Table of Contents

"Clara Maynard"

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

"Voyages and Travels of Count Funnibos and Baron Stilkin"

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Twelve.

Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Fourteen.

Chapter Fifteen.

Chapter Sixteen.

"Count Ulrich of Lindburg"

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

"Dick Cheveley"

Preface.

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Twelve.

Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Fourteen.

Chapter Fifteen.

Chapter Sixteen.

Chapter Seventeen.

Chapter Eighteen.

Chapter Nineteen.

Chapter Twenty.

"The Circassian Chief"

Volume One—Chapter One.

Volume One—Chapter Two.

Volume One—Chapter Three.

Volume One—Chapter Four.

Volume One—Chapter Five.

Volume One—Chapter Six.

Volume One—Chapter Seven.

Volume One—Chapter Eight.

Volume One—Chapter Nine.

Volume One—Chapter Ten.

Volume One—Chapter Eleven.

Volume One—Chapter Twelve.

Volume One—Chapter Thirteen.

Volume One—Chapter Fourteen.

Volume One—Chapter Fifteen.

Volume One—Chapter Sixteen.

Volume One—Chapter Seventeen.

Volume One—Chapter Eighteen.

Volume One—Chapter Nineteen.

Volume Two—Chapter One.

Volume Two—Chapter Two.

Volume Two—Chapter Three.

Volume Two—Chapter Four.

Volume Two—Chapter Five.

Volume Two—Chapter Six.

Volume Two—Chapter Seven.

Volume Two—Chapter Eight.

Volume Two—Chapter Nine.

Volume Two—Chapter Ten.

Volume Two—Chapter Eleven.

Volume Two—Chapter Twelve.

Volume Two—Chapter Thirteen.

Volume Two—Chapter Fourteen.

Volume Two—Chapter Fifteen.

Volume Two—Chapter Sixteen.

Volume Two—Chapter Seventeen.

Volume Three—Chapter One.

Volume Three—Chapter Two.

Volume Three—Chapter Three.

Volume Three—Chapter Four.

Volume Three—Chapter Five.

Volume Three—Chapter Six.

Volume Three—Chapter Seven.

Volume Three—Chapter Eight.

Volume Three—Chapter Nine.

Volume Three—Chapter Ten.

Volume Three—Chapter Eleven.

Volume Three—Chapter Twelve.

Volume Three—Chapter Thirteen.

Volume Three—Chapter Fourteen.

Volume Three—Chapter Fifteen.

Volume Three—Chapter Sixteen.

"The Cruise of the Dainty"

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

"The Cruise of the Frolic"

Preface.

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Twelve.

Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Fourteen.

Chapter Fifteen.

Chapter Sixteen.

Chapter Seventeen.

Chapter Eighteen.

Chapter Nineteen.

Chapter Twenty.

Chapter Twenty One.

Chapter Twenty Two.

Chapter Twenty Three.

Chapter Twenty Four.

Chapter Twenty Five.

"The Cruise of the Mary Rose"

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Twelve.

Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Fourteen.

Chapter Fifteen.

Chapter Sixteen.

Chapter Seventeen.

Chapter Eighteen.

Chapter Nineteen.

Chapter Twenty.

Chapter Twenty One.

Chapter Twenty Two.

W.H.G. Kingston

"Clara Maynard"

Chapter One.

The blue waters of the British Channel sparkled brightly in the rays of the sun, shining forth from a cloudless sky, as a light breeze from the northward filled the sails of a small yacht which glided smoothly along the southern coast of England. At the helm of the little vessel stood her owner, Captain Maynard, a retired naval officer. Next to his fair young daughter, Clara, the old sailor looked upon his yacht as one of the most beautiful things in existence. Though her crew consisted but of two men and a boy, and she measured scarcely five-and-twenty tons, he declared that if it were necessary he would sail round the world in her without the slightest hesitation.

“Flatten in the jib, and take a pull at the main-sheet, my lads, and we shall run into the bay without a tack, if the wind holds as it does now,” he sang out.

The men, as they came aft to execute the latter order, had to disturb some of the passengers, of whom there were several, seated on cloaks round the skylight, or standing up holding on to the weather rigging, or leaning against the main-boom. Clara Maynard, accustomed to yachting, promptly moved to windward, aided by Harry Caulfield, a young military officer, who had ridden over that morning to Luton, for the pleasure of making a trip on board the yacht; but her aunt, Miss Sarah Pemberton, looked somewhat annoyed at being asked to shift her seat. Harry, however, came to her assistance, and placed a camp-stool for her against the weather bulwarks.

“I am sorry, Sarah, to inconvenience you,” said the captain, good-naturedly, “but we haven’t as much room on board the Ariadne as on the deck of a line-of-battle ship.”

The captain had called his yacht after the first ship in which he went to sea.

The cutter having rounded a lofty point, a small and beautiful bay opened out ahead; and the wind remaining steady, without making another tack, she stood in directly for it.

“We could not have chosen a more lovely spot for our picnic,” exclaimed Clara. “See, Aunt Sarah—I am sure you will be pleased when you get there. Watch those picturesque cliffs, ever changing in shape as we sail along—and see those breezy downs above them, and the fine yellow sands below, and that pretty valley with the old fisherman’s cottage on one side, and the clear stream running down its centre, and leaping over the rocks in a tiny cascade.”

“I shall be very glad to get safe on shore,” answered Miss Pemberton, who had been persuaded, much against her will, to venture for the first time on board the little Ariadne.

She had been invited, on the death of Clara’s mother, her younger sister, to take up her abode with her widowed brother-in-law, and had only lately accepted his frequently repeated offer. Whatever good qualities she might have possessed, she was certainly not attractive in appearance, being tall and thin, with a cold and forbidding manner. Clara treated her aunt with due respect, and did all she could to win her affections, though she tried in vain to bestow that love she would willingly have given. Miss Pemberton presented a strong contrast to her niece, who was generally admired. Clara was very fair, of moderate height, and of a slight and elegant figure, with regular features and a pleasing smile; though a physiognomist might have suspected that she wanted the valuable quality of firmness, which in her position was especially necessary; for she already possessed a good fortune, and would inherit a considerable one. Her father, although a sailor of the old school, was not destitute of discernment, and thoroughly understanding her character, earnestly wished to see her married to a sensible, upright man, who would protect her and take good care of her property. He had therefore given every encouragement to Harry Caulfield, son of his old and esteemed friend, General Caulfield. He had known and liked Harry from his boyhood, and fully believed that he possessed those sterling qualities which would tend to secure his daughter’s happiness. Harry had met her when staying with some friends at Cheltenham, and admired her before he knew that she possessed a fortune. He had thus the satisfaction of feeling that his love was purely disinterested. Of this she was aware, and it had greatly influenced her in returning his affection. When Clara wrote to her father, from whom she had no concealments, to tell him of the attention she was receiving from Captain Caulfield, his reply was, “I am very glad indeed to hear it; nothing could give me greater pleasure. Tell him to come down to Luton, and that I shall be delighted to see him.”

Clara shortly afterwards returned home with her Aunt Sarah, and Harry of course followed, accompanied by his father, the general, who, finding a house in the neighbourhood vacant, engaged it for the sake of being near Captain Maynard, and thus enabling the young people to be together without depriving himself of his son’s society. Harry’s regiment was in India, and he was under orders to rejoin it. Though fond of his profession, in which he had gained distinction, and had every prospect of rising, he at first thought of selling out; but to this his father objected, and even Captain Maynard agreed that, as Clara was very young, they might wait a couple of years till he had obtained another step in rank, and that he would then consent to her accompanying him back, if necessary, to India. The course of true love in this instance appeared to run smoothly enough. Harry was most devoted in his attentions, and admired Clara more and more every day he spent with her—while she was satisfied that it would be impossible for her to love any one more; and had not she felt that it was her duty to remain with her father, she would willingly have married at once, and gone out to India. She saw clearly, however, that her Aunt Sarah was not suited to take her place or attend to her father, as she had observed of late that his health was failing, so that even for Harry’s sake she could not bring herself to quit him. She had therefore consented to Harry’s leaving her, though not without a severe struggle. It was the first shadow which had come over her young and hitherto happy life since the loss of her beloved mother. She was convinced that Harry was in every way worthy of her affections. He was a fine, handsome fellow, with frank agreeable manners, and a large amount of good sense and judgment. He had managed even to win the good opinion of Miss Sarah Pemberton, who was not in general inclined to think well of young men especially of officers in the army, whom she designated generally as an impudent, profligate set, with fluent tongues and insinuating manners, whose chief occupation in life was to break the hearts of young girls foolish enough to trust them.

Among the rest of the company on board the yacht was Mary Lennard, a girl of about fourteen years old, a sweet young creature, and a great favourite of Clara’s. She was the daughter of the Reverend John Lennard, who had been for some years vicar of the parish of Luton-cum-Crosham, but only as locum tenens, he having been requested to take charge of it by the patron, Sir Richard Bygrave, who had promised to bestow it on his young relative, Dick Rushworth, as soon as Dick was of an age to take orders. The said Dick Rushworth, however, having lately unexpectedly come into a fortune, had quitted the university, and declined becoming a clergyman; and Sir Reginald, influenced by his wife, had bestowed the living on her cousin, the Reverend Ambrose Lerew, who had graduated at Oxford, and had been for some time a curate in that diocese. He had lately married a lady somewhat older than himself, possessed of a fair fortune, who had been considered a belle during two or three London seasons, but had failed to secure such a matrimonial alliance as she and her friends considered that she ought to make when she first came out. At length, awakening to the fact that her youth was passing away and her beauty fading, she had consented to give her hand, and as much of a heart as she possessed, to the fashionable-looking and well-connected young curate, an especial favourite of her friend, Lady Bygrave.

Mr Lennard had held the living longer than he had expected, and to the best of his ability had done his duty to his parishioners. He was a genial, warm-hearted man, of good presence; his manners urbane and courteous; fond of a joke, hospitable and kind, being consequently a favourite with all classes. The more wealthy liked him for his pleasant conversation and readiness to enter into all their gaieties and amusements, and the poorer for the kind way in which he spoke to them, and the assistance he afforded on all occasions when they were in distress. He had lost his wife two or three years after he became vicar of Luton-cum-Crosham. She had left two children, his dear little Mary, and a son, Alfred, a tall, pale-faced youth, who was now on board the yacht. The young gentleman had been with a tutor, and was about to go up to Oxford. He was considered very well-behaved; but as he seldom gave expression to his opinions, no one could ascertain much about his character, or how he was likely to turn out. His father always spoke of him as his good boy, who had never given him any trouble, and he fully believed never would cause him a moments’ anxiety. His tutor had sent him home with a high character for diligence in his studies, and attention to his religious duties, which consisted in a regular attendance at church and at the morning and evening prayers of the family; and his father was happy in the belief that he would do very well in the world as a clergyman, or at the bar, or in any other profession he might select. Still, Mary was undoubtedly his favourite, and on her he bestowed the full affection of a father’s heart. She was indeed a most loveable little creature. Clara was especially fond of her. Mary was so clever and sensible, that she was always a welcome guest at Luton. Besides the persons already mentioned on board the yacht, there was Lieutenant Sims, of the coastguard, with his wife and daughter; a Mrs and Miss Prentiss, the latter young and pretty; Tom Wesby, a friend of Alfred Lennard’s, very like him in appearance and manner; and an artist engaged in sketching in the neighbourhood, who had brought a letter of introduction to Captain Maynard.

As the cutter rounded the headland before spoken of, most of the party evinced their admiration of the scenery by expressions of delight, and the artist exhibited his skill by making a faithful sketch in a few minutes. The wind freshening, the cutter made rapid progress towards the bay. Harry had taken the telescope, and was directing it towards the shore.

“Some of our party are there already,” he exclaimed; “I see my father and Mr Lennard, and I conclude that the other people must be the new vicar and his wife, from the unmistakable cut of the gentleman’s coat, and the lady’s irreproachable costume. There are several more, though I cannot exactly make out who they are; I see, however, that the servants are bringing down the baskets of provisions, so we need have no fear of starving.”

“I did not expect that they would arrive so soon. The wind has been light, and we have had the tide against us,” observed Captain Maynard. “It will run long enough, however, to take us home again, if you young people are on board in good time. I must trust to you, Harry, to collect all our passengers; or, should the wind drop, we may find ourselves drifting down Channel for the best part of the night.”

“Oh! that will be capital fun,” cried Mrs Sims. “Mary, you’d like it amazingly. We can sit on deck, and look at the stars, and sing songs, and have our tea, and listen to the sailors’ yarns—”

“And have the chance of being run down and sunk by one of those big blundering iron steam-kettles,” growled the lieutenant, who had the antipathy long felt by old sailors to all the modern innovations, as he considered them, in the navy.

As the cutter glided up towards the shore, the party standing on the beach waved their handkerchiefs, and the ladies on board waved theirs. The jib was taken in, the foresail hauled down, and the yacht rounding to, the anchor was let drop at a short distance from the beach.

“Haul the boat up alongside, Tom,” said Captain Maynard. “Now, Mr Sims, I must get you to take charge of the first party for the shore.”

“With the greatest pleasure in the world; I am always at the service of the ladies,” answered the lieutenant, bowing round to them, “but my difficulty is to know who is to go first, unless I select by seniority. Miss Sarah Pemberton, suppose I ask you—age before honesty, you know.”

“You do not wish to insult me, Mr Sims?” answered the lady, bridling up.

“Come, come, Sally, Sims never thought of such a thing; he was only joking, or rather, let the words slip out of his mouth without knowing what he was saying,” said Captain Maynard.

“I am not fond of joking,” replied Miss Sarah; “but if you wish me to go first, I shall be very glad to get on shore, I assure you.”

“Pardon me, madam,” said the lieutenant, looking very penitent, and offering his hand. “I wouldn’t say a word to ruffle your sensitive feelings, I do assure you.” Miss Pemberton, being appeased, gave her hand to the lieutenant, and though she at first showed some signs of trepidation, stepped without difficulty into the sternsheets of the boat. She was followed by Mrs and Miss Sims.

“Come, young Lennard, you get into the bows, and help to trim the boat,” said Mr Sims; and shoving off, they pulled for the shore.

The boat soon reached the beach, when Mr Alfred, jumping out, wetted his shoes, greatly to his annoyance, and went running off without stopping to offer his assistance to the ladies. Some of the rest of the party, however, came down to welcome them, and Mrs and Miss Sims, being, accustomed to boating, having jumped out, the lieutenant was able to aid Miss Pemberton in performing that, to her, hazardous operation.

“Trust to me, my good lady,” he said in an encouraging tone; “now step on this thwart—now on the next—now on the gunwale.”

“What’s that?” asked Miss Pemberton.

“The side of the boat, I should have said,” answered the lieutenant. “Now spring with all the agility you possess.” At which the lady gave a bound which nearly overset the gallant officer, and would have ended by bringing her down on the sand, had not General Caulfield caught her in his arms.

“I hope you are not hurt, my dear madam!” he exclaimed.

“I have nearly dislocated my ankle, I believe,” answered Miss Pemberton. “It is the first time I have ventured on board a yacht, and I intend that it shall be the last, with my own good pleasure.”

On this the Reverend Mr Lerew stepped forward and expressed his sympathy to Miss Pemberton, offering her his arm to conduct her up to a rock under the cliff, where she could sit and rest her injured foot.

“I feel grieved for you, my dear madam, that what was intended to be a party of pleasure should commence with so untoward an event,” he said. “Do allow my wife to examine your injured ankle—she is all tenderness and sympathy, and a gentle rubbing may perhaps restore it to its wonted elasticity.”

“I hope that I shall recover after a little rest, without giving Mrs Lerew the trouble,” answered Miss Pemberton, touched with the interest exhibited by the new vicar. “I am deeply grateful to you. But those sea-officers, though well-intentioned, including my poor dear brother-in-law, are dreadfully rough and unmannerly, and have not ceased to alarm and annoy me since I got on board that horrible little vessel, misnamed a pleasure yacht.”

“True charity would make me wish to gloss over their faults—though I must confess I agree with you, my dear lady; but we must consider it the result of their early education, or rather, want of education,” observed Mr Lerew, in a soft voice; “I fear, too, that their religious training is as defective as their manners—we must, however, use our best endeavours to correct the former, though it may be hopeless to attempt an improvement in the latter—indeed, it is of so infinitely less consequence, that provided we are successful in imparting the true faith, we must rest satisfied.”

“Oh, yes, I daresay I do,” answered Miss Pemberton, who was thinking more about her ankle than of what Mr Lerew was saying to her; catching one of his words, she added, “but I don’t accuse my brother-in-law of being irreligious; I assure you, he reads prayers every morning as the clock strikes half-past eight, and every evening at ten, with a chapter from the Old and New Testaments, with Ryle’s expositions.”

“Pray, what prayers does he use?” asked Mr Lerew, in a tone which showed that he considered the matter of great importance.

“He generally uses Bickersteth’s prayers,” answered Miss Pemberton.

“Sad! sad!” exclaimed Mr Lerew, in a tone of horror, “thus to neglect the Prayer-Book and submit to the teaching of men the most deadly enemies of the catholic faith. Do let me entreat you to beg that he will banish Ryle and Bickersteth from his library, or rather, commit them—I should say their works—to the flames at once, lest they should fall into the hands of other ignorant people.”

“I never thought there was any harm in them,” answered Miss Pemberton, somewhat astonished at the vehemence with which the new vicar condemned his two brother divines, whom she had hitherto considered sound, trustworthy teachers. “I will mention what you say to my brother-in-law, but I suspect that he will not be easily induced to do as you advise. I know that he considers Canon Ryle a very sensible and pious man, and I have often heard him say that he could understand his writings better than those of any one else he ever met with.”

“Blind leaders of the blind,” said Mr Lerew. “The pernicious principles of such men are calculated to produce the overthrow of our Holy Church, and to undermine all catholic doctrines.”

“Dear me, Mr Lerew, I always thought Ryle and Bickersteth very sound churchmen and firm advocates of the truth,” said Miss Pemberton.

“Alas! alas! my dear lady; I fear there are many wolves in sheep’s clothing who have long beguiled their flocks by teaching them to rely on their own judgment, instead of seeking for counsel and advice from those pastors who, knowing themselves to be duly appointed from on high to administer the holy sacraments, and grant absolution to humble penitents, feel the importance of their sacred office,” replied Mr Lerew.

Miss Pemberton did not quite understand Mr Lerew’s meaning; but as he exhibited so much feeling and sympathy for her sprained ankle, she sat and listened, and thought that, though he was less agreeable than Mr Lennard, he at all events must be a very pious and excellent young clergyman, and that since the vicar, who had been so generally liked, was compelled to resign his office, it was fortunate for the parishioners that they had obtained so superior a minister.

In the meantime the boat had returned to the yacht for another freight, Captain Maynard, with Harry, Clara, and Mary, being the last to land. By this time most of the party had collected on the beach to welcome them. General Caulfield, after shaking hands with the captain, led off Clara, for the sake, as he said, of having a little talk with her. He was very fond of his future daughter-in-law, who was exactly the girl he desired as a wife for his son. While they were absent, the captain chose a shady spot under the cliff for spreading the tablecloth. The younger members of the party, under the superintendence of Mrs Sims, were busily engaged in unpacking the hampers and baskets, and arranging their contents.

“Alfred, ahoy! bear a hand, and place the knives and forks alongside the plates; I like to see young men making themselves useful, instead of throwing all the work upon the ladies,” exclaimed Captain Maynard, as he saw young Lennard sauntering off by himself, to avoid the trouble of speaking to any one. Thus summoned, Alfred was compelled to return, when Mary, with a merry laugh, put a bundle of knives and forks into his hands, and told him to go and arrange some on the opposite side of the cloth. The picnic had been got up by some of the principal people in the parish, as a compliment to their former vicar, as also for the purpose of enabling his successor to become acquainted with them in an easy and pleasant way. Sir Reginald and Lady Bygrave had been invited, but had not yet arrived, and it would, of course, have been uncourteous to commence luncheon, hungry as everybody was, till they appeared. The party had, in the meantime, to amuse themselves according to their tastes; some of the ladies had brought their sketch-books, others their work—though the greater number preferred doing nothing.

The ever busy Lieutenant Sims had sent off to the yacht for an iron pot, which he filled up with potatoes and salt water, and having called some of the young gentlemen to assist him in collecting a quantity of dry wood which was seen scattered along the beach, he made a large fire, and put on the pot to boil. “Now, by boys, take a lesson from an old tar,” he observed. “Whenever you want to cook potatoes to perfection, boil them in salt water if you can get it, or if not, put in plenty of salt, and let them remain till the water has evaporated. You will then have them come out like lumps of meal, as these will, you’ll see, before long.”

Harry had soon stolen off, and joined Clara and his father. The latter shortly after left the young people to themselves, while he went back to meet Captain Maynard and Mr Lennard, who were strolling along the beach.

“I feel perfectly satisfied with my successor, as far as I am able at present to judge,” observed Mr Lennard. “He is a wonderfully zealous and earnest man. He shows an evident desire to make himself popular, and to win the affections of the people; and I cannot blame him if he seems surprised that I have not introduced some of the more modern improvements in churches.”

