showing that the watchers were as vigilant as himself. It was, he thought, about one o'clock when he heard a faint creaking sound. It did not seem to him to be in the hall itself, but in a room adjoining it, the doors having all been left open. He rose to his feet, touched Beorn, who lay a pace or two away, and stole noiselessly out, grasping his sword in his hand. He stopped before he got to the open door of the next room and listened. All seemed perfectly quiet. He stood motionless, until a minute later there was a sudden shout, followed almost instantly by a clash of arms. With a shout to his followers Wulf ran into the room. The four Saxons were on their feet, and were attacking three men, who, as he entered, were joined by a fourth from behind. He and Beorn threw themselves into the fray just as one of the Saxons fell with his head cloven by a sweeping blow from the tall figure opposed to him. One after another in rapid succession the Welsh poured in from a narrow opening, but the Saxons rushed up in overwhelming numbers. There was a brief fierce fight, and the Welsh were slain or overpowered. The men who last emerged turned to fly, but meeting those crowding up from behind were unable to do so. Others ran in only to be cut down as soon as they appeared; a sound of fierce shouting and angry struggle came through the opening. When no more showed themselves, Wulf called for torches, and a dozen were soon at hand. Seizing one he passed through the narrow opening. A winding staircase met his view. With Beorn and some Saxons following close behind him, he descended for a considerable distance, then he found himself in a low and narrow passage, and following this for twenty yards stepped out into the open air. "We need do no more to-night, Beorn," he said. "We will see where this comes out and block it up in the morning, though they are not likely to try again. We can sleep now without fear of interruption." His first step was to examine the bodies of the fallen Welshmen. He had recognized in the tall man with whom he had crossed swords Llewellyn ap Rhys, and found him lying beneath four of his followers, who had stood over him and defended him to the last. He was glad to find that the Welsh prince still lived, and directed that he should be at once carried to a room and that every attention should be shown him. None of the other fourteen Welshmen who had fallen showed any signs of life. Ordering their bodies to be carried out into the courtyard, Wulf placed four men on guard at the upper opening of the secret passage. They were to be relieved every hour. He then went out and saw to the relief of the sentries on the walls, and called down to Osgod that the attack had been made and repulsed. He then went back and slept soundly till daybreak. On going to the walls he learned that there had been a great commotion down in the valley. Fierce shouts, loud wailing cries, and a confused sound of running and talking had been heard. At daybreak the Welsh were still there, and their fires had been lighted: one party were seen to march away as soon as it was light, but others arrived, and their numbers appeared about the same as on the previous evening. There was no general movement, but it could be seen that they gathered in clusters, and listened to men who addressed them with animated gestures. "They don't know what to do," Wulf said to Osgod, whom he had joined in the turret. "They believe their chief to be dead; they know that his mother and children are prisoners in our hands; they can have little hope of capturing this place, which they believe to be impregnable to open attack. At present they must be without a leader, and yet they must be so animated by a spirit of hate and revenge, and by the desire to wipe out their humiliation by retaking this place, that they will not stir from in front of it." As he spoke a messenger came from Beorn, saying that the Welsh were pouring arrows and javelins from the hill upon his sentries on the walls, and that these were unable to show a head above the parapet. In one of the sheds a large quantity of hides had been found, and taking a party laden with them Wulf proceeded to the wall at the rear. Here he directed the ladders that were still lying there to be cut up into lengths of eight feet. These were fixed at intervals upon the parapet, and a cord fastened along the top, the men engaged in the operations being protected by the shields of their comrades from the rain of missiles from the trees. Hides were thrown over the ropes, and these hid those on the wall from the view of the enemy, while they themselves could peep out from time to time between the hides to see that no preparations were being made for an attack. The secret passage was next investigated; it was found that the opening was about half-way down the rock, and that the assailants must have climbed up by a path that a goat could scarce traverse. Wulf set a party to work to carry down stones from the courtyard, and to block up the passage solidly for ten feet from the opening, a sentry being posted on the wall above. After the erection of the shelter of hides the Welsh only sent an occasional javelin from the trees, but by the loud yells that were from time to time raised, there was no doubt they were still there in force. "It is evident that they are going to besiege us, Beorn," Wulf said when they sat down to breakfast together. "The question is, are we to remain here until rumour carries the report of our capture of the place to Gurth, or shall we despatch messengers to him?" "As you yourself said yesterday, the messengers could never get away, Wulf. I would give a year's revenue if we could do so, for it may be a long time before news comes to Gurth's ears. He may possibly hear of the annihilation of Oswald's force, for any Welsh woman taken captive might mention that in triumph, but they would certainly say nothing of such a grievous blow to the Welsh cause as the capture of Porthwyn and the death of Llewellyn in an attempt to recapture it. Gurth, therefore, naturally supposing that we had been involved in Oswald's disaster, may abandon all idea of moving against this place until the greater part of the country was reduced to obedience." "I see, Beorn, that the difficulty of a messenger getting through would be indeed enormous; the Welsh must know that we are but a small band, and that our first aim would be to communicate with Gurth. You may be sure, therefore, that they will keep a vigilant guard all round the place at night to see that no messenger makes his way out. Our two interpreters do not know anything like enough Welsh to pass as natives, none of our people know a word of the language, it would be sending anyone to almost certain death. I think we must be content to depend upon ourselves. Gurth is sure to learn the news sooner or later, for it will make a great stir all through the country. I have just seen Llewellyn, he is very sorely wounded. I think it would be a good thing to let the Welsh know that he is in our hands, it will render them more chary of attacking us. We might hang out a flag of truce, and when they come up in reply tell them that he is alive but sorely wounded, and that they may send up a leech, who would better attend to his wounds than we can do." This was accordingly done. Two Welshmen of rank came up to the broken bridge and were informed that their prince was sorely wounded, and that a leech would be allowed to enter to attend upon him. An hour later a man with a boy carrying a large basket came up the hill and crossed the plank into the turret. The basket, which contained various herbs and medicaments, was taken from the boy, who was then sent back again, while the leech was taken up to the room where Llewellyn was lying, in the care of his mother and her maids. Three days passed without any change. The force in the valley was seen to be considerably diminished, no hostile demonstration had taken place; but twenty men always remained in the courtyard in the rear, in readiness to run up to the wall in case the sentries gave an alarm. On the fourth morning, just as day was breaking, a man ran into the castle with the news that the Welsh were attacking the wall. Beorn and Wulf sprung to their feet, and with every man except those on duty as sentries ran off to the scene of attack. That it was a serious assault was evident by the wild yells and shouts that were heard. Wulf ran up the stairs to the wall. A storm of missiles was striking against the hides; many of them failed to penetrate, but others did so, and several of the men were lying wounded under shelter of the parapet, while the rest were hurling down javelins between the openings of the hides. "What are they doing?" he asked the sub-officer in command of the party. "They are preparing to scale the wall, my lord; they have numbers of ladders." Wulf was about to look out between the hides, but the officer exclaimed, "Do not so risk your life, my lord; you can see down without danger;" and he pushed out the lower side of one of the skins from the wall, so that Wulf could look down without being seen by the Welsh archers. The fosse in the rock and the narrow platform at the foot of the wall were alike crowded with foes, who were planting a number of ladders side by side. These were strongly constructed, and were each wide enough for two men to mount abreast. Eight or ten of these ladders were already planted against the wall, and the enemy were climbing up them. Wulf turned, and waving his sword shouted to the men running into the courtyard from the walls and castle to hasten up. Already a dozen had joined him, and scarce had these placed themselves along the battlements when the heads of the Welshmen appeared above it. For a minute or two it seemed that these would overmaster the defence. Several succeeded in crossing the parapet, but they were either cut down or cast headlong into the courtyard. By this time the whole of the Saxons, save the guard in the turret by the bridge, were on the wall, and were able to form a close line along the parapet against which the ladders were placed. The Welsh fought with an utter disregard of life; as fast as those at the top were cut down or hurled backwards others took their place. So closely did they swarm up the ladders that several of these broke with their weight, killing many of those clustered below as well as those on the rungs. But for an hour there was no pause. It was well for the defenders that they had the protection of the line of hides, and were therefore screened from the arrows of the bowmen on the hill; but these soon ceased to shoot, as many of their comrades were hit by their missiles, while they were unable to see whether the arrows had any effect whatever upon the hidden defenders. At length the leaders of the assailants saw that the task could not be achieved, and gave the signal by the blowing of cow-horns that the attack should cease; but so furious were their followers that many disregarded the summons, and continued their efforts to gain a footing upon the wall, or at least to kill one of its defenders, for some time after the main body had withdrawn. As soon as the last of these was killed the garrison hurled the ladders backwards and then gave a shout of triumph, which was answered by renewed yells of defiance by the Welsh. "It has been a hard fight, Wulf," Beorn said, as he removed his helmet. "It has indeed. It was a well-planned attack, and was nearly successful. We ought to have had a stronger guard there; but I did not think that they would venture to attack at daylight, nor that they could have so quickly run forward and placed their ladders. Had we been but a minute later in arriving here they would have gained this wall and the courtyard. They would, indeed, have got no farther, but their success would have so excited them that we should have had to fight night and day. What has been our loss?" Five of the men were killed; many of the others had received severe wounds on the head and shoulders from the knives of their assailants, and had it not been for the protection afforded by the leathern helmets and jerkins the number of killed would have been very much larger. "I would as lief fight with a troop of wild cats," exclaimed Osgod--who, as soon as he saw that there was no movement down on the plain, had run up with half his little garrison to join in the defence of the wall,--as he tried to staunch a deep wound that extended from his ear to his chin. "Over and over again I saw a shock head come up above the wall, and before I had time to take a fair blow at it the man would hurl himself over upon me like a wild animal. Three times was I knocked down, and I am no chicken either; if it had not been for my comrades on each side it would have gone hard with me. I was able to return the service several times, but had the Welsh been imps they could not have been more active or more fierce. There must be a hundred lying slain along here or in the courtyard. I do not wonder that Oswald's men were all killed by them, though after our previous fights I held them in but small respect." "It is a different thing, Osgod," Beorn said. "In the field we have always had the advantage from our order and our discipline; but here it was man against man. We had the advantage of position and they of numbers; but discipline went for nothing on either side, and I doubt if we should have done as well as they did had we been the assailants." "I am ready to own that," Osgod agreed. "I like to fight with my feet on firm ground, and should make but a poor figure balanced on the top of a ladder." When the tumult in the wood had died away Wulf raised a white flag, and ordered one of the men who spoke Welsh to shout to the enemy that they might approach without molestation and remove their wounded and dead from the foot of the wall, and also said that the Saxon leaders desired to speak to an officer of rank. Two of these came out from the trees. "Hitherto," the interpreter cried with a loud voice, "my lords, the noble thanes, Beorn of Fareham and Wulf of Steyning, have given the most honourable treatment to your chief, Llewellyn ap Rhys, wounded and a prisoner in their hands, and to his family. Nor have they altered that treatment while you were attacking our walls; but they bid me warn you and all others in arms against the authority of our sovereign lord the king, that henceforth they will hold them as hostages, and that their lives will be forfeited if any fresh attack be made upon the castle." Three days passed without any further acts of hostility by the Welsh. At the end of that time Llewellyn was sufficiently recovered to sit up supported by pillows on his couch. He had already heard of the defeat, with terrible slaughter, of the attempt of his countrymen to recapture the castle, and of the warning that had been given the Welsh that if the attack was renewed the lives of himself and his family would be forfeited. Beorn and Wulf paid him a visit as soon as they heard that he was in a condition to talk to them. "Prince," Wulf said through his interpreter, "it is, you must see, hopeless for your followers to attempt to recapture this castle. The bridge is destroyed, the secret passage by which you entered blocked up, and we can resist any attack upon the rear wall. We have shown you and yours a mercy such as you would certainly not have extended to English men and women under similar circumstances, and grieved as we should be to be obliged to proceed to extremities with prisoners, yet were the castle again attacked, and were we to see that there was a prospect of its being recaptured, we should not hesitate to slay you, as it would be treachery to the king to allow so formidable an enemy as yourself to regain his freedom. "Your cause is hopeless. Harold, Tostig, and Gurth are carrying fire and sword through your valleys, and your people will have to choose between submission and death. Why should so hopeless a struggle continue? Gurth will be here shortly, and then the fate that has befallen the districts already subdued will light upon yours. Surely it will be better for yourself and your people that this should be averted. This can only be done by your sending orders to your followers to scatter to their homes and to lay down their arms. We will at once in that case send a messenger to the earl to tell him that the district has submitted. I must request that in order the message shall reach him you shall bid two officers of rank accompany our messenger to Gurth's camp; we giving them our undertaking that they shall be allowed to leave it unmolested." "Your offer tallies with my own intentions," Llewellyn said. "Had I been free I would have resisted to the last, but as a prisoner, and with my mother and children in your hands, I am powerless. My harper tells me that fully four hundred of my followers fell in the attack, and with my stronghold in your power, my tribesmen without a leader, and your armies desolating the land, I see that further resistance here would but add to the misfortunes of my people. I am ready, therefore, to send down my harper and doctor to bid four of my chiefs come up here, under your safe conduct. I shall lay the matter before them, and tell them that I being a prisoner can no longer give them orders, but shall point out to them that in my opinion further resistance can but bring terrible disasters upon the district. This, on their return, they will lay before their men, and if, as I trust, these will agree to scatter to their homes, they will furnish the escort you desire for your messenger." Two hours later three of the chiefs summoned arrived, the fourth having fallen in the assault. They had a private interview with Llewellyn and then left. A great meeting was held down in the valley, and in the afternoon the three chiefs and six others came up to the castle and formally made their submission before Beorn and Wulf, and besought them to send a messenger to the earl praying him to forgive past offences and to have mercy on the people. An hour later two of the Saxons bearing a letter from Beorn and Wulf to Gurth started under an escort provided by the chiefs.

12

EDITH.

Two days after the departure of the messengers from the castle the look-out gave notice that he perceived a large body of horsemen and footmen coming down the valley, and half an hour later the banner of Gurth could be made out. The garrison at once set to work to replace the planking of the bridge, and this was accomplished by the time that the Saxon earl, accompanied by several thanes, and followed by a strong body of troops, reached the platform at the other end. As he did so Beorn and Wulf crossed the bridge to meet him. "You have done well indeed, thanes!" Gurth exclaimed. "You have made a conquest to be proud of; for as we rode along this place seemed to us well-nigh impregnable. But your messengers have told me how you captured it, and how stoutly you have since defended it. It was a daring thought, indeed, to attempt the assault of such a place with a handful of men. You have rendered a splendid service to the king; for with the capture of this fortress, and of Llewellyn himself and his children, there is no fear that there will be trouble in this part of Wales for years to come. We, too, are specially indebted to you, for had we been forced to besiege this place it could only have been taken with a vast loss of life, and it might well have resisted all our efforts. That seventy men should have taken it, even if weakly defended, is wonderful indeed." "It is to Wulf, my lord, that the credit is chiefly due," Beorn said. "It was he who proposed and planned the attack; and though I have done my best to support him, I have but acted as his second in command. He is quicker-witted than I am, and far more fitted to lead." Wulf was about to speak, when Gurth stopped him with a gesture of the hand. "At any rate, Beorn," he said, "you possess qualities that are by no means common. That you are a brave soldier I know well, but so I trust are all my thanes; still, it is not every one who has the wit to perceive that another has sharper wits than himself, still fewer who would have the generosity to stand aside and to give the major share in an exploit like this to another. What you may lose in credit by your avowal you will at least gain in the esteem of us all. Now, commandant," he said to Wulf with a smile, "show us the way into this capture of yours." Before entering the castle itself Gurth made a detour of the walls, and upon seeing them was still more surprised than before at the manner in which the capture had been effected. "You see, thanes," he said, "the matter hinged on the possession of these gates through the cross walls. That the rear walls should have been taken by surprise was a daring action, but it would have availed nothing had the garrison had time to close even the second of these gates; for though, as it seems, no more numerous than our men, they could have easily held it until reinforced from the village below, and would then have turned the tables on their assailants. The capture was due to the quickness and boldness with which Wulf and Beorn, with the few men who had obtained a footing on the wall when the alarm was given, rushed forward and held the inner gateway until the rest came up." Gurth paused for a time on the wall above the point where the secret passage came out on the face of the rock, and having asked many questions as to how it was that they were so well prepared for Llewellyn and his followers when they made the attack, he commended Wulf very strongly for his conduct in this matter. "Others might have taken the castle as you did, young thane," he said, "but assuredly most would have lost it again, for having set guards on the walls they would have given themselves up to feasting and sleep, without a thought that there might possibly exist a secret passage through this rock, which looks as if nothing short of a winged army could scale it. What say you, thanes?" The Saxons cordially agreed with the earl. They were stout fighters, but better in the field than in council, and it was in no small degree to the Danish blood in their veins that the sons of Godwin owed the vigour and intellect that had raised the family to so lofty a position among their countrymen. On concluding his inspection of the walls Gurth entered the castle, and after first examining the entrance to the secret passage, sat down with the thanes to a banquet, the preparation of which had been begun as soon as their coming was perceived. After that Gurth paid a visit to Llewellyn. "Your fate is not in my hands, prince," he said to him, "but in that of my brother Harold. As, however, you have used your influence to persuade your people to submit, I shall do my best to induce him to take a favourable view of your case." The next day the main body of Gurth's force arrived, and encamped in the valley. Llewellyn's chiefs all came in and made their submission, but the people for the most part took to the hills. As, day after day, news came of the terrible retaliation dealt out by the troops of Harold and Tostig they lost heart altogether, and sent in messengers craving to be allowed to come in and lay down their arms. Gurth at once accepted their submission, and hundreds returned to their homes. In other parts of Wales the feeling that resistance was vain rapidly extended. Their most fertile valleys had all been turned into deserts, and even on their own hills and among their own forests, where they had hitherto deemed themselves safe from attack, they were pursued and hunted down by the now lightly-armed Saxons. From all parts, therefore, offers to submit were sent in, and as a proof of their submission and regret for past behaviour, they seized Griffith their king, killed him, and sent his head to Harold, who thereupon granted them terms, and ordered his forces to withdraw beyond the border. The campaign had lasted less than three months, but so terrible had been the blow dealt to the Welsh that a hundred years passed before they again ventured to renew their incursions into England. Llewellyn was pardoned, but great breaches were made in the walls of the fortress facing the hill, and these he was forbidden ever to repair. His children were taken to England, to be brought up there, and to serve as hostages for his future good behaviour. Harold, when he learnt the particulars of the capture and defence of Porthwyn, expressed his approval in the warmest terms. "You have performed the greatest and most important feat of the war, Wulf," he said. "Yes, it is right that you should give every credit Beorn for his share in the matter; but I know you both well, and am assured that Beorn would never have conceived and carried out the attack, and that had he done so successfully, he and his men would all have been slain by Llewellyn that night. Beorn is a good youth; he is brave and kind-hearted; he is no fool, and will make and excellent thane; will become a favourite at court, and be always loyal and staunch. But I shall look to see you more than this. You have a head quick to plan, readiness and decision in danger, and, as you have shown, a genius for war. Study the writings of the Romans, the greatest masters of war the world has ever seen, make yourself acquainted with the methods of Caesar and other great commanders, and do not neglect to ponder on their laws and customs. "When matters are settled here, travel to the various courts of Europe and acquaint yourself with the ways of peoples who are far more advanced than we in civilization, and you may come to stand some day among the most trusted councillors of the king, and as one of the best leaders of his troops. I see that the success you have attained while as yet so young has not puffed you up in any way. Always remember, Wulf, that though success may be envied, those who are successful may yet be liked if only they themselves do not seem conscious of success. I should say you had best not make a long stay at court, but betake you, shortly, to your estate. It is a good school, and one who can rule his own people wisely has a sound preparation for posts of larger responsibility. You will always find in the prior of Bramber a wise adviser, who will direct your studies, and will aid you where your Latinity falls short. "It will be time enough in another five years for you to go abroad; but, of course, I do not wish you to remain all that time away from court. It is never good to be forgotten; therefore, come up two or three times a year. I trust that there will be no fresh wars or troubles to hinder your studies or interfere with your life; but remember that there is always danger from Normandy, therefore always keep on foot your force of housecarls; and if, as I think, your estates can afford it, add to their number, so that if trouble does come you will be able to again play a prominent part in it." Wulf's contingent marched with the rest of the troops from the east as far as Reading, and there struck off by the nearest road to Steyning. He and Beorn accompanied Harold to London, and after staying there for a short time, and taking part in the fetes with which the conquest of the Welsh was celebrated, Wulf returned to Steyning and took up the life he had previously led there. Before starting he asked Harold's advice as to whether he should fortify Steyning after the manner of the Norman castles. "By no means, Wulf. Such castles are useful only against quarrelsome neighbours. Wars are decided by great battles, and if these are lost a castle does but bring ruin upon its possessor, for it must sooner or later be taken. The man who, when a cause is lost, returns quietly to his home and goes about his usual work may escape unnoticed, while one who shuts himself up in a castle is certain to suffer at last from the vengeance of the conquerors. Resistance maintained in forests and swamps, as was done by the Bretons and Welsh, may weary out a foe, but a conqueror can wish for nothing better than that the defeated may assemble themselves in towns and castles, where he can slowly, perhaps, but surely destroy them piecemeal." The time passed quickly and pleasantly at Steyning. Wulf studied hard for three or four hours a day, looked after his tenants, hunted and hawked, doubled the number of his company of housecarls, and often rode over to the priory of an evening. He now took his place naturally among the thanes in that part of the country, the reputation he had gained in the two wars giving him a standing among them, to which, from his youth, he would not otherwise have been entitled. In accordance with Harold's advice he went three times during the year up to court, where he generally met Beorn, who spent the greater part of his time there. "How you can like all this formality and ceremony is more than I can imagine, Beorn." "I don't care either for the formality or the ceremony, but I like the amusement and the gaiety, and should ask with much more reason how can you like to spend your time studying parchments and reading the doings of those old Romans, when you might be enjoying yourself here. The matter is altogether beyond me." "I like it for itself, and I like it because it may some day be of great service to me." "You see you are ambitious, Wulf, and I am not. I don't want to be a great commander or a state-councillor, and if I did want it ever so much I know I should never be one or the other. I am content to be a thane, as my father was before me, and seek no greater change than that of a stay for a month at court. That brightens one up more than anything; and one cannot be all one's life hunting in the woods and seeing after the tenants. By the way, I had a quarrel the other day with your old Norman enemy, Fitz-Urse. Your name was mentioned, and he chose to sneer offensively. I told him that you had done more already than he would ever do if he lived to be an old man. We came to high words, and next day met in the forest and there settled it. He ran me through the arm, and I slashed his cheek. As quarrelling is strictly forbidden he made some excuse and went over to France, while I went down home till my arm was well again. I fancy we hurt each other about equally, but the scar on my arm won't show, while I fancy, from what the leech who dressed his wound told me, the scar is likely to spoil his beauty for life." "I am sorry you quarrelled with him about me, Beorn. It would have been better to have said nothing, though I thank you for your championship." "Nonsense, Wulf. I know very well you would not hear anyone speak ill of me without taking up the cudgels for me." Wulf could not deny this. "Certainly not, Beorn; still it is a pity to make an enemy, and Fitz-Urse has shown in my case that he is not one who forgives." The Welsh campaign had terminated at the end of August, and it was a month later that Wulf had returned to Steyning. Just a year afterwards he received a message from Harold to come up to London, and to order his housecarls to hold themselves in readiness to start immediately on receiving an order from him. Somewhat surprised, for no news had reached him of any trouble that could call for the employment of an armed force, Wulf rode for London alone, bidding Osgod follow with the housecarls as soon as he heard from him. When he reached the palace he heard news that explained the cause of his summons. Northumbria had risen in rebellion against Earl Tostig. He was accused of tyranny and oppression, and had been continually away from his earldom, leaving it to be governed in his absence by a thane. The country north of the Humber had for a long period of years been independent, appointing their own rulers, who owed no allegiance whatever to the kings of the West Saxons. Although now incorporated in the kingdom of England the Northumbrians regretted their lost independence, and this all the more, that the population were for the most part Danish, and viewed with an intense feeling of jealousy the preponderance gained by the West Saxons. Tostig at the time the revolt declared itself was hunting with the king--who had a great affection for him--in the forests of Wiltshire, and had not arrived in town when Wulf reached the capital. It was not until the afternoon that Wulf had an interview with Harold. The earl had just come from a council and was alone. "Thank you for coming up so speedily," he said as he shook the young thane by the hand. "You have heard the news, I suppose?" "I have heard that Northumberland has risen in rebellion." "Yes, that was the news that arrived four days since." "Is it serious?" "Yes, very serious; the rebellion grows each day. It is headed by several of the greatest landowners in the north, both Danish and Saxon, and the worst part of the news is that the trouble has, as I hear, been stirred up by Edwin of Mercia and his brother. It is the old rivalry between the House of Leofric and ours. They are jealous of our influence with the king, and would gladly rend England into two kingdoms again. We hear to-day that the Northumbrian nobles have summoned a Gemot to meet, which amounts in fact to a rebellion, not only against Tostig but against the king." "If Mercia joins Northumbria it would be a more serious business than that in Wales." "I think not that it will be so," Harold said. "Edwin has been always conspiring. He stirred up the Welsh, he has encouraged the Norwegians, he has intrigued in Northumbria. He and his brother have ever been a source of trouble, and yet he has never openly rebelled; he sets others to do the fighting for him, prepared if they are successful to reap the fruits of their victory. There is, of course, still hope that moderate councils may prevail, but I fear that the Northumbrians will consider that they have gone too far to turn back. At present, at any rate, no steps will be taken. As long as no armed forces are set in motion there are hopes that matters may be arranged, but the approach of an army would set all Northumbria on fire. The Gemot is summoned to meet this day week--that is on the third of October--and we shall wait to hear what steps they take. Messengers have already been sent to a large number of thanes to be prepared for service. I would that all kept a force of housecarls as you do. I am going down to-night to my house near Hampton. Do you come down with me, Wulf. Edith will be glad to see you." Wulf had in the days of his pageship several times accompanied Harold to Hampton, and knew well the lady, who was known to the Saxons as Edith of the Swan-neck. She was by birth far inferior in position to Harold. The relation between them was similar to that known throughout the middle ages as left-hand marriages. These were marriages contracted between men of high rank and ladies of inferior position, and while they lasted were regarded as being lawful; but they could be, and frequently were, broken off, when for politic or other reasons the prince or noble had to seek another alliance. The lady was of great beauty and talent, and exercised a large influence over Harold. This was always employed for good, and she was much beloved by the Saxons. The alliance had been formed while Harold was quite a young man, and he and Edith were fondly attached to each other. His rise, however, to the position of the foremost man in England, and the prospect of his accession to the throne, rendered it probable that ere long he would be obliged to marry one who would strengthen his position, and would from her high birth be fitted to share the crown with him. William of Normandy was perfectly well aware of the relation in which Edith stood to Harold, and had not regarded her as any obstacle to the earl's marriage with his daughter; and even Harold himself had not attempted to give it as a reason for declining the offer of the hand of the Norman princess. As they rode down to Hampton the earl said, "I dare say you are somewhat surprised at my leaving the court at this crisis, Wulf, but in truth I want to keep my hands free. Tostig, you know, is rash and impetuous. I love him well, but am not blind to his faults; and I fear that the people of Northumbria have some just cause for complaint against him. He is constantly away from his earldom. He was absent for months when he went to Rome, and he spends a great part of his time either at the court here or with the king at his hunting-lodges. The Northumbrians are a proud people, and it is small wonder that they object to be governed by an absent earl. Tostig is furious at what he terms the insolence of the Northumbrians, and I would fain avoid all questions of dispute with him. It is not improbable that the king and his councillors may be called upon to hear the complaints of the Northumbrians, and to decide between them and Tostig. This will be bitter enough for my brother. He may return at any moment, and I greatly wish to avoid all argument with him before the matter is discussed in council." The house at Hampton was a large one, and here Edith lived in considerable state. Grooms ran up and took the horses as Harold and Wulf dismounted. Six retainers in jerkins embroidered with the earl's cognizance appeared at the doors. As they entered the house, Edith came out from an inner room and fondly embraced Harold. "Who is this you have with you, Harold?" "What, have you forgotten Wulf of Steyning, who has, as I told you, turned out a great fighter, and was the captor of the castle of Porthwyn, and of its owner, Llewellyn ap Rhys?" "I did not know you again, Wulf," Edith said holding out her hand to him, "but now that I hear who you are I recognize you. Why, it is four years since I saw you, and you were then a mischievous little page. Harold has often spoken to me about you, and your adventures in Normandy and Wales. I did not expect to see you, Harold," she went on turning to the earl, "after what you told me in the letter you sent me yesterday, about the troubles in the north. I feared that you would be kept at court." "Tostig and the king are still away," he said, "and he will return so furious at this revolt against his authority, that, thinking as I do that he is in no small degree at fault--for I have frequently remonstrated with him at spending so large a portion of his time away from his earldom,--I thought it best to get away." "It is strange how Tostig differs from the rest of you," Edith said. "You and Leofwyn, and Gurth are all gentle and courteous, while Tostig is fierce and impetuous." "Tostig has his faults," Harold said; "but we love each other dearly, and from the time we were boys together we have never had a dispute. It will be hard indeed upon me if I am called upon to side against him. We have learnt, Edith, that Edwin and Morcar have been intriguing with the Northumbrians. These Mercian earls are ever bringing troubles upon the country, and I fear they will give even greater trouble in the future. If they stir up disturbances, as they have done, against the king, who is king by the will of the people, and also by right of birth, what will it be when--" and he stopped. "When you shall mount the throne, my Harold," Edith said proudly. "Oh, that this feud between Leofric's house and Godwin's were at an end. It bodes ill for England." "It is natural," Harold said gently. "It is as gall and wormwood to the earls of Mercia to see the ascendancy of the West Saxons, and still more would it be so were I, Godwin's son, without a drop of royal blood in my veins, to come to be their king." "The feud must be closed," Edith said firmly, though Wulf noticed that her face paled. "I have told you so before, Harold, and there is but one way." "It shall never be closed in that way, Edith; rather would I lie in my grave." "You have not to think of yourself, Harold, still less of me. It is of England you have to think--this England that will assuredly choose you as its king, and who will have a right to expect that you will make any or every sacrifice for its sake." "Any but that," Harold said. She smiled faintly and shook her head. Wulf did not understand the conversation, but there was a look of earnest resolve in her face that deeply impressed him. He had moved a short distance away, and now turned and looked out of the window, while they exchanged a few more words, having been, as he saw, altogether oblivious of his presence in the earnestness with which they both spoke. For a week Harold remained at Hampton. Wulf saw that he was much troubled in his mind, and concluded that the messengers who came and went every day were the bearers of bad tidings. It was seldom that he was away from the side of Edith. When they were together she was always bright, but once or twice when Wulf found her alone her features bore an expression of deep sadness. "We must ride for London, Wulf," Harold said one morning after reading a letter brought by a royal messenger. "The king has laid his orders on me to proceed at once to town, and indeed the news is well-nigh as bad as can be. The Gemot has voted the deposition of Tostig, has even had the insolence to declare him an outlaw, and has elected Morcar in his place. It has also issued decrees declaring all partisans of Tostig outlaws, and confiscating their estates. Two of Tostig's Danish housecarls were slain on the first day of their meeting. Two hundred of Tostig's personal followers have since been massacred; his treasury has been broken open, and all its contents carried off. The election of Morcar shows but too plainly the designs of the earls of Mercia. They wish to divide England into two portions, and to reign supreme north of the Wellan. This will give them full half of England, and would assuredly, even did we not oppose them now, lead to a terrible war. The more terrible as William of Normandy will be watching from across the channel, ready to take instant advantage of our dissensions. God avert a war like this. Every sacrifice must be made rather than that the men of the north and south of England should fly at each other's throats." The earl scarcely spoke a word during the ride to London, but rode absorbed in his thoughts with a sad and anxious countenance. Day after day the news became more serious. Morcar accepted the earldom of Northumbria, hurried to York, and placing himself at the head of the Northumbrian forces, marched south, being joined on the way by the men of Lincoln, Nottingham, and Derby, in all of which shires the Danish element was very strong. At Northampton, which had formed part of the government of Tostig, Morcar was joined by his brother Edwin at the head of the forces of Mercia, together with a large body of Welsh. They found the people of Northampton less favourable to their cause than they had expected, and in revenge harried the whole country, killing and burning, and carrying off the cattle as booty and the men as slaves. Harold bore the brunt of the trouble alone, for, regardless of the fact that half the kingdom was in a flame, King Edward and Tostig continued their hunting expeditions in Wiltshire, in spite of the urgent messages sent by Harold entreating them to return. In the meantime, still hoping that peace might in some way be preserved, Harold sent messages to all the thanes of importance in Wessex, ordering them to prepare to march to London with the whole of their retainers and levies, as soon as they received orders to get in motion. But while he still tarried in Wiltshire the king acceded to Harold's request that he might be empowered to go to Northampton to treat in Edward's name with the rebels. As soon as he received this permission Harold hastened to Northampton, accompanied by only half a dozen of his thanes, among whom was Wulf. He was received with respect by the rebels, but when their leaders assembled, and in the king's name he called upon them to lay down their arms, to cease from ravaging, and to lay any complaints they might have to make against Tostig before the king or the National Gemot, he met with a flat refusal. They would not listen to any proposition that involved the possibility of the return of Tostig, and boldly said that if the king wished to retain Northumbria as part of his realm he must confirm the sentence of their Gemot upon Tostig, and must recognize their election of Morcar to the earldom. In all this Harold perceived clearly enough that, although it was the Northumbrian leaders who were speaking, they were acting entirely under the influence of Edwin and Morcar. All that he could obtain was that some of the northern thanes should accompany him to lay their demands before the king himself. Edward, upon hearing, by a swift messenger sent by Harold, of the failure of his attempt to induce the Northumbrians to lay down their arms, reluctantly abandoned the pleasures of the chase, and proceeded to Bretford, near Salisbury, where there was a royal house, and summoned a Witenagemot. As, however, the occasion was urgent, it was attended only by the king's chief councillors, and by the thanes of that part of Wessex. Between Tostig and Harold the quarrel that the latter had feared had already broken out. Harold was anxious above all things for peace, and although the blow to his own interests and to those of his family, by the transfer of Northumbria from his brother to one of the Mercian earls, was a most serious one, he preferred that even this should take place to embarking in a war that would involve the whole of England. Tostig was so furious at finding that Harold was not willing to push matters to the last extremity in his favour, that he accused him of being the secret instigator of the Northumbrian revolt. The absurdity of such an accusation was evident. It was as much to Harold's interest as to that of Tostig that the great northern earldom should remain in the hands of his family; but an angry man does not reason, and Tostig's fury was roused to the highest point by the outspoken utterances of many of the members of the Witenagemot. These boldly accused him of cruelty and avarice, and declared that many of his acts of severity were caused by his determination, under a show of justice, to possess himself of the wealth of those he condemned. Tostig then rose and declared before the assembly that the whole rising was the work of Harold. The latter simply denied the charge on oath, and his word was accepted as sufficient. The Witan then turned to the question as to how the revolt was to be dealt with. The king was vehemently in favour of putting it down by force of arms. Tostig was of all the Saxons his favourite friend, and he considered the insult offered to him as dealt against himself. So determined was he, that he sent out orders for the whole of the forces of Wessex to march and join the royal standard. In vain Harold and Edward's wisest councillors endeavoured to dissuade him from a step that would deluge the country in blood, and might lead to terrible disaster. In vain they pointed out that while all the thanes would willingly put their forces at his disposal to resist a foreign foe, or even to repel an invasion from the north, they would not risk life and fortune in an endeavour to force a governor upon a people who hated him, and, as most thought, with good reason. The king was immovable; but Harold and his councillors took steps quietly to inform the thanes that the Witan was opposed to the order, and that for the present no harm would be done by disregarding the royal mandate. The king, in his anger and mortification at finding himself unable to march against the rebels with an overwhelming force, fell ill, and the control of affairs passed into Harold's hands; and the king, whose fits of passion, though extreme while they lasted, were but short-lived gave him full power to deal with the matter as he thought best. Harold had done all that he could for Tostig when he went to Northampton, but had failed. There was no alternative now between a great war, followed probably by a complete split of the kingdom, or acquiescence in the demands of the men of the North. He did not hesitate, but in the name of the king confirmed the decisions arrived at by the Gemot of York--recognized Morcar as Earl of Northumbria, and granted a complete amnesty for all offences committed during the rising, on condition only that a general Witenagemot should be held at Oxford. At this meeting Northern and Southern England were again solemnly reconciled, as they had been forty-seven years before at an assembly held at the same place.

13

HAROLD, THE KING.