“For my part, I hope that what he calls improvements will not follow the direction of the changes which have been made in some parishes,” observed General Caulfield. “There are many who would object to them, as I should myself, and they can produce no real good.”

“New brooms sweep clean,” said Mr Lennard. “He naturally wishes to be doing something, and I shall not be jealous. It is all-important to have peace and good-will in the parish.”

“It may be bought at too dear a price,” said General Caulfield, “but we will hope for the best. Here comes Mrs Lerew; she was, I understand, a good deal in London society, and is an elegant and fashionable-looking person, though she is somewhat older than Lerew, I suspect.”

“She may not make the worse wife for that,” observed Captain Maynard.

Harry and Clara had wandered away from the rest of the party, and were seated on a rock, at some distance off. She had brought her sketch-book, and was endeavouring to make a drawing of the bay, with the headland to the eastward, round which they had come, and the little yacht at anchor off the beach; but anxious as she was to produce a satisfactory sketch, a duplicate of which Harry had begged her to give to him, her hand trembled, and her heart felt very sad. It was the last day they were to be together, and she thought of the long, long months which must elapse before he was to return.

“My memory will often fly back to this spot when I am far away,” said Harry; “and though leagues of land and ocean divide us, we shall here meet in spirit and talk to each other, shall we not, dearest?”

“I am sure of it,” said Clara, looking into his handsome, honest countenance. “I wish that I could make a better sketch, but I will try to improve it at home.”

“Oh! no, no! leave it just as it is; I wish to think of you as you are now,” said Harry, “my own dear girl; and I would rather see every line as you have traced it on the paper before my eyes.”

“Well, then, I will keep the copy for myself,” said Clara; “or I can come here with papa in the yacht, and take it over again.”

The sketch was finished, and seeing their friends assembling, and Mrs Sims beckoning vehemently to them, they rose to return.

“I hope that my father will remain at Updown till I come back,” said Harry. “You will always trust to him, Clara, as to one who loves you as his daughter; and it will be a happiness to me to know that he will be near you, should Captain Maynard’s health fail.”

Clara sighed. “I much fear that is likely to happen—indeed, I have been unable to conceal from myself that he has greatly altered lately.”

Harry, wishing to avoid melancholy thoughts, changed the subject.

“I am not quite satisfied with your new vicar,” he observed; “I am afraid that he belongs to a school of which I have the utmost possible dread. Believe me, dearest, I was most thankful to find, when I first came down to Luton, that Captain Maynard held the opinions I do, and that your parish was free from any of the ritualistic practices of the day. Much as all must like Mr Lennard for his pleasant manners and kind heart, he is not exactly what I should wish a clergyman to be, but he is at all events thoroughly sound in practice. Believe me, Clara, that however much I might admire a girl, and be inclined to love her, I would not risk my domestic happiness by marrying, should I find that she was enslaved by those plotting the overthrow of the Protestant principles of our Church. You know, dearest, how strongly I feel on the subject, and I trust that you will, for your own sake, as well as mine, withstand all the allurements and artifices which either lay or clerical ritualists may use to induce you to support or take a part in their practices.”

“I hope so,” said Clara, “though Lady Bygrave, when last she called on us, told me that there are many true and devoted men who are called ritualists; and I cannot say that I see any objection to good music and elegantly built churches, which it is their chief aim to introduce for the purpose of forwarding the cause of religion and devotion. Many people are dissatisfied with the untrained attempts at harmony in our too often unsightly churches.”

Harry was going to reply, but he found that the last remark had been made unintentionally in the hearing of Mr Lerew. That gentleman watched his opportunity, and while Harry had left Clara’s side for a moment, he observed in a low, soft voice, “I see, Miss Maynard, that you are a young lady of good taste, and above the vulgar prejudices of the Calvinistic school, who stubbornly refuse to dedicate the best of their substance and talents to God, and rest satisfied with offering to Him the ugliest buildings their imaginations can devise, and the refuse of their possessions.”

He stopped on seeing Harry, who quickly rejoined Clara.

“Here they come! here they come!” exclaimed several of the most hungry of the party, as a tall gentleman and lady, accompanied by two sombre, well-dressed persons, were seen descending the hill. “Who can those people be with Sir Reginald and Lady Bygrave, I wonder?” cried Mrs Sims; “they look to me for all the world like Jesuit priests.”

Mr Lerew’s countenance brightened, and Master Alfred Lennard showed more interest than he had hitherto exhibited in any of the proceedings of the day.

“So I fear they are,” observed General Caulfield. “What can have induced Sir Reginald and his wife to bring them here?”

Mr Lerew, however, with several other persons, hurried up the pathway, to greet the chief people of that part of their county. Lady Bygrave, escorted by one of the priests, who gave her his hand at the steeper parts of the path, came first, and at once introduced their friend Monsieur l’Abbé Henon, who with his companion, Father Lascelles, had arrived only that morning, and had begged leave to accompany them. They had come to see Sir Reginald on the subject of forming a new settlement in South America, as it was well known he was deeply interested in the subject of colonisation, and they hoped to obtain his influence and support.

“They are most delightful people,” whispered Lady Bygrave to Miss Pemberton, who met her ladyship at the bottom of the descent; “everybody will be pleased with them, they are so full of information, and so free from prejudices—they will disabuse all our minds of the vulgar notion that Catholic priests can talk of nothing but masses and penances; and they are so noble-minded and philanthropic.”

The abbé, who overheard what was said, smiled blandly, and addressed himself to Miss Pemberton. He spoke English perfectly, with only a slight foreign accent, in a melodious voice, attractive and soothing to his hearers. He and Father Lascelles bowed politely as they were introduced to the company, and at once made themselves at home, uttering not a word to which even the most prejudiced could object.

Lady Bygrave was still young, with a decidedly aristocratic appearance, and very pleasant manners when she had to be condescending. Sir Reginald was a tall, good-looking man, who seldom expressed an opinion, his florid countenance not exhibiting any large amount of intellect; but as he was considered straightforward and honest, he was generally liked.

With as little delay as possible, not to show the last comers too much that they had been waited for, the party assembled round the ample repast; and while the older gentlemen were employed in carving, the younger ones, aided by Mrs Sims, busied themselves in carrying round the plates. The usual conversation at picnics then became general. The abbé and his companion, having glanced round the company, and carefully noted each person present, were soon enabled to take part in it. They said nothing very remarkable, but managed, notwithstanding, to draw out the opinions of most of those to whom they addressed themselves. The abbé was especially attentive to Mr and Mrs Lerew, and both seemed highly flattered with what he said. He fixed his glance on Master Alfred, and having ascertained who he was, spoke to him in a gentle, encouraging tone. Mr Lennard himself seemed pleased with Sir Reginald’s visitors, and remarked to General Caulfield that he had seldom met more agreeable foreigners. “I don’t trust them,” answered the general; “the more pleasant and insinuating they are, the more necessary it is to avoid them. I would never allow such men to enter my house or become intimate with any of my family.”

Captain Maynard entertained much the same feeling as his friend. Lieutenant Sims never did care about foreigners, and thought the idea of getting Englishmen to emigrate to such a country as they talked of was all humbug. The abbé and his friends might have heard many of the observations made; but whether complimentary or not, they did not allow a muscle of their countenances to change. Lady Bygrave happened to upset her wineglass, and soon afterwards the abbé did exactly the same thing; on which he turned with a bow to her ladyship, observing, “I am sure whatever Lady Bygrave does is the right thing, and cannot therefore be reproved.”

“I am thankful, Monsieur l’Abbé,” said Lady Bygrave, smiling. “I am sure that I can always rely upon you for support.”

“Ah, yes, madam, in spiritual matters as in temporal,” whispered the abbé.

The conversation was, however, generally of a lively character, and all agreed that the picnic was a success, and that they had enjoyed themselves amazingly. Captain Maynard, however, looking at his watch, declared that those who intended to return in the yacht must come on board without delay. Miss Pemberton declined, if she could possibly get a conveyance, and Lady Bygrave offered to take her in her carriage; Father Lascelles begging leave to return in a pony-carriage which had brought the hampers, if some one who knew the way would drive him—on which Alfred Lennard requested to be allowed the honour of doing so. Harry and Clara of course went back in the yacht, as did the rest of the party who had come in her.

“Mr Lennard must take care that that Jesuit priest does not get hold of his son,” observed Harry to Clara; “you might get Mary to speak to her father and warn him, for he seemed as much pleased with the strangers as Sir Reginald and Lady Bygrave. I hold with my father about them; and I would as soon trust a couple of serpents within my doors.”

“Are you not rather severe on the poor men?” asked Clara.

“Knowing their principles and their great object—to bring under subjection the minds of their fellow-creatures, and thus to amass wealth for the purpose of raising their order above all the ruling powers on earth—I cannot say anything too severe. To attain their ends they will allow nothing to stand in their way; they will hesitate at no crime, no deceit; they will assume any character which suits them, and will undertake the lowest offices, and will employ the vilest means, or will pretend to the most exalted piety.”

“Surely, Harry, the men we saw to-day could not be guilty of such conduct,” said Clara.

“Every Jesuit is trained in the same school, and I therefore make no exceptions,” answered Harry. “We shall find that even those gentlemen, fascinating as they appeared, had some object in visiting Sir Reginald, ulterior to that of presenting him with a scheme of colonisation. He is wealthy; and depend on it, they were informed of the proclivities of Lady Bygrave.”

Clara was not quite convinced. It was not likely, however, that the abbé and his companion would pay a visit to Luton.

Chapter Two.

Harry had gone. Clara felt very sad; her eye was constantly at the telescope in the drawing-room, looking out for the steamer which was conveying him to Alexandria. She at length caught sight of a long white line and a puff of grey smoke above it, which she believed must belong to the ship. She was still watching it as it was growing less and less distinct, when her aunt, entering the room, said, “I am afraid that your father is very ill. I went into his study just now; when I spoke to him, he was unable to answer me.”

Clara flew to the study, and found her father seated in his arm-chair. There was a pained expression in his eyes, and he was speechless. He had been seized with a paralytic stroke. The servant was immediately despatched to bring the doctor, who was found not far off, and quickly came. He pronounced the captain to be in considerable danger. Clara, ever dutiful and affectionate, was constant in her attendance on her father. Even Miss Pemberton’s manner softened, and she did her best to comfort her niece. In the course of two or three days, Captain Maynard had somewhat recovered, and was able to speak without much difficulty. General Caulfield, who had heard of his illness, came over to see him. The brave sailor believed himself to be dying.

“It is a knock at my door to which I am bound to attend, General,” he said.

“I have no fear for myself, for I trust in One ‘mighty to save;’ but I am anxious about my gentle Clara, so ill able to battle with the troubles of life. I wish that we had not let Harry go; I could have left her with confidence in his care. Would that he could be recalled!”

“His ship is across the bay by this time. We acted for the best, and must trust to Him who ever cares for the orphan and widow. While I live, I will be a father to your child, and assist her aunt in watching over her,” answered the general; “but cheer up, my friend, I do not speak to one ignorant of the truth, and therefore I can say that God may still preserve your life for her sake, though you will undoubtedly be the gainer by going hence, as all are who die in the Lord. We can pray to Him to protect her.” And the gallant old soldier knelt down by the side of his friend, as by that of a beloved brother, and together they lifted up their voices to Him in whom they trusted. Though Captain Maynard could but faintly repeat the words uttered by the general, his heart spoke with the fervency of a true Christian who expects soon to be in the presence of his Saviour. He pressed the general’s hand. “And whatever happens, my dear friend, I feel confident that you will fulfil your promise,” he said.

Before the general left the house, he spoke for some time to Miss Pemberton, who was fully convinced that her brother-in-law had not many hours to live. The captain, however, the next day had greatly recovered; and while Miss Pemberton was seated in the drawing-room, Clara being with her father, Mr and Mrs Lerew were announced. Mrs Lerew advancing, took Miss Pemberton’s hand, and sank into a seat, her husband following with the most obsequious of bows and blandest of smiles.

“My dear lady, I rejoice to find you within,” he said, “as I am anxious to have some earnest conversation with you, while perhaps, if I may venture to make the request, your niece will show the garden to Mrs Lerew.”

“Clara is with her father, who is still, I regret to say, very ill,” answered Miss Pemberton; “but I will summon her, that she may have the pleasure of seeing Mrs Lerew.”

“Not for the world,” answered the vicar: “the present opportunity is propitious. I was aware of Captain Maynard’s serious illness; indeed, I am most desirous to speak to him on the subject of his soul’s welfare. From what his medical attendant tells me, I fear that his days are numbered; and you will pardon me when I say it, I grieve to hear that he has been sadly neglectful of his religious duties.”

“I hope you are mistaken,” answered Miss Pemberton, somewhat astonished at the remark; “though I have not resided long with him, I have always understood that he was specially attentive to them.”

“Not to some of the most important,” said Mr Lerew: “he has not once been to the celebration of the Holy Eucharist since I became vicar of the parish, nor has he attended matin-song or even-song, which I have performed daily; and I regret to observe that neither you nor your niece have been present.”

“My brother-in-law has not been in the habit of attending any but Sunday services, nor have I, I confess,” said Miss Pemberton; “but I shall be very happy, if he gets better, to drive over with my niece, should you think it right.”

“Right!” exclaimed Mr Lerew in a tone of amazement; “I consider it a great sin to neglect such means of grace, and by neglecting them you encourage others to do so likewise; whereas if people of position set a good example, it will be followed by their inferiors. But, my dear lady, I fear that I have said what may sound harsh in your ears. One of my great objects to-day is to see your brother-in-law alone, and I must ask you to enable me to do so while Mrs Lerew is paying her respects to your niece.”

Miss Pemberton, seeing no objection to this, undertook to send Clara down, and to beg Captain Maynard to receive the vicar. She went upstairs for this purpose. Of course the sick man could not decline the vicar’s visit, and Clara having very unwillingly left her father, Mr Lerew was ushered into his room. The new vicar spoke softly and gently, and expressed his sorrow to hear of the captain’s serious illness. He then went on to speak of the importance of being prepared for death.

“I would urge you, therefore, my dear sir, to confess your sins to me, that I may absolve you from them, as I have authority from my office.”

“Yes, sir, I have many sins to confess, and I have already with hearty repentance done so to my God,” answered the captain, sitting up in bed. “I am very sure, too, that they are all washed away in the blood of Jesus Christ.”

The vicar gave a suppressed hem. He at once saw that he must drop the point of confession. “Then, my dear sir,” he added, “I should have no hesitation in administering to you the Holy Eucharist, which, knowing your dangerous state, I reserved for you on Sunday last, and have now brought in my pocket.”

“I do not exactly understand you, sir,” answered the captain, wondering what his visitor could mean.

“You would surely wish to enjoy the benefit of that Holy Sacrament,” said the vicar, “and I have brought the consecrated elements with me, the wafer and the wine mingled with water, which latter it is lawful in the Anglican Church to administer.”

“I understand you now, and am much obliged to you for your kind intentions,” said the captain, “but the truth is, I should prefer taking the sacrament with my old friends, Mr Lennard and General Caulfield, with my daughter, and sister-in-law, and the members of my household. We have always an ample supply of bread and wine for the purpose.”

“Of my predecessor I say nothing, and hope that he will be brought ere long to the knowledge and practice of the truth,” exclaimed Mr Lerew. “General Caulfield—pardon me for saying it—is, I understand, a schismatic with whom we are bound to hold no communion. He has for several Sundays attended a dissenting conventicle, and actually takes upon himself to preach and to attempt to teach his ignorant fellow-creatures; for ignorant and benighted those must be who listen to him. It will be at the peril of your soul, I am bound to tell you, Captain Maynard, should you invite him to be present at the awful ceremony you propose to hold.”

“I will be responsible for the risk I may run,” answered Captain Maynard, the spirit of the old sailor rising within him. “I cannot allow my dearest friend, in whose truly religious character I have unbounded confidence, to be so spoken of without protest. In my state, especially, I would quarrel with no man. You made a mistake, Mr Lerew, in thus speaking of that excellent man.”

“I deeply regret it,” said the vicar. “I must not longer intrude on you, but I am bound to tell you, Captain Maynard, that I consider your soul in imminent danger, and I earnestly pray that another day, ere it be too late, a benign influence may induce you more willingly to receive my ministrations. Farewell.” And Mr Lerew, rising with a frowning brow, walked to the door, while the captain, sinking back on his pillow, rang his bell. Soon after Mr Lerew had returned to the drawing-room, the servant entered to say that the captain wished to see Miss Clara, and she, without even stopping to say good-bye to her guests, hurried upstairs. The vicar’s manner was calm as usual. Miss Pemberton had scarcely time to ask whether he had had a satisfactory interview with her brother-in-law, when Lieutenant and Mrs Sims entered the room. Miss Pemberton was compelled to shake hands with them, as the lieutenant advanced in his usual hearty fashion, but she showed that their arrival caused her no great satisfaction. Mr Lerew and his wife received them in a stiff manner, and the former held out two fingers, which Sims nearly dislocated as he grasped them in his rough palm. The lieutenant, having enquired after Captain Maynard, and being informed by Miss Pemberton that he was as well as she could hope, found himself compelled to relapse into silence, as Mr Lerew, giving a hint to his wife to attend to Mrs Sims, requested a few moments conversation with Miss Pemberton in the bay window. Leading the lady to it, he spoke in so low a voice, that even Mrs Sims, much as she might have wished to do so, could not catch a word—while the honest lieutenant, who did not trouble himself about the matter, endeavoured to make amends for the somewhat unintelligible replies which his wife gave to Mrs Lerew.

The first portion of the vicar’s conversation had reference to Clara; he then continued in the same suppressed tone, “The General, also, is not a man on whose religious opinions you should place reliance, my dear madam, and I would especially urge you to prevent him, by every means in your power, from coming here. He can only lead your poor brother-in-law from the right path, and may induce him to refrain from taking advantage of the sacred offices I am so anxious to render.”

In a few minutes Mr Lerew and Miss Pemberton returned to their seats, the former observing in a voice which he intended should be heard, “General Caulfield may be a very worthy soldier, but I unhesitatingly say, and I wish it to be known, that I consider any person, whatever his rank, is to be greatly blamed who enters a dissenting chapel, and without authority pretends to preach to the ignorant populace.”

“But, sir, I can say I once listened to as good a sermon preached by the general as I ever heard from parson or bishop, begging your pardon,” exclaimed Mr Sims, the colour mounting to his honest cheeks as he spoke; “he preaches simply from the Bible, and just says what the Bible says; and that, I hold, is the best test of a good sermon.”

“The Bible, Mr Sims, is a very dangerous book, if read by the laity, without the proper interpretation of those deputed by Holy Church to explain its meaning,” emphatically replied Mr Lerew.

The lieutenant gave an involuntary whew. “Then I suppose that you mean the Bible should not be read by us laity,” he exclaimed.

“Certainly, not without the written or verbal explanation of the priests of our Church,” answered Mr Lerew.

“And that is your opinion?” asked the lieutenant, resolving then and there that he would never allow the vicar an opportunity of explaining the Bible to him or any of his family according to his interpretation; “and you wish this to be known in the parish, Mr Lerew?”

“Certainly, I do not desire to conceal my opinions—I speak with authority,” answered the vicar.

“But, my dear, the people may misunderstand you,” observed Mrs Lerew, who reflected that her husband had made an acknowledgment which some of his parishioners might take up, and perhaps cause him annoyance; but the vicar was not a man to be withheld from expressing his opinion by any such fears. He was aware that he would be supported by Sir Reginald and Lady Bygrave, and he secretly held such persons as Lieutenant Sims and the rest of his parishioners of inferior rank in the utmost contempt.

“I will take good care that your opinion is known, though I do not agree with it, I can tell you, Mr Lerew,” exclaimed the lieutenant, rising. “I am sorry, Miss Pemberton, that I cannot see my excellent friend this morning. I served under him six years or more—there is no man I more esteem, and I know what his opinion is of General Caulfield. Give him my love and respects, and say I hope to have a talk with him another day when he is better. Come, my dear, it is time we should be jogging home.”

This was said to his wife; and the two rising, took their departure, receiving the most freezing of looks from the vicar and the two ladies. At that instant a servant girl entered, to beg that Miss Pemberton would come up immediately into her master’s room.

“We didn’t like to interrupt you, marm, but I am afraid the captain’s in a bad way,” she said, “I will attend you,” exclaimed Mr Lerew: “a priest is ever in his proper place beside the bed of the dying.”

Without waiting for permission, he followed Miss Pemberton into Captain Maynard’s room. Clara was at her father’s bedside, holding his hand. She had found him, when she returned from the drawing-room after his interview with the vicar, speechless. He had endeavoured to say something to her, but his tongue refused its office; his mind was, however, it was evident, unimpaired. He looked up with a pained expression, and tried to show that he wished to write; but when a slate was brought him, his fingers were unable to hold the pencil Clara had immediately sent off for the doctor, and was now endeavouring, by chafing her father’s hands, to restore their power.