The day before the great Witenagemot was to assemble, Wulf, as he came out from the house where Harold had taken up his abode, was approached by a man, who by his attire appeared to be a retainer of a thane; his face seemed familiar to him, as he placed a letter in his hand. Wulf was now very much in the confidence of Harold. It was a relief to the earl in the midst of his trials and heavy responsibilities to open his mind freely to one of whose faith and loyalty he was well assured, and he therefore was far more communicative to the young thane than to the older councillors by whom he was surrounded. Wulf opened the letter. It contained only the words: "I am here; the bearer of this will lead you to me. Edith." Looking more closely at the man he recognized him at once as one of the servitors at Hampton, though his dress bore no signs of any cognizance. Greatly surprised to hear of Edith's presence in Oxford unknown to Harold, he at once followed the servant, who conducted him to a house on the outskirts of the town. Wulf was ushered into a room, and the servant then left him. A moment later Edith entered. "My message must have surprised you, Wulf," she said, as he knelt on one knee to kiss the hand she held out to him. "It did indeed, lady, for it was but yesterday that the earl received a letter from you written at Hampton. He said to me as he opened it, 'Would I were in peace at Hampton, free from all these troubles and intrigues.'" "I have come down in a horse-litter," she said, "and save the two retainers who accompanied me none knew of my intentions. I know, Wulf, that you have the confidence of the earl and that you love him and would do your best for him." "I would lay down my life for him, lady. Even did I not love and honour him as I do, I would die for him, for he is the hope of England, and he alone can guide the country through its troubles, both from within and without. The life of a single man is as nought in the scale." "Nor the happiness of a single woman," she added. "Now, Wulf, I want to know from you exactly how matters stand here. My lord, when he writes to me always does so cheerfully, ever making the best of things; but it is most important that I should know his real mind. It is for that that I have travelled here. This Witenagemot that assembles to-morrow--what will come of it?" "The earl thinks it will doubtless pass the resolution reconciling the North and South, and declaring that there shall be oblivion for the past, and that all things shall go back to their former footing save as to the change of earls." "It is easy to vote that," she said quietly; "but will it be held to? It depends not upon Northumbrians nor Saxons, but upon Edwin and Morcar. They have made a great step forward towards their end; they have united under their government the northern half of England, and have wrested Northumbria from Godwin's family. After making this great step, will they rest and abstain from taking the next? Northumbria and Mercia united are as strong as Wessex and East Anglia. Will they be content to remain under a West Saxon king? Above all, will they submit to the rule of one of Godwin's sons? I feel sure that they will not. What thinks the earl?" "He thinks as you do, lady, although he considers that for the time the danger is averted. He himself said to me yesterday, 'If these Mercian earls are ready to defy the head of the royal line of England, think you that they will ever recognize the sway of a member of my father's house?'" "And what said you, Wulf?" "I said that I did not doubt the ill-will of the Mercian earls, but that I doubted whether Mercia would follow them if they strove to break up the kingdom. 'Mercia is following them now,' he said; 'and has with Northumbria stood in arms for some weeks past. There has ever been jealousy of the supremacy of the West Saxons since the days when the kingdom was united in one. These brothers will intrigue as their father did before them. They will bring down the Welsh from their hills to aid them, for though these people will not for generations try their strength alone against us, they would gladly take advantage of it should such an opportunity for revenge occur. Even now, when the blood is scarce dry on their hearthstones, there is a large force of them under Edwin's banner.'" "It is a grievous look-out for England," Edith said. "It would seem that nothing can bring about peace and unity save the end of this terrible feud between the families of Godwin and Leofric." "That would indeed be a blessing for the country," Wulf agreed; "but of all things that seems to me most hopeless." "They must be reconciled!" Edith said, rising from her seat. "What is a woman's love or a woman's life that they should stand in the way of the peace of England? See you not, Wulf, there is but one way in which the feud can be healed? Were it not for me Harold could marry the sister of these earls, and if she were Queen of England the feud would be at an end. A daughter of the house of Leofric, and a son of the house of Godwin, would command the support of Mercia and Wessex alike, and as brothers of the queen, Edwin and Morcar might well be content to be friends with her husband and his brothers. I only stand in the way of this. I have already urged this upon Harold, but he will not hear of it. Until now the Mercian brothers might be a trouble, but they were not strong enough to be a danger to the kingdom. Now that they hold half of it in their hands this marriage has become a necessity. I must stand aside. What is my happiness and my life that I should be an obstacle alike to my lord's glory and the peace of England? Go to Harold; tell him that I am here, and pray that he will come to me. Give your message to him briefly; say naught of what I have said to you, though his heart will tell him at once what has brought me here." Silent, and confounded by the immensity of the sacrifice she proposed, for he knew how deep and tender was her love for Harold, Wulf knelt on both knees and reverently placed her hand to his lips, and then without a word left the house, half blinded with tears, signing to the servant, who was waiting without, to follow him. When he reached Harold's house he found that the earl was with his brother Gurth and several of his councillors. He did not hesitate, however, but entering the room, said, "My Lord Harold, I pray to have speech of you for a minute upon an affair of urgent importance." Somewhat surprised the earl followed him out. "What is it, Wulf?" he asked as they entered Harold's private closet. "You look pale and strange, lad." "I have a message to give you, my lord. The Lady Edith is here, and prays that you will go to her at once." The earl started as if struck with a blow. "Edith here!" he exclaimed, and then with a troubled face he took several short turns up and down the room. "Where is she?" he said at last in a low voice. "Her servant is without, my lord, and will conduct you to her." "Tell Gurth and the others I am called away for an hour on urgent business," he said. "Say nothing of Edith being here." Then he went out. The man who was waiting doffed his hat, and at once led the way to the house where Edith was staying. She moved swiftly towards him as he entered the room and fell on his neck. Not a word was spoken for a minute or two, then he said: "Why have you come, Edith? But I need not ask, I know. I will not have it, I will not have it! I have told you so before. Why is our happiness to be sacrificed? I have given my work and my life to England, but I will not give my happiness too, nor will I sacrifice yours." "You would not be worthy of the trust England reposes in you, Harold," she said quietly, "were you not ready to give all. As to my happiness, it is at an end, for I should deem myself as a guilty wretch, as the cause of countless woes to Englishmen, did I remain as I am. I have been happy, dear, most happy, many long years. To my last day it will be a joy and a pride, that nothing can take away, that I have been loved by the greatest of Englishmen, and my sacrifice will seem light to me under the feeling that it has purchased the happiness of England." "But is my happiness to go for nothing?" Harold exclaimed passionately. "You too, Harold, will have the knowledge that you have sacrificed yourself, that as you have often risked your life, so have you for England's sake given up your love. I have seen that it must be so for years. As Earl of Wessex I might always have stood by your side, but as soon as I saw that the people of England looked to you as their future monarch, I knew that I could not share your throne. A king's heart is not his own, as is that of a private man. As he must lead his people in battle, and if needs be give his life for them, so must he give his hand where it will most advantage them." "I cannot do it," Harold said. "I will not sacrifice you even for England. I will remain Earl of Wessex, and Edwin may reign as king if he so chooses." "That cannot be, Harold. If the people of England call you to the throne, it is your duty to accept the summons. You know that none other could guide them as you can, for already for years you have been their ruler. They love you, they trust in you, and it were a shame indeed if the love we bear each other should stand in the way of what is above all things needful for the good of England. You know well enough that when the national council meets to choose a king the South will declare for you. But if Edwin and Morcar influence Mercia and the North to declare for another, what remains but a breaking up of the kingdom, with perhaps a great war?" "I cannot do it, and I will not," Harold said, stopping in his walk and standing before her. "My life, my work, all save you I will give up for England--but you I will not." Edith turned even paler than before. "You will not give me up, Harold, but you cannot hold me. I can bear my life in seclusion and retirement, and can even be happy in the thought of our past love, of your greatness, and in the peace of England, which, I should have the consolation of knowing, was due to the sacrifice that we had both made, but I could not live happy, even with your love and your companionship, knowing that I have brought woes upon England. Nor will I live so. Death will break the knot if you will not do so, and I could die with a smile on my lips, knowing that I was dying for your good and England's. If you will not break the bond death shall do so, and ere to-morrow's sun rises, either by your sacrifice or by my own hand, you will be free. Marry for the good of England. Here is the ring by which you pledged your troth to me," and she took it from her finger and dropped it in the fire that blazed on the hearth. "There is the end of it, but not the end of our love. I shall think of you, and pray for you always, Harold. Oh, my dear lord and master, do not make it too hard for me!" and she threw herself on his neck in a passion of tears. For two or three minutes they stood locked in each other's close embrace, then she withdrew herself from his arms. "Farewell," she said. "You have left my side many a time for battle, and we parted bravely though we knew we might never meet again. Let us part so now. We have each our battles to fight, but God will comfort us both, for our sacrifice will have brought peace to England. Farewell, my dear lord, farewell!" She touched his hand lightly and then tottered from the room, falling senseless as soon as she had closed the door behind her. Harold sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands, while his breast heaved with short sobs. So he sat for some time; then he stood up. "She is stronger and braver than I," he murmured; "but she is right. Only by this sacrifice can England be saved, but even so I could not have made it; but I know her so well that I feel she would carry out her threat without hesitation." Then he went out of the house, but instead of returning to the town took his way to the lonely path by the river, and there for hours paced up and down. At last his mind was made up, the sacrifice must be accepted. As she had said, their happiness must not stand in the way of that of all England. He walked with a firm step back to Oxford, and went straight to the house where Edwin and Morcar had taken up their quarters. "Tell Earl Edwin that Harold would speak with him," he said to the retainer at the door. The man returned in a minute, and led the way to the room where Edwin and his brother were standing awaiting him. They had had several interviews since they arrived at Oxford, and supposed that he had come to arrange some detail as to the assembly on the following day. "Edwin," Harold said abruptly, "methinks that for the good of our country it would be well that our houses should be united. Why should the sons of Leofric and Godwin regard each other as rivals? We are earls of the English people, and we cannot deny that the unfriendly feeling between us has brought trouble on the country. Why should there not be an end of this?" Greatly surprised at this frank address, Edwin and Morcar both hastened to say that for their part they had no quarrel whatever with any of the house of Godwin, save with Tostig. "Tostig will soon be beyond the sea, and will no longer be a source of trouble. There is, it seems to me, but one way by which we can unite and bind our interests into one. I have come to you to ask for the hand of your sister Ealdgyth in marriage." The two earls looked at each other in surprise. The proposition was altogether unexpected, but they at once saw its advantages. They knew as well as others that the choice of the nation at Edward's death was likely to fall upon Harold, and it would add both to their dignity and security that they should be brothers-in-law of the king. Such an alliance would do away with the danger, that once seated on the throne Harold might become reconciled with Tostig, and endeavour to replace him in the earldom of Northumbria. This danger would be dissipated by the marriage. "You would perhaps like to consult together before giving an answer," Harold said courteously. "By no means," Edwin said warmly. "Such an alliance is, as you say, in all respects to be desired. Ealdgyth could wish for no nobler husband. We should rejoice in obtaining such a spouse for her, and the union would assuredly unite our families, do away with the unfriendly feeling of which you spoke, and be of vast advantage to the realm in general. We need no word of consultation, but accept your offer, and will with pleasure give Ealdgyth in marriage to you. But is there not an obstacle?" "The obstacle is at an end," Harold said gravely. "Of her own free will and wish, and in order that there should be peace and union in England, the Lady Edith has broken the tie that bound us." The brothers, seeing that the subject was a painful one, wisely said no more, but turned the conversation to the meeting on the following day, and assured Harold that they hoped the decision would now be unanimous, and then after a short time skilfully brought it round again to the subject of the marriage. By nightfall the news was known throughout the city, and was received with universal joy. The union seemed to all men a guarantee for peace in England. The two great rival houses would now be bound by common interests, and the feud that had several times been near breaking out into civil war was extinguished. The moment he returned to his house Harold called Wulf. "Wulf, go at once to the Lady Edith. Tell her that though it has taken all the brightness out of my life, and has made all my future dark, I have done her bidding, and have sacrificed myself for England. Tell her that I will write to her to-night, and send the letter to Hampton, where, I trust, it will find her." Wulf at once carried the message. He found Edith sitting with eyes swollen with weeping, and yet with a calm and composed expression on her face. "I knew that my lord would do as I prayed him," she said; "he has ever thought first of England and then of himself. Tell him that I start in an hour for Hampton, and shall there stay till I get his letter; there I will answer it. Tell him I thank him from my heart, and that, much as I loved and honoured him before, I shall to the end of my life love and honour him yet more for having thus sacrificed himself for England. Tell him that you found me calm and confident that he would grant my prayer, and that with all my heart I wish him happiness." Her lips quivered and her voice broke, and Wulf hurried away without saying another word, for he felt that he himself was at the point of bursting into tears. Harold was anxiously awaiting his return, and after listening to the message turned abruptly and entered his private closet, with a wave of the hand signifying that Wulf would not be further required. The next day the Witenagemot met. It was solemnly decreed that all old scores should be wiped out; that Northern and Southern England were again to be reconciled, as they had been forty-seven years before in an assembly held by Canute in Oxford. It was decreed unanimously that the laws of Canute should be renewed, and should have force in all parts of the kingdom. Until this decision was arrived at by the assembly Tostig had remained with the king, but he now went into exile, and crossed the sea to Flanders, where he had at an earlier period of his life, when Godwin's whole family were in disgrace, taken refuge. He was accompanied by his wife and many personal adherents. He left filled with rage and bitterness, especially against Harold, who ought, he considered, to have supported him to the utmost, and who should have been ready to put the whole forces of Wessex in the field to replace him in the earldom. By the time that Harold returned to London Edith had left his abode at Hampton. He would have gladly handed it over to her and maintained it as before, but she would not hear of this, though she had accepted from him an income which would enable her to live comfortably in seclusion. "I only do this," she said in her letter to him, "because I know that it would grieve you if I refused; but I entreat you, Harold, make no inquiries whither I have gone. I do not say that we can never meet again, but years must pass over before we do so. You must not think of me as always grieving. I have done what I am sure is right, and this will give me comfort, and enable me to bear your absence; but you know that, even if I never see you again, you will dwell in my heart as long as I live, its sole lord and master. I have so many happy memories to look back upon that I should be sorely to blame did I repine, and although I may not share the throne that will ere long be yours, nor the love which Englishmen will give their king, I shall be none the less proud of you, and shall be sure that there will be always in your heart a kind thought of me. Forbear, I pray you earnestly, to cause any search to be made for me. Doubtless you might discover me if you chose, but it would only renew my pain. In time we may be able to meet calmly and affectionately, as two old friends, but till then it were best that we stood altogether apart." Harold put down the letter with a sigh. But he had little time to lament over private troubles. The king was ill; he had not rallied from the state of prostration that succeeded his outburst of passion when he found himself powerless to put down the Northern insurrection by force, and to restore his favourite Tostig to his earldom. Day succeeded day, but he did not rally. In vain the monks most famous for their skill in medicine came from Canterbury and Glastonbury; in vain prayers were offered up in all the cathedrals, and especially in his own Abbey of Westminster, and soon the report spread among the people that Edward, the king, was sick unto death, and all felt that it was a misfortune for England. Edward was in no sense of the word a great king. He was a monk rather than a monarch. The greatest object of his life had been to rear an abbey that in point of magnificence should rival the stateliest fane in England. To that his chief care was devoted, and for many years he was well content to leave the care of government to Harold. But after the monarchs who had immediately preceded him, his merits, if of a passive kind, were warmly appreciated by his subjects. His rule had been free from oppression, and he had always desired that justice should be done to all. In the earlier part of his reign he was Norman in tongue, in heart, and in education; but in the latter years of his life he had become far more English in his leanings, and there can be no doubt that he bitterly regretted the promise he had rashly given to William of Normandy that he should succeed him. It was not only because the people respected and even loved the king that they were grieved to hear that his days were numbered, but because they saw that his death would bring trouble on the land. With him the line of the Oethelings would become extinct, save for the boy Edgar and his sisters. The boy had been born beyond the sea, and was as much a foreigner as Edward himself had been, and Edward's partiality for the Normans in the early years of his reign had so angered the English that Edgar's claims would on this account alone have been dismissed. Moreover, boys' hands were unfit to hold the sceptre of England in such troubled times. It was to Harold that all eyes turned. He had for years exercised at least joint authority with Edward; he was the foremost and most noble of Englishmen. He was skilled in war, and wise in counsel, and the charm of his manner, the strength and stateliness of his figure, and the singular beauty of his face rendered him the popular idol. And yet men felt that it was a new departure in English life and customs for one who had in his veins no drop of royal blood to be chosen as king. His sister was Edward's wife, he was Edward's friend and counsellor, but although the men of the South felt that he was in all ways fitted to be king, they saw too that Northumbria would assuredly stand aloof, and that the Mercian earls, brothers-in-law as they were to be to Harold, would yet feel jealous that one of their own rank was to be their sovereign. The Witan, as the representative of the nation, had alone the right of choosing the sovereign; but though they had often passed over those who by birth stood nearest to the throne, they had never yet chosen one altogether outside the royal family. It was a necessary step--for young Edgar was not to be thought of--and yet men felt uneasy, now that the time had come, at so complete a departure from custom. Rapidly the king grew worse, and prayers were uttered up for him in every church in England. The Christmas Witan met at Westminster, but little was done. The great minster was consecrated on December 18th, and the absence of its founder and builder was keenly missed at the ceremony. The members of the Witan remained in attendance near the palace, hoping for some guidance from the dying king. He had no power to leave the throne to whom he wished, and yet his words could not but have great weight; but he lay almost unconscious, and for two days remained speechless. But on the 5th of January, the year being 1066, he suddenly awoke from sleep, in the full possession of his senses. Harold was standing on one side of his bed, Archbishop Stigand at the other. His wife sat at the foot of the bed, chaffing her husband's feet; Robert Wymarc, his personal attendant, stood by his head. The king on awakening prayed aloud, that if a vision he had had was truly from heaven he might have strength to declare it; if it were but the offspring of a disordered brain he prayed that he might not be able to tell it. Then he sat up in bed, supported by Robert; some of his chosen friends were called in, and to them, with a strangely clear voice and with much energy, he told the vision. It was that some monks he had known in his youth had appeared to him, and told him that God had sent them to tell him that on account of the sins of the earls, the bishops, and the men in holy orders of every rank, God had put a curse upon England, and that within a year and a day of his death fiends should stalk through the whole land, and should harry it from one end to another with fire and sword. The king's words filled his hearers with awe, Stigand alone deeming the story but the dream of a dying man. Then Edward gave orders as to his burial. He bade his friends not to grieve for him, but to rejoice in his approaching deliverance, and he asked for the prayers of all his people for his soul. At last those standing round called his mind to the great subject which was for the moment first in the heart of every Englishman. Who, when he was gone, they asked, would he wish to wear the royal crown of England? The king stretched out his hand to Harold and said, "To thee, Harold, my brother, I commit my kingdom." Then, after commending his wife and his Norman favourites to Harold's care and protection, he turned his thoughts from all earthly matters, received the last rites of the church, and soon afterwards passed away tranquilly. Rapidly the news spread through London that the king was dead. The members of the Witan were still there, for the assembly had not separated, but knowing that the king was dying had waited for the event. The earls and great thanes of the South and West, of East Anglia and Wessex, were all there together, probably with many from Mercia. There was no time lost. In the afternoon they assembled. All knew on whom the choice would fall, for Harold had been for long regarded as the only possible successor to the throne, and the news that the dying king had, as far as he could, chosen him as his successor, doubtless went for much in the minds of many who had hitherto felt that it was a strange and unknown thing to accept as monarch of England one who was not a member of the royal house. There was no hesitation, no debate. By acclamation Harold was chosen king of the land, and two great nobles were selected to inform him that the choice of the Witan had fallen upon him. They bore with them the two symbols of royalty, the crown and the axe, and bade him accept them as being chosen both by the voice of the Witan and by the king, whom he had so well and faithfully served. There was no hesitation on the part of Harold. He had already counted the cost and taken his resolution. He knew that he alone could hope to receive the general support of the great earls. Leofric and Gurth were his brothers, the Earls of Mercia and Northumbria had been mollified by the alliance arranged with their sister. The last male of the royal line was a lad of feeble character, and would be unable either to preserve peace at home or to unite the nation against a foreign invader. The oath he had sworn to William, although obtained partly by force partly by fraud, weighed upon him, but he was powerless to keep it. Did he decline the crown it would fall upon some other Englishman, and not upon the Norman. The vote of England had chosen him, and it was clearly his duty to accept. The die had been cast when Edith had bade him sacrifice her and himself for the good of England, and it was too late to turn back now. Gravely he accepted the dignity offered him. Throughout London first, and then throughout the country, the news that the Witan had unanimously chosen him, and that he had accepted, was received with deep satisfaction. There was no time to be lost. The next day was Epiphany, the termination of the Christian festival, the last upon which the Witan could legally sit, and had the ceremony not taken place then it must have been delayed until another great feast of the church--another calling together of the Witan. All night the preparations for the two great ceremonials were carried on. At daybreak the body of the dead king was borne to the noble minster, that had been the chief object of his life to raise and beautify, and there before the great altar it was laid to rest with all the solemn pomp of the church. A few hours passed away and the symbols of mourning were removed. Then the great prelates of the church, the earls and the thanes of England, gathered for the coronation of the successor of the king whom they had just laid in his last resting-place. Eldred the primate of Northumberland performed the rites of consecration--for Stigand, primate of England, had been irregularly appointed, and was therefore deemed unfit for the high function. Before investing him with the royal robes Eldred, according to custom, demanded in a loud voice of the English people whether they were willing that Harold should be crowned their king, and a mighty shout of assent rang through the abbey. Then the earl swore first to preserve peace to the church and all Christian people; secondly, to prevent wrong and robbery to men of every rank; thirdly, to enforce justice and mercy in all his judgments as he would that God should have mercy on him. Then after a solemn prayer the prelate poured the oil of consecration upon Harold's head; he was vested in royal robes, and with symbols appertaining to the priesthood. A sword was girded to his side, that he might defend his realm, and smite his enemies and those of the church of God. Then the crown was placed on his head, the sceptre surmounted with the cross and the rod with the holy dove placed in his hands, and Harold stood before the people as the king chosen by themselves, named by his predecessor, and consecrated by the church. A great banquet followed the coronation, and then this day memorable in the history of England came to its close. Wulf had been present at the two great events at the abbey and at the banquet, and knew, better than most of those present, that the gravity on Harold's face was not caused solely by the mighty responsibility that he had assumed, but by sad thoughts in his heart. Wulf on his return from the abbey had handed to Harold a small roll of parchment that had been slipped into his hand by a man, who at once disappeared in the crowd after handing it to him, with the words, "For the king". In the interval before the banquet he handed this to Harold, who had opened and glanced at it, and had then abruptly turned away. It contained but the words: "_That God may bless my dear lord and king is the prayer of Edith. _" "Do you know where she is?" Harold asked abruptly, turning upon Wulf. "No, my lord." "I have respected her wishes and made no inquiry," the king said. "Others think, doubtless, that I am rejoicing at having gained the object of my ambition, but as God knows, I would far rather have remained Earl of the West Saxons with her by my side than rule over England." "I know it, my lord," Wulf said. "But who beside yourself could rule here?" "No one," Harold answered; "and it is for England's sake and not my own that I have this day accepted the crown. If you can find out where she has betaken herself without making public inquiry I charge you to do so, and to tell her that on this day I have thought mostly of her. Tell me not where she is. What is done cannot be undone, but I would fain that, in the time that is to come, I may at least know where to send her a message should it be needful."

14

WULF'S SUSPICIONS.

Beyond the fact that the name of the king had changed, the death of Edward and the accession of Harold made no sensible difference in the government of the southern half of England. Harold had practically reigned for years, and the fact that he was now able to give his orders direct instead of having nominally to consult Edward, had only the effect that the affairs of the state moved somewhat more promptly. Such of the Norman favourites of Edward as desired to leave were permitted to do so, and were honourably escorted to the coast, but many remained. The Norman prelates and abbots retained their dignities undisturbed, and several of the court officials of Edward held the same positions under Harold. A fortnight after the coronation a party of Norman barons arrived, bearing a summons from Duke William to Harold to fulfil the oath he had sworn to be his man, and also to carry out his engagement to marry one of William's daughters. They were received with all honour, and Harold informed them that he would, without delay, reply to the duke's summons. A few days later three thanes of high rank started for Normandy with Harold's reply. Wulf accompanied them. "I would that you should go with them, Wulf," Harold had said to him. "You are too young to be one of my embassy to Duke William, but it would be well that you should form one of the party. The duke knows you and has a liking for you, and possibly may speak more freely to you than to my official messengers. Moreover, you have many acquaintances and friends there, and may gather valuable news as to the feeling in Normandy and the probability of William's barons embarking in a desperate war for his advantage." "I shall be glad to go, my lord." "The duke knows well enough what my answer must be. He is aware that were I ready either to resign my kingship to him, or to agree to hold my crown as his vassal, the people of England would laugh to scorn my assumption so to dispose of them, and would assuredly renounce and slay me as a traitor who had broken the oath I swore at my coronation. It is a mere formal summons William makes, as one summons a city to surrender before undertaking its siege. It is but a move in the game. That he will, if he can, strike for the kingdom, I doubt not in any way, but it may well be that his barons will refuse to embark in a war beyond the seas, which is altogether beyond the military service they are bound to render. At any rate, we have breathing time. Vast preparations must be made before he can invade England, and until he is ready we shall have messengers passing to and fro. A few of my chief councillors, the earls and great thanes, refuse to believe that William will ever attempt by force of arms to grasp the crown of England, but for myself I have no doubt he will do so. I shall at once prepare for war; and the first step of all is to unite England from the northern border to the southern sea, so that we may oppose the Normans with our whole strength. This must be my personal work, other matters I must for a time intrust to the earls." The train was not a large one. One ship bore the thanes and their attendants from Southampton to Rouen. They were received with all honour at their landing, conducted to a house that had been assigned to their use, and informed that they would be received by the duke on the following day. They had brought their horses with them, and as soon as they were housed Wulf mounted, and attended by Osgod rode to the castle of the De Burgs. Three years had past since he had last been there. He had from time to time received letters and greetings from Guy de Burg by the hands of Normans who visited the court, and knew that although he had gained in health and strength the predictions of the surgeons had been fulfilled, and that he would never be able to take part in knightly exercises or deeds of arms. The warden at the gate had sent in Wulf's name, and as he alighted a tall young man ran down the steps and embraced him. "I am overjoyed to see you, Wulf," he exclaimed. "When we heard that Harold would send over an English embassy to answer the duke's demands, I hoped that you would be among the number. Harold would be likely to choose you, and I felt sure that you would come over to see me. I had a messenger waiting at Rouen to bring me tidings of the arrival of your ship, and it is scarcely an hour since he rode in with the news that, by inquiries among the servants as they landed, he had learned that you were indeed of the party. But I had hardly looked to see you until to-morrow morning, and had indeed intended to ride over on my palfrey at daybreak." "I would not delay, Guy, for the answer we bear will not be to the duke's liking, and for aught I know he may pack us off again as soon as the interview is ended. Therefore, I thought it best to lose not a moment." "I see you have brought your tall retainer with you, Wulf. I am glad to see the stout fellow again. But come in, they will chide me for keeping you so long at the entrance." Wulf was warmly received by the baron and his wife. "You are just what I thought you would grow up, Wulf," the former said. "Indeed your figure was so set and square before, that there was little chance of great alteration. We have heard of you from time to time, and that you distinguished yourself greatly in the war against the Welsh, and stood high in the favour and affection of Harold. Guy has overshot you, you see, in point of height, though he is scarce half your breadth," and the baron looked with a suppressed sigh at the fragile young fellow, who stood with his hand on Wulf's shoulder. "He looks better and stronger than I expected, my lord," Wulf said. "You must remember when I last saw him he could scarce walk across the room, and in my heart I scarce hoped to ever see him again." "He gains strength very slowly," De Burg said wistfully; "but although he has to be careful of himself, he has no ailment." "He could hardly gain strength while growing so fast," Wulf said; "but now that he has gained his full height he will, doubtless, gather strength, and as three years have done so much for him, another three years will I hope do far more. The Lady Agnes is well, I trust?" "She is well, and will be here anon," the baroness said. Guy laughed with something of his former heartiness. "She was here when the man brought news of your arrival, Wulf, but she fled away like a startled deer, and has, I suppose, gone to put on her best kirtle in your honour." As he spoke Agnes entered the room. Considerable as was the change that three years had wrought in the young men, it was still greater in her case, for she had grown from a pretty young girl into a very lovely maiden, whose cheek flushed as she presented it for Wulf's salute. "Would you have known her again, Wulf?" Guy asked with a smile. "I should certainly have known her, though she has so greatly changed," Wulf replied. "I thought that you would be grown up and altered, but I scarcely looked for so great an alteration in her, though I might of course have known that it would be so." "And now tell me, Wulf," the baron said, abruptly changing the conversation, "how go things in England--are people united in choosing Harold as their king?" "The South, the East, and West are as one man," Wulf said. "Mercia, which comprises the midlands, has accepted the choice. Northumbria has as yet held itself aloof, although its earl has sworn allegiance and its primate has placed the crown on Harold's head; but in time, I am well assured, the North will also accept him. As I said when we spoke about it after Harold had been tricked into taking an oath to be William's man, he had no more power to pledge himself for England than I had. Englishmen are free to choose their own king, and as Harold has long been their ruler, their choice naturally fell on him. "Harold is about to marry the sister of the Earls of Northumbria and Mercia, the widow of Griffith of Wales, and this will, I hope, bind these two powerful nobles to him. The only trouble is likely to come from Tostig, who is, as you know, at the court of Norway. But as he is hated in Northumbria, and the earl and his brother of Mercia both have personal enmity against him, he can gather no following there, while Anglia and Wessex are devoted to Harold. Still he and the King of Norway may cause trouble." "The answer of Harold's ambassadors is, of course, a refusal?" "Assuredly," Wulf said. "I do not know the exact import of the reply, as, although I have accompanied them, I am not a member of the embassy, being too young to be intrusted with so weighty a matter. But there can be but one answer. Harold is powerless to carry out his oath. He had the choice of becoming King of England, and thus defending our rights and freedom, or of refusing the crown, in which case he must have fled here, and could have given no aid whatever to William, as he himself would be regarded as the worst of traitors by the English. The duke must be perfectly well aware that a king of England could not, without the assent of the people, accept a foreign prince as his liege lord." De Burg nodded. "That is plainly so, Wulf; and although the duke professes intense indignation against Harold, he himself has, over and over again, broken his own oaths of allegiance to the King of France. Breaches of oaths go for little, except they serve as pretexts for war. It would have been the same thing if Harold had never taken the oath, except that his breach of it will be an aid to William in a war against him. We northmen came to France and conquered a province, simply by the right of the strongest. The duke has doubled his dominions by the same right. He deems himself now strong enough to conquer England; whether he is so remains to be seen. At present methinks that but few of us are disposed to follow him in such an enterprise, but there is never any saying how things will go at last. When war is in the air men's minds become heated. There will be dignities, estates, and titles to be won, and when many are ready to go, few like to hang back. More than once already William has embarked on a war against the wishes of the majority, but he has finally carried all with him, and it may be so again, especially if he can win over the pope to excommunicate Harold for the breach of an oath sworn on the relics." "His excommunication will go for little in England," Wulf said sturdily. "Many of our prelates, and almost all our clergy are Englishmen, and hold in very small respect the claim of the pope to interfere in the affairs of England." "And if Harold died who would be likely to succeed him?" "I have never thought of that," Wulf said, "and I should think that few Englishmen have done so. If such a misfortune should happen, methinks that England would be rent in two, and that while Wessex and Anglia would choose one of his brothers, Mercia and the North would take Edwin or his brother Morcar as their king, but assuredly no foreign prince would be chosen." "No, but with England divided the chance of conquest would be easier. You are about the king, Wulf. Keep a shrewd guard over him. I say not for a moment that the duke would countenance any attempt to do him harm, but there are many rough spirits who might think that they would gain his favour greatly did they clear his path of Harold, and who would feel all the less scruple in doing so, should the pope be induced to excommunicate him. Such things have happened again and again. Mind, I have no warrant for my speech. Methinks the honour of De Burg is too well known for anyone to venture to broach such a project before him, but so many kings and great princes have fallen by an assassin's knife to clear the way for the next heir or for an ambitious rival, that I cannot close my eyes to the fact that one in Harold's position might well be made the subject of such an attempt. The history of your own country will furnish you with examples of what I say." "Thank you, my lord," Wulf said gravely. "The thought that an assassin's knife might be raised against Harold, who is of all men the most beloved in England, has never once entered my mind, but I see there may be indeed a danger of such an attempt being made. I do not greatly trust Morcar or his brother, and the danger may come from them, or, as you say, from one desirous of gaining favour with your duke. I will lay your warning to heart." The conversation now turned on other topics, on the Welsh war and the life Wulf had been leading since they last met, and upon what had happened to the many acquaintances Wulf had made in Normandy. They talked until long past the usual hour for retiring to rest; Wulf slept at the chateau, and rode into Rouen at an early hour in the morning. The audience next day was a public one. William was surrounded by his officers of state, and by a large number of his barons. The English envoys were ushered in, and the duke asked them in a loud voice what answer they brought to his just demands on the part of his sworn liegeman, Harold. "The king of England bids us state, duke, that he holds an oath taken by a prisoner under force to be invalid, especially when taken in ignorance of the sanctity of the concealed relics; secondly, he says that he has been elected by the people of England, and that he has no power whatever to transfer the rights that they have conferred upon him, and which he has sworn to maintain, and that they would absolutely refuse to be bound by any act on his part contrary to the welfare of the kingdom, and to their rights as freemen; thirdly, as to your demand that he should carry out his promise to marry your daughter, he points out that the lady whose hand was promised to him has since that time died; and lastly, that although as Earl of Wessex he might transfer that engagement to another of your daughters, as king of England he is unable to do so, as the will of the people is that their king shall marry no foreign princess, but that the royal family shall be of unmixed English blood." William frowned heavily. "You hear, my lords," he said, after a pause, to the Norman barons, "this English earl who was here as my guest refuses to carry out the engagements to which he swore upon the holy relics. I cannot, however, bring myself to believe that he will really persist in this foul perjury, and shall persevere in my endeavours to bring him to a sense of his duty, and to show him the foul dishonour that will rest upon him should he persist in this contempt alike of our holy church and his honour as a knight and a Christian, conduct that would bring upon him eternal infamy and the scorn and contempt of all the princes and nobles of Europe, and draw upon his head the wrath of the church." Then he abruptly turned on his heel and left the audience-chamber, while the English envoys returned to their house and made preparations for immediate departure. A few minutes after his arrival there one of the duke's pages brought word to Wulf that the duke desired to speak to him in private. He at once went across to the palace. The duke received him cordially. "I marked you were with the other thanes, and was glad to see one whom I count as my friend. Tell me frankly, what think the people of England of this monstrous act of perjury on the part of Harold?" "To speak the truth, my lord duke," Wulf replied, "they trouble their heads in no way about it. They hold that the right of electing their king rests wholly with them, and that Harold's promise, to do what he had no more power to do than the lowest born of Englishmen, was but a waste of words. Harold himself feels the obligation far more than anyone else, and had there been any other Englishman who could have united the people as well as he could himself, he would gladly have stood aside; but there is none such, and he had no choice but to accept the decision of the Witan, and, for the sake of England, to lay aside his own scruples. The late king, too, nominated him as his successor, and although his voice had no legal weight, he is now regarded as almost a saint among the people. The fact, therefore, that he, full of piety and religion as he was, should have held that Harold's oath in no way prevented the people from choosing him, has gone very far to satisfy any scruples that might have been felt." "Edward at one time named me as his successor," the duke said shortly. "So I have heard, my lord duke; but as he grew in years and learned more of English feeling and character he became fully aware that the people would accept no foreign prince, and that only the man who had for thirteen years governed in his name could be their choice." "And the great earls and thanes are likewise of that opinion?" "Assuredly in Anglia and Wessex they are so. I know not the minds of Earls Morcar and Edwin, but they were at the Witan and stood by his side at the coronation, and doubtless felt that they could not rely upon their own people