On seeing the vicar in the doorway a peculiar expression passed over Captain Maynard’s countenance, and he made another desperate effort to utter a few words in his daughter’s ear, but in vain—no articulate sounds proceeded from his lips.

“I feel the deepest sympathy and compassion for you, my dear young lady,” said the vicar in a gentle tone. “We will pray for the soul of the departing—join me, I beseech you—induce your niece to kneel with us,” he whispered to Miss Pemberton, who nodded, and placing a chair by the bedside, almost compelled Clara to kneel on it, while she continued the act of filial affection in which she had been engaged. The vicar then taking from his pocket a book, read a service, of which poor Clara, agitated as she was, did not comprehend a word. Captain Maynard all the time was looking into her fair face with the same pained expression in his eyes which they had assumed on the entrance of the vicar. Doctor Brown, a worthy and excellent man, arrived just as the vicar had concluded; and exercising his authority, requested him and Miss Pemberton to leave the room, observing that perfect quiet was necessary for his patient.

“You may stay,” he whispered to Miss Maynard, as he felt the captain’s pulse. “The captain has had another attack—very slight, I assure you—he’ll rally from it, I hope, but we must allow nothing to agitate him. There, there, he understands what we say. Don’t be cast down, Captain; God will take care of her, and she has many true friends. It is about you, my dear, he is thinking—I know it by the way his eyes turn towards you.”

Clara could no longer restrain her tears, though she tried to conceal them from her father. The doctor’s predictions were in part verified: Captain Maynard again rallied sufficiently to make signs for everything he wanted, and showed that his intellect was perfectly clear. With the doctor’s permission he received several visits from General Caulfield, though no one else was allowed to see him. Mr Lerew called frequently. On each occasion he had an interview with Miss Pemberton, and twice he saw Clara, when she was not in attendance on her father. He did his best, as he well knew how, to ingratiate himself with both ladies. He was making way with Miss Pemberton, and hoped that he was gradually winning over Clara. He took good care in her presence to say nothing harsh of General Caulfield, though what he did say was calculated to undermine him in her opinion, but he so cautiously expressed himself that she had no suspicion of the object of his remarks. He managed also never to call when the general was likely to be at the house, as he especially wished to avoid meeting him in the presence of Clara or her aunt. The vicar on three occasions ventured to speak much more openly to Miss Pemberton than he did to Clara.

“What a blessed thing it is, my dear lady, that our Holy Church possesses divinely appointed priests who can unerringly guide and direct their flock; who can rightly administer all the sacraments and interpret the Scriptures! and how sad it is that any should obstinately refuse to take full advantage of all these spiritual blessings!” he remarked. “You and your sweet niece will, I trust, not be among those who thus risk the loss of their souls.”

“I hope not,” answered Miss Pemberton, becoming somewhat alarmed. “I am sure that I wish to do everything which religion requires.”

“There is one great omission of which you have been guilty,” continued Mr Lerew. “I wish to speak with all love and gentleness. You have never yet come to confession.”

“Is that necessary?” asked Miss Pemberton, feeling more than ever uneasy, “I did not know that it was required by the Church of England.”

“You have read your Prayer-Book to little purpose, if you think so,” said Mr Lerew, with more sternness than he had hitherto shown. “Only think of the unspeakable comfort obtained through priestly absolution, which will be thus afforded you. You will then know that your sins are put away. You will feel so holy, and clean, and pure. Let me, with all loving earnestness, urge you and your sweet niece to come without delay to that holy ordinance, too long ignored and neglected in our Church; and let me assure you that I believe every true daughter of that Church, were she aware of the blessed advantages to be gained, would avail herself of the opportunities now being offered throughout the kingdom.”

“Your remarks take me, I own, by surprise,” answered Miss Pemberton. “None of my acquaintance, that I am aware of, have ever been in the habit of confessing.”

“‘Wide is the gate and broad is the way which leadeth to destruction; many there be that go in thereat.’ Think of that text, Miss Pemberton; join the privileged few, and I shall be most thankful to receive you as a penitent,” answered Mr Lerew. “Endeavour, also, by all means to induce your niece to follow your pious example. My dear friends, Sir Reginald and Lady Bygrave, and many other persons of distinction, come regularly to confession; and I trust that by degrees the whole of my flock will take advantage of the opportunity, which I shall have the happiness of offering them, of being absolved from sin.”

Miss Pemberton did not exactly say that she would go to confession, as she felt rather doubtful whether Clara would accompany her, but she promised that she would consider the matter; and the vicar on leaving felt satisfied with the way he had made. As yet, however, he had not got so far as to set up a confessional box in his church. He intended, in the first instance, to employ the vestry for that purpose. He had his doubts whether Mr Lennard might not withdraw the support he was now affording him; still, he had made considerable progress. His first step was to select a dozen of the schoolboys of the parish to form a choir, and to clothe them in surplices; the instruments which had hitherto led the parishioners in their singing being banished, an organ, presented by Lady Bygrave, was put up, and an organist with high ritualistic proclivities appointed. The hymn-books with the good old tunes which all the parish knew by heart were discarded, and Hymns Ancient and Modern were introduced. The communion-table was next raised and adorned with a richly embroidered cover, and on the following Sunday four magnificent branch candlesticks appeared upon it. Mr Lennard had hitherto not made any remarks on the alterations going forward; but when he saw the candlesticks, he enquired of Mr Lerew, who was calling on him, what funds he possessed for the purchase of such articles, and what was their object, as he feared that they would not be appreciated by the parishioners at large.

“I have ample funds for all such purposes; and ignorant as the people are at present, we will so educate them that by degrees they will see the value and significance of the improvements we are introducing,” answered Mr Lerew; “I contemplate having a reredos erected, which will add greatly to the beauty of the church; as it will be expensive, I own, I trust that you and other friends will contribute from your means towards the important work. I wish to ornament those blank spaces along the aisle with appropriate pictures. I should prefer having them painted on the walls, of medallion shape; but as it may be difficult to get an artist down here, we must be content to have them in moveable frames. I purpose also having a large picture of the Crucifixion, or perhaps one of the Holy Virgin, put up over the altar, instead of the Ten Commandments, which greatly offend my eye; while I confess that I cannot consider the altar complete without the symbol of our faith placed on it. I should have preferred a crucifix of full size, and I think that the cross might be so arranged that the figure can at any time be added; but I fear that at present some of the parishioners in their ignorance might raise objections which would cause us some trouble.”

“I should think, indeed, that they would object!” exclaimed Mr Lennard. “Are you not going on too fast? I do not complain that your improvements cast some reflection on me; as being a mere locum tenens, I could not have made the alterations you propose, even had I wished to do so; but others might find very great fault with you.”

“You will come over fully to agree with me, as my kind friends Sir Reginald and Lady Bygrave have done,” said the vicar, and with a gentle smile he bid his host good-bye.

Scarcely had Mr Lerew gone than a note was brought to Mr Lennard, from Lady Bygrave, requesting him, with his son and daughter, to spend a few days at Swanston Hall. Lady Bygrave was a very charming person, and pleasant people were generally to be met with at the Hall. He gladly accepted the invitation. Alfred was delighted; Mary would rather have gone back to stay with Clara. Mr Lennard was somewhat surprised to find that the abbé and Father Lascelles were still there. “The friends to whom they were going were unable to receive them, and Sir Reginald requested them to stay on as long as they found it convenient,” remarked Lady Bygrave. Mr Lennard was disappointed at finding no one else at the house, with the exception of a young lady rather older than Mary, of grave and sedate manners. As she was dressed in black, Mr Lennard concluded that she was in mourning for a parent or some other near relative, which accounted for the gravity of one so young. She, however, smiled very sweetly when Mary was introduced to her, and said in a gentle voice, “I know that we shall become good friends, so pray let us begin at once, and talk to each other without reserve.”

Mr Lennard, who had often wished that Mary could enjoy the companionship of a girl of her own age, was glad to find so apparently amiable a young lady in the house. The abbé, on entering the room, expressed his pleasure at seeing Mr Lennard, and certainly did his best to make amends for the want of other society. Father Lascelles, observing that Alfred did not know what to do with himself, proposed taking a turn round the grounds. “I am not much of a sportsman,” he said as they walked on, “but I am fond of fishing, as I dare say you are, and we will fish together to-morrow, if you like.” He had discovered that angling—an art in which he was an adept in more ways than one—was the only amusement which suited Alfred’s tastes.

The few days spent at the Hall went rapidly by. At first the abbé carefully avoided any but secular subjects, and being a remarkably well-informed man, he made himself very agreeable. Even when Sir Reginald or Lady Bygrave seemed inclined to speak on religion, he quickly turned the conversation, but by degrees he, with apparent unwillingness, entered into matters of faith. Mr Lennard, who had never given any attention to the Papal system, was surprised to find how little, according to the abbé’s showing, the Church of England differed from that of Rome in all matters of importance.

“Ah,” remarked the abbé, with a smile, “your Church is like a wandering child—though you have gone away from the parent, you retain all your main features and doctrines, and have but to own obedience to the chief head, and you would again be one with us. What a happy consummation! Would that it were brought about! Why should those of the same kindred be divided?”

“It is sad that it should be so,” remarked Lady Bygrave, “perhaps, if His Holiness, the Pope, were not so exigeant in his demands, the glorious union might soon be accomplished.”

“It is there that you are in error, my dear lady,” remarked the abbé, blandly; “His Holiness is too loving a parent to be exigeant without good reason. Think of the parable of the Prodigal Son—what a warm welcome! what rich treasures the father had for him, who was willing to return! such as all will experience who, having eaten of the husks of Protestantism, fly back to the bosom of the mother-Church.”

Mr Lennard above all things hated an argument, and would always rather side with a companion than oppose him; still he was not won by the sophisms of the abbé; but he did not, unhappily, reflect on the effect they might produce on Alfred and Mary. He had studied the Thirty-nine Articles when he had taken his ordination vows, and he saw that the opinions expressed by Lady Bygrave, and occasionally by Sir Reginald, who was even more open than his wife, could not be reconciled to them. The abbé never uttered a word which showed that he considered there were any material differences in the two creeds, with the exception of the single one of want of obedience to the heads of the Church.

“You have simplified your services; you have eliminated several doctrines which we consider of importance; but such doctrines are, I rejoice to see, in the course of being rapidly restored to their proper position, as are many of the practices and observances of our Holy Church,” said the abbé, “and all you have now to say is, I will return, I will obey, and the union is complete.”

“You make the matter certainly very easy,” said Mr Lennard; “but having been for forty years of my life accustomed to consider that there is a much wider gap between our Churches than that you have so quickly passed over, you must not be surprised if I hesitate to take the leap; but I will consider the subject.”

“Far be it from me to advise you to do what your conscience might disapprove,” observed the abbé.

Father Lascelles found that he could be more open with Alfred. His chief aim was to impress upon the young man’s mind that there was but one true Church, and that of Rome being the most ancient and most powerful, and holding out unspeakably greater advantages to its followers, must be that true one. Still, Alfred was neither very impressive not communicative; the Jesuit priest could draw no positive conclusion as to the effect his remarks had produced, though he felt sure that, could he obtain time to play the fish he had hooked, he should land him safe at last.

Mary’s friend, Emmeline Tracy, was unexpectedly called away from the Hall. Even to Mary she did not say where she was going, as she bid her good-bye, but she hoped, she said, ere long to see her again. Mr Lennard observed that his daughter looked more thoughtful and in less good spirits than usual; it reminded him of his often expressed determination of sending her to a finishing school, that she might have the benefit of young companions, and form pleasant friendships. He mentioned his idea to Lady Bygrave. “By all means, Mr Lennard; it is what I should strongly recommend,” answered her ladyship. “It is curious that I was thinking of the same thing. There is a school at Cheltenham exactly of the character you would wish for your daughter. Mrs Barnett, the mistress, is a lady of high attainments and amiable disposition, and she receives only girls of the first families; so that Mary would be certain of forming desirable acquaintances. I shall have great pleasure in writing to Mrs Barnett, saying who you are, and requesting her to receive your daughter directly she has a vacancy.”

Mr Lennard returned home; and a few days afterwards Lady Bygrave sent him a letter from Mrs Barnett, who said, that in consequence of the very satisfactory account her ladyship had written of Mr Lennard and his daughter, she should be happy to receive the young lady as an inmate immediately, to fill up the only vacancy in her establishment, and which she regretted that she could not keep open beyond a week or so.

“Let me earnestly advise you to send Mary at once,” added her ladyship. “It would be a grievous pity to lose so favourable an opportunity of placing her in a satisfactory school; for good schools are, I know, rare enough.”

Mr Leonard accordingly made up his mind to take his daughter to Cheltenham. Mary had only time to drive over and pay a short visit to Clara.

“I hope you will be happy,” said Clara. “As I never was at school, I don’t know what sort of life you will have to lead, but I should think with the companionship of a number of nice girls it must be very cheerful. You can never for a moment feel out of spirits for want of society, as I do too often here, now that I am unable to converse with my poor father, and you know that Aunt Sarah is not the most entertaining of persons.”

Mary went away in good spirits, promising to write to Clara, and tell her all about the school. Mr Lennard and his daughter arrived safely at Cheltenham, and reached Mrs Barnett’s handsome mansion. Everything about it appeared to be as he could desire; the sitting-rooms were well furnished, and the bedroom his daughter was to occupy with several other girls looked remarkably comfortable, the walls being adorned with pictures, of which, however, he did not take much notice, though he saw by a glance he gave at them that they were Scripture subjects. As they were passing along a passage, the mistress hastily closed a door, but not until he observed at the farther end of the room a table, on which stood vases of flowers and candlesticks surmounted by what looked very like a crucifix; but he was too polite to interrogate Mrs Barnett on the subject, and she evidently did not intend that he should look into the room. To most of his inquiries he received satisfactory answers: the young ladies attended church regularly, and were visited and catechised periodically by a clergyman in whose judgment and piety Mrs Barnett said she had the most perfect confidence. Poor Mary threw her arms round her father’s neck as he was taking his leave, and burst into tears.

“I wish that I had not come, papa,” she whispered. “I don’t know why, but I can’t bear the thoughts of parting from you.”

He endeavoured to comfort her, and consoled himself that he had acted for the best, though it cost him much to leave his little girl in the hands of strangers.

He had another duty to perform, less trying to his feelings, however. It was to take Alfred up to Oxford. Alfred had specially requested to be allowed to go to — College, which, though not enjoying the fame of older institutions, Alfred averred that he should feel more at home at than in any other. He was duly introduced to the head of his college, where rooms were allotted to him, and forthwith matriculating, he became an undergraduate. Mr Lennard, believing that he had performed his duty, left his son to make his way as thousands of young men have had to do before him.

Chapter Three.

Clara was seated in the drawing-room. She had just written a long letter to Harry, in which she told him of the various events which had taken place in the neighbourhood. She wrote unreservedly, describing, among other persons, Mr and Mrs Lerew, and the constant attention and kindness they had shown her. She naturally spoke of the church, and of the various improvements, as she called them, which had been introduced. “Nothing can be more elegant than the reredos which our excellent vicar has erected at his own expense,” she wrote. “The altar, too, is beautifully adorned, and the music, considering the performers, is wonderfully good; for Mrs Lerew has taken great pains to instruct the choir, and we occasionally have a first-rate musician from London to lead them; while an air of solemnity pervades the service, both on Sundays and week-days, very different to anything we have before had in this neighbourhood.” She did not say that she went to confession, but she remarked that she derived great comfort from the spiritual advice of the vicar. The letter was closed ready for the post, when General Caulfield was announced. He came to bid her and her father a hurried farewell, as he had just been summoned by telegram to the north of England, to the bedside of a dying brother, whose executor he was, and he greatly feared that some time might elapse before he should be able to return.

“I wish to suggest to you, my dear Clara, before I go,” he said, “that it will be well, in the position in which you are placed, to avoid too great an intimacy with the vicar and his wife, of whose constant visits to you I have heard. He may be, according to his own notions, a religious man, but he is not acting faithfully to the Church of which he is a minister. He has already made many innovations in this parish which are contrary to the spirit and practice of that Protestant Church, and, from what I hear and observe, he intends to make others; while he has openly pleached several Romish doctrines, and I see his name among the members of the Church Union, which avowedly repudiates Protestant principles. I am sure that Harry would give you the advice I do, and I deeply regret that I cannot remain to afford you any assistance you may require.”

A blush rose on Clara’s brow. She could not openly express any disagreement with the general, but she thought he was harsh and illiberal in the opinion he had uttered. She replied that she had already written to Harry, and told him all about the church and the vicar, and hoped that he would not find any great fault with her.

The general appeared satisfied. He remained but a short time with his poor friend, whom he believed that he should never again see on earth; for he remarked, what Clara had failed to do, the great change in her father’s countenance since his last visit. He took an affectionate farewell of his intended daughter-in-law and, not being aware of the influence the vicar had already obtained over her and her aunt, he did not further warn her against him. Still, he left her with some anxious forebodings, regretting the stern necessity which compelled him to be away from her at the time when his advice might be of so much importance. The general’s absence was felt by others in the parish; he was looked upon as the person best calculated, from his position and truly Christian character, to lead those desirous of opposing the ritualistic practices introduced by the new vicar, which were already making rapid progress. The general had been faithfully attached to the establishment; he had gone, as usual, to the parish church, in spite of the introduction of the surpliced choir, of “Hymns Ancient and Modern,” the richly adorned communion-table, and several other additions which had been cautiously introduced; but when he heard from the lips of the vicar the doctrine of transubstantiation clearly and unmistakably enounced, and afterwards saw him habited in a robe resembling that of a Romish priest elevate the elements, he felt compelled to absent himself, and on the next Sunday to attend the service at a Congregational chapel. He had, in in the meantime, expostulated with Mr Lerew, both personally and by letter, but had received only a curt and unsatisfactory reply. He had afterwards heard, from undoubted authority, that the doctrine of purgatory was taught to the schoolchildren; that prayers for the dead were offered up, as also prayers to the Virgin Mary; that the saints were invoked; that a font had been placed at the entrance of the church for the reception of holy water. A considerable number of the parishioners had for some time withdrawn themselves from the church; Lieutenant Sims had declared that he would never enter it to listen to Mr Lerew, after he had heard him say that the Bible was a dangerous book. Many sided with the lieutenant; others asserted that he must have misunderstood the vicar—he could not have uttered such an opinion; some even went so far as to say Mr Sims had through envy, hatred, and malice stated what he knew to be a falsehood. The lieutenant, supported by his wife, boldly adhered to what he had said; the parishioners were by the ears on the subject. Miss Pemberton had been appealed to, but declared she could not understand what Mr Lerew had said, and her evidence went rather against Mr Sims; but when candles and flowers appeared on the altar, and a rich cross rose above it, and the vicar, habited in new-fangled robes, turned his back on the congregation, the partisans of the gallant lieutenant increased, and each innovation introduced by the vicar brought Mr Sims a fresh accession of supporters. They talked seriously of building another church, and made arrangements to apply to the bishop; but it was found that both parties were so scattered over the two parishes, which were of very considerable extent, that their object was unattainable. While General Caulfield remained among them, he prevented the flame of discord from bursting forth. He allowed no angry word to escape his lips, but contented himself with simply preaching the Gospel, either in the Congregational Chapel on a week-day evening, or in a large barn he had hired and fitted up for the purpose of holding meetings. It was always full, and many came from the farther end of the parish. Calm and calculating as Mr Lerew generally was, he became excessively indignant on hearing of this; but he considered the general too important a person to be attacked personally, though he spoke everywhere in the strongest terms of his unwarrantable conduct, denominating him as a schismatic of the worst description. Great was his satisfaction when he heard that the general had gone away. He now fancied that he could carry on his proceedings without opposition. He was mistaken, however; for Lieutenant Sims and his party ceased not to protest against all he did; and petitions were sent to the bishop, who, however, if he did not encourage Mr Lerew’s proceedings, took no steps to put a stop to them. Mr Lennard was appealed to, but he declined to interfere, declaring that he saw nothing so very objectionable in the changes which had been made; and as to doctrines, the vicar of the parish was more likely to know what was right or wrong than the parishioners whom he came to teach.

“In my opinion, our late vicar is as bad as the present one,” exclaimed Lieutenant Sims; “but how the poor man, whom all thought so much of, has been so completely bamboozled is more than I can tell.”

Mr Lerew had lately, by the advice of Lady Bygrave, designed a grand scheme. It was the establishment of a college or school for eighty young ladies in the parish, for whose accommodation handsome buildings were to be erected; and Lady Bygrave, with other ladies of consequence in the county, undertook to be patronesses. In his prospectus Mr Lerew dwelt especially on the importance of young ladies being carefully trained in religious principles, and removed from the pernicious influence of unauthorised instructors; whereas at Saint Agatha’s they would be placed under the direct superintendence of their lawful priests, and instructed in catholic doctrine. Lady Bygrave had already recommended as mother superior a lady of great piety and experience, and the teachers were to be sisters of the community of Saint Mary the Virgin, in the neighbouring town of Bansfield, who were celebrated for their truly religious and self-denying lives. The young ladies, thus judiciously trained, would, it was hoped, become the mothers of England’s future legislators, and materially contribute to the establishment of catholic principles throughout the land. Mr Lerew had, however, another prospectus more generally circulated among those of whose principles he was uncertain, and in which he simply set forth that an excellent first-class school was about to be established for the benefit of their own and neighbouring counties, and asking for subscriptions and support to so desirable an institution. Subscriptions, however, did not come in with the same rapidity as he had hoped, and he saw that he must employ other means for raising the necessary funds. Mrs Lerew wrote to all her more wealthy acquaintances, and Lady Bygrave was, as usual, most liberal. Few of the parishioners would subscribe, with the exception of some of the principal tradesmen, who hoped to do business with the new establishment, Mr Rowe, an apothecary, who expected to be employed as medical attendant, and the solicitor who had been engaged in making the legal arrangements.

People had begun to grow suspicious of the vicar, and even of Lady Bygrave, in consequence of the long stay at the Hall of the abbé and Father Lascelles. Lady Bygrave did her utmost to maintain her popularity by incessantly driving about and visiting the houses of the better-to-do people and the cottages of the poor, much as she would have done on an electioneering canvass. She was, of course, politely received by all classes; but though she won over some, a large number of people were too sound Protestants to be influenced by her plausible and attractive manners. It would have been happy for poor Clara and her Aunt Sarah, had they been equally on their guard. Miss Pemberton, indeed, declared that whatever so charming a person as Lady Bygrave did must be right, and she now not only attended all the services at the church on Sundays and week-days, but induced Clara to accompany her. Though Clara went, she often felt that it was her duty to be watching by the bedside of her father; she, indeed, sometimes begged on that plea to remain at home.

“But, my dear, your duties to God and the commands of our Holy Church are superior to those you owe to a human parent, and you should therefore not allow yourself to be influenced by the natural affections of your heart,” observed Miss Pemberton, using the argument she had previously learned from Mr Lerew.

Clara had been absent at one of these week-day services, and the vicar had promised to call and have some conversation with her and her aunt, when on her return she observed an expression of subdued sorrow and alarm on the countenances of the servants.

“Is my father worse?” she asked anxiously; and before any one could stop her, she rushed upstairs, and entered Captain Maynard’s room. She approached the bed. There was no movement—his eyes were closed, and the nurse was standing by the bedside—her father was dead. She knew it at once, and as she leant over him, she sank fainting on his inanimate body. Miss Pemberton, having learned the truth, quickly followed, and directed that she should be carried from the room. On the application of restoratives Clara revived; but scarcely had she returned to consciousness than Mr Lerew drove up to the door. Though he was told what had happened, he insisted on seeing Miss Maynard.

“As a priest, I can afford her spiritual comfort and support,” he said, almost forcing his way in. Miss Pemberton, not daring to decline his visit, ushered him into Clara’s room. He took a seat by her side. He spoke softly and gently.

“We must look at what has happened as a dispensation of heaven,” he remarked; “but though, unhappily, your father to the last refused the ordinances of our Church, I am fain to believe that he did so under malign influence, and from weakness of mind induced by sickness. It is a consolation to know that prayers continually offered in his behalf by a true votaress to the loving Mother of God can in time release him from the condition in which I fear he is placed. With what thankfulness you should receive this glorious doctrine, my dear Miss Maynard! what calm should it bring to your troubled heart! I will not fail, believe me, to offer the prayers of the Church for the same object; and if you did but consider their efficacy, you would cease to mourn as you now do.”

Poor Clara was too completely overwhelmed by grief to understand the meaning of what the vicar said, though she heard the words issuing from his mouth.

“I will relieve you,” he continued, “from all the painful arrangements connected with the funeral, in conjunction with your aunt, whom I will now join in the drawing-room.”

“Oh! thank you! thank you!” exclaimed Clara, between her sobs. “I shall be most grateful—do whatever you think best.”

Mr Lerew retired; and after a conversation of some length with Miss Pemberton he drove away. Clara—so absorbing was her grief—could with difficulty regain her power of thought. She felt alone in the world. Had General Caulfield been at home, she would have had him to consult; but she had no confidence in her Aunt Sarah’s judgment, though she had of late been more guided by her than she was aware of.

“Our excellent vicar and I have arranged everything,” said Miss Pemberton, on entering the room some time afterwards; “so do not further trouble yourself about the matter.”

Clara expressed her thanks to her aunt. Completely prostrate, she remained in bed. Workmen sent by the vicar came to the house, and were employed for some time in her father’s room. She dared not inquire what they were about. At length she arose and dressed. She felt a longing desire once more to gaze on those dear features. She inquired whether she might go to the room.

“Oh, yes, miss,” was the answer. “It’s all done up on purpose, and looks so grand.”

She hurried on, and, entering, what was her astonishment to find the room draped in black, the windows closed, and several long wax candles arranged round the bed on which her father’s body lay, dressed in his naval uniform. She approached, and leant over the bed, on which, after standing gazing at his features for some minutes, she sank down with her arms extended, almost fainting. At that instant the vicar appeared at the doorway.

“What a lovely picture!” he whispered, as if to himself; “can anything surpass it?”

Clara heard him, and had still strength sufficient to rise.

“We have done what we can to do honour to your father,” he said, advancing and taking her hand. “Had General Caulfield been present, we should have been prevented from making these arrangements; and I lay all the blame of Captain Maynard’s neglect of the sacred ordinances on him, as I am sure it will be laid at the day of judgment; therefore, my sweet young lady, I would urge you to mourn not as those without hope. I come to console and sympathise with you. Let me lead you from the room, as others are anxious to pay their last respects to your parent; it will be trying to your feelings to receive them.”

Clara submitted, and was led by the vicar into the drawing-room, where she found her aunt. Mr Lerew now became more cheerful in his conversation, and spoke of his new college, and of a society of Anglican sisters of mercy, in which he was deeply interested. He enlarged on their pious, self-denying labours, so admirably adapted to distract the minds of the sorrowing from worldly cares and the thoughts of the past, and the charming qualities of the lady superior, and of the calm happiness enjoyed by all under her rule.

“You will find subjects for consideration in these volumes,” said Mr Lerew, taking two books from his pocket; “the one describes fully the joys of a religious life, and the other points out to you rules for your daily government. Your aunt has already several works I left with her some time ago, to which I would also draw your attention; and may they prove a blessing to your soul.”

Saying this, the vicar took his leave. In the meantime several persons had come to the house; and scarcely had the vicar left the room than the voice of Mr Sims was heard exclaiming, “By whose authority, I should like to know, has the death-bed of my poor friend been surrounded by those popish play-acting mummeries which I witnessed just now? He was one of the last men on earth who would have sanctioned such proceedings.”

“Sir, sir!” exclaimed Mr Lerew in an angry tone, “I scarcely understand your meaning; but if you allude to the arrangements in the chamber of death above, I have to inform you that they were made by those who had ample authority for doing as they thought right; and I have to add that I consider your remarks indecorous and highly impertinent.”

“I differ with you on that point,” answered the lieutenant, restraining his anger; “and I only hope my poor friend’s daughter has had nothing to do with the matter. It signifies very little to him, or I believe he’d get up and capsize all the candles, and cut down the black cloth rigged round his bed. Why, I’m as sure as I am of my own existence that he died like a true Christian, and is now in the glorious realms of the blest, or I don’t know what the Gospel means. What does he want with all that black stuff round him? It’s just robbing the orphan to put money in the pockets of the undertakers. And now you’ve got my opinion, I’ll wish you good morning;” and Mr Sims walked out of the house, leaving the vicar fuming and boiling with unwonted rage.

Mr Sims had intended leaving a message expressive of his and his wife’s sympathy for poor Clara; but his indignation at what he had witnessed very naturally threw everything else out of his head. He notwithstanding attended Captain Maynard’s funeral, which was conducted with more ceremonies than had ever yet taken place in the parish. Numerous carriages followed the hearse, and the procession formed in the church walked after the coffin, the individuals forming it surrounding the grave, chanting a requiem as the coffin was committed to its last resting-place.

The vicar had kept secret the last interview he had had with Captain Maynard, who, he let it be supposed, had gone through all the required ordinances of the Church before the last seizure, which had deprived him of the power of speech. Those who knew the captain best averred that he would never have consented to the performance in his presence of any Romish ceremony, and that the vicar had some object in view in allowing the idea to get abroad. The parish became more divided than ever, but the original cause of dispute held its ground, and those who sided with the vicar would no longer visit or speak to those who believed that he had declared the Bible to be a dangerous book.

Clara’s grief for the loss of her father was sincere and deep. Her nature was one requiring such consolation as a sympathising friend could afford. Her aunt was never sympathising or gentle, and she had become still less so since she had attended the frequent services of the Church. Early rising did not suit her constitution; but though she thoroughly disliked it, she considered it her duty to induce her niece to accompany her.

Thus time went on at Luton. General Caulfield was detained in the North; he wrote frequently to Clara. Not aware of the influences to which she was exposed, he did not mention the vicar, and failed to caution her, as he otherwise would have done. She, knowing his opinions, did not venture to tell him all that was occurring, though he saw by the tone of her letters that she was unhappy and ill at ease from some cause or other, besides the natural grief she felt for the loss of her father, and her anxiety about Harry. She had heard of his arrival, and that his regiment was ordered up the country, but she had received no answer to the letter she wrote, describing the services at the church, and the various changes introduced by the vicar. Her aunt had, in the meantime, become less agreeable and communicative even than before. She was constantly absorbed in the books lent her by Mr Lerew, and she very frequently drove over to the Vicarage to see him. Clara had at first felt but little interest in the two works he had presented to her; she had glanced over their pages, and was somewhat startled at the language used and the advice given in them, so different to that to which she had been accustomed. On one of his visits he inquired whether she had studied them, and she had to confess the truth. He then entreated her not to risk her spiritual welfare by any longer neglecting to read the works so calculated to advance it. She promised to follow his advice. Had Clara known more of the world, and possessed more self-reliance, her eyes might have been opened by what she read; but she wanted some one to lean on, and on her aunt’s judgment she had no reliance. The vicar appeared, from his position and serious manner, to be the person in whom she ought to confide. Had the general been at Luton, she would have gone to him; but she could not write what she might have spoken; and she finally gave herself up to the guidance of Mr Lerew, as her aunt had long since done.

The following Sunday the communion was to be held, or, as the vicar expressed it, the Holy Eucharist was to be celebrated; “But,” he added, “I have made it a rule that I will administer it to none who have not made confession and received that absolution I am authorised to grant.”

“I was not aware of that,” said Clara; “how long has that rule existed?”

“I have only lately made it,” he replied, “and from it I cannot depart.”

Clara hesitated; but her aunt, who had several times gone to confession, assured her that there was nothing in it very terrible, and overcame her scruples. Clara promised to go. It was held in the vestry, one person at a time only being admitted. The questions asked and the answers given cannot be repeated. Clara, as she knelt leaning on a chair in front of the priest, could with difficulty support herself; her heart felt bursting; she was nearly fainting; the colour mounted to her cheeks and brow; she could not lift her eyes from the ground towards the man who was questioning her. More than once she was inclined to rise and flee from the room rather than continue to undergo the mental torture she was suffering. Never afterwards did she look the vicar in the face. At length the ordeal was over, the Te absolvo was pronounced, and she, with trembling knees, hanging down her head, tottered to her pew by the side of her aunt, where she knelt to conceal her features, while uncontrollable sobs burst from her bosom.

“What’s the matter?” whispered Miss Pemberton. “Take my smelling-bottle. Don’t let people hear you; they’ll fancy there must be something very dreadful.”

The music that day was unusually good. Several first-rate performers had been engaged to attend, with three or four clergymen from various parts of the county. They, in their richest robes, glittering with embroidery, walked round the church. There were the acolytes with lighted candles, the thurifer, with the cross-bearer, and others carrying banners; while the organ played, and the fumes of incense filled the church. Clara’s agitation ceased, but no peace was brought to her soul. She returned home with her aunt, humbled and more wretched than she had ever before felt in her life.

Chapter Four.

Monday morning brought Clara Harry’s looked-for letter. She hurried with it to her room. It was full of love and tenderness, but Harry expressed his regret at hearing of the changes which had been made in the church, and still more of the ritualistic practices of the new vicar.

“I need scarcely urge you, dearest, not to be inveigled by them,” he continued, “as I have often said I cannot conceive a man in his senses marrying a girl who has submitted to the abominable confession—it must ultimately deprave her mind, and prevent her from placing that confidence in her husband which he has a right to expect; while it proves her ignorance of one of the most vital truths of our holy faith, that we have a High Priest in heaven, who knows our infirmities, and is touched by our sorrows, and who is more tender and loving than any human being, and is ever ready to receive those who come to Him. Oh! do warn any girls of your acquaintance not to yield to the sophistries which would persuade them that Christ allows a human being to stand in His stead between Himself and the sinner. It is one of the numberless devices of Satan to rob Him of the honour and love which are His due. We are told when we have offended a fellow mortal to confess our fault, and to ask pardon; but we are emphatically charged to confess our sins to God alone, trusting to the all-sufficient atonement made once for all for us by Christ on Calvary, and through His mediation we are assured of perfect forgiveness. These impious sacerdotalists, for the sake of gaining influence over the minds of those they hope to deceive, step in, and daringly arrogate to themselves the position which our loving Lord desires alone to hold. But I must not continue the subject—I know that it is not necessary to say this to you. Should you ever be perplexed, or require assistance, I am sure that you will apply to my kind and excellent father, who is ever anxious to treat you as a beloved daughter.”

Clara read the letter with burning cheek.

“Oh, what have I done!” she exclaimed; “I am unworthy of the confidence he places in me.” Directly afterwards she tried to find an excuse for herself. “Perhaps he is mistaken in his ideas; and Mr Lerew says that the general is a schismatic, and Harry has imbibed his views. I dare not refuse to obey the voice of the Church, and Mr Lerew tells me that that insists on confession before absolution can be granted, and without absolution we cannot partake of the Holy Eucharist.”

Such was her line of thought, and she determined to try and persuade Harry to agree with her. She sat down and wrote to him, quoting several passages from the books lent to her by the vicar. She implored him seriously to consider the matter, and not to imperil his soul by refusing obedience to the Church. So eager did she become as she warmed in her subject, that she forgot to put in those affectionate expressions which her previous letter had contained. No sooner had the epistle been despatched than she began to regret having said some things in it and omitted others. She tried to think over its contents; as she did so she became more and more dissatisfied. At last she resolved to write another, to confess that she was sorry she had written the first, to tell Harry of her difficulties, and to ask his advice. Her aunt came in just as she had closed it, and offered to post it for her. That letter never reached its destination.

Poor Clara, agitated by conflicting emotions, and all her previous opinions upset, at last thought of writing to General Caulfield, telling him of all her doubts and troubles, that perhaps he might see things in the light in which the vicar presented them. Miss Pemberton found the letter on the hall table, and suspecting its contents, took it to the vicar, who advised that it should not be forwarded. Clara in vain waited for a reply; no letters reached her from the general, and she ultimately came to the conclusion that he was so much offended with her for what she had said, that he would write no more.

Week after week passed by, and no letter came from Harry.

“Can he have cast me off because I show an anxiety about my spiritual welfare?” she exclaimed, somewhat bitterly to herself. “Mr Lerew must be right when he speaks of the bigotry of the Evangelical party.”

Mr Lerew called the next day, and spoke pathetically of the trials to which the true sons and daughters of the Church must expect to be exposed; and left some tracts, which especially pointed out the holy delights of a convent life; one, indeed, declared that the only sure way by which a woman could avoid the trials and troubles of the present evil world and gain eternal happiness was by entering a convent and devoting herself to the service of religion. Clara read them over and over, and sighed often. Miss Pemberton expressed her high approval of them.

“I am, indeed, my dear niece, contemplating myself becoming a Sister of Charity, and only regret that I was not led in early life to do so—how many wasted days of idleness and frivolity I might have avoided.” Miss Pemberton did not like to speak of years.

The vicar, who had now become an almost daily visitor, just then appeared. He held forth eloquently on the subject of which the ladies had been speaking; a friend of his, a most charming, delightful person, was the Lady Superior of one of the oldest and most devoted sisterhoods which had been established in England since, as he expressed it, true Catholic principles had been revived in the Church, He was sure that no lady could do otherwise than rejoice to the end of her days, who should become a member of her community. The Sisters were employed in numerous meritorious works of charity; he had hoped that Miss Maynard would take an active part in Saint Agatha’s College; but some time must probably elapse before more than a very limited number of teachers could find occupation, and he besides doubted whether she would find the duties of an instructress suited to her taste.

“I should not, I fear, find my powers equal to them,” answered Clara, humbly; “and yet I have a longing for some occupation in the service of the Church. Such means as I possess, however, I would gladly devote to the establishment of Saint Agatha’s.”

“Ah, my dear young lady, I rejoice to hear you say that,” exclaimed Mr Lerew. “Whatever you give, you give to the Church, remember, and she has promised to repay you a hundredfold.”

Mrs Lerew frequently called on Clara, as also did Lady Bygrave. Both spoke enthusiastically of the holy and happy life of Sisters of Mercy, and still more so of those nuns who gave themselves up to religious meditation. Lady Bygrave, especially, warmly pressed the subject on Clara’s consideration.

“Were I young, I should certainly devote myself to a religious life; but as I am married, my husband might raise objections,” she remarked.

Clara thought and thought on all she heard, and became more and more interested in the books her advisers put into her hands. She resolved, however, to wait before deciding till she received a letter from Harry. She could not easily give him up; and she hoped, when she should be his wife, to win him over to support the cause of the Church, which she persuaded herself would be as acceptable to Heaven as should she become a nun.

While Clara had gone one day to return a visit from Lady Bygrave, Miss Pemberton received and opened the postbag. It contained a letter for Clara from India. She saw that it was from Harry. She turned it over several times.

“I must obey my spiritual adviser,” she said to herself; “it can do the child no harm.”

Replacing several other letters for Clara, she took this one up into her own room. She had been instructed how carefully to open letters by the vicar, for he had been at an English school, and having been taught in his boyhood to consider breaking the seal of another person’s letter a disgraceful act, was glad to escape it. After a little time she succeeded in reaching the enclosure. She glanced over the first portion.

“A part of your letter, dearest one, though I delight in hearing from you, gave me great pain. I had hoped and believed that you were better grounded in the fundamental truths of the Gospel than to express yourself as you have done. You speak of Holy Church as if there were one visible establishment on earth which all are bound to obey, when Christ founded only one spiritual Church, on the great truth enunciated by Peter, that He was the Christ, the Son of the living God. From that time forward, throughout the whole of the New Testament, no other Church is spoken of. Churches or assemblies existed, founded by the apostles, but they were independent of each other, and were solely united by having one faith and one allegiance to one great head, Jesus Christ; but in such simple forms as were introduced for the convenience of public worship they materially differed from each other. Under the new covenant no material temple or worldly sanctuary exists; the old covenant had ordinances of divine service and of worldly sanctuary, but these, the apostle tells us, have waxed old and vanished away, Christ being come, the High Priest of good things to come, by a greater and more perfect tabernacle not made with hands; and he assures us that the only temple now existing is the spiritual Church of the living God. ‘Know ye not that ye are the temple of God, and that the Spirit of God dwelleth in you? ye also as lively stones are built up a spiritual house, a holy priesthood, to offer up spiritual sacrifices to God by Jesus Christ, whose house are ye, Jesus Christ Himself being the chief cornerstone;’ and our Lord Himself tells us that where two or three are gathered together, even there is He in their midst. The priest, the sacrifice, the altar, and the temple of the old covenant were only types of the good things to come under the Gospel. When Christ ascended on high, all human priesthood was abolished; our only priestly mediator or intercessor is Jesus Christ, the one Mediator between God and men, who is the one righteous Advocate, the one ever-living Intercessor, and His glory will He not give to another, He who has once suffered for sinners, the just for the unjust, that He might bring us to God. The apostles themselves never assumed the character of priests; they pointed to the Great High Priest, Jesus Christ the righteous, and would have looked upon it as blasphemy for any man to presume to act as such. To our Great High Priest alone must we confess our sins; He is faithful and just to forgive all those their sins, who put faith in the all-cleansing power of His blood to absolve them. He, too, is One who knows our infirmities, and can sympathise with us, having been tempted as we are. With the Scriptures in our hands, we need no mortal man to declare this glorious truth to us; and knowing it, we can come boldly to the throne of grace, and He is ever ready to receive all who come to Him. All the forms and ceremonies, the embellishments which you describe, are but imitations of those of the Church of Rome, which are themselves taken from the ceremonies of the old heathen temples, with large admixtures from those of the Jews. From the earliest times, Satan has induced men to assume the character of priests, for the purpose of deceiving their fellow-creatures. The same spirit exists at the present day; and as he can become an angel of light in appearance, so may those men who thus blasphemously take the name of priests appear pure and holy in the sight of those whom they deceive. Let me entreat you, my beloved Clara, to break from the chains which have been thrown around you. Seek for grace and strength from above, and consult my kind father. Tell him frankly all that the vicar has endeavoured to teach you to believe, and I feel assured that he will thoroughly satisfy your mind.”