if they attempted any open opposition to Harold." "And you will support this usurper against me, Wulf?" "I shall fight, my lord duke, for the king chosen by the people of England. Should that choice some day fall on you I should be as faithful a follower of yours as I am now of Harold." "Well answered, young thane. You have twice done me loyal service, and I at least do not forget my promises. As yet my mind is not made up as to my course, but should fate will it so, William of England will not forget the services rendered to William of Normandy." A few minutes later Wulf rejoined his companions, and before nightfall the ship was far on her way down the river. "Shall we go back to Steyning, my lord, when we return home?" Osgod asked as they stood by the bulwark together watching the passing shores. "No, Osgod. I mean for a time to remain with the king. Baron de Burg yesterday hinted to me that he thought it possible that some of the duke's followers might endeavour to remove the obstacle between him and the throne of England. There are in every country desperate men, who are ready for any crime or deed of violence if they but think that its committal will bring them a reward. We have had English kings assassinated before now, and it has been the same in other countries. Moreover, there are many Normans who were forced to fly from England when Godwin's family returned from exile. These having a personal grudge against him would be willing to gratify it, and at the same time to earn a place in William's favour. Harold is so frank and unsuspicious that he will never think of taking precautions for his personal safety. You and I, then, must serve as his watch-dogs. It may be a difficult task, for we have no idea from what quarter that danger may come, and yet by chance we may discover some clue or other that will set us on the right track At any rate, if we are near him, and keep a watchful eye on any strangers approaching him, we may save him from a treacherous blow." "Good, my lord. Methinks that Harold was wrong in not sending every Norman across the seas, and every man with whom I have spoken thinks the same. But at any rate we can, as you say, keep a sharp look-out, and although I cannot be always near his person, I shall go about and listen; and it will be hard if anything is on foot without my hearing some whisper of it. You will tell him no word of your suspicions, I suppose?" "Certainly not. I have fears rather than suspicions, and Baron De Burg certainly spoke as if he regarded it as likely that such an attempt might be made, and he knows his own people better than I do. He expressly said that he had no special reason for giving me the warning, but he may have heard some angry remark or some covert threat against Harold; and although the duke would not, I feel sure, openly countenance his slaying, I think that the slayers might confidently look for a reward from his gratitude did they by their daggers open a way for him to the throne of England." On the return of the embassy to London King Harold said to Wulf: "I have no further occasion for your services at present, Wulf, and I suppose you will return home and increase the number of your housecarls. It is not with undisciplined levies that the Normans, if they come, must be met. It is no question this time of Welsh mountaineers but of trained warriors, and should they land they must be met by men as firm and as obedient to orders as themselves. I am trying to impress this on all our thanes, but most of them are hard to move, and deem that all that is necessary on the day of battle is that men shall have strength and courage and arms." "With your permission, my lord, I would rather abide near you, and leave the training of my men to the officer who taught those who fought by my side in Wales." "I thought you did not care for the gaieties of the court?" Harold said, in some surprise. "Nor do I, my lord. For its gaieties I care nothing, but in times like these there is much to be learned, and I would not bury myself in Steyning when there is so much of importance going on in London." "Then stay, Wulf, I shall be glad to have you here. I have but little time to myself now, but it is a relief to put aside grave matters sometimes. I will appoint a room for you near my own chamber. You have heard no news of her, I suppose?" "In truth, my lord, I know not how to set about the task, and it seems to me that my only chance is to run against one of her serving-men in the street." "That is but a slight chance, Wulf; but even I, with all the power of England in my hands, am equally at a loss. I cannot send round to all the thanes of Wessex to ask if a strange lady has taken a house in their jurisdiction, nor to all the parish priests to ask if a new worshipper has come to their church. However, I believe that sooner or later she will herself advise me where she has hidden. It may be that your stay here will not be a long one, for I purpose journeying to the North." "To Northumbria!" Wulf said in surprise. "Yes; the people there refuse to recognize me, and I would win them by going among them rather than by force. My dear friend Bishop Wulfstan will accompany me. I shall take with me a body of my housecarls, partly as a guard, but more because I cannot now travel as a private person. It is very many years since an English king has visited Northumbria, and it is not strange that these northern men should object to be ruled by a stranger from the South. I shall take with me two or three of my thanes only, but shall be glad for you to ride with me. Young as you are, you have a quick eye and ready wit, and in case trouble should arise, I can rely upon you more than upon many men far older than yourself." The palace of Westminster was not an imposing edifice. London had not yet become the capital of England, Oxford being the seat of government of most of the kings, so that the palace was built on a simple plan, and had been altered by Edward until the interior arrangements more nearly resembled those of a convent than of a palace. Below was the great banqueting-hall, and beyond this the chamber where the king heard complaints and administered justice. Leading from this were the king and queen's private chambers, where the one sat and read or received his chief councillors, and the other worked with her maids, and listened to the music of the harpers or the tales of war and love sung by bards. Behind was the chapel. On the floor above a corridor ran from one end of the building to the doors which separated the royal sleeping-rooms from the rest. On either side of the corridor were small bed-chambers, where the officers of the household and guests at the court slept, their attendants lying in the corridor itself or in the kitchens, which with other offices were contained in a separate building. The room assigned to Wulf, and which Harold had ordered was henceforth to be retained for him, was that on the right hand of the corridor, next to the door leading to the royal apartments. Like the others it was a mere cell, with the straw pallet covered with sheep-skins, with some rugs for covering. This constituted the whole of the furniture. In the morning water was brought in brass ewers and basins, either by the pages or servants of the guests. "Nothing could be better, my lord, than this," Osgod said. "I am a light sleeper, and lying across your door I am sure that no one could enter the king's apartments without my hearing those heavy doors move." "There is but little chance, Osgod, of an attack being made on him in that fashion. Doubtless some of the royal servants sleep on the other side of the door. No, if any design be attempted against his life it will be when he is travelling, or when he is abroad amid a crowd." "I saw Walter Fitz-Urse to-day, master, in the train of William of London." "Then he must have returned within the last day or two, Osgod, for he has been absent for more than a year, and I know that when we sailed for Normandy he was still absent, for I inquired of one of the court officials if he had been here of late. What should bring him back again, I wonder. He has long been out of his pageship, and he can hope for no preferment in England while Harold is king. He has, I know, no great possessions in Normandy, for I asked Guy about him, and learned that his father was a knight of but small consideration, either as to his state or character, and that the boy owed his place as page to William of London, to the fact that he was a distant relation of the prelate. "I would say harm of no man, but I should think he is as likely as another to be mixed up in such a plot as we are talking of. He is landless, hot-tempered, and ambitious. He owes no goodwill to Harold, for it was by his intervention that he was sent away in disgrace after that quarrel with me. At any rate, Osgod, since we have no one else to suspect, we will in the first place watch him, or rather have him looked after, for I see not how we ourselves can in any way keep near him. He knows me well, and has doubtless seen you with me, and having seen you once would not be likely to forget you." "I think I can manage that," Osgod said confidently. "My father has a small apprentice who well-nigh worries his life out with tricks and trifling. I have more than once begged him off a beating, and methinks he will do anything for me. He is as full of cunning as an ape, and, I warrant me, would act his part marvellously. My father will be glad enough to get him out of the forge for a while, and when I tell him that it is in your service he will make no difficulty about it. He is fifteen years old, but so small for his age that he would pass for three years younger than he is." "I think it is a very good plan, Osgod. You had best see your father in the morning, and if he consents to your having the boy, bring him down to the river-bank behind the abbey, where I will be awaiting you, and can there talk to him without observation. You are sure that he can be trusted to keep silence regarding what I tell him?" "He can be trusted, my lord. In the first place he will enjoy playing his part, and in the second he will know well enough that I should nearly flay him alive with my stirrup-leather if he were to fail me, and that his life in the forge would be worse than ever." The next morning Wulf strolled down to the river-bank after breaking his fast, and it was not long before Osgod joined him with the boy. "Have you told him what he is required for, Osgod?" Wulf asked, as the boy, doffing his cap, stood before him with an air of extreme humility. "I am not good at the telling of tales, as you know, my lord, and I thought it better that you should tell him just as much or as little as you chose." "You don't like your work at the forge, Ulf?" for that Wulf had learned was the boy's name. "I think that I like it better than it likes me," the boy replied. "When I get to do the fine work I shall like it, but at present it is 'fetch this tool, Ulf, or file that iron, or blow those bellows,' and if I do but smile I get a cuff." "No, no, Ulf," Osgod said. "Of course, at present you are but a beginner, and at your age I too had to fetch and carry and be at the bidding of all the men; and it is not for smiling that you get cuffed, but for playing tricks and being away for hours when you are sent on a message to the next street, and doing your errands wrongly. My father tells me you will be a good workman some day. You will never be strong enough to wield a heavy hammer or to forge a battle-axe, but he says your fingers are quick and nimble, and that you will some day be able to do fine work such as clumsy hands could not compass. But that is not to the point now." "You will be glad to be out of the forge for a bit, Ulf?" Wulf asked. "That should I, but not always." "It will not be for very long. I want a watch set upon a Norman in order to know where he goes, and whom he meets, and what he purposes. Osgod tells me that he thinks you could play the part rarely, and that you would be willing for his sake to do our bidding." The boy looked up into Osgod's face with an expression of earnest affection. "I would do anything for him," he said, "even if I were to be cut to pieces." "Osgod is as much interested in the matter as I am, Ulf; and as he has assured me that you are to be trusted, I will tell you more as to the man, and my object in setting you to watch him." "You can trust me, my lord," the boy said earnestly. "I will do your bidding whatever it is." "You know, Ulf, that the Duke of Normandy desires the crown of England?" "So I have heard men say, my lord." "Were King Harold out of the way, his chances of obtaining it would be improved." The boy nodded. "I am sure that the duke himself would take no hand in bringing about Harold's death, but there are many of his people who might think that they would obtain a great reward were they to do so." The boy nodded again. "The man I wish you to watch is Walter Fitz-Urse, who is in the train of the bishop. I have no particular reason for suspecting him, beyond the fact that he has but just come over here, and this is scarcely a time a Norman would come to London; though as the bishop is a relation and patron of his he may have come merely to visit him. Still he has, as he thinks, a cause for enmity against the king. He is needy, and, as I know, somewhat unscrupulous. All this is little enough against a man; still it seems to me that his coming bodes danger to the king, and this being so I desire that he shall be watched, in order that I may find out what is his real object in coming over here. I want you to post yourself near the gate of the bishop's palace, and whenever he comes out to follow him save when he is in the train of the bishop--most of all if he sallies out alone or after dark. "It will not do for you to be always dressed as an apprentice. Osgod will procure for you such clothes as you may require for disguises. One day you can be sitting there as a beggar asking alms, another as a girl from one of the villages with eggs or fowls. You understand that you will have to follow him, to mark where he goes in, and especially, should he be joined by anybody when out, to endeavour to overhear something of what they say to each other. Even a few words might suffice to show me whether my suspicions are true or not. Do you think you can do that? Osgod tells me that you are good at playing a part." "I will do it, my lord, and that right gladly. It is a business after my own heart, and I will warrant that those who see me one day will not know me when they see me the next." "Osgod will go with you now, and will stay near the bishop's palace until the man you are to watch comes out, and will point him out to you. In a day or two I may be going away with the king; when we return you will tell us what you have found out. Till we go, Osgod will meet you here each morning as the abbey bell rings out the hour of seven. You can tell him anything that you have learned, and then he will give you such further instructions as may seem needful; and remember you must be cautious, for Walter Fitz-Urse would not hesitate to use his dagger on you did he come upon you eaves-dropping." "I will give him leave to do so if he catches me," the boy said. "Very well, then; Osgod will go with you to buy such clothes as may be necessary, and remember that you will be well rewarded for your work." "I want no reward," the boy said, almost indignantly. "I am an apprentice, and as my master has bid me do whatever Osgod commands, he has a right to my services. But this is nothing. There is not one in London who would not do aught in his power for Harold, and who would scorn to take pay for it. As this is a matter in which his very life may be concerned, though I am but a boy, and a small one at that, there is nought that I would not do, even to the giving of my life, to spoil these Norman plots." Osgod was about to chide the boy angrily for this freedom of speech, but Wulf checked him. "You are right, lad; and I am sorry I spoke of a reward. I myself would have answered the same at your age, and would have died for Harold then as I would now. I should have bethought me that the feelings of Englishmen, gentle or simple, are the same towards the king, and I crave your pardon for treating your loyal service as a thing to be paid for with money." The boy's eyes filled with tears; he dropped on one knee, and seizing Wulf's hand placed it to his lips, and then without a word sped away, halting a hundred yards off till Osgod should join him. "You have made a good choice," Wulf said; "the boy is wholly trustworthy, and unless his face belies him he is as shrewd as he is faithful. My only fear in the matter is, that he may be over rash in his desire to carry out the trust we have given him. Warn him against that, and tell him that should he be discovered and killed it would upset all our plans."