Harry said more to the same effect.

“It will never do for Clara to see this letter,” thought Miss Pemberton; “I must take it to Mr Lerew, and ascertain what he thinks.”

She set off at once, that she might get to the vicarage and back before Clara’s return. The vicar read it with knitted brow.

“You did right, my dear sister,” he said; “it might defeat all our plans. Far better commit it to the flames. Let me think—will you permit me to take possession of the letter? good may result from it; the end, as you know, my dear lady, sanctifies the means.”

“Whatever you consider right, I of course will do,” said Miss Pemberton, giving the letter, which with the envelope the vicar put into his desk; and the lady hastened home.

“It is the aunt’s doing, not mine,” he muttered to himself; “but were the poor girl to receive this abominable production, it might destroy the result of all the training I have given her. No priest! no sacrifice! no confession! no power of absolution! What would become of the Church—what of us—if such principles were to regain their ascendancy over the minds of the people? These abominable evangelical notions must be crushed by every means in our power, or the efforts which for years we have made to introduce Catholic doctrine would be utterly lost. We must get the girl without delay to enter a convent, and the sooner she is induced to do so the better.”

Mr Lerew waited for some days before he paid Clara another visit. She had discovered that the Indian post had come in, and had brought her, as she supposed, no letter from Harry. She began to imagine all sorts of things; she saw that there were accounts of engagements with the hill-tribes—could he have gone up the country with a detachment of his regiment? or perhaps her letter had so offended him that he would not again write. Mr Lerew, when he called, perceived that she was very unhappy, and having drawn from her the cause of her grief, he assured her that there was but one way by which she could regain peace of mind, and insinuated that so bigoted a person as Captain Caulfield would in all probability discard her when he found that she was anxious to serve the Church. “It will prove a great trial to you, my dear sister,” he said; “but for such you must be prepared; and I would urge you to seek in the duties of a religious life that comfort and consolation you are sure to find.”

Several weeks more went by, during which the vicar’s influence over poor Clara increased. No letter came from Harry or from his father.

“He has discarded me,” exclaimed Clara. “I must seek for that peace and rest where alone, Mr Lerew assures me, I can find it, or I shall die.”

The very next day, accompanied by Mr Lerew and his wife, Clara set off to the town of —, in the neighbourhood of which was situated Saint Barbara’s, as the convent was called. It had originally been a religious house, as the term is, and was encircled by a high wall, which enclosed the garden and outhouses. It was a dark, red brick, sombre pile, and the additions lately made to it had given it a thoroughly conventual appearance. The carriage drove under an archway in front of the entrance, closed on the outside, Mr Lerew got out and tugged at a large iron bell-pull, when a slide in the door was pulled back, and the face of a female, who narrowly scrutinised the visitors, appeared at the opening. Mr Lerew quickly explained their object; no further words were exchanged, and after a short delay the bars and bolts were withdrawn, and the door was opened sufficiently to allow him and his wife and Clara to pass through into a small hall, where they were left standing, while the portress by signs summoned two serving Sisters dressed in dark blue, with brass crosses at their necks, to bring in Clara’s luggage. The same person then beckoning the visitors to follow, led them into a waiting-room on one side. All the time she had kept her eyes fixed on the ground, not once looking at the vicar’s countenance. Having by signs desired them to be seated on some antique-looking chairs, which with a table and writing materials were the sole furniture of the room, she retired. Poor Clara felt dreadfully oppressed, and very much inclined to beg that her trunks might be put back again into the carriage, as she wished to return home; but pride, not unmixed with fear of the remarks Mr Lerew would make, prevented her. She sat with her hand on her sinking heart, wondering whether all the members of the sisterhood would be expected to keep a perpetual silence.

“This reminds me much of the convents I have visited in France and Belgium,” observed Mr Lerew, turning to his wife. “Our young friend will soon learn the rules of the house, and see how suitable they are, and calculated to advance the religious feelings.”

He spoke in a low tone, as if afraid of disturbing the solemn silence which reigned in the building. Some time passed away, when the door slowly opened, and a lady habited in grey, with a large cross inlaid with ivory on her breast, glided into the room. She was of commanding figure, and, in spite of her unbecoming head-dress and the white band across her brow, she had evidently once been handsome. She smiled benignantly as she glanced at Mrs Lerew and Clara, and advancing to the vicar, bowed gracefully to him, and taking his hand, raised it to her lips; then retiring without further noticing her other guests, sank into a seat. “I have come with my wife to introduce a young friend who is desirous of commencing, and I trust continuing, the life of a réligieuse,” said Mr Lerew; “and from my knowledge of your admirable sisterhood, I feel confident that she will here obtain all she desires.”

The Lady Superior now turned a piercing glance on Clara, which made her involuntarily shrink and cast down her eyes on the ground. The former did not speak till she had finished her scrutiny; she then said slowly—

“If you truly desire to embrace our holy calling, you will be gladly received, understanding that you must conform to the rules of our order in all respects. You will in the first instance enter as a postulant for a short time, during which you will wear your secular habit; after which you will become a probationer, and then, as I trust, we shall receive you as a confirmed Sister on your vowing obedience to the three fundamental rules of our order. Are you prepared to remain with us at once?”

“Certainly, certainly,” exclaimed Mr Lerew; “Miss Maynard has come with that especial object in view. He who puts his hand to the plough must not turn back, nor would she, I am sure, wish to do so.”

“What I would urge upon you,” said the Lady Superior, “is complete self-surrender, and strict observance of the rule of holy obedience; without that you cannot expect to enjoy spiritual life, nor can the affairs of the community be properly carried on.”

“I will endeavour to the best of my power to observe the rules of the order,” said Clara, in a trembling voice.

“Of course she will, of course,” observed Mr Lerew; “it will be her glory and pride to do so. Oh what a beneficent arrangement is that by which a poor frail woman or layman can, by opening his or her heart to the priest, obtain all the instruction or advice for which their souls yearn!”

“You will soon be accustomed to the quiet life we lead within these walls,” observed the Lady Superior, turning to Clara, without noticing Mr Lerew’s remark; “and I will invite you now to accompany me, when I will make you known to the Deane, who will initiate you into the rules and observances to which you will at once conform; and you may now bid farewell to your friends, for they will excuse me, as my official duties require my attention.”

Clara rose, and put out her hand to take that of Mr Lerew. Instead, he bade her kneel, and placing his hands above her head, uttered a benediction. She felt inclined to embrace Mrs Lerew—not that she had any great affection for her, but it seemed as if Mrs Lerew was the only link between her and the world she was leaving; at that moment, however, the Lady Superior, taking her hand, led her towards the door.

“May I request an interview with Dr Catton, should he be now living here?” asked Mr Lerew.

“Our spiritual adviser is at present in residence,” answered the Lady Superior, “and I will mention your wish to see him, should you be able to remain till he is at leisure.”

“Oh, certainly, certainly. I must not hurry Dr Catton; but as it is a matter of much importance, I much wish to consult him. I will wait his pleasure,” said Mr Lerew.

Without having shown any act of courtesy to Mrs Lerew, the Lady Superior left the room, still holding fast to Clara’s hand.

“Had I expected to be so treated, I should not have come,” exclaimed Mrs Lerew, as the door closed. “If these are conventual manners, I hope that Clara may not adopt them. What caused the Lady Superior to act as she did?”

“If you insist on knowing, you must understand that she probably considers priests ought to be celibates, and therefore looks upon you in no favourable light,” answered the vicar, with some acerbity in his tone.

Mrs Lerew was about to retort, when the door opened, and the spiritual adviser of the establishment, Dr Catton, entered. He was a small thin man, with sallow complexion, and that peculiar pucker about the mouth which seems a characteristic of those who hold his views. The two gentlemen were well known to each other.

“I am anxious, my dear Doctor, to obtain your further advice regarding my new female college,” said Mr Lerew, “as I hope in a short time it will be in a sufficient state of advancement to receive pupils.”

“I would gladly afford you my assistance in so holy a work,” answered Dr Catton, “as I consider it will tend greatly to the advancement of the Church; but—” and he looked at Mrs Lerew.

“She is discreet, and takes a deep interest in the institution,” said the vicar.

Dr Catton looked as if he considered women were better out of the way when any matter of importance was to be discussed. However, as the vicar did not tell his wife to retire, he entered into the subject, speaking more cautiously perhaps than he otherwise would have done. Mrs Lerew sat on, her countenance expressing her dissatisfaction at the want of confidence the Doctor placed in her. The rules and regulations of the new college were discussed, as well as the means for obtaining the necessary funds. “You will understand that the young lady who is about to enter into this institution has a considerable fortune at her disposal, with which I have every hope she will endow our college. It must be a point of honour between us that she does not bestow it on the convent, and I beg that you will impress that on the mind of the Lady Superior. You will remember that I induced her to come here for that important object, for she will not be of age for upwards of two years, and she might in the meantime, were she to remain in the world, change her mind and marry, and her property would be lost to the Church.”

“Of course,” said Dr Catton, “I am equally interested with you in the college, which I look upon as the nursing mother of those who will do much to forward the great cause.”

After some further conversation on the subject, Mr and Mrs Lerew took their departure, Dr Catton again promising that Clara’s fortune should be appropriated as her father confessor desired. Clara had, in the meantime, been introduced to the Mother Eldress, a pleasant, fair lady of about forty, who took her round the establishment. The chapel was first visited. Over the high altar stood the crucifix, with paintings of the Virgin Mary on one side, and that of Saint John on the other, and on it were the usual candlesticks with large wax candles and vases of flowers; while the walls were adorned with other paintings illustrating the lives of various saints, in which monks and nuns frequently appeared. The Mother Eldress drew aside a curtain which hung across a small side-chapel, when Clara saw, with considerable astonishment, the figure of the Virgin, richly dressed, standing on a small altar with candles burning on it, and also vases of flowers, with which the whole of the chapel was decked. The Mother Eldress bowed and crossed herself.

“You should do as I do,” she said, turning to Clara; “the Blessed Virgin demands our most devoted love and adoration; we can never do her honour enough.”

“I thought,” observed Clara, “that as Protestants we did not worship the Virgin.”

“Let me entreat you, my child, never to utter that odious word Protestant,” exclaimed the Mother Eldress. “We are Catholics of the Anglican Church; we do not worship the Virgin either; but we love to do her honour.”

Clara was puzzled; but thought it better just then to ask no further questions. The refectory and other public rooms were next visited; they were neat and scrupulously clean, but were destitute of every article of luxury, or which might conduce to comfort—no sofas, no easy arm-chairs were found in them.

“You will now like to see the cells,” said the Mother Eldress, as she led the way upstairs. Passing along a gallery, she opened a door, and exhibited a long narrow room containing a camp-bedstead, covered by a white quilt, a small table and a chair, and in one corner a desk with a Bible and a few books of devotion on it, as also a lamp, and above it a picture of the crucifixion. It was lighted by a small, deep, oriel window, with a broad sill, on which were arranged some flower-pots, sweet-scented flowers growing in them. No carpet covered the floor; but it was brightly polished, as was all the woodwork in the room.

“Such will be your dormitory,” observed the Mother Eldress.

“Is there no fireplace?” asked Clara.

“There are in some of the cells; but such are not allowed to novices,” was the answer.

Clara, who had been accustomed to a fire in winter all her life, shuddered; for even now, in the height of summer, the room felt cold.

“I will now show you the rules,” said the Mother Eldress, producing a book in manuscript. “No letters must be written or received by the Sisters of Saint Barbara, and any presents that may be made must be given to the Mother Superior for the use of the community. Sisters are always, whether by night or day, to enter the chapel with all alacrity, and in a perfect spirit of recollection, in order to prepare their souls for prayer. No Sister must be absent from the chapel without leave, and all must recite the offices. You see how well our time is divided,” continued the lady; “we rise at three a.m.; there are primer, meditation, etcetera, until seven, when we enjoy the Holy Communion. After this we have prayers and self-examination until nine, and from that hour till ten we work. At ten we dine, which is the first meal we partake of in the day. We then take an hour for recreation, and another till twelve for meditation. From one till four we work, when we attend vespers, and from half-past four to half-past five we take tea and listen to spiritual reading. From half-past five to six we have again recreation, from six to seven prayers, at which hour we retire for the night; but we rise for prayer during one hour of the night, and at midnight on Thursdays we rise to spend an additional hour in prayer. Thus, you see, every moment of the day is portioned out. During the hours of work we tend the sick and visit the dying; we also are employed in other good undertakings, and we hope before long to establish fresh ones. So you see, my dear, that we work out our own salvation, though those who have a vocation to a purely religious life can enter our contemplative order, and devote themselves entirely to prayer and meditation. You will be able to judge by-and-by to which you would wish to belong, though you will, of course, be guided by the advice of the Mother Superior.”

“Alas!” said Clara, “I do not feel myself fitted for either at present; but I believe that I should prefer attempting to teach the young—at least, the very young, for I should never manage big boys and girls. I used to teach some of the cottagers’ little children in our neighbourhood, till I had entirely to devote myself to my dying father.”

“You will learn by experience,” said the Mother Eldress. “I will mention your wish to the Mother Superior, and she will probably appoint you to the duty you select. She has great discernment, and will perceive for which you are best fitted.”

Clara thought that she herself could judge best of what she could do. She expressed as much to the Mother Eldress, who smiled, and reminded her of the rule of obedience. Altogether, Clara was tolerably well contented with the prospect before her. She was afterwards introduced to a number of the Sisters during their hour of recreation; but she could not help remarking that whenever one addressed another, a nun, who she was told was the Deane, instantly interfered, and reminded the speaker that private conversation was against the rule. She discovered that there were to be no private intimacies, and that any conversation must be general.

“Can I not associate with any one whom I like?” asked Clara afterwards of the Mother Eldress.

“It is against the rule,” was the answer; “private friendships would destroy the harmony which must exist in our sisterhood.”

“But cannot I express my sorrow or anxiety to a sympathising friend?” asked Clara, ingenuously.

“Such must be poured into the ear alone of the Mother Superior or of your father confessor,” said the Mother Eldress in a stern tone; “discipline could not be otherwise maintained.”

Clara felt unusually hungry at teatime, as she had had but a slight luncheon; but as it was Friday—dry bread alone was allowed during the meal. One of the Eldresses read an allegorical work, the meaning of which Clara did not exactly comprehend, and from it therefore she did not gain much spiritual advantage. Another half-hour was spent in conversation, which was anything but spiritual, and then the nuns adjourned to the chapel, where they joined in reciting prayers, the same being repeated over and over again; and at seven they retired to their cells. Clara, unaccustomed to go to bed at so early an hour, could not sleep: the past would recur to her. Against all rule she thought of Harry and the way she had treated him; then she remembered all must be given up for the sake of following Christ—but was she following Him by entering a convent? The conflict was severe; she burst into tears, and sobbed as if her heart would break. Hour after hour went by, sleep refusing to visit her eyelids, till, long after midnight, thoroughly worn out, she sobbed herself into forgetfulness.

The convent clock was striking three when a Sister entered her cell and summoned her to rise and repair to the chapel. Hastily dressing, she followed her conductress, who had remained to assist her. She there found all the nuns assembled, and for four hours they remained repeating prayers and chanting alternately, till Dr Catton entered, and after going through a service, administered the Holy Communion, giving the wafer instead of bread, and wine mixed with water. Faint and weary, for nearly two hours more Clara remained, while the nuns repeated the prayers, or sat silent, engaged in self-examination. Some of them who had undertaken the duty of teachers then went into the schoolroom, where some fifty children were assembled. Clara begged leave to accompany them, and gladly took charge of three or four of the youngest, though by this time she felt so exhausted that she could with difficulty speak. The school over, the nuns hurried to the refectory, where a frugal dinner was placed on the table by the serving Sisters. In silence the nuns took their places; in silence they ate the portions served to them. Clara, sick from hunger, had the greatest difficulty in swallowing the coarse and unpalatable food. It notwithstanding restored her strength, and she went through her duties in the schoolroom with rather more spirit than in the morning.

The following day was passed much as the first. Clara saw but little of the Mother Superior, who kept herself much aloof from the community, in her own apartments, which were furnished very differently to those of the nuns.

Several weeks passed by. Though Clara got accustomed to the ways of the establishment, and strictly followed the rules, she did not find herself more at home than at first, nor was she at all more intimate with the Sisters; yet, girl as she was, she possessed an indomitable spirit. Although the false religious fervour which had induced her to consent to enter a nunnery had vanished, she was determined not to give in on account of the disagreeables she experienced. Her aunt Sarah had promised to write to her, and she herself had written several times; but she received no letters, and dared not ask whether any had come for her. She remembered that till she wrote her aunt would not know her address, unless Mr Lerew had given it.

The short time that it was necessary to remain as a postulant had expired, and in a formal service in the chapel she was received as a probationer, and assumed the dress of the order. Scarcely a day had passed before she found herself exposed to annoyances which she had not hitherto experienced. During the hours of recreation the Deane, whose duty it was to keep the Sisters in order, was continually rebuking her for some transgression of rules, either for laughing or talking too much, or addressing a Sister in a voice which the rest could not hear; and she had to undergo in consequence all sorts of penalties. She submitted, as she considered that she was in duty bound to do, though she felt that they were far severer than the faults demanded. She could discover none of the religious fervour which she had expected to find among the Sisters, or of love or sympathy. Her own spirit, though not broken, was kept under a thraldom, against which her judgment rebelled. It appeared to her that the system was far better adapted to keep in subjection a household of people out of their minds than a collection of ladies in their right senses, who wished to serve God and do their duty to their fellow-creatures. No Sister was allowed to visit another in her cell, and sometimes for days and weeks together Clara did not see some of the Sisters whom she had met on her first arrival. Where they had gone, or what they were about, she could not learn. Little attention was paid to those who were ill, and no sympathy was expressed. A young Sister who had been sent out on a begging expedition for the order, and had to trudge through the wet day after day, caught cold, and was obliged to return. She grew pale and thin, and the ominous red spot appeared on her cheek. She coughed incessantly, but still went through her duties. At night she suffered most; and to prevent the sound from disturbing others, she was ordered to move to a distant cell, without a stove by which it could be warmed. Clara determined, against the rules, to speak to her, and offered to come and sit by her; but she shook her head, replying, “It must not be—you are wrong;” at the same time the countenance of the dying girl expressed her gratitude. Clara’s infraction of the rules being discovered, she was ordered to remain during the hours of recreation in solitude in her own cell.

The invalid Sister had crawled into the chapel one morning, and contrived with tottering steps to find her way back to her cell. The next morning she did not appear at matins, and when the Eldress went to see what had become of her, she was found stretched on her bed, dead, her pillow and sheets stained with blood, which had flowed from her mouth. She was not the only one whose life was thus sacrificed during Clara’s novitiate.

One day there was great commotion in the convent; the father of a novice had appeared at the gate, armed with legal powers which the Lady Superior dared not disobey, insisting on taking away his daughter. The young lady was told that she might go, with a warning that by so doing she was risking her soul’s welfare. She had to take her departure in the dress of the order, leaving behind every article she had brought in, her own clothes having been sold for the benefit of the community. The dreadful fate to which she was doomed, and the fearful crime of her father, were daily expatiated on.

Some months passed by, when her father died, and Dr Catton immediately wrote, urging her to return, and stating that if she did not do so, he could no longer remain her spiritual director, and thus she would lose the benefit of absolution. Letter after letter was sent to the same effect, and at length the poor girl, terrified by the consequences to which, as she supposed, her conduct had exposed her, came back to the convent. She was received in a stern manner by the Mother Superior, in the presence of the community, being told that it was through love for her soul that she had been readmitted; but that she must for a whole year hold no intercourse with the other novices, and must remain in solitude during the time allowed each day for recreation; while she was pointed to as a warning to the rest. This discipline preyed greatly on her mind, and Clara, whose cell was next to hers, heard her weeping night after night. When she appeared in public, she hung down her head, and scarcely tasted any of the meagre fare placed before her; taught to suppose that fasting was a virtue, or else weary of the life she was doomed to lead, she was starving herself to death.

Notwithstanding all the vigilance exercised, the novices did contrive at times to hold communication with each other, and one young girl, who looked very sad, and was evidently dangerously ill, confessed to Clara that she had escaped from her home to join the convent against the express wishes of her father, whom notwithstanding she asserted that she loved dearly. She had ever been among the most obedient to the commands of the Lady Superior, and the strictest in complying with the rules of the order. Her illness increased; she at last received the news of the death of that parent whose wishes she had disobeyed. The thought that her disobedience had deeply grieved him whom she was bound to love preyed on her mind, and tended much to aggravate her disease; the arguments brought forward by the Lady Superior, and Mother Eldress, and her father confessor, that God had the first claims on her, failed to assuage her sorrow, or to persuade her that she had acted rightly. Clara, observing that she looked more than usually ill when they parted in the evening, could not refrain from going into her cell. She found her on her bed, gasping for breath.

“Thank you for coming,” whispered the poor girl; “it would have been hard to die all alone. My poor father! my poor father!” she murmured; “would that I could have been with him!”

She could utter no more. Clara, to her horror, while bending over her, found that the poor sufferer had breathed her last. She hurried to the apartment of the Mother Eldress, who came somewhat agitated to the dead Sister’s cell; but instead of expressing any grief at the occurrence, she sternly rebuked Clara for breaking the rules, and ordered her back to her own cell. The Sisters assembled at the usual hour in the chapel; but not a word was said of the occurrence of the night. The nun was buried with ceremonies resembling those of Rome, and things went on as usual.

The Mother Eldress, who was looked upon as a very saintly person, was at length taken ill, and Clara was ordered to attend on her. The medical adviser of the sisterhood was sent for, and prescribed certain remedies which Clara had to administer. A small spoon had been provided for giving some powders in preserve; Clara used it daily for some time, till the Mother Eldress recovered, when the Lady Superior took possession of it. She had been in the habit of late of sending for Clara to impart religious instruction, which, she observed, she much required; not failing at times, however, to lecture her severely. The day after the Mother Eldress had recovered from her illness the Lady Superior addressed Clara in a more serious tone even than usual.

“You will observe, my daughter,” she said, “that miracles have not ceased; but that some communions, alas! have not faith to perceive them. We, holding the Catholic doctrine in its purity, have been more favoured. Let me ask of what metal you conceive that the spoon with which you used to administer the medicine to our beloved Mother Eldress is composed.”

“It was, I should say, of silver, or rather plated,” answered Clara.

“Originally it might have been; but see here, it is turned to gold,” answered the Lady Superior, producing the spoon, which had now evidently a yellow tinge.

“I observed that before,” said Clara, “and believed that it was produced by the nature of the medicine.”

“Oh, hard of heart, and slow to believe!” exclaimed the Lady Superior; “can you not now perceive that it is gold, pure gold? By what other than by miraculous power could this change have been wrought? Let the glorious fact be known among the Sisters, and all who desire may come and witness it.”

Clara was not convinced; she went away wondering whether the Lady Superior was deceived herself, or desired to deceive others. Many of the nuns were highly delighted at hearing of the miracle, which tended so much to prove that their establishment was under the especial protection of Heaven. The Mother Eldress crossed her hands on her bosom, while she meekly bowed her head, and expressed her gratitude that she should have been so remarkably favoured. It was evident, however, to Clara, that some of the Sisters were sceptical on the subject.

Clara found the life she was doomed to lead more and more irksome; but when she compared it with that of the Sisters who belonged to the order of the Sacred Heart, the true nuns, who were even more strictly enclosed (as the term is) than were she and her associates, she felt that she had no right to complain. The nuns of the Sacred Heart, or as they were frequently called, of the order of the Love of Jesus, were supposed to spend their time in perpetual prayer for the living or the dead. The whole of the twenty-four hours, Clara learned, are divided into what are denominated watches; the night watches being kept by the nuns in the following manner. The Sisters retire at seven o’clock, with the exception of one who remains watching till eight. She then summons another Sister, who rises and watches till nine, the latter again summoning a fresh watcher, and thus they continue till three o’clock, when all assemble in the chapel for matins. They also join in prayer seven times in the day, at fixed periods, though they may be separated. To the order of the Love of Jesus are attached companions who may mix in the world, and whose real duties are to obtain proselytes. They are expected to join in prayer at stated hours, wherever they may be, and on every Thursday night, from midnight till one o’clock, the companions unite in prayer. The Lady Superior in one of her more confidential moods invited Clara to join the order.

“My dear child,” she observed, “it is a glorious thing to be thus constantly engaged in prayer when you may; in every service and homage you render, call to your aid the choirs of angelic spirits, and unite yourself to them in spiritual companionship, in order that they may supply your deficiencies.”

Clara had never before heard that it was necessary to obtain the aid of angels for offering up prayer to God, and was somewhat startled at the novelty of the notion; but she knew perfectly well that it would not do to state her objections to so determined a person as her spiritual mother. She did not, either, feel inclined to become one of the order of the Sacred Heart, not having formed the very highest opinion of the nuns belonging to it whom she had met. They appeared to her generally weak-minded enthusiasts, and she still retained a belief that God is best served by those who, in imitation of our blessed Lord and Master, engage in the duties of active benevolence. On her declining, therefore, the Lady Superior dismissed her in a stern manner, reminding her that those who put their hands to the plough, and look back, are not worthy of the kingdom of heaven.

Clara, without uttering a word, left the room, and hoped to devote herself with more zeal than ever to the duties she had actually undertaken. With this feeling, she repaired at the appointed hour to the schoolroom, where she took her class of children. They were, as it happened, inclined to be less attentive and more unruly than was their wont; some of them had only lately been induced to attend the school, and were unaccustomed to the rules and regulations. A biggish boy was trying to see how far he could proceed in impudence and lead on the others, when Clara, finding that appealing to him was useless, gave him a box on the ear. The Deane, at that moment entering, observed the act.

“Sister Clare,” she exclaimed, “I must take your class; retire to your cell.”

Clara, not believing that she had done anything wrong, got up and obeyed the order. Had she remained, she would have seen that the Deane’s temper was tried as much as hers had been. On reaching her cell she sat down, wondering whether any further notice would be taken of her conduct. Scarcely had the convent clock announced that school was over, than the Deane appeared, and ordered her to go to the Lady Superior. She was met with a frowning brow.

“You have given way to temper—you require humbling, my daughter,” exclaimed the lady; “I must take means to lower that proud and haughty spirit of yours. Return to your cell, and wait till the Mother Eldress comes for you.”

Clara bowed and obeyed. After she had waited for some minutes, the Mother Eldress appeared, and taking her hand, led her along the gallery to an empty room, which, not having been used for many months, the floor was covered with dust.

“Enter there,” she said, “and show your contrition by kneeling on your knees, and licking with your tongue the form of the Blessed Cross on the ground.”

Clara stood aghast.

“Are you serious?” she asked. “It is the command of the Lady Superior, and you are bound by your vow of obedience to obey her orders—break them at the peril of your soul, Sister Clare,” was the answer. “Go in, and let me be able to report that you have exhibited sorrow for your fault by performing the penance which your spiritual superior in her wisdom has thought fit to inflict.”

No sooner had Clara entered the room than the door was locked on her. Degraded and abased in her own eyes, all her moral feelings revolting against the abominable indignity imposed on her, yet the threat which had been uttered made her tremble. She had vowed implicit obedience. With loathing at her heart, with a feeling too bitter to allow her tears to flow, she performed the debasing act, forgetting that the marks she was thus making on the ground was the accepted symbol of the Christian faith. Still, the words occurred to her, “Rend your hearts, and not your garments, and turn unto the Lord your God.” Could the God of all love and mercy and gentleness be pleased by such an act? It might degrade her in her own sight; but could it make her heart more truly humble, more anxious to serve Him who said, “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy-laden, and I will give you rest.”

Clara had a Bible in her pocket. To calm her agitation, she read a portion, earnestly praying for instruction. The words which brought conviction to Luther met her sight. Light beamed on her troubled mind. The mists which the vicar’s sophistries had gathered round her rolled away. “From henceforth I will look to Jesus alone, to the teaching of His Word, the guidance of His Holy Spirit,” she exclaimed. Clara was free.

Chapter Five.

At length General Caulfield, having arranged the affairs of his brother who had died, returned to Luton. He had been made very anxious and unhappy by the letters he received from Harry, who expressed his astonishment at not hearing from Clara. The general, supposing that she was still at home, and fearing that she must be ill, immediately on his arrival set off to pay her a visit.

“Miss Maynard is away; Miss Pemberton is at home, sir,” said the servant who opened the door.

Miss Pemberton received him in a stiff and freezing manner. He immediately enquired for Clara.

“My niece has, for some time, left home, and has not communicated her address to me, nor has she thought fit to write, so that I am in ignorance of where she is,” was the unsatisfactory answer.

“That is most extraordinary,” cried the general; “can you not give me any clue by which I may discover her?”

“I conclude, as she has not informed me of her abode, that she does not wish it to be known,” answered Miss Pemberton, evasively.

“Though you do not know where your niece is, is Mr Lerew, or is her father’s old friend, Mr Lennard, acquainted with her present address?” asked the general.

“I should think that she would have informed me rather than any one else,” replied Miss Pemberton; and the general at length, finding that he could get no information out of the lady, took his leave.

“I will try, at all events, to ascertain what either Lennard or Lerew know,” said the general to himself, as he drove off. Though he suspected that the vicar knew something about the matter, he decided first to call on Mr Lennard. He believed him to be an honest man, but he had no great opinion of his sense. Mr Lennard was at home; he received the general in a kindly way. The latter observed that his manner was unusually subdued. Without loss of time, the general mentioned Miss Maynard, and expressed his regret at not finding her at home.

“Can you tell me where she has gone to?” he asked, “for her aunt declares that she does not know, though it was evident from her manner that she is not anxious about her.”

“I regret to say that I know no more than you do,” answered Mr Lennard. “I had been for some time absent, and on my return I was greatly surprised to find that she had left Luton; and when I enquired of the Lerews, they told me that she had resolved to devote herself to works of charity, and was about to enter a sisterhood, but in what neighbourhood they did not inform me.”

“In other words, that she is about to become a nun, to discard my poor son, and to give up her property, as soon as she has the power of disposing of it, to the safe keeping of one of those Romish communities,” exclaimed the general, with more vehemence than he was accustomed to exhibit; “what do you say to that, Mr Lennard?”

“I don’t suppose that Miss Maynard purposes entering a Romish convent; her intention, I conclude, is to join a sisterhood of the Anglican Church,” said Mr Lennard.

“The Church of England, of which I suppose you speak, recognises no such institutions,” replied the general; “they are contrary to the spirit of the Reformation. Unhappy will it be for our country if they ever gain ground.”

“I had been inclined to suppose that they would prove a great advantage, by enabling ladies to unite together and work under a good system in visiting the sick and poor, and in the instruction of the children, and in other beneficent labours; and I have, when requested, subscribed towards their support,” remarked Mr Lennard.

“I do not insist that ladies should not thus employ themselves,” observed the general; “but my objection is to the mode in which they unite themselves in the so-called religious system under which they are placed. They may, in most instances, serve God far better by staying at home and doing their duty in their families, instead of assuming the dress and imitating the customs of the nuns of the middle ages.”

“I do not look at the subject in that light,” observed Mr Lennard, “and I know that it must be a hard matter for some young ladies to be religious at home, where the rest of the family are worldly-minded.”

“Much more reason for them to stay at home and endeavour to improve the tone of the rest of the household,” answered the general. “Those who know what human nature is should see that with whatever good intentions these sisterhoods are begun, they must in the end lead to much that is objectionable. If Miss Maynard has joined one of them, I must endeavour to find the means of getting her out, or of ascertaining if she was induced to join it, and remains of her own free will. I fear that Lerew will not afford me any assistance, as from his Romish tendencies he will probably consider them admirable institutions, and would think that he had done a laudable act in inducing Clara to enter one. I must now wish you good-bye. I hope that you have good accounts of your young daughter Mary, and your son at Oxford.”

Mr Lennard shook his head. “I received a letter to-day from my little girl, saying that she was very ill, and begging me to come and take her home; but as the mistress did not write, I do not suppose that her illness is serious. However, I intend to go to-morrow to Mary, and ascertain how she is, and I trust that I shall not be obliged to take her away from school.”

The general considered whether he should call on Mr Lerew; but he first bethought himself of paying a visit to a lawyer in the neighbouring town, with whom he was well acquainted, and who had been a friend of Captain Maynard’s. He was also an earnest religious man, and strongly opposed to ritualism. The general was not a person to let the grass grow under his feet. He was driving rapidly along, when he met Lieutenant Sims, who made a sign to him to stop. The general did so, and invited the lieutenant to accompany him into the town.

“With all my heart, for I want to have a talk with you, general,” answered the lieutenant, springing in. “I have long been wishing for your return. We’ve had some extraordinary goings on in this place. What has concerned me most is the disappearance of my old friend’s daughter, in whom you, I know, take a deep interest. All I know is that she went away with the vicar and his wife, and it is my belief that they had an object in spiriting her off; but whether to shut her up in a Romish or Ritualist convent is more than I can say. I don’t think there is much to choose between them; the vicar might select the Ritualist, or the Anglican, as he would call it, as he, though a Papist at heart, would prefer keeping his living, while his lady would recommend the former; for it is said, and I believe it to be a fact, that she herself has turned Romanist, with her dear friend Lady Bygrave. Haven’t you heard that both Sir Reginald and her ladyship were received last week into the bosom of the Church of Rome, as the expression runs?”

“Is it possible!” exclaimed the general; “but I ought not to be surprised when I saw the characters they admitted into their house. I thought that French abbé and Father Lascelles had some other object in view than the establishment of a colony; but perhaps you have been misinformed.”

“I tell you, general, I haven’t a doubt about the matter,” answered Mr Sims. “They and Mrs Lerew attended the Romish church together, and I am told had been baptised with all ceremony a few days before. I know that two or three priests have been staying at the Hall ever since, and Mrs Lerew goes there regularly. They are about to have a chapel built in their grounds, and an architect came down from London about it; and in the meantime they have got a room fitted up in the house. What surprises me is that the vicar should allow his wife to turn; but that she has done so seems probable, for she was not at church last Sunday. Should Lerew object to his wife’s perversion, he has only himself to thank for it; he has led her up to the door as carefully as a man could do, and cannot be surprised at her going inside. Of course she thinks it safer to join what she has been taught to look upon as the true church, and has therefore honestly gone over to it; while whatever he may think, putting honesty and honour aside, he considers that it is more to his advantage to retain his living, and lead others in the way he has led his wife.”

“I suspect that you are right,” observed the general; “too many have set him the example. He, like them, has been trained in the school of the Jesuits, who are fully persuaded that evil may be done that good may come of it, and banish from their minds the principles which guide honest men, and which they themselves would advocate in the ordinary affairs of life. I can only wish that, unless Mr Lerew’s mind is enlightened, he would go over himself; as I am afraid, while he remains in the Church of England, he may lead others in the same direction.”

“Not much fear of that,” observed the lieutenant; “except a few silly young people of the better classes, and the poor, who look out for the loaves and fishes in the shape of coals and blankets and other creature comforts, I don’t think many are influenced by him. He is more likely to empty his church, and to fill the Dissenting chapels.”

“Still,” said the general, “he sows broadcast the germs of Romanism through the doctrines he preaches, while he accustoms people to the sight of the ceremonies and paraphernalia of Rome, keeping them in ignorance at the same time of the simple truths of the Gospel, at the bidding of those whose commands he obeys; for he and his ritualistic brethren are but instruments in the hands of more cunning men than themselves. I have little doubt that he was carefully educated at the university for the part he is now playing, though he then had no idea of the designs of his tutor. People laugh at the notion that a Jesuit plot has long existed in England for the subversion of Protestantism; but I have evidence, which receives daily corroboration, that Jesuits in disguise matriculated at the universities for the express purpose of perverting the minds of all whom they could bring under their influence. The pupils in numberless instances went over to Rome, while the tutors remained nominally in the Church of England, for the sake of trapping others. The scheme has succeeded, and has since been greatly enlarged; the Jesuits have now agents in every shape—some as incumbents of parishes, as lay supporters, men and women, guilds and sisterhoods; they have encouraged works of charity, schools, hospitals, refuges for the fallen and destitute, crèches, mothers’ meetings, and other institutions, all excellent in themselves, knowing how much such would forward their object. Of that object, those who take part in them are, I am ready to believe, in many instances utterly ignorant; they are influenced by the desire to obey the commands of Christ, and to make themselves useful to their fellow-creatures, though the idea that they are thereby meriting heaven, and what they call working out their own salvation, underlies all they do, as they misinterpret the passage. They ignore the glorious truth that through simple faith in the atoning blood of Christ salvation is gained—that it is their own, and that the right motive of action must be through love and obedience to Him who has already saved them. All the forms and ceremonies in which they indulge are but will-worship, tending to obscure their view of Him, and to destroy their spiritual life.”

“General,” said the lieutenant, “I have seen a good deal of Roman Catholic countries, where the priests have full sway, and I am very sure that the system these Ritualists have introduced is tending in the same direction. I know from experience that true religion makes a man all that can be expected of him. We had a dozen or more such men on board the last ship in which I served, and they were out and out the best men we had; they could be trusted on all occasions; and if any dangerous work had to be done, they were the first to volunteer. They were Dissenters of some sort, I believe, and were not in favour with our ritualistic chaplain, who had his followers both among officers and men. I can’t say much about those officers, and as to the men who pretended to agree with him, they were the most sneaking rascals in the ship. He tried to bring me over to his way of thinking, but my eyes were opened. ‘No, no,’ I answered; ‘if the ship was going down, and you had to take your chance in one of the boats, which would you choose, the one manned by those fellows you anathematise, or with the men you call obedient sons of the Church?’ He couldn’t answer; but one day, he being left on shore, the heretics, as he called them, brought him off through a heavy surf, when no other men would venture. So you see, thanks to our chaplain, when I found the new vicar working changes in the church, I knew pretty well what he was about.”

The general found Mr Franklin, his solicitor, at home.

“I am very glad you have come, general,” said the latter. “Miss Maynard, as you are probably aware, has been induced to leave home, or, rather, has been entrapped by one of those conventual establishments, to which she will in due course, when she has the power, be persuaded to give up her property. Our business must be to get her out of their hands before that time arrives; and yours, general, more especially to point out to her the errors of the system which has thrown its glamour over her; for, if I understand rightly, she has sacrificed an excellent and satisfactory marriage, as well as the independence and comforts of home. It was not for a considerable time that I discovered her absence from Luton, when her aunt (who, no disrespect to the lady, I consider it a misfortune was left one of her guardians) positively declared that she did not know where she had gone. I, however, took steps to find out, and lately ascertained that she is an inmate of Saint Barbara’s, near Staughton, to which place I discovered that she drove on leaving the railway, in company with Mr and Mrs Lerew. Convinced that Miss Pemberton was not likely to render any willing assistance, I awaited your return to take legal measures to obtain her release. Our first difficulty will be to communicate with her, for the nuns are allowed to receive no letters till they are first seen by the Lady Superior. It would be as well first to ascertain whether the young lady desires of her own free will to leave the convent; she has had some experience of it, and may by this time perhaps have repented of the step she has taken. My belief is that she has been deceived and cajoled. I know well of what those Ritualists are capable, influenced by what they believe the best of motives, and I strongly suspect that there is some misunderstanding between her and your son, brought about, I say without hesitation, by their means. Either her letters have not been forwarded to him, or his have not been received by her—perhaps the entire correspondence has been intercepted—I will not go farther than that. I say this as I wish to plead for your ward, at whose conduct you naturally feel deeply grieved.”

“Poor girl! notwithstanding all the pain and suffering she has caused my son, I am not angry with her,” said the general; “my indignation is directed against the system and persons by whom she has been deceived. I suspect as you do with regard to the correspondence between her and my son, for I am very sure she would not have given him up without assigning any reason, or answering his letters.”

“Our first object must be to open a free communication with her; letters sent in the ordinary way are sure to be read by the Lady Superior, and the answers dictated by her, so that we shall not be wiser than at first,” remarked Mr Franklin.

“I must try that simple plan, however, and if it fails, resort to stronger measures,” observed the general. “I will go to Staughton myself, and write to say that, as her guardian, I wish to have a private interview with her on a matter of importance, and to beg that I may be allowed to call on her at the convent, or that she will come and see me at my hotel.”

“I am afraid that means would be taken to prevent her from seeing you alone,” observed Mr Franklin.

“What course do you then advise?” asked the general.

“We must take legal proceedings, and they are very certain to have their due effect, as the Lady Superior would be exceedingly loth to have the internal arrangements of her convent made public, and she is well aware that if she resists she will run the risk of that being the case. I have already had something to do with her ladyship, as well as with two or three other convents, and I know how jealous the managers are that the secrets of their prison-houses should be revealed. Their aim is to prove they have nothing to conceal, and that all is open as noon-day; but the moment troublesome questions are asked, they exhibit a reticence as to their rules and practices which shows how conscious they are that outsiders will object to them.”

Before the general took his leave, it was arranged between him and Mr Franklin that they should go over together to Epsworth, and act according to circumstances. As he drove home he expressed a hope to the honest lieutenant that he might be the means of emancipating Miss Maynard from her present thraldom.

“She has too much sense and right feeling not to be open to conviction,” answered Mr Sims; “what she wants is to be freed from the evil influences to which she has of late been exposed, and to have the simple truth placed before her; only don’t let her meet her aunt or Mr Lerew till she has thoroughly got rid of all her erroneous notions, and understands the simple gospel as you well know how to put it.”

“You may depend on my following your advice,” said the general.