15

A MEETING BY THE RIVER.

During the three days that elapsed between Ulf's being set upon the track of Walter Fitz-Urse and the departure of the king for the North, the boy had no news to report to Osgod. The young Norman had not left the bishop's palace alone. He had accompanied the prelate several times when he went abroad, and had gone out with some of his countrymen who still held office at the court. In one or other of the disguises Wulf had suggested, the boy had hung about the gate of the bishop's palace until late in the evening, but Walter Fitz-Urse had not come out after dark. On the day before starting, Wulf was with Osgod when the latter met the boy at the rendezvous. After he heard Ulf's report Wulf said: "As we leave to-morrow this is the last report you will have to make to us. So far it would seem that there is nothing whatever to give grounds for suspicion, and if, after a few days, you find that the Norman still remains quietly at the bishop's, there will be no occasion for you to continue your watch until the time is approaching for the king's return." "Yes, my lord. But I cannot say surely that he does not go out of an evening." "Why, I thought you said that he certainly had not done so?" "No, my lord; I said only that I had not seen him. He has certainly not gone out through the great gates in his Norman dress, but that it seems to me shows very little. As the bishop's guest he would pass out there, but there is another entrance behind that he might use did he wish to go out unobserved. Even at the main entrance I cannot tell but that, beneath the cowl and frock of one of the many monks who pass in and out, Walter Fitz-Urse may not be hidden. He would scarce go about such a business as we suspect in his dress as a Norman noble, which is viewed with little favour here in London, and would draw attention towards him, but would assume, as I do, some disguise in which he could go about unremarked--it might be that of a monk, it might be that of a lay servitor of the palace." "You are right, Ulf; I had not thought of that. That is indeed a difficulty, and one that I do not see how you can get over. Are you sure that he has not passed out by the main gate?" "I have marked his walk and carriage closely, my lord. He steps along with a long stride, and unless he be a better mummer than I judge him to be, I should know him whether in a monk's gown or a servitor's cloak. It is no easy thing to change a knight's stride into the shuffle of a sandalled monk, or the noiseless step of a well-trained servitor in a bishop's palace." "You are a shrewd lad indeed, Ulf," Wulf said warmly; "and I feel that you will fathom this matter if there be aught at the bottom. But, as you say, you cannot watch more than one place." "The other entrance is not altogether unwatched, my lord. The first day you gave me my orders I went to one of my cronies, who has shared with me in many an expedition when our master deemed that we were soundly asleep. Without, as you may be sure, giving any reason, I told him that I had come to believe that the Norman I pointed out to him was in the habit of going out in disguise, and that I was mightily curious to find whither he went and why, and therefore wanted him to watch, at the entrance behind the palace. I bade him mark the walk of the persons that went out, and their height, for the Norman is tall, and to follow any who might come out of lofty stature, and with a walk and carriage that seemed to accord ill with his appearance. So each evening, as soon as his house was closed and the lights extinguished, he has slipped out, as he knows how, and has watched till ten o'clock at the gate. It seemed to me that that would be late enough, and indeed the doors are closed at that hour." "You have done well, Ulf; but has not the boy questioned you as to your reasons for thus setting a watch on the Norman?" "I have told him nought beyond what I have said, my lord. He may guess shrewdly enough that I should not myself take so much trouble in the matter unless I had more reason than I have given; but we are closely banded together, and just as I should do, without asking the reasons, any such action did he propose it to me, so he carried out my wishes. I cannot feel as sure as if I had watched him myself that Fitz-Urse has not passed out in disguise unnoticed, but I have a strong belief that it is so. At any rate, my lord, you can go away with the assurance that all that is possible shall be done by us, and that even if he pass out once or twice undiscovered there is good hope that we shall at last detect him." After again commending the boy, Wulf returned to the palace with Osgod. "I feel half ashamed of having entertained a suspicion of Fitz-Urse on such slight grounds, Osgod." "I think you have done quite right, my lord. You know how the fellow gave a false report to the bishop of that quarrel with you. At any rate, should nothing come of it, no harm will have been done. As to the boys, so far from regarding it as a trouble, I feel sure that they view it as an exciting pleasure, and are as keenly anxious to detect the Norman going out in a disguise as you yourself can be. When they get tired of it they will give it up." Ulf, at any rate, was determined not to relax his watch during the absence of the king. The more he thought of it the more certain he felt that if Walter Fitz-Urse went out on any private business after nightfall he would use one or other of the entrances at the rear of the palace, and accordingly next day he arranged that one friend should watch the front entrance of an evening, while he himself took post behind. As soon as it was dark he lay down by the wall close to the entrance at which the servitors generally passed in and out. The moon was up but was still young, and the back of the palace lay in deep shadow; a projecting buttress screened him to a great extent from view, while by peeping round the corner he could watch those who came out and see them as they passed from the shadow of the building into the comparatively light space beyond. Many came in and out. The evening was bitterly cold, and his teeth chattered as he lay, cautiously putting his head beyond the edge of the stonework every time he heard any one leaving the palace. The heavy bell had just struck eight, when a man wrapt up in a cloak passed out. He differed in no respect from many of those who had preceded him, save that he was somewhat taller. The hood of the cloak was drawn over his head. Ulf raised himself to his knees and gazed after the figure. The man was walking more slowly than the others had done, for most of them had hurried along as if in haste to get their errands finished and to be in shelter again from the keen wind. "If that is Fitz-Urse, he is walking so as to avoid the appearance of haste in case anyone should be looking after him," Ulf muttered to himself. "At any rate I will follow him, he is more like the Norman than anyone I have yet seen, though he carries his head forwarder and his shoulders more rounded." As he watched him, the boy saw that as he increased the distance from the palace the man quickened his pace, and when he came into the moonlight was stepping rapidly along. "That is my man," Ulf exclaimed. "He knows well enough that no one is likely to be standing at the door, and thinks he need no longer walk cautiously." Feeling sure that even if the man looked back he would not be able to see him in the shadow, he started forward at a run, paused before he reached the edge of the moonlight, and then, as soon as the figure entered a lane between some houses, ran forward at the top of his speed. The man was but a hundred yards in front of him when Ulf came to the entrance of the lane. Just as he turned into it the man stopped and looked round, and Ulf threw himself down by the side of a wall. "That settles it," he said to himself. "No one who had not a fear of being followed would turn and look round on such a night as this." Ulf was barefooted, for although he generally wore soft shoes which were almost as noiseless as the naked foot, he was dressed in rags, and a foot covering of any sort would have been out of place. Always keeping in the shade, having his eyes fixed on the man he was pursuing, and holding himself in readiness to leap into a doorway or throw himself down should he see him turn his head, he lessened the distance until he was within some fifty yards of the other. The man took several turns, and at last entered a long street leading down to the river. As soon as Ulf saw him enter it he darted off at full speed, turned down another lane, and then, when he got beyond the houses, and on to the broken ground that lay between them and the river, ran until he was nearly facing the end of the street which he had seen the man enter, and then threw himself down. He had scarcely done so when he saw the figure issue from the street and strike across the open ground towards the water. Crawling along on his stomach Ulf followed him, until he halted on the bank. The man looked up and down the river, stamped his foot impatiently, and then began to walk to and fro. Presently he stopped and appeared to be listening; Ulf did the same, and soon heard the distant splash of oars. They came nearer and nearer. Ulf could not see the boat, for it was close under the bank, which was some twenty yards away from him, but presently when the boat seemed almost abreast of him the man on the bank said, "Where do you come from?" "From fishing in deep water," a voice replied. "That is right, come ashore." The words were spoken by both in a language Ulf could not understand, and he muttered a Saxon oath. The thought that any conversation Fitz-Urse might have with a Norman would naturally be in that tongue had never once occurred to him. Three men mounted the bank. One shook hands with Fitz-Urse, the others had doffed their caps and stood listening bareheaded to the conversation between their superiors. It was long and animated. At first the stranger stamped his foot and seemed disappointed at the news Fitz-Urse gave him, then as the latter continued to speak he seemed more satisfied. For fully half an hour they talked, then the men got into the boat and rowed away, and Fitz-Urse turned and walked back to the palace. Ulf did not follow him. The meeting for which Fitz-Urse had come out had taken place, he would be sure to go straight back to the palace. Ulf lay there for some time fairly crying with vexation. He had done something, he had discovered that Fitz-Urse was indeed engaged in some undertaking that had to be conducted with the greatest secrecy; but this was little to what he would have learned had he understood the language. His only consolation was that both Wulf and Osgod had likewise forgotten the probability that the conversations he was charged to overhear might be in Norman. Had Wulf still been in London he could have gone to him for fresh instructions, but he had started at daybreak, and the king's party would assuredly ride fast. There was no time to be lost. These men had a boat, and probably came from a ship in the port. Were there really a conspiracy against the king they might sail north and land in the Humber, though it seemed more probable that they would wait for his return, for on his journey he would be surrounded by his housecarls, and there would be far less chance of finding him alone and unguarded than in London. Had it been their intention to sail at once for the North, Walter Fitz-Urse would probably have rowed away with them without returning to the palace. At any rate it was too important a matter for him to trust to his own judgment, and he determined to take counsel with his master. He had not been near the forge since he had begun the search, and was supposed to have gone down to stay with his family, who lived near Reading. He had hidden away his apprentice dress beneath some stones in a field half a mile from Westminster, and he presented himself in this at the forge in the morning. "You are back sooner than I expected, Ulf," Ulred said as he entered. "I did not look for you for another week to come. Is all well at home?" "All is well, master; but I have a message to deliver to you concerning some business." The armourer saw that his apprentice wished to speak to him in private. He knew nothing of the reason for which Osgod had asked him to release the boy from his work at the forge for a time, but had quite understood that the wish to pay a visit to his family was but a cloak, and that the boy was to be employed in some service for Wulf. Guessing, therefore, that the message was one that should be delivered in private, he bade the boy follow him from the forge and took him into the room above. "What is it you would say to me, Ulf? Mind, I wish to hear nothing about any private matter in which you may be engaged either by Wulf or Osgod. They are both away and may not return for a month or more. I judged the matter was a private one, as Osgod said nought of it to me." "The matter is a private one, master, but as they are away I would fain take your counsel on it." The armourer shook his head decidedly. "I can listen to nought about it, boy. It can be no business of mine, and unless he has given you license to speak I would not on any account meddle with the affairs of the young thane, who is a good lord to my son." "That he has not done, sir; but I pray you to hear me," he added urgently as the armourer was turning to leave the room. "It is a matter that may touch the safety of our lord the king." The armourer stopped. "Art well assured of what you say, Ulf?" "For myself I can say nothing, master, but the young thane told me that he had fears that some attempt or other might be made from the other side of the sea against the king's life, and that although he had no strong grounds, he thought that Walter Fitz-Urse, who had just returned here, might be concerned in it, he having reasons for enmity against the king. Therefore he appointed me to watch him." He then related the scene he had witnessed on the river bank the evening before. "It is a strange story indeed, Ulf, and whatever it may mean, this meeting can have been for no good purpose. The secrecy with which it was conducted is enough to prove it. It is indeed unfortunate that you did not understand what was said, for much may depend upon it. Well, this is a grave affair, and I must think it over, Ulf. You have done well in telling me. Has any plan occurred to you?" "I thought that you might accompany me, master." "That would I willingly, but though I have picked up enough of their tongue to enable me to do business with the Normans at the king's court when they come in to buy a dagger or to have a piece of armour repaired, I could not follow their talk one with another. We must obtain someone who can speak their language well, and who can be trusted to be discreet and silent. Why, were it but whispered abroad that some Normans are plotting against the life of the king, there would be so angry a stir that every Norman in the land might be hunted down and slain. Do not go down to the forge, I will tell my wife to give you some food, and you had best then go up to the attic and sleep. You will have to be afoot again to-night, and it were well that you kept altogether away from the others, so as to avoid inconvenient questions. I will come up to you when I have thought the matter over." "Is aught troubling you, Ulred?" the armourer's wife asked when breakfast was over and the men had gone downstairs again to their work. "Never have I seen you sit so silently at the board." "I am worried about a matter which I have learned this morning. It matters not what it is now. Some time later you shall hear of it, but at present I am pledged to say no word about it. I want above all things to find one who speaks the Norman tongue well, and is yet a true Englishman. I have been puzzling my brains, but cannot bethink me of anyone. Canst thou help me?" "Except about the court there are few such to be found, Ulred. If Wulf of Steyning had been here he could doubtless have assisted you had it been a matter you could have confided to him; for Osgod said that although he himself had learned but little Norman his master was able to talk freely with the Norman nobles." "Ay, he learnt it partly when a page at court. But what you say reminds me that it was but yesterday afternoon his friend Beorn came into my shop. He had just arrived from his estate, and said how disappointed he was at finding that Wulf had left London. I will go to the palace and see him at once. I know but little of him save that I have heard from Osgod that he is Wulf's firmest friend, and they fought together across in Normandy and again against the Welsh. He has been here several times to have weapons repaired, and knows that Osgod is Wulf's man. I wonder I did not think of him, but my thoughts were running on people of our own condition." Ulred at once put on his cap and proceeded to the palace, where he found Beorn without difficulty. "You have not come to tell me that the blade I left with you yesterday cannot be fitted with a new hilt, Master Ulred? It is a favourite weapon of mine, and I would rather pay twice the price of a new one than lose it." "I have come on another matter, my Lord Beorn. It is for your private ear. May I pray you to come with me to my house, where I can enter upon it without fear of being overheard?" "Certainly I will come, Ulred, though I cannot think what this matter may be." "It concerns in some way the Thane of Steyning, my lord, and others even higher in position." "That is enough," Beorn said. "Anything that concerns Wulf concerns me, and as he is in the matter you can count on me without question." Upon reaching his house Ulred left Beorn for a moment in the room upstairs, and fetched Ulf down from the attic. "This is an apprentice lad of mine," he said, "and as it is he who has been employed by the Thane of Steyning in this affair, it were best that he himself informed you of it." When Ulf had finished his story Beorn exclaimed, "I will go at once, and will put such an affront upon this Walter Fitz-Urse that he must needs meet me in mortal combat." "But even if you slay him, my lord, that may not interfere with the carrying out of this enterprise, in which, as we know, another of equal rank with him is engaged." "That is true, master armourer, and I spoke hastily. I thought perhaps it was for this that you had informed me of the matter." "No, my lord; it seemed to me that the first thing was to assure ourselves for a certainty that the affair is really a plot against the king's life, of which we have as yet no manner of proof, but simply the suspicion entertained by my son's master. The first necessity is to find out for a truth that it is so, and secondly to learn how and when it is to be carried out; and this can only be by overhearing another conversation between the plotters. As you have heard, Ulf could have learnt all this if he had but understood the Norman tongue. Could I have spoken it well enough to follow the conversation I would not have troubled you, but it seemed to me that at their next meeting it needed that one should be present who could speak Norman well. After considering in vain how to find one who should at once know the Norman tongue and be a true and trustworthy Englishman, my thoughts fell upon you, of whom I have always heard my son speak as the companion and friend of his master, and I made bold to come and lay the matter before you, thinking that you might either take it in hand yourself or name one suitable for it." "Certainly I will take it in hand myself," Beorn said, "and right glad am I that you came to me. A matter in which the king's life is concerned I would trust to no one but myself. And now, how think you shall we proceed? for it may well be that these plotters may not meet again for some time, seeing that the king is away." "So it seems to me," the armourer said; "and, moreover, they may in their talk last night have appointed some other place of meeting." "What think you, Ulf?" Beorn said, turning to the boy. "Wulf would not have chosen you for this business had he not had a good opinion of your shrewdness; and, indeed, you have shown yourself well worthy of his confidence." "I should say, my lord, that I must go on the watch as before. It is most likely that the Norman will, sooner or later, go out in the same disguise and by the same way as before, and that the hour will be between seven and nine in the evening--most likely between seven and eight, in order that he may return from the meeting before the bishop's doors are closed for the night." "I will keep watch with you, Ulf. Were I sure that the meeting would take place at the same spot as before you should show me where they landed, and I would lie down there in readiness, but as they may meet elsewhere, it seems to me that I must post myself by your side." "It would be better, my lord, if you would take your place on the other side of the open space, for although I, being small, can escape notice, you might well be seen by those approaching the door. It will be necessary, too, that you should put on sandals of soft leather or cloth, so that your footfall should not be heard. Then, as I follow him, I would run to where you are posted, and you could follow me, so that you could keep me in sight and yet be beyond his view, for all our plans would be foiled should he suspect that he was being followed." "I will do as you advise. Come with me now and we will fix upon a station to night, and afterwards you may be sure of finding me there between half-past six and ten. Should you wish to see me at any other time you will find me at the palace; I will not stir out between eight and nine in the morning. I must say I wish it were warmer weather, for a watch of three hours with the snow on the ground--and it is beginning to fall now--is not so pleasant a way of spending the evening as I had looked for when I came hither." Beorn went out with Ulf, and they fixed upon a doorway some twenty yards from the street down which the Norman had before gone. "We must hope he will go by the same way," Beorn said, "for should he turn to the right or left after issuing from the gate he will have gone so far before you can run across and fetch me that we may well fail to pick up his track again. It were well if we could arrange some signal by which you would let me know should he so turn off. It would not do for you to call or whistle." "No, my lord; but I could howl like a dog. He would but think it some cur lying under the wall I might howl once if he turns to the right, twice if he turns to the left, and you could then cross the ground in that direction, and I could meet you on the way without losing sight of him for long." "That would do well, Ulf, if you are sure you could imitate the howl of a dog so nearly that he would not suspect it." "I can do that," Ulf said confidently. "I have used the signal before with my comrades, and to make sure will go out to the fields and practise daily." A month passed. Harold was still away in the North, and complete success was attending his journey. The influence of Bishop Wulfstan, who was greatly respected throughout the kingdom, did much, but Harold himself did more. His noble presence, his courtesy to all, the assurances he gave of his desire that all men should be well and justly ruled, that evil-doers of whatever rank should be punished, that there should be no oppression and no exaction of taxes beyond those borne by the whole community, won the hearts of the people. They were, moreover, gratified by the confidence that he had shown in coming among them, and in seeing for the first time in the memory of man a monarch of England in Northumbria. Ulf and Beorn had kept regular watch, but without success, and Ulf's comrades had as steadily watched the other entrances. Beorn had two or three conferences with Ulf. He was becoming impatient at the long delay, though he acknowledged that it was possible it had been arranged that no more meetings should take place until it was known that Harold was about to return. The armourer was perhaps the most impatient of the three. He was doing nothing, and his anxiety made him so irritable and captious at his work that his men wondered what had come over their master. After fretting for three weeks over his own inaction, he one morning told Ulf to go to Beorn and say that he begged to have speech with him. An hour later Beorn returned with Ulf. "I bethought me last night, my lord," Ulred said, "while I lay awake wondering over the matter, whether these fellows are still on board ship or are in lodgings in London." "It might be either, Ulred. I have frequently thought over the matter. Possibly they may have stayed on board their ship till she left, and then have come on shore in the guise of peaceful traders." "If the ship did not return at once they may still be on board," the armourer said, "for the wind has blown steadily from the east for the last five weeks, and no ships have been able to leave the port. I blame myself sorely that I did not think of it before, but at least I will lose no time now if you think that good might come of it." "It would certainly be good if you could find either the ship or the house where the men are in lodging, but seeing that you know nothing of their appearance or number, nor the name of the ship in which they came nor the port she sailed from, I see not how you could set about it." "I will first go to the port-reeve's office and find out the names of the ships that arrived just before the time that the meeting by the river took place. She may have come in early that day, or on the day before. They would surely send word at once to him that they had arrived." "You might learn something that way, Ulred, but we do not know that the meeting Ulf saw was their first." "That is true. But as Ulf's friend declares that he certainly had not gone out that way during the evenings that he had been keeping watch, it is likely that it was their first meeting." "That is so, Ulred; and at any rate it would be well that you should make the inquiries, and that, while we are keeping our watch as before, you should try to gather some tidings of the fellows in another way."

16

A VOYAGE NORTH.

The armourer found without any difficulty that twenty-five vessels, exclusive of small coasters, had arrived in the port during the thirty-six hours previous to the time of the meeting on the bank. Of these, eighteen were from English ports, seven from Normandy, France, or Flanders. Three of the latter had sailed away, and of the four remaining in the port two were from Rouen, one from Calais, and one from Flanders. Having obtained the names of these, he took boat and rowed down the river and ascertained where each lay at anchor. He then, with the assistance of some citizens of standing of his acquaintance, obtained a view of the manifests of their cargoes. The Flemish vessel carried cloth, the other three miscellaneous cargoes--wine, dried fish, cloth, and other goods. The Flemish vessel was the largest, those from Rouen and Calais were about the same size. All had discharged their cargoes, and were waiting for a change of wind to drop down the river. There was nothing unusual to be observed on any of the ships. The men were for the most part down in the forecastle, for the weather was too severe for them to lounge about on deck. He talked the matter over with Beorn, and they agreed that it was most probable that the men would embark from Calais rather than Rouen. It was a far shorter and less perilous voyage, and moreover, as Frenchmen they could move about without attracting attention, while as Normans they would be viewed with a certain amount of hostility and suspicion. "I will make it my business to watch that vessel. I know not whether any good can come of it, but I would fain be doing something. If the wind changes she will doubtless proceed to sea, and if they are still on board of her they will come ashore, and I could see their numbers and where they put up." "That will indeed be important," Beorn said, "for we should then have two places to watch, and should be almost certain to get to the root of the matter. But how will you watch her?" "There are many houses near the water's edge, on the southern side of the river near which the ship is lying, she having moved away from the quays when she discharged her cargo. I will hire a room in one of these, and will there pass as much of my time as I can; and I will take with me my apprentice Ernulf, whom I shall bid keep his eye upon the ship whenever I myself am away. I need say nothing whatever of the reason of my desire that I should be acquainted with everything that passes on board." Ulred succeeded in getting a room exactly opposite the French vessel, and sitting back from the window, was able, himself unseen, to notice everything that passed on board the ship, which lay scarce her own length from the shore. Upon the third day a boat containing a man wearing an ample cloak with a hood, which was pulled far over his face, rowed up to the side of the ship, and climbed up right nimbly into her waist. "It is a Saxon cloak," the armourer said to himself, "but those are Norman leggings. The man is tall, and the quickness with which he climbed over shows that he is young. I doubt not that it is our man. I would give a year's profits of the forge to be hidden down below at present. However, it is much to have learnt that this is really the ship, and that the Norman's friends are still on board. I would that Wulf were in London. He has a keen wit, and would hit on some plan by which we might get to the bottom of the matter. Beorn is a brave young thane, and were Wulf here would second him valiantly, but he has none of the other's quickness of thought. As soon as this fellow leaves the ship I will hurry back to take counsel with him, and hear what the boy Ulf, who is a marvellously shrewd little knave, may think of the matter." Half an hour later the boat put off again; a man came to the side with the visitor and retired below as soon as he left the ship. Ulred at once hurried off, hailed a boat a short distance higher up and was rowed to Westminster. As soon as he gained the house he despatched Ulf to Beorn. The latter listened to the discovery that had been made, and then asked the armourer what he advised should be done. "That is just what I am at a loss about, my lord. Doubtless were we to go to the city and tell the port-reeve that there are men on that craft who have designs against the king's life, he would pounce upon them and throw them into jail. But we have no evidence to give in support of the charge." Beorn nodded his head in agreement. "If I had half a dozen of my own men here," he said hotly, "I would go down in a boat after nightfall, seize the vessel, and put all on board to the sword." "That would hardly do, my lord," the armourer said gravely. "On the high sea doubtless the thing might be done, but here in the port of London it would be a desperate undertaking, especially as we have nought that in the eyes of the law would in any way justify such action." "Well, let us have your own advice, then," Beorn said impatiently. "You think they cannot be arrested and they may not be slain. What do you counsel shall be done!" "I see nought to do but to continue to wait and to watch. We are better off than we were before, inasmuch as we know where these men are." "Yes, but we do not know where they will be to-morrow, for we know nothing of what passed between Fitz-Urse and them; doubtless some settlement of their plans has been come to. They may land or may sail away, for methinks from the look of the sky there is like to be a change in the weather. You see, the Norman may have taken them news that Harold will soon be on his way back, for indeed a message arrived from him this morning with news that all things had been well-nigh settled, and that he will shortly make for York, where he is to wed the sister of the Northern earls. It may be that the ship may be bound thither also. You left your apprentice on the watch, I suppose?" "Yes, I bade him keep his eye on the ship, and should any men leave her he is to follow on their track and mark their movements." "At any rate there can be little need for me to watch this evening," Beorn said. "As Fitz-Urse has seen the others to-day he cannot want to meet them to-night." "No, that is certain," the armourer agreed; "but with your permission I will call Ulf in. I told him before I sent him to you what I had observed. Are you going to watch again this evening, boy?" he asked when Ulf entered. "Methinks there can be little chance of his going out again to-night." "I shall keep even a stricter watch than usual, master," Ulf said, "for it may be that the agreement at which they arrived to-day is that they sail north, and in that case Walter Fitz-Urse may go on board the ship, and hide there until the wind changes and they can get up sail." "I think the boy is right, my lord. In a dark matter like this, where we know so little, it behoves us to provide for every chance. But I think not that there can be any need for you to be on watch, for it can hardly be that they will hold another consultation on the river bank." Ulf returned soon after ten o'clock. "He has not gone out by my gate, master, but I find that my comrade is missing. When I went round as usual to the other entrance he was not there." "Perhaps he was tired and went home." "No, indeed," the boy replied indignantly; "he has sworn to do what I told him, and he knows that it would be bad for him if he broke his word; besides, we are sworn comrades. He has never before failed me, and I cannot but think that he must have seen the man go out and followed him. I instructed him that if at any time he saw a man like the one we are looking for he was to follow him wherever he went, and to bring me word whether he met anyone and whether he returned to the palace or went into any house. If he did so he was to make a small mark on the door-post with chalk, so that in the morning he would be able to point it out with surety. I will sit at my window and watch, and I warrant it will not be long before he is here." Half an hour later Ulf heard steps rapidly approaching; then a low whistle. He put his head out of the window. "What is the news, Edwyn?" "A man came out in a cloak. He was tall. I followed him and heard a sword clink under the cloak, and so felt sure it was the man we have been looking for. I stole after him. He went straight down to the river and gave two short calls. A boat was rowed up. Only a word or two was spoken, and then he took his seat in it, and it was rowed away down the river." "You have done well, comrade," Ulf said. "I warrant that some good will come to us through your discovery. Good-night." Ulf went and knocked at his master's door, and on Ulred opening it he told him the news. "I will go down right early," the armourer said. "It is beginning to rain, master. The frost has broken, and the wind is soft and warm." "So much the worse, boy. I will be up at daylight, and you shall go down the river with me. I may want to send you back with a message to Beorn." Next morning they had rowed near to London Bridge when they saw a boat approaching. The day had broken, but the light was still uncertain. As the boat approached, however, Ulf said: "There is a boy in the boat, master, and he wears an apprentice's cap. Maybe that it is Ernulf." The other boat was keeping close inshore, for the tide had begun to run down. The armourer told the boatman to row closer in, and presently called the boy's name. "Yes, master, it is I; I was just coming to you with news." In a couple of minutes the boats were alongside of each other. "What is your news, Ernulf? But I can guess; the ship has sailed." "Yes, master; I lay down by the open window, and an hour before day broke I was aroused by the creaking of ropes, and looking out could see that the ship was getting up sail. Tide was then just on the turn, and five minutes later her sails were spread and she went down the river. I came off to tell you, but was some time before I could get a boat." "Come on board here, Ernulf," the armourer said, "your message has saved us further journey." He then paid off the lad's boatman, and with his two apprentices returned to Westminster. "Beorn will be up by this time, Ulf. You had best go and tell him the news. I will come with you to save time, though I see not that there is aught to be done." The thane at once came out and chatted for some time with Ulred, while Ulf stood by, cap in hand. "It is certain that something should be done, and yet I see not what it can be. What think you, boy? I see by your eyes that you would fain speak." "I should say, my lord, that it would be a good thing if we could discover whether the Norman is still at the bishop's palace. He may have returned early this morning." "That can easily be done," Beorn said. "I will send my man to the bishop's and bid him ask one of the servants if Walter Fitz-Urse is in. He need not say that he comes from me, only that he has a message to deliver. If the servant says he is there I will bid my fellow slip away when the man goes to fetch him down. Supposing he has gone, as I should think he has done, what then?" "Then, my lord, I think there is more danger than if the Norman remained here. It may be that the Normans have returned to France and abandoned any plans they may have entertained. But it seems to me far more likely that they have gone north to carry out the enterprise." "Whither, think you, will they be bound, Ulf?" "I should say to the Humber, my lord. They may on landing proceed to York, or, if they have really designs against the king's life, may take post somewhere on the road down from that city." "By my faith the boy is right," Beorn said. "What say you, master armourer?" "I say the same, my lord. The villains have slipped through our fingers, and we can do nought to stay them. It seems to me that not an hour should be lost in sending a warning to the Thane of Steyning." "I will mount myself and ride north," Beorn said. "And I, my lord, will at once go down to the port and inquire if there be a ship sailing to-day for the Humber. Scarce a day passes that one or more do not start for the northern ports. Yes, Ulf, I shall take you with me. You are charged with this business by the Thane of Steyning, and I am but aiding you in it. I will go straight away to the city, my lord, and if a ship be sailing--and after so long a bout of east wind it is like that many will be doing so--I will be back in an hour with the news. Maybe I can find a quick sailer, and shall be at one of the ports in the Humber before the craft that left this morning." "By the time you return I shall have found out whether Fitz-Urse is at the bishop's palace, and shall have my horses ready to mount." The armourer learnt in the city that several ships for the North had already dropped down the river, and that three others were hastily completing their lading, and would follow by the next tide. He learnt from a trader that one of them was considered especially fast, and being acquainted with the owner, he took the armourer with him, and arranged for a passage for him and the boy. "You will have to be on board this afternoon," the owner said. "The shipmaster will not waste a tide, but as soon as it turns will up anchor and make his way down the river in the dark. He knows the channel well, and there will be light enough to enable him to hold on his course all night. The east wind may return again, and he might be caught; so he has decided to start as soon as the last bale is on board. He knows the sands well, and you may reckon on a speedy passage if the wind holds as it is, or even if it goes round to the east again, when he is once abreast of Harwich." On returning to Westminster Ulred learnt from Beorn that Fitz-Urse was there no longer, having, as the servant said, left for Normandy. "I am just starting, Ulred. Which will be at York first, you or I?" "It depends upon the wind, my lord. A ship can sail night and day, but a horse and rider must take some rest. It may be that we shall lay to at night, but that must depend upon the shipmaster. If the breeze holds and the ship goes on without stopping, methinks we shall be there before you." "At any rate," Beorn said, "we may feel sure that we shall both be in time. Whatever their designs they will have to lay their plans and wait their opportunity, and such may not come for some time. Farewell, then, Ulred, and a safe voyage to you. As for me, I have had enough of the sea, and never wish to set foot on board ship again; for what with the want of space and the tossing and the sickness, I would rather pass the time in bonds in a prison cell than be cooped up in a ship." A few minutes later Beorn, attended by his servants, started for the North, and in the afternoon Ulred, after giving many orders to his head man as to the conduct of his business during his absence, took boat, and with Ulf went on board the ship. To the armourer it was a very serious undertaking upon which he was embarking. He had never before set foot on board of a ship, and a sea-voyage in those days was regarded as a very dangerous business. Nothing short of his loyalty to Harold would have induced him to have ventured on such an expedition. It was but a few months since that the Northumbrians had been burning and sacking the country round Northampton, and even putting aside the dangers of the sea, he regarded the visit to the North as full of peril. Ulf on the other hand was delighted. To him the journey was full of interest and excitement, and on his return he would be regarded as a great traveller by his comrades. His face, therefore, as he climbed on board ship, was in strong contrast to the grave and serious visage of his master. Before the vessel had passed Greenwich he had made the acquaintance of the two ship's-boys, and soon felt perfectly at home on board. He watched with great interest other craft that they met or passed, and noted with great satisfaction that they overhauled several who had, when first seen, been two or three miles ahead. The wind was blowing briskly from the south-west, and with her great sail set the vessel ran quickly through the water. Even when the tide turned she held on her course, and keeping close inshore made good way against it. Many times during the night he went out from the close sleeping-place to assure himself that the vessel was still making way. When morning broke the tide had again turned, and Ulf found that the vessel was now holding her course near the middle of the river, which had widened to an extent that seemed wonderful to him. "Where have we got to now?" he asked one of the boys. "Are we out at sea? There does not seem to be any land on the right hand." "You would see it if it were clear. We are just opposite Foulness." "The vessel rolls about a good deal." "Do you feel ill?" the boy laughed. "This is nothing." "No; I feel hungry, but that is all." "If the wind holds as it is we shall not have it rougher than this, for we shall steer more and more north, and as we always keep inside the sands the land will shelter us. The shortest passage is straight ahead, but we generally go through a channel between two sands into the Wallet, which lies between the sands and the Essex shore. There are not many ship-masters who will come down the river below Sheerness at night, and even our master would not try it with a falling tide; but even if one does touch when the tide is rising, one soon gets off again. She won't roll about so much when we get inside the sands; and besides, I heard the master say that he thought the wind would fall lighter as the sun got up." "I should like it to keep on just as it is," Ulf said. "I do not want it to blow so hard that we must go into port, and I don't want it to blow so light that we shall go slowly." "What are you in such a hurry for?" the boy asked. "There are some people my master knows who have gone up in a ship that started yesterday morning, and my master wants to be there before them." "You need not be afraid, he is sure to be there first. Like enough we have passed them already. The wind was not so strong yesterday as it was in the night, and I expect they had to anchor when the tide turned. If they have a master who knows the sands well they may have gone on when the tide turned again, but it was likely they would anchor before they got down to Sheerness. If they did, we passed them three or four hours ago. But anyhow you are sure to be in first. We often beat vessels that started with us, by a week. Most of them go outside all the sands when it is fine weather, but we always keep inside; and it makes a great difference, for the tides do not run so strong, and even with a light wind we can make way against them, while those outside have to anchor." "I can't make out how you can find your way in the dark." "If it is a thick night and the weather is bad we anchor, but when it is clear enough to see the stars, or if the wind is steady so as to give us our direction, we go on. There is a man always standing at the side with a lead-line, and that tells us the depth of water, which is quite guide enough for the master. Of course we never sail in rough weather, for if we went on the sand then we should soon go to pieces; but if it is fine when we stick fast, which is very seldom, we put out the anchor and lower the sail, and go to sleep until the tide floats us again. Come up into the top; you can see a great deal farther from there than you can from the deck." Ulf found no difficulty in mounting to the top, although he was much longer than his companion in getting up. There were several sail following them, and Ulf was surprised at the knowledge his companion showed of vessels that appeared to him almost precisely similar. "The one nearest to us is the Alfred," he said. "I know her by that patch on her sail. She trades with Harwich. Those two smaller craft behind are bound, I should say, for Colchester or Maldon. That craft two miles ahead of us is a foreigner. You can see her sail has a longer yard than the others, and the sail is narrower at the bottom than it is at the top. Those two or three small craft you see more inshore have passed through the channel we shall follow into the Wallet. The farthest one is going on to Harwich, the others into the rivers. There is a craft about our own size hull down close by the land. She may be going to Harwich, or may be going on north. She looks to me like a foreigner. If so, she has come last from London. French and Flemish ships do not come within fifty miles of this. And now I must go down. We do the cooking, and breakfast must be ready in half an hour, or the master will be storming at us." The wind held steadily from the south-west, and the vessel ran along near the shore in smooth water. The armourer had been ill the first night, but he came on deck soon after breakfast, and when once the vessel was past the mouth of Harwich Bay and was close inland, he soon recovered. On the morning of the fourth day after leaving port she entered the mouth of the Humber, and by nine o'clock arrived at Hull. Landing at once the armourer found a small vessel on the point of starting for York, and in half an hour from the time of weighing anchor the tide turned, and they ran rapidly along, helped by the flood. "At what time will you reach York?" the armourer asked the master. "By daylight to-morrow. We shall sail on until the flood is spent, and then anchor and go on again as soon as the ebb has done." "How far will you be from York when you anchor?" "We shall most likely get to Selby, some fourteen miles away by the road, though farther by the turns of the river." "Could you put us ashore there, for we are anxious to reach the city as soon as possible?" "Oh, yes. I will put you ashore in the boat either there or wherever else we may bring up." They were three miles short of Selby when the ebb began to come down and the anchor was dropped. The armourer and Ulf were at once landed, and shouldering their bundles they set out at a brisk pace and passed through Selby at four o'clock. No questions were asked them. There was but small difference of dress between the people of the various parts of England, and it was no unusual sight to see traders and others passing along the road on their way to the Northern capital. "I am right glad to be on firm land again," Ulred said; "for although, after the first night, matters have been better than I expected, there was always a movement that seemed to make my head swim." "I liked it, master," Ulf said, "and if it were not that I am going to be an armourer I would gladly be a sailor." "You might not have said so if you had seen bad weather; and moreover, it is one thing to be a passenger with nought to do but to amuse yourself, and another to be always hauling at ropes and washing down decks as a sailor. I am glad night is coming on, for I feel strange in this country I know nothing of, and in the dark one place is like another." "I would much rather walk along this road in the dark," Ulf laughed, "than along some of the streets of London, where one may step any moment into a deep hole or stumble into a heap of refuse." "At any rate, in the dark no one can see we are strangers, Ulf, and though I should not think there would be robbers on the road so near to York, these Danes are rough folk, and I want to meet none of them. One man, or even two, I in no ways fear, but when it comes to half a dozen even the best sword-player may wish himself out of it." They met, however, but one or two men on the road, and beyond exchanging the usual salutation nothing was said; but Ulred was well pleased when about seven o'clock they entered the streets of York. They had already learned that the royal marriage had taken place on the previous day, and that the king was expected to remain in York two days longer before journeying south. There was a banquet being held at the archbishop's palace, where the king was lodged, and on arriving there they found that it would at present be impossible to get at Wulf, as supper had just been served. A small bribe, however, was sufficient to induce one of the bishop's servants to take the message to Osgod, who would be stationed near his master's chair, that his father was at the entrance and prayed him to come out to him as soon as possible. A few minutes later the tall Saxon came out with an expression of utter bewilderment on his face. "Is it really you, father, in flesh and blood?" he exclaimed as his eyes fell on Ulred. "I have never been taken for a ghost, Osgod, and if I were to give thee a buffet methinks you would have no doubt upon the matter." "But what brings you here, father? If they had told me that the great Abbey tower stood without I could not be more surprised." "Do you not see that I have brought Ulf with me, Osgod? If your head were not so thick you would guess at once that I have come about the business with which he was charged." Osgod looked relieved. That his father should be in York had seemed to him so strange and outrageous that he had first doubted his own eyes, and then his father's sanity. Now for the first time the object of his coming flashed upon him. "Is there danger, father?" "Methinks there is great danger. But the story is a long one." "Then I cannot wait to hear it now, for I must needs return to Wulf. I whispered in his ear that I must leave for a moment, but that I should be back directly." "Then just whisper to him again, Osgod, that I have urgent need for speech with him. I suppose Beorn has not arrived?" "Beorn!" Osgod repeated vaguely. "The Thane of Fareham," the armourer said sharply. "Are your wits wool-gathering altogether?" "No, he is not here; nor has Wulf said a word of his coming, as he assuredly would have done had he expected him." "Well, when I tell you that he is riding from London, while I have come thence by sea, you may suppose that we thought the matter urgent." "I will tell Wulf at once, father, but I am sure that he cannot come out for an hour yet." "The matter will keep that while. I will go and look for a lodging for us and get something to eat, for we have walked some seventeen miles, and my legs are not so accustomed to exercise as my arms. In an hour we will be here again." Ulred and his apprentice had returned to the gate of the bishop's palace but a few minutes when Wulf came out, followed by Osgod. "Your message must be an important one, indeed, Ulred, to cause you to leave the forge and to undertake so long a voyage. And you say Beorn is riding hither on the same errand?" "He is. It is a sort of race between us, and it seems that we have won." "Let us step aside from here," Wulf said. "There are too many gathered about to stare at the guests as they come and go for us to talk unobserved. The cathedral yard is close by, and there will be no fear of eaves-droppers there." "It is Ulf's story," the armourer said when they reached the shadow of the cathedral. "It is to him that the matter was committed, and though he was forced to take me into his confidence, the merit of following up the matter, if merit there be, is his." Ulf accordingly related the story of his watching, the discovery he had made by the river, and how Walter Fitz-Urse had been afterwards seen to embark and had not returned. Ulred then stated how he had discovered the ship from which the boat had come, and had seen the Norman go on board, and how, when he learned that the ship had sailed, he had, after seeing Beorn, taken passage in another vessel. "We have come up fast," he said, "and the opinion of the master was that we have gained a full day on any craft that started that morning. Of course, we know not that the villains have come hither; they may have returned to France, they may have gone up some of the other rivers in order to take post on the road the king will follow on his way south. But at any rate we felt it right that you should know that Fitz-Urse, with those with whom he has been holding secret communication, have left London." "You have done rightly indeed, Ulred, and in the king's name and for myself I thank you heartily. Of course, we are still without any proof that Fitz-Urse is conspiring against the king's life. It was unfortunate indeed that Ulf did not understand the first conversation he heard, but I ought to have foreseen that it was likely that any talk Fitz-Urse might have with others would be in Norman. I cannot think now how I could have overlooked such a probability. Of course, in the years that he has been over here he has learnt to speak our language, but it would be with Normans he would deal in the matter of which we suspect him. I will give myself the night to think over the matter before I decide what steps we had better take. Inside the bishop's palace, at any rate, the king is safe, and, as you say, it is not likely that the Normans can be here for a day at least. If their ship is a French one the master will be ignorant of the dangers of the coast, and instead of threading his way through the channels of the sands, as your master did, will have held his course far outside them. I would we knew how many men are engaged in the matter." "As to that we have no clue," the armourer said. "There was the man of his own rank and the other two who met him on the bank, but whether these were all, or whether there were a score of others on board the ship, I know not. Certainly none showed themselves on the deck while I was watching them. But this proves nothing. They would naturally be kept in concealment, for had there been an unusual number of men on board, inquiries would have been made as to whom they were and their business." "I will meet you here at seven to-morrow morning, Ulred, and we shall then have time to talk the matter over more fully."

17

AN ATTEMPT AT ASSASSINATION.