On reaching home, the general found a note from Mr Lennard. He wrote in great distress of mind. He had received a letter from a friend at Oxford, telling him that his son had left the university in company with a Romish priest, and had declared his intention of seeking admission into the Church of Rome. Mr Lennard was anxious, if possible, to find out his son, and prevent him from taking the fatal step, at the same time that he wished to be with his poor little girl at Cheltenham.

“I am afraid,” he continued, “that the tutor under whom I placed my boy, by Mr Lerew’s advice, has had much to do with it. I now hear that three or four of his previous pupils have become Romanists, and others, by all accounts, are likely to go over. I object to my son’s becoming a Romanist, though I consider that the Church of Rome is the mother of all Churches, and has the advantage of antiquity on her side.”

“The mother of all abominations!” exclaimed the general to himself. “I must endeavour to set my friend right on that subject, if he holds that fundamental error.”

The general was a man of action. After taking a hurried meal, he drove on to the house of Mr Lennard. His journey to Cheltenham had been delayed, and he was now hesitating whether first to go in search of his son or to proceed there immediately. The thought at once struck the general that should he succeed in getting Clara out of the convent, he might go on to Cheltenham with her, and that if Mary was fit to be removed from the school, it would give Clara occupation to nurse her friend.

“I shall indeed be most grateful to you,” said Mr Lennard, with the tears in his eyes; “I was sorely perplexed what to do, and I specially wish that Mary should not remain longer at the school than can be helped, as from her letter it is evident that she is not only ill, but very miserable there.

“You must give me your written authority, and I will act upon it,” said the general. This was done. “Now, my friend,” he continued, “I wish to speak to you on the remark made in your letter, in which you say that you consider the Church of Rome the mother of all Churches, and that it has the advantage of antiquity. You evidently go first on the assumption that our Lord instituted a visible Church on earth, and that that Church, though corrupted, is the Church of Rome. Now I wish to draw your attention to the origin of that wonderful establishment which has for so long exerted a baneful influence over a large portion of the human race. For three centuries true Christians, though becoming less and less pure in their doctrine and form of worship, existed in Rome as a despised and subordinate class, the purity of their faith gradually decreasing as their numbers, wealth, and influence increased. At length the Emperor Constantine professed himself to be a Christian, which he did for the sake of obtaining the assistance of the Christians against his rival Licinius, who was supported by the idolaters. Constantine being victorious, and Licinius slain, the idolaters saw that they could no longer hope to be predominant. There existed in Rome from the days of Numa a college, or curia, the members of which, called pontiffs, had the entire management of all matters connected with religion. The post of head pontiff, or Pontifex Maximus, had been assumed by Julius Caesar and his successors. They had probably no real belief in the idolatrous system they supported; such secret faith as they had was centred in Astarte, the divinity of the ancient Babylonians, whose worship had been introduced at an early period into Etruria, as it had been previously into Egypt and Greece. They were, in reality, the priests of Astarte, and from them we derive our festival of Christmas, our Lady Day, and many other festivals with Christian names. It had been their principle from the first to admit any gods who had become popular, and thus were added in rapid succession the numberless gods and goddesses of the heathen mythology. At length Jesus of Nazareth was added to their pantheon. These pontiffs, on perceiving that Christianity, patronised by the Emperor, was likely to gain the day, saw that to maintain their power they must themselves pretend to belong to the new faith. This they did, and one of their number soon managed to get himself chosen the Bishop of Rome, while the other pontiffs by an easy transition formed the College of Cardinals. The title of Pontifex Maximus, being held by the Emperor, was not assumed by the bishop of Rome till the Emperor Gratian in 376 refused any longer to be addressed by that title. Having banished some of the grosser practices of idolatry, they introduced the remainder under different names, so that the pagans might readily conform to the new worship. The apostles took the place of the various gods, and the martyrs those of the inferior divinities; above them all was raised Astarte, who, now named Mary the Mother of God and Queen of Heaven, became the chief object of adoration. In truth, the established worship at Rome remained as truly idolatrous as it had ever been, while the great aim of the pontiffs was to increase their power, amass wealth, and strengthen their position. From that period they acted, as might have been expected, in direct opposition to all the principles of Christianity. Bloody struggles often took place between rivals aiming at the pontificate, while they endeavoured to destroy all those who refused to obey them. It was not till a somewhat later period, when the head pontiff set up a claim of superiority above all other bishops, that, to strengthen it, it was asserted that he was in direct apostolic succession from the apostle Peter, the pontiff who first made it being ignorant, probably, that the Christian Church at Rome was founded exclusively by Paul, and that the apostle Peter never was at Rome, he having been all his life employed in founding churches in the East. ‘By their fruits ye shall know them;’ and we have only to reflect on the lives of the popes, many of them monsters of atrocity, and the fearful acts of persecution which they encouraged and authorised, to be convinced that paganism, the invention of Satan, had usurped the name of Christianity, and that the Romish Church, as it is called, instead of being the mother of all Churches, is truly the Babylon of the Apocalypse; yet this is the system which ministers of the Church of England are endeavouring to introduce into our country, with its idolatrous rites and dogmas, and which you and many excellent men like yourself look at with a lenient eye, instead of regarding it with the abhorrence it deserves.”

“My dear friend,” said Mr Lennard, greatly astonished, “I certainly had never regarded the Church of Rome in that light; I looked upon it as the ancient Church, corrupted in the course of ages.”

“It has no true claim to be a Christian Church at all,” said the general; “it is like the cuckoo, which, hatched in the nest of the hedge-warbler, by degrees forces out the other fledglings, and usurps their place. So did paganism treat Christianity; although, fostered by God, the latter was enabled to exist, persecuted and oppressed as it was, and still to exert a benign influence in the world. On examining the tenets of many who are called heretics, we find that it was not the creed they held, but the opposition they offered to the Romish system, which was their crime, and brought down persecution on their heads. When we read of the horrible cruelties practised on the Waldenses and Albigenses, the followers of Huss in Bohemia, the true Protestants of all ages down to the time of Luther, the detestable system of the Inquisition, the treatment of the inhabitants of the Netherlands by Alva and the Spaniards, when whole hecatombs of victims were put to death at the instigation of the pope and his cardinals, the destruction of thousands and tens of thousands of Huguenots in France, the martyrdoms of the noble Protestants of Spain, the massacre of Saint Bartholomew, and the fires of Smithfield—all these diabolical acts performed with the concurrence and approval of the papal power—can we for a moment hesitate to believe that that power owes its origin, not to the Divine Head of the Church, but to that spirit of evil, Satan, the deadly foe of the human race? Can any system founded on it, however much reformed it may appear, fail to partake of the evil inherent in the original itself. It is from not seeing this that so many are led to embrace the errors—I would rather say the abominations—of Rome; while others are taught to look at them with lenient eyes, and to believe that the system itself is capable of reformation. Before true and simple faith can be established throughout the world the whole must be overthrown and hurled into the depths of the sea, as completely as have been the idols and idolatrous practices of the inhabitants of the South Sea Islands, where Christianity has been established.”

Mr Lennard leant his head on his hand. “I must think deeply of what you say; you put the whole matter in a new light to me. I have had no affection for Rome; still, I have always regarded her as a Church founded on the apostles and prophets.”

“Yet which virtually forbids its followers to study those prophets and apostles,” remarked the general. “But what I want you to do is to look into the subject for yourself. I have merely given you a hint for your guidance; by referring carefully to the Scriptures, you will find more and more light thrown on it, till you must be convinced that the view I have taken is the correct one; and would that every clergyman and layman in England might do the same! these ritualistic practices would then soon be banished from the land.”

Never in his life had poor Mr Lennard been so perplexed and troubled. He was invited to reconsider opinions which he had held, in a somewhat lax fashion it may be granted, all his life. He had to search for his son, and prevent him if possible from becoming a slave to the system he had just heard so strongly denounced, and he was painfully anxious about the health of his dear little Mary. While he was still in this unhappy state of mind, the general left him to return home. The next morning they both set off to their respective destinations, the general to Epsworth, having called for Mr Franklin on his way, and Mr Lennard to London.

On reaching Epsworth, the general wrote a note to Clara, saying that as her guardian it was necessary for him to see her at once, and that he would either pay her a visit at the convent, or would request her to come to his hotel. After waiting for some time, he received a note in a strange handwriting; it was from a lady, who signed herself Sister Agatha. She stated that she wrote by the command of the Lady Superior, who was at present unwell, but would, on her recovery, reply to the letter General Caulfield had addressed to Sister Clare, or, as she was called in the world, Miss Clara Maynard.

“We must give her ladyship a taste of the law,” said Mr Franklin; “she fancies that she can play the same game with us which she has successfully employed with others. You shall write a note, stating that your legal adviser, Mr Franklin, is with you; address it to the Lady Superior, and say that you insist on seeing Miss Maynard at once.”

As soon as the letter was despatched, Mr Franklin, observing that he had some business to transact, went out, leaving the general engaged in writing. He had been for some time absent, when he hurriedly entered the room.

“I thought it would be so,” he observed. “The Lady Superior is about to remove Miss Maynard to some other establishment, and she will then coolly inform you that, Sister Clare not being an inmate of the convent, she cannot be answerable for her. I learnt this from one of several people I placed on the watch, and I find that one of the serving Sisters has come in to say that a conveyance is wanted immediately at the convent. I have ordered our carriage, and we will follow the other; and you can either speak to Miss Maynard as she comes out of the convent, or meet her at whatever railway station she goes to.”

The general did not quite like this plan; he had hoped to see Clara alone, and be able to speak to her for as long as might be necessary, so as to convince her of the fearful mistake she had made, should she at first show an unwillingness to leave the convent; still, he had no other course but to follow Mr Franklin’s advice. They accordingly entered their carriage, and soon overtook another driving in the direction of the convent. At a short distance from it, Mr Franklin ordered the coachman to pull up, and got out. He and the general then walked leisurely towards the gate, just as they got in sight of which, they caught a glimpse of three muffled figures stepping into the carriage.

“Now is our time,” exclaimed Mr Franklin; “I’ve bribed the coachman not to move on till I have given him leave, so that should one of those dames prove to be the Lady Superior—and I know her very well—we shall have an opportunity of addressing her; and I think what I say will make her hesitate to use force in preventing Miss Maynard from accompanying you, should you desire her to do so.”

The next instant they were alongside the carriage, just as the Lady Superior—for she was one of those inside—had put her head out of the window, peremptorily ordering the coachman to drive on as fast as he could. Though he flourished his whip, he kept his reins tight; but Mr Franklin, putting his hand on the door said, “Madam, my friend General Caulfield, whom I have the honour to introduce to you, desires to have some conversation on a matter of importance with Miss Maynard, and I am glad to see that she is here to answer for herself.”

As he spoke, Clara sprang up, and though the Lady Superior and the other Sister attempted to hold her back, she threw herself forward into the general’s arms.

“Sister Clare, remember your vow of obedience; sit quiet, I order you,” cried the Lady Superior, in a stern tone; but Clara paid no attention to the command. With an imploring look for protection, she gazed into the general’s countenance.

“I wish to accompany you,” she whispered; “take me, take me away! don’t scold me!”

The general recognised the features of the once bright and blooming girl, though her dress looked strange.

“I have come on purpose to take you, my dear girl,” he answered, holding her tightly. “I am in your good father’s place—trust to me.” He then, turning to the Lady Superior, said, “I have the right, as this young lady’s guardian, to take her away from you, as she has expressed her wish to accompany me. Mr Franklin will explain all that is necessary. I bid you good morning, Madam.”

“Sister Clare, remember your vows,” again repeated the Lady Superior, in a solemn voice; “the anathema—”

“I cannot allow such language to be uttered to my client,” said Mr Franklin; and he went on to explain the legal rights of guardians in a way which was calculated to keep the Lady Superior silent. The general, meantime, half leading, half carrying poor Clara, reached his carriage, which at a sign to the coachman approached to receive them. Mr Franklin, observing that the general had handed in Clara, followed, having directed the coachman to drive off, leaving the Lady Superior and her companion in a state better imagined than described. Looking back, the lawyer observed that they had re-entered the convent.

Clara was no sooner seated than she burst into tears. “I have been very miserable, but I have myself alone to blame,” she said. “I knew what you would think, while I obstinately listened to Mr and Mrs Lerew, and to what they had taught Aunt Sarah to say to me. Still, I wanted to consult you, but as you were too angry with me to write, I could not have my doubts solved; and even Harry cast me off, and refused to have any further correspondence with me. I don’t blame him, for I knew his opinions, and he warned me—”

“My dear Clara, do you think it possible that I should not have written to you, or that Harry should have neglected to do so?” interrupted the general. “I wrote letter upon letter, and got no answer, and Harry told me that he had written over and over again, and at last had enclosed a letter to your aunt, but that she had returned it, saying that she did so at the recommendation of your spiritual adviser, who considered that it would be highly improper for you, who had become a bride of the Church, to receive a letter from a mortal lover.”

“Then I have been deceived and betrayed,” exclaimed Clara, “entirely through my own folly, and I have caused Harry terrible pain and annoyance.”

“There is no doubt that you have been deceived and betrayed,” said the general; “but we do not blame you, except that instead of seeking guidance and direction from the loving Father who is ever ready to afford it, you allowed yourself to be led by fallible human beings, who in this instance had, I suspect, an object in inducing you to follow the line they had pointed out. You did not distinguish between the works which these Sisters of Charity propose undertaking and the system and principles by which they are guided. The works themselves are such as all Christians are bound to engage in or support, whereas the system is idolatrous, and encourages will-worship; the works are made to support the system, instead of, as it should be, love and obedience to our heavenly Master producing the works. Our loving Father wishes His children to be happy and to enjoy the good things with which He provides them. No monastic rules, no peculiar dress, no vows of obedience to fallible mortals like ourselves, no fasts or penances are required to enable us to obey His laws; all we need is to seek for grace and strength from Him to do His will; and knowing that the blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all sin, we can go boldly to Him in prayer, offered up through our sole High Priest and Mediator, who ever pleads the efficacy of that blood.”

“I know you speak the truth,” said Clara; “but I felt myself so unworthy, I fancied that God would not receive me unless I made some sacrifices in His service.”

“You dishonoured Him, my dear child, by thinking so,” answered the general; “He will in no wise cast out those who come to Him, and He desires all to come just as they are, with humble and contrite spirits; but not under the idea that they can first put away their sins, and merit His love by any good deeds or penances they may perform. Such acts as are pleasing in His sight must spring from loving obedience to Him; all He does is of free grace; we can merit nothing, because we owe Him everything. When you see this clearly, you will understand more perfectly the wrong principles on which the whole Romish and ritualistic systems, and, believe me, they are identical, are founded.”

Through the general’s remarks Clara’s eyes were quickly opened; it appeared as if a thick veil had been thrown over them, which had suddenly been removed, and she wondered how she could have been so lamentably deceived. She looked upon her convent life, with its rigid rules, its senseless silence, its hours of solitude, its meagre fare, the cold and suffering uselessly endured, its unnatural vigils, its mockeries of religious observances, the cruelties she had seen practised, all tending to depress the spirits and lower the physical powers, with just abhorrence; and then a choking sensation came into her throat, and the colour rose to her cheeks as she thought of the abominable confessional, the questions asked her, and the answers she had had to give. She tried to shut them out from her thoughts. Could she ever be worthy of the pure, honest-minded, open-hearted, noble Harry?

On reaching their sitting-room at the inn, the general looked at Clara’s costume.

“I suppose, my dear child, that you would like to assume the ordinary dress of a young lady of the nineteenth century,” he said with a smile, “in lieu of those garments of the dark ages.”

A smile almost rose to Clara’s lips, though her cheeks were blushing and her eyes suffused with tears as she answered, “Yes, I should very much, and I must ask if you will be good enough to send them back to the convent, as they belong to the community, and I have no right to keep them.”

“With all imaginable pleasure,” exclaimed Mr Franklin; “and I am happy to say that I can assist you in procuring a desirable costume. I have a relative residing here who is much about your height and figure, and as she has some interest with the mantua-makers, I have no doubt that by to-morrow morning she will induce them to supply you with a travelling-dress and such other articles of apparel as you may require.”

Clara expressed her thankfulness, and added, “Pray let it be as simple as possible.”

“Oh yes, it shall be such as will become a quakeress if you wish it; I will lose no time about it,” said Mr Franklin, hurrying out of the room.

“Why, he has gone without taking anything to eat; he must be almost starving,” observed the general. “I know that I am; and, my dear, I am afraid that you must be hungry, unless you took a late luncheon.”

“We had dinner at ten, though I took but little,” answered Clara; “but we are accustomed to go a long time without food.”

“Your looks tell me that, my dear,” exclaimed the general, ringing the bell. “We must take more care of you in future than you have received lately. I never knew starving enable a person the better to go through the duties of life.”

The waiter entered, and the general ordered luncheon to be brought up at once, in a tone which showed that he intended to be obeyed, adding, “Let there be as many delicacies as your cook can provide off-hand.”

The lawyer had not returned when luncheon was placed on the table. “Come, my dear, I want to see you do justice to some of these nice things,” said the general.

Poor Clara hesitated; it was a fast-day in the convent—could she at once transgress the rule? She was going to take simply some bread and preserve, but the general placed a cutlet on her plate. “I must insist on your eating that, and taking a glass or two of good wine to give you strength for your journey to-morrow,” he said. Clara had to explain her difficulty. “I know of no command of the Lord to fast,” he observed, “though He stigmatised vain fasts and oblations. The apostles nowhere command it, and the early Christians, until error crept in among them, did not consider fasting a religious duty. In your case let me assure you that it would be a sin to fast when you require your strength restored. You have had much mental trial, and will have more to go through. The mind suffers with the body, and it is your duty to strengthen both. Come, come, eat up the cutlet, and take this glass of sherry.”

Clara obeyed, and in a wonderfully short time began to see matters in a brighter light. The general did not fail to explain that one of the great objects of the system from which he wished to emancipate her was that of weakening the minds of those it got into its toils to keep them in subjection. “Such was their aim in insisting on confession, on fasting, and on vigils. What is even a strong man fit for, who is deprived of his sleep and half-starved? How completely does a man become the slave of the fellow mortal to whom he confides every secret of his heart! and how much more thoroughly must a weak woman become a slave, who is subjected to the same system! Add to that the rule of obedience which you tell me is so much insisted on. Obedience to whom? to a woman as full of faults and weaknesses as other human beings. How sad must be the result! It is terrible to see the name of religion prostituted in such a cause.”

Clara ate up the cutlet without any further objection, and meekly submitted to take some of the other delicacies the general placed before her.

“You’ll do, my dear,” he said, smiling; “we shall have the roses in your cheeks again, I hope, in a few weeks. What I want you to do is to distinguish between God’s and man’s religions. You have erred from confounding the two. Our loving Father wants a joyous, willing obedience; He allows no one to come between Him and us poor sinners, but our one Mediator and great High Priest, to whom we must confess our sins. He invites us to come direct to Him in prayer. Those dishonour Him who fancy that either ministering angels or departed saints can interfere with our glorious privilege. He who said, ‘Rend your heart, and not your garments,’ desires no debasing penances, no fasts, nothing which could weaken the powers of the mind. When you come to look into the subject, you will see that all such practices were invented by the great enemy of souls to draw men off from their reliance on their loving Father, who is ever ready to give grace and help in time of need.”

Before luncheon was quite over Mr Franklin returned. “You will excuse us for not waiting for you,” said the general. “Miss Maynard was nearly starving.”

“I am glad you did not wait, indeed,” answered Mr Franklin, “for I may compliment Miss Maynard on looking much better than she did an hour ago. I have been entirely successful in my mission; my cousin and her milliner will be here in a few minutes. I have a message from my aunt, Mrs Lawson, who begs that you and Miss Maynard will stay the night at her house, as she can there make the arrangements about her dress with far more convenience than here.”

The general, without stopping to consult Clara, at once accepted the offer. Clara herself was thankful to move to a quiet house. Miss Lawson, who was a sensible girl, understanding Clara’s position and feelings, with much thoughtfulness made every arrangement she could require. Having supplied her from her own wardrobe, she took away the conventual garments, which Mr Franklin with infinite satisfaction carefully packed up and sent with a note, couched in legal phraseology, to the Lady Superior, requesting that Miss Maynard’s property might be sent back by return. “I don’t suppose we shall get it,” he remarked to his cousin; “but it is as well to see what her ladyship has to say about the matter.”

Late in the evening a note arrived from the Lady Superior, who had to assure Mr Franklin that she possessed nothing belonging to Miss Maynard, who was well aware that any articles brought into the convent became the property of the community, and that all secular dresses were immediately disposed of as useless to those devoted to the service of the Church.

“I call it a perfect swindle,” observed Mrs Lawson, who was not an admirer of convents. “Miss Maynard tells me she took two trunks full of summer and winter clothing. She had not a notion before she went to the convent how she was to dress or what she was to do.”