When Wulf met the armourer next morning in the cathedral close he was accompanied by Beorn, who said, laughing, to the latter, "You have beaten me fairly, friend Ulred, and it is well that I had no wager with you on the race. But it was not by much, for I rode in here as the bells were chiming eleven. I was glad to hear from Wulf when I roused him up that he had learnt all the news from you, for indeed I was sore weary, and was right pleased to wrap myself in my cloak and go straight to sleep instead of having to sit up for an hour expounding my story." "We have resolved in the first place, Ulred, to say nought of this matter to the king," began Wulf. "He will have enough to occupy all his thoughts in the affairs of the kingdom, and in the second place his nature is so open that he will refuse to believe in such villainy unless upon strong proof, and of actual proof we have none. Beorn's appearance here will excite no surprise. He will say that having nought in particular to occupy him he had ridden north to be at the wedding, and finding that he was too late, would at any rate ride back with the king. With him and me and Osgod ever on the watch, methinks there will be little fear of a surprise; and it is by surprise only that they can succeed, for Harold himself is a match for any four or five ordinary men if he has but time to draw his sword. I will, however, on some excuse have half a score of Harold's housecarls placed under my orders, and sleeping or waking the king shall never be a moment unguarded. "I should not think it is likely that Fitz-Urse will have more than five or six men associated with him in such an enterprise. He would not take more into his confidence than he could help, and six would suffice as well as a score for a surprise; and that number could travel in disguise without exciting attention, while twenty would assuredly do so; therefore I feel sure that we shall not have to deal with more than six, including the two leaders. Ulf, do you station yourself at the river-bank and mark any vessels arriving. If the men come hither they will probably do as you did, leave their ship at Hull and come up by a local trader. They would thus avoid all questions they might be asked if passing through the country on foot." "And what is there for me to do, my lord Wulf?" the armourer said. "Frankly, I have gone so far in this matter that I would fain see it through." "Of course we reckon upon you, Ulred. I have been talking it over with Beorn, and it seemed to us that the best thing will be for you to ride with Osgod. You can either make some slight change in your clothes and ride as a man of mine, or you can ride as Osgod's father, who, having come up here on matters connected with your business, have obtained permission to ride in my train with him. I will see that you have that permission." "I care not how I go so that I can be at hand if there is a blow to be struck for the king." "Then in that case, Ulred, it were best you went as my man, for you would then have the entry of the houses where the king will stop and can aid us in keeping guard." "That will do well for me," Ulred replied. "Ulf had best journey back as he came. He might go by ship after the king has left here." "No, he shall travel with us. I will see the chamberlain who has charge of the arrangements of the journey, and will get leave for him to ride in the waggons with the servants." During the three days before the king left York Ulf kept a vigilant watch over the boats that came up the river, but he could see nothing of the men he was searching for. Wulf had bought a horse for the armourer, and when they started the latter took his place by Osgod's side, while Ulf was seated in one of the waggons. The king rode with Bishop Wulfstan, next to them rode the four thanes who had accompanied them through their journey, and next to these Wulf and Beorn came on together. Behind came the queen's litter, with a guard of housecarls, the main body of whom rode just behind, while the waggons and servants brought up the rear. "We need not trouble ourselves on the march, Beorn. It is not while the king rides with so strong a following that the blow will be struck." "I see not when they can ever get a chance," Beorn said. "The king will stop always at religious houses, and they will scarcely storm a convent to get at him." "They would not attempt to storm it, Beorn, but they might enter it secretly. But for my own part I think the most dangerous time is when he mounts or dismounts. There is always a crowd assembled to see him, and two or three reckless men might rush forward and stab him." "It would be at the cost of their own lives," Beorn objected. "It might be, but they would reckon much on the confusion that would follow, and might think so to get away. They would probably have horses somewhere close at hand, and might ride for the port where they had left their ship. It is a great stake they are playing for, and doubtless they are desperate men; though they would know the danger they might calculate that some at least would escape to claim the reward. Then again, they might manage to mingle with the servitors at one of the places where we stop. This would not be difficult, for many beside the usual establishment would be hired to aid in the preparations for the reception of the king. That might be their safest plan, for were he stabbed suddenly at a meal the assassins might very well escape in the confusion." The first night they slept at a monastery at the village of Bautre. The establishment was but a small one, and could entertain only the king and queen, with the thanes and their personal attendants. The rest of the train were lodged in the village. Although they had little fear that an attack would be ventured in so quiet a village where the presence of strangers would at once attract attention, Wulf, Beorn, and Osgod kept watch in turns all night in the corridor. The night passed without cause of alarm, and the next day they rode to Nottingham, where they were lodged in the bishop's palace. Beorn and Wulf agreed that this was the place where there was the greatest likelihood of an attack being made on Harold's life. The ship might have sailed up the river and landed her passengers a few miles from the town, where, among the number of country people who would flock in to obtain sight of the king, no one would think of questioning strangers. The armourer and Ulf were charged to wander about the streets, and to closely scan every face. Wulf had with some difficulty obtained from Harold the command of twelve of the soldiers. "I have my reasons, my lord king, though I would rather not state them. I would remind you that I have shown that it is not my habit to take alarm lightly. Your brother Gurth laughed at me when I begged to watch over his camp with my housecarls, and I saved him from a sudden attack by the Welsh thereby." "Then you think that there is danger of an attack upon me, Wulf?" "I said not so, my lord. I have only begged you to appoint twelve of your men to obey my orders solely, during your journey to London." "You shall do as you like, Wulf," the king said at last. "You have proved yourself brave as well as prudent before now, and are not given to vain fears, therefore do as you please, but let me know nought about it. I shall have to receive the visits of all the thanes of the neighbourhood when I reach Nottingham, and the same in other towns. There will be many persons coming in with petitions for the redress of grievances, and I would not have my thoughts disturbed by other matters." "You shall know nought about it, my lord," Wulf said. "It is like enough that nothing will come of the matter, and none will be more glad than myself to find that I am mistaken." Orders accordingly had been given to the officer of the king's guard to hand over twelve of his men to Wulf, and the latter had begged him to choose twelve of his most intelligent men for this service. As soon as they reached Nottingham Wulf took his small command aside. "You have been chosen," he said, "for a special duty. I have learned that there are disaffected men who may possibly make an attempt on the king's life. You are to say no word of what I tell you to anyone. Meet me over by that wall half an hour after sunset. Gather quietly one by one so as to attract no attention. You will be posted round the palace, to keep watch and ward during the night. As soon as it is daylight half of you will lie down and sleep till mid-day, and then be in readiness for fresh duty. The others I will instruct as to where to hold themselves. The king will remain here two days, and watch must be kept over his safety night and day." As soon as their apartments were assigned to the different guests Wulf went outside and examined the windows of the rooms to be occupied by the king. They were on the first floor, and looked into a garden surrounded by a high wall. "At any rate, there is little fear of a successful surprise from this side," Wulf said to Beorn, who was with him. "It would need a ladder to scale the wall; this would have to be pulled up for them to descend into the garden, and then carried across to mount to the window. If we post Ulred with two men here and let four others lie down near to change guard every two hours, it will be ample, for on an alarm being given, the Normans however numerous will see that their attempt must fail. We can therefore send the other six to bed after supper is over, for we cannot suppose that they would be so daring as to force their way into the palace at any other point." As soon as it was dark Ulred and six of the soldiers were placed in the garden; the others were directed to hold themselves in readiness to take their post in the banqueting-hall. Just before the bell sounded for supper Wulf was told that a boy desired to speak to him at the gate. He hurried out, and, as he expected, saw Ulf waiting there. "What news, Ulf,--hast seen Walter Fitz-Urse?" "I have not seen him, my lord, but I am sure that I heard him speak. There was a great crowd in the square after the king had entered, and among those round me I heard one man speak to another in a foreign tongue, and the voice was assuredly that of Walter Fitz-Urse. It was but two or three words he said, but having listened to him for well-nigh half an hour that night by the river, I am certain I was not mistaken in the voice. Close beside me were two cowled monks, and I believe that it was one of them who spoke. I looked round at the faces of the other men standing near, but they all seemed honest countrymen or town folk. I should have followed the monks to see where they went, but at that moment there was a rush among the crowd to see some mummers who had just commenced their antics, and I was swept along by it; and though I have been searching ever since, and have so stared up into the cowls of monks, that I have been cursed as an insolent boy many times, I have not seen our man." "Thanks, Ulf. It is something to have learned that he is here. As to his disguise, he may by this time have changed it. Still, I will be on my guard, and will take care that no cowled monk approaches too closely to the king. Take your place here at the gate and watch all who come in and out, and if you see aught suspicious send in a soldier, whom I will place by your side, to fetch me out." One of the men was accordingly placed with the boy with orders to come to Wulf, whether at the table or in the king's room, the moment Ulf told him to do so. When the others went into the banquet Wulf posted two men just outside the door, and placed the other three back against the wall nearest to the king's chair. Here, standing against the arras, they were concealed from the sight of the guests by the crowd of servitors passing to and fro. "Stand with your hands on your daggers," Wulf said to them, "and watch every man who approaches the king, no matter of what degree he may appear. Be ready to spring forward in an instant if you see his hand go to his dagger." The bishop and king sat next to each other in the centre of the table on the dais; on either side were the king's thanes, abbots and other dignitaries of the church, and the nobles of the country. Wulf and Beorn had begged to be excused from supping, and permission had been readily granted by the king, as he knew that the bishop would be glad at having two extra seats at his disposal; and they also, standing back by the wall, closely scrutinized the movements of the attendants. It was a relief to them when supper was over and the bishop and his principal guests retired to a private room. The five soldiers were then told that they would not be required until morning. Wulf went out to the gate, and learnt from Ulf that he had seen no one enter whom he took for Fitz-Urse. "He may have gone in by some other entrance, my lord," he said, "for there are three or four ways into the palace." "We shall be on watch inside, Ulf. You need stay no longer. Be here in the morning at seven." After the king and queen had retired to bed and the palace was quiet Wulf, Beorn, and Osgod stole from their room, and noiselessly passed along the corridors until they came to the king's apartment, and then lay down across the door. They were to keep watch in turns, Osgod being told to keep the first watch and to rouse Wulf at midnight. This he did, and Wulf lay for some time listening intently. The corridor was faintly lit by two lamps, one at either end. Wulf had chosen the middle watch, because he thought that if any attempt was made it would be soon after midnight, as the assassins would wish to have many hours of darkness in which to make their escape. He knew that Beorn was a sound sleeper, and could scarcely be trusted to keep awake from midnight until four o'clock, and that it were best he himself watched during that time. Half an hour passed, and then he heard a very slight noise. A moment later four figures appeared at the end of the corridor. He dared not wake his companions, for they might speak or move, but he grasped his sword-hilt, having drawn the blade in readiness when Osgod woke him. The men advanced stealthily, and as they approached he saw they had drawn swords in their hands. They paused a few paces away, and in a whisper one said: "Here are three fellows asleep; what shall we do with them?" "Draw your daggers and stab them to the heart," another replied. "Each take one, and do not bungle over it. As you strike I will open the door and rush in. Now!" Wulf had gathered his legs under him in readiness to spring to his feet as soon as he saw the figures, and as they swiftly advanced he leapt up with a shout and crossed swords with the man nearest to him. "Cut him down! Kill him! It is too late to draw back now!" one of the men cried. The others, who had recoiled a moment when Wulf sprang up, rushed at him just as he cut down the man he had first engaged. "Cut them down and fly!" the one who had before given orders exclaimed, lunging furiously at Wulf. "Easier said than done, Walter Fitz-Urse!" Wulf exclaimed, as he parried a blow and dealt one in return. It lighted on his opponent's shoulder, but the blade shivered in his hand, for it had fallen upon mail armour concealed under the Norman's garment. "It is my turn now!" Fitz-Urse exclaimed, and raised his sword to strike a sweeping blow at Wulf's head, but before it could fall the latter leapt forward and caught the uplifted wrist, the impetus of the spring throwing his opponent backwards, while Wulf fell heavily upon him, and for a moment they rolled over and over. But Wulf was by far the most powerful, and speedily got the upper hand. He had not noticed that his opponent, while holding his sword in his right hand, had his dagger already drawn in his left. The sword had flown from Fitz-Urse's hand as he fell, and Wulf, believing him to be powerless, glanced round to see how the fray went with the others, when the Norman stabbed him deeply in the side. Before he could repeat the blow Wulf snatched his own dagger from his girdle and buried it in the assassin's throat Then he raised himself on his left hand. It was but a matter of seconds since the fight had commenced, but it was already over. Osgod had slain one man, Beorn was following a flying opponent down the corridor, and Harold, sword in hand, had just rushed from his chamber. Wulf saw no more, but fell over insensible by the side of his adversary. "What is all this?" Harold shouted as he turned to Osgod, the only figure standing, raising his sword as he spoke, for in the dim light he did not recognize him. "It means, my lord, that there has been an attempt on your life. I am Osgod, Wulf's man. I fear my brave young master is killed!" and he dropped on his knees by Wulf's side. By this time doors were opening all along the corridor, and the king's thanes and other guests, awakened by Wulf's shout and the clashing of swords, were pouring out, armed with the first weapon they could snatch up. "Bring lights!" Harold shouted. "My life has been attempted, and I fear that the brave Thane of Steyning is killed." The alarm spread fast, and the palace so lately hushed and silent was now in an uproar, while the bishop with many other ecclesiastics, with servants, retainers, and men-at-arms, mingled with the thanes. "Keep all back!" Harold cried. "Let none approach these bodies until we have examined them." Torches were soon brought. Harold seized one, and bent over Wulf's body. "Is he dead?" "His heart beats, but feebly, my lord," Osgod replied. "Where is he hurt?" "There is a great patch of blood here on his right side just over the hip. I see no other sign of a wound." "We will carry him into my chamber," the king said. "But no; I forgot, the queen is there. We will take him into the room opposite; it matters not whose it is. Now, Osgod, aid me to lift him gently. Bishop, I pray you send for the leeches most skilled in the treatment of sword wounds in the city." Then he and Osgod carried Wulf into the chamber opposite his own, and laid him on a pallet. "Now see to the staunching of the flow of blood till the leeches arrive. I must inquire into this matter. Who knows aught about it?" he asked as he went out into the corridor. "I do, my lord king," Beorn replied as he pushed his way through the throng. "It was a plot to take your life. Wulf, his man Osgod, and myself had no certain knowledge of it, but we had cause for suspicion, and therefore lay outside your door. We were to take it in turns to watch. Wulf was on guard, and as I awoke at his shout I saw him cut down that villain who lies there with a cleft skull There were three others. I fell upon one, Osgod took another, while Wulf engaged the man who seemed to be the leader. Wulf's sword broke, but he closed with his opponent and they fell together. Osgod ran his man through, and my opponent fled. I could not catch him until he reached the door, but as that was closed he could fly no farther, and I slew him there." "Who and what are these men, good Beorn?" "They are, I believe, Normans; but I know naught for certain beyond the fact that the leader, he with whom Wulf was engaged, is Walter Fitz-Urse, who was a page of the Bishop William of London, and was well known at the court." Exclamations of fury and indignation broke from those around, with the cries of "Death to the Normans!" Harold raised his hand. "Silence, my friends. Let us be fair and just as it becomes Englishmen. There are villains of all nations, and it is not because four caitiffs have thought to do a good service to their duke by getting rid of me that we should blame men who will abhor this crime as much as we can do. First let us see if Beorn is right as to this man. Hold a torch to his face. It is Fitz-Urse truly. He was of knightly blood, but has died in a most unknightly business. Wulf's dagger is still in his throat. Let us see if we know anything of the others." "I think that you will find them all strangers, my lord," Beorn said. "I believe they came from beyond the sea to do this deed." The man whom Wulf had first slain was evidently by his dress a person of some rank; the other was of inferior station, as was also, as it was found, the man Beorn had killed. "Now, my lord bishop," the king said calmly, "we have a right next to ask you how these men came to be in your palace. Know you aught of them?" "I know nothing of them," the bishop replied. "So far as I am aware I have never seen any of their faces before, and assuredly they were not here with my cognizance. I will at once question all my people shrewdly, and woe be to him who has admitted strangers here unknown to me at the time when you were beneath my roof." "And have this house searched from basement to roof, bishop. It may be that there are others in hiding." "With your permission, my lord," said Beorn, "I will at once take your men, of whom we have posted six under your window, and will call up some more and search the town. It is likely that there are others without with horses held in readiness for these assassins to escape." "Do so, Beorn. It will be well if we can catch some at least, so that we can get to the bottom of this matter." The bishop at once ordered his armed retainers to accompany Beorn, and then proceeded to interrogate his officials and the domestics, and to see that the latter made a complete search of the palace. All denied any knowledge of strangers having entered, and the search revealed nothing but four monks' gowns and hoods found wrapped up in a bundle in a small room downstairs. Further questions had been then put. Some of the domestics remembered that four monks had entered the palace late in the evening, and one of the under chamberlains said that he had seen them, and they had told him that they had just arrived from Flanders, and craved permission to sleep in the palace for the night, as they were going on to Peterborough in the morning. He had told them that this was impossible, as he could give no permission without the leave of the bishop, who was at present with the king and could not be disturbed, and that, moreover, every room in the palace was occupied. He had given them the address of a citizen, who would he was sure take them in. They had thanked him, and said that they would go there, but doubtless instead of doing so they had slipped aside, and had hidden themselves in the room where their gowns were found. It was one used only for the storage of garments for poor travellers who came along, and no one was likely to enter it on such an evening. This discovery was a great relief to the bishop and all within the palace, as it showed that they were not there with the connivance of any of the prelate's people. Before the matter was fully unravelled Beorn returned. They had in a quiet spot a short distance from the palace come upon two men with six horses. Before they could run up and seize them the two men had leapt up into the saddles and galloped furiously away. Unfortunately the other four horses had followed, and immediate pursuit was therefore impossible. The housecarls had run to the spot where their horses were stabled and had gone off in pursuit, but Beorn feared that the men would have far too great a start to be overtaken. One of the officers had ridden with the housecarls, and Beorn had told him to keep by the river-bank, as the men would assuredly make for a ship that was lying somewhere down the river, though whether at a distance of two miles or of twenty he knew not. Long before Beorn's return Wulf's wound had been examined. Unguents had been poured into it and bandages applied. The surgeons were of opinion that it was a very grave one, but that at present they could not say how the matter would terminate. "Your story will keep till the morning, Beorn," the king said. "It is still five hours to daylight, and we may as well retire to rest, unless, indeed, you know that there are others engaged in the affair in London or elsewhere who should be arrested before the news of the night's business reaches them." "I know of none such," Beorn said, "and believe that these four and the two who have escaped were alone concerned in it. I will bring with me in the morning a man and a boy who know more than I do of the matter; they and Osgod, with whom Wulf will assuredly have talked it over, will be able to tell you all that was known up to the moment when these men entered the palace." The armourer and Ulf told their story in the morning, and Beorn took Osgod's place by Wulf's bedside, while he too was questioned by the king. The latter then went to Wulf's chamber. "What say the leeches this morning, Beorn? "They are somewhat more hopeful, my lord. They say that his heart beats more strongly than it did last night, Osgod says that he has not moved or opened his eyes, but they say that this is not a bad sign, and that it may be anxiety has brought on an exhaustion, for his breathing is more like that of one who sleeps than of a man wounded to death." "His face has grieviously changed since yesterday," the king said sadly, looking down upon Wulf. "I would give my right hand rather than that he should die. You have of a surety saved my life among you, Beorn, you and his stout man-at-arms and the worthy armourer and that shrewd apprentice of his for had they entered my chamber and taken me unawares they would have slain me without doubt." "I have done the best I could since I learnt from the armourer the suspicion that Wulf entertained, but the whole thing is Wulf's doing. Had I heard that Walter Fitz-Urse was back in London I should have given the matter no further thought than that it was one Norman the more. It was, as he told me, some words that Baron de Burg said when he saw him over in Normandy the other day that first set him thinking. Then, he could not understand why Fitz-Urse should return to London at this time, when Normans are not overwelcome there, and this caused him to have some sort of suspicion as to his reasons for undertaking such a journey, and determined him to set a watch on the fellow's movements. Had it been any other than Wulf who had so acted I should have laughed at his suspicions. But he is as a brother to me, and knowing how sharp are his wits I am always well content to follow him without question. I first heard of the matter after the discovery that the Norman was having secret meetings with some of his countrymen who were concealed on board a ship, and I at once felt sure that Wulf had not been running on a false trail, and so did the little I could to aid those who had the matter in hand." "You have done well, Beorn, though as you say it is doubtless Wulf to whom the chief credit is due. I regretted at first that the other two men had escaped, but had they been taken they might, to save their own lives, have implicated others, and I might have been forced to lay a complaint against the Duke of Normandy. As it is now, the matter is at an end. Four men have tried to murder me, and have been killed. Their bodies have been buried this morning, and there is no more to be said about it. "I was obliged to go down and show myself to the people an hour since, for they assembled in a great crowd, clamouring to see me so that they might know I was safe. I told them that while I thanked them for their loyal care, there was nought to be alarmed about. It was true that there had been an attempt on my life by four men, of whom the leader had a private grudge against me for a disservice I did him some years ago, but that all had been killed by my guards without even penetrating my chamber, and that I had run no sort of personal risk, nor had I any reason whatever to suppose that the malefactors had accomplices either within or without the palace." Late in the evening, when the surgeons were applying pungent salts to his nostrils, Wulf opened his eyes. Osgod was standing beside him holding one of his hands. "It is all well, master," he said. "We finished them all off, and no harm has happened to the king. You have been hurt, but I hope you will soon be better. The leeches say that you are not to talk, and you had best sleep as much as you can. They have got some stuff for you to drink here; do you lie still and I will pour it between your lips." A look of intelligence came into Wulf's eyes as Osgod spoke; he smiled faintly, and murmured, "Thank God, the king is safe!" He swallowed a few spoonfuls of the potion Osgod held to his lips, and then closing his eyes his regular breathing soon showed that he was again asleep. On the following day the king proceeded on his way to London, Beorn remaining to nurse Wulf. The king would have loaded Ulred with presents, but the sturdy armourer refused to receive anything save a small gold cup in remembrance. "I want no reward for doing my duty," he said. "I have my trade that keeps me, and should be no happier were I laden with money. All that I have done in the matter has been to watch for a few hours at a window, and to make a journey by ship to York, and I should be ashamed of myself indeed if I could not take that slight trouble for my king without looking for a reward." As to Ulf he was thanked and praised, but the king decided to take no steps to alter his condition until Wulf should be well enough to be consulted in the matter. It was a fortnight before the doctors were able to state with any confidence that the young thane was on the road towards recovery, and still another month before he had gained sufficient strength to be carried in a litter to London.