“I am afraid, notwithstanding, that we cannot indict the Lady Superior as a swindler, whatever opinion we may secretly form of her,” answered Mr Franklin, laughing. “I daresay that Miss Maynard will soon be able to replace her loss. We would rather not have her adventure made public, except for the sake of a warning to others.”

Miss Lawson, whose garments fortunately fitted Clara, begged that she would take such as she might require until the dressmaker could forward those which had been ordered. The next morning, heartily thanking Mr Franklin and his relations, Clara and the general set off for Cheltenham. It was not to be expected that Clara would at once recover her spirits and serenity of mind; but fortunately they had the carriage to themselves, and thus the general had an opportunity of further explaining the subjects he had touched on on the previous day. As he never was without his Bible, he was able to refer to that, and to point to many texts which of late Clara had heard sadly perverted, or which had been carefully avoided. He explained to her the origin of the whole Romish system, and showed her how identical that of the Ritualists was with it; the great object being to exalt and give power to a priestly caste, who, pretending to stand between God and the sinner, thus obtain power over the minds and property of their fellow-creatures. “Such has been the object of certain men imbued with a desire to rule their more ignorant and more superstitious fellows, from the earliest ages; it was this spirit which influenced the priests of Egypt, Greece, and Rome; it exists throughout India, among the savages of America in their medicine—men, in the islands of the Pacific, and indeed in every region of the world. It is the object of the Romish system, and is now exhibiting itself in a more subtle form among the ministers of the Church of England. We properly apply the term sacerdotalism to any system the spirit of which seeks to place a human being in any intermediate character between God and man. Sacerdotalism is in direct opposition and antagonistic to the genius of the Gospel, which enunciates the great truth that there is but one Mediator between God and man, the Man Jesus Christ; that through the atoning blood of Christ, man, if truly turning to Him, and heartily believing, receives directly, and without any other agency whatever, pardon and absolution. He, and He alone, pardoneth and absolveth all them that truly repent, that is, look to Him and unfeignedly believe His holy Gospel. Christ, and Christ alone, is the Way, the Truth, and the Life to seeking, travailing, heavy-laden man; whereas the Romanists, as do the Ritualists, assert that without the priestly function there is no complete remission, no claim to all the benefit of the Passion, no assurance of God’s sanctifying grace. There must be, say these people, contrition, confession, and satisfaction united with the sacerdotal function, a succession of acts, the priest being the organ of God’s sanctifying grace.”

“Oh, then, of what mockery, of what sin, have I been guilty?” exclaimed Clara.

“Turn from it, and look to Jesus, and He grants immediate forgiveness,” answered the general.

“Would that all who are misled as I have been might receive that glorious truth!” cried Clara. “Oh, general, tell it everywhere, and show me how I may help to open the eyes of others as mine have been opened.”

“God alone can open the eyes of the blind; but we can become active instruments in His hands by conveying to them the remedy for their blindness,” said the general, taking Clara’s hand. “Your words afford me infinite satisfaction, and remove an anxious weight from my heart on your own account, and on that of one naturally still dearer to me. Depend on it that, with God’s grace, I will not relax in my efforts to make known the simple Gospel, and to exhibit the sacerdotal system of Rome, and of the so-called ritualism of England, in its true light.”

Chapter Six.

On reaching Cheltenham, the general took Clara to the house of his sister-in-law, a Scotch lady, who received her with the most motherly kindness.

“I very well know the sort of glamour which has been thrown around you, my dear,” she said, “so that I can heartily sympathise with you; and I praise God that it has been removed. You can now therefore look with confidence for grace and strength from Him who is the giver of all good, to walk forward in the enjoyment of that true happiness which God in His mercy affords to His creatures. There is abundance of work for our sex, which can be carried out in a straightforward, Protestant, English fashion.”

“I shall be thankful to find it,” said Clara.

“You will not have long to wait, my dear,” answered Mrs Caulfield; “but at present you require being nursed yourself: you must let me take you in hand.”

As soon as the general had deposited Clara with his sister-in-law, he set off and paid his promised visit to Mary Lennard. On reaching Mrs Barnett’s establishment, he was shown into a handsome drawing-room, where that lady soon presented herself, under the belief that he had come to place a daughter with her. She bowed gracefully as she glided into a seat, and smilingly enquired the object of his visit.

“I have come to see Miss Mary Lennard, daughter of my particular friend, the Reverend John Lennard,” answered he.

“She is too ill, I regret to say, to see visitors,” answered the schoolmistress. “Had her father come, I of course should not have objected.”

“I am acting in the place of her father,” said the general, “and I must insist on seeing the young lady, who has, I understand, been made ill by a system of fasting and penances which all right-minded people must consider objectionable.”

“Sir, you astonish me,” exclaimed Mrs Barnett. “I should suppose that every clergyman would wish his daughter to fast on Fridays and other days ordered by the Church; and with regard to penances, such have been imposed by the priest to whom she has duly gone to confession.”

“Why, I thought this was a Protestant school,” exclaimed the general, astonished.

“That term I repudiate,” answered the lady. “I am a daughter of the Anglican Church, and as such I wish to bring up all my pupils.”

“You may act according to your conscience, but parents may differ from you as to whether you are right in compelling growing children to fast, as also in allowing them to confess to a person whom you call a priest,” answered the general. “I regret having to act in any way which is disagreeable to you, but I must insist, madam, with the authority given me by Mr Lennard, on seeing his daughter alone, and judging what steps I shall take.”

The lady hesitated; the general put Mr Lennard’s letter into her hand. She still hesitated.

“Have you any reason for wishing me not to see Mary?” he asked.

“She may appear worse than she really is,” said Mrs Barnett. “Our medical attendant has visited her daily.”

“That makes it more necessary for me to see her and judge for myself,” said the general, in a firm tone.

Mrs Barnett rang the bell, and a servant appearing, she told her to inform Miss Lennard that a friend of her father wished to see her.

“She isn’t able to get up, marm, I’m afraid,” was the answer.

“Then show me her room,” said the general, rising; and without waiting to hear Mrs Barnett’s remarks, he followed the servant, who led the way upstairs to a room containing four beds. A cough struck his ears as he entered. On one of the beds lay poor Mary; her once rosy cheek was pale and thin, and her large eyes unusually bright. She knew him at once, and stretching out both her hands, said, “I am glad to see you; but I thought papa would come.”

The general explained that Mr Lennard was prevented from doing what he wished.

“Then, will you take me away from this?” she asked, in a whisper; “I am sure that papa would do so. I am not happy here; but do not let Mrs Barnett know I said so.”

“If you can be removed without risk, I certainly will take you,” answered the general.

“Oh, yes, yes! I shall be well soon. I could get up now if they will give me my clothes,” exclaimed Mary.

The day was bright and warm; and as the general felt sure that Mary could be removed without danger, he determined to take her to his sister-in-law’s immediately.

“Take me! take me!” said Mary; “I feel quite strong enough, and the doctor said that there was nothing particularly the matter with me.”

Her eagerness to go was still further increased when she heard that she was to be taken care of by Clara Maynard.

“I thought that she had been shut up in a convent,” she exclaimed. “The girls here were saying that it is a very holy life, though I don’t know that there are many who wish to lead it; but I was very, very sorry to hear of Clara’s being a nun, because I thought that perhaps I might never see her again, and of all people I wondered that she should turn nun.”

“I trust that she has given up all intention of becoming one,” said the general; “but you will see her soon, and she will tell you what she thinks about the matter.”

The general then told the servant to assist Miss Lennard in dressing, while he went out to obtain a conveyance. On returning to the house, he desired again to see Mrs Barnett. The lady was somewhat indignant, and warned him that he must be responsible for the consequences of removing Miss Lennard.

“Of course I am, and I am taking her where she can be more carefully nursed than is possible in a school,” answered the general.

Mary was soon ready, and her box packed up. The thoughts of going away restored her strength, and she walked downstairs without difficulty. The general carefully wrapped her up, and telling her to keep the shawl over her head and mouth, lifted her into the carriage. They had but a short distance to go. Clara was delighted to find that Mary was to remain; but on perceiving how ill the poor girl evidently was, she felt very sad. Mary was, however, not at all the worse for being removed, and Mrs Caulfield immediately sent for her own medical man to see her. He looked very grave, but gave no decided opinion. “She has been poorly fed, and her mind overtaxed for one so young,” he remarked. “We must see what proper care and nourishment will effect; but I must not disguise from you that I am anxious about her.”

Clara begged that Mary might be placed in her bed, while she occupied a small camp-bed at its foot.

“But you will have no room to turn,” observed Mrs Caulfield.

“It is wider and far softer than the one to which I have been accustomed,” she answered, smiling, “and I shall be much happier to be near Mary than away from her.”

Clara had now ample occupation in attending on her sick friend, though Mrs Caulfield insisted on her driving out every day, and advised her to receive the visits of several friends who called. With the consciousness that she was of essential use to Mary, her own spirits returned and her health improved. The rest of her time was spent in working, or reading to Mary, or playing and singing to her. The healthy literature the general procured for Mary benefited Clara as much as it did her friend; it was an invigorating change from the monastic legends and similar works which were alone allowed to be perused in the convent. She thought it better not to say much about her own life there; but Mary was not so reticent with regard to her school existence. The only books allowed to be read were those written by priests, ritualists, or Roman Catholics. “The books were mostly very dull,” said Mary; “but as we had no others, we were glad to get them. Then a clergyman came, who told us that we were all very sinful, but that when we came to him at confession he would give us absolution; and as we thought that very nice, we did as he advised us; but I did not at all like the questions he put; some of them were dreadful, and I know he said the same to the other girls. Still, as we were kept very strict in school, we were glad to get out to church as often as we could; there was the walk, which was pleasant in fine weather; and then we could look at the people who were there, and the music was often very fine, and the sermon was never very long; and sometimes the young gentlemen used to come and sit near us, and talk to the elder girls when no one was looking—at least, we thought they were young gentlemen, but, as it turned out, they were anything but such. One of them, especially, used to give notes to one of the girls, and she wrote others in return, and we thought it very romantic, and of course no one would tell Mrs Barnett of it. At last, one day, we thought that the girl had gone into confession; but instead of joining us she slipped out of the church at a side door, where her lover was waiting to receive her. Away they went by the train to a distance, where they were married, and could not be found for some time. At last they came back, when it was discovered that the young man was the son of a small tradesman in the place, though he had pretended that he had a good fortune and excellent prospects. Mrs Barnett was horrified, and tried to hush matters up, and I believe the parents of the girl did not like to expose her for their own sakes. I know that I and the rest were very wrong in our behaviour, and I will not excuse myself, except to say that everything was done to make us hypocrites. Religion was very much talked about on Sundays and saints’ days; but I have learnt more of the Gospel since I came here, from you and dear General Caulfield, than I ever knew before.”

Clara sighed as she thought how little she herself had known till lately.

“You had better not talk any more about your school,” she said; “let us speak rather about what we read, and things of real importance.”

Clara had become very much alarmed about Mary. Wholesome and regular food, and gentle exercise in the carriage when the weather was fine, somewhat restored her strength; but there was the hectic spot on her check, and the brightness of the eyes, which too surely told of consumption. Mr Lennard at length arrived; he looked much depressed, and was shocked at seeing the change in his daughter. He had a most unsatisfactory account to give of his son, whom he had searched for for some time in vain. At last he discovered that the young gentleman had been formally received into the Romish Church, and that his friend the priest was concealing him somewhere in London. The poor father found out where his son was through a letter which was forwarded from Luton, in which the youth asked for a remittance for his support, as he had expended all his means, and could not longer, he observed, encroach on the limited stipend of his friend, Father Lascelles. Mr Lennard, still hoping that it might be possible to win back the youth, wrote entreating him to return home, and on his declining to do this, he offered to let him continue his course at Oxford, that he might fit himself for entering one of the learned professions. After a delay of two or three days, Alfred wrote saying that he had applied to his bishop, who would not consent to his doing so, and that as he was now under his spiritual guidance, he must obey him rather than a heretic father.

“You will pardon me for calling you so,” continued Master Alfred; “but while you remain severed from the one true Church, such you must be in the eyes of all Catholics, one of whom I have become.”

“I was too much grieved to laugh, as I might otherwise have done, at the boy’s impertinence,” observed Mr Lennard to the general; “but as I look upon him as deceived by artful men, I cannot treat him with the rigour he deserves. What do you recommend, general?”

“We must, if possible, get him to come home, and then put the truth clearly before him,” remarked the general.

“I am afraid that I cannot say enough to induce him to change,” said Mr Lennard, with a deep sigh.

“We must have recourse, whatever we do, to earnest prayer,” observed the general. “I cannot suppose that your son’s mind is already so completely perverted as to be impregnable to the truth.”

“Alas, it is not for so short a time,” answered Mr Lennard; “the seed was sown by the tutor with whom he spent a year or more, and finally matured by this same Father Lascelles and his tutor at college. He is the very man with whom Mr Lerew read, I find. I wonder that he was not the means of his older pupil’s perversion.”

“Mr Lerew is not so honest a man as your son,” answered the general; “Mr Lerew was about to take orders, and would prove a useful tool, while it was more prudent to secure your son at once, as he, it was supposed, would inherit your property. I wish that I could offer you consolation; but I fear that you would consider me a Job’s comforter at the best.”

Mr Lennard had come hoping to take Mary home; but she appeared scarcely able to undertake so long a journey, and Clara confessed that she herself was unwilling to return as yet to Luton. Poor Mr Lennard was nearly heart-broken on hearing from the doctor that he thought very badly of Mary’s case.

“Could I not take her abroad, to Madeira, or the south of France?” he asked.

“It would be, I feel confident, useless,” was the melancholy answer; “had she strength to stand the journey, her life might possibly be prolonged for a few weeks; but she would probably lose more by the exertion of travelling than she would gain by the change. Here she is under loving care, and we may alleviate her sufferings.”

Some more weeks wore by, and Mary grew worse. Mr Lennard felt, what some parents do not, that it was his duty, though a painful one, to tell his daughter that her days were numbered, and at the same time to afford her such comfort as, according to his knowledge, he could. He gently broke the subject.

“I know it,” she answered. “I asked Clara if she thought I was dying, and she told me that the doctor said I could not recover; but, dear papa, I am prepared to go away to One who loves me, though I am sorry, very sorry, to leave you, and Clara, and the general, and those who have been kind to me.”

The tears were falling from Mr Lennard’s eyes.

“You have been a dear good girl, and have enjoyed the blessing of baptism, and have been confirmed, and have received the sacrament; you shall receive it again if you wish, and I hope that God will take you to heaven.”

“Oh, dear, dear papa, don’t speak so,” answered Mary; “I know that I am a wretched sinner; I have done nothing to merit God’s love and mercy; but I know that Jesus Christ died for me, and that His blood cleanseth from all sin; and, trusting to Him, I am sure that He will receive me in the place He has gone before to prepare for those who love Him. I have faith in Christ; that is my happiness, hope, and confidence. I am not afraid to die, for I know that He will be with me through the shadow of the valley of death.”

Mr Lennard gazed at her, unable to speak. He could not ask her further questions, but was revolving in his own mind the meaning of what she had said. She had no confidence in any of the objects which he had been accustomed to present to the minds of the dying, if he believed them to be good Churchmen, and if not, he had always urged them to repent of their sins and to take the sacrament, in the hope that thus God might receive them into heaven. Mary’s remarks had brought new light to his soul; she trusted solely to the all-finished work of Christ, to whom she looked as her Saviour, with full assurance that He would welcome her to heaven. She thought not, she spoke not, of any of the rites and ceremonies in which he had trusted himself, and had taught others to trust, rather than to the blood of the Atonement. She did not ask even him, her father, and, as he had fancied himself, a priest, to offer a prayer on her behalf. No, she was resting joyfully on Christ as her all-sufficient Saviour.

“I see it all now,” he said, half aloud; “it is this of which the general has been speaking to me lately, but which I did not comprehend.”

“Yes, dear papa; Jesus did it all long ago; He saved me then, and I am trusting in Him; that makes me so happy, so very happy,” exclaimed Mary.

“I believe as you do,” answered Mr Lennard; “would that I had known and taught your poor brother the same truth! it would have prevented him from falling into the toils of Rome.”

“We can pray for him, that he may be rescued from them,” said Mary.

“I wished to make him a sound Churchman, and taught him that there is but one true Church, and that that is the Church of England; and miserable has been the result,” said Mr Lennard.

“Alfred may be brought back. God will hear our united prayers,” whispered Mary.

“I cannot pray with faith that my prayer will be answered,” he murmured. “I did my utmost to instil the belief into him, and he has ever since been with those who have done their utmost to forward the same notion.”

Mary now became her father’s comforter. She lingered with those who loved her for some time longer, proving an especial blessing to Clara, who had, as her ever-watchful nurse, constant employment and occupation for her thoughts and feelings. The general remained with his sister, and afforded Clara that instruction and guidance she so much needed, while he put into her hands such books as were best calculated to strengthen her mind and to do away with all traces of that mysticism which she had imbibed both before and during her life in the convent. With clearer perceptions of truth than she had ever before enjoyed, she was now better able to perform her duties in life. She had written to her aunt, saying that she hoped some day to return home, but was at present employed in nursing her young friend Mary Lennard, whom she could not at present leave; but she did not think it necessary to speak of her escape from the convent, or to enter into other particulars, so that Miss Pemberton remained in ignorance of her change of opinions.

Mr Lennard had twice gone away in the hope of meeting his son and inducing him to attend the death-bed of his sister; but the priests, who were well-informed of the religious opinions of those who had taken charge of Mary, made him send various excuses, and poor Mary was deprived of the satisfaction of seeing her brother again. When Mr Lennard returned, Mary had become much weaker, and she could only whisper, “Pray for poor Alfred; don’t be angry with him—he may be brought back;” and her young spirit went to be with the Saviour in whom she trusted. Clara aided the general in comforting their friend.

The bereaved father found peace at last; but often before that, in the bitterness of his heart, he would exclaim, “It was that school, that abominable system of fasting and penance, and that accursed confessional, which killed her; and to have my poor weak misguided boy carried off and enslaved body and soul by those wolves in sheep’s clothing, it is more than I can bear! It was I—I alone, who in my blindness and ignorance and folly exposed them to the malign influences which have caused their destruction. I have been the murderer of my children!”

A few days after Mary’s funeral, Clara, with the general and Mr Lennard, returned to Luton. Miss Pemberton received her niece with a look of astonishment.

“Why, I expected to see you dressed as a nun, Clara,” she exclaimed; “have you given up your vocation? Dear me! Mr Lerew will be very much disappointed; he fully expected that you would devote your fortune to Saint Agatha’s.”

“I will explain matters to you, aunt, by-and-by,” answered Clara, not wishing on her first arrival at home to enter into any discussion. “I hope that you have not felt yourself very solitary during my long absence.”

“As to that, I can’t say I have been very lively, for the whole neighbourhood is divided, and because I go to church and confession, all of your father’s old friends have ceased to call on me; but of late I have begun to think that they are not altogether wrong. I must acknowledge that since Sir Reginald and Lady Bygrave, and Mrs Lerew, and two or three other people turned Catholics, my confidence in the vicar and the High Church has been a little shaken. Mrs Lerew wanted me to turn too; but I was not going to do that, and even the vicar did not advise it, though he said he couldn’t help his wife going over; for if so many went, people’s suspicions would be aroused, and he should be unable to establish his college.”

“I am truly thankful that you did not go over,” answered Clara. “I have learnt a good deal about the Ritualists of late, and I am very sure that their tendency is towards Rome. I have one favour to ask, that is, should Mr Lerew call, that you will not admit him, as it would be painful to me to see him again, for I cannot receive him as a friend.”

“Why, have you found out anything about him?” asked Miss Pemberton, her conscience accusing her.

“There is much, aunt, to which, I object in him,” answered Clara, firmly.

“Well, I don’t wish you to be annoyed, my dear, in any way,” said Miss Pemberton; “and, in truth, I suspect that he wanted to get hold of your fortune for his new college. If he finds that he has no chance of that, I don’t think he will trouble you much.”

“I would rather not think about him in any way,” said Clara; “and do pray tell me how Widow Jones and Mrs Humble and her blind daughter, and the poor Hobbies, with their idiot boy, are getting on. I must go and see them and my other friends as soon as possible.”

Clara then went on to make further enquiries about her poorer neighbours, and was grieved to find that her aunt had not troubled herself about them during her absence.

“It was all my fault,” she said to herself; “I was placed here to help them, and I have neglected that very clear duty by giving way to delusive fancies.”

Clara lost no time in carrying out her intentions, and was received with a hearty welcome wherever she went. Very frequently remarks were made which showed her that the poor had a clearer perception of the tendencies of the ritualistic system than she herself had previously possessed.

“We be main glad to see you again looking so like yourself, Miss,” exclaimed Dame Hobby. “They said as how the vicar had got you to go into a monkery that he might spend your money to pay for his fripperies in the church, his candles, and that smoky stuff, and his pictures and gold-embroidered dresses, and flags and crosses, and all they singing men and women, and dressing up the little boys, as if God cared for such things, or they could make us love Him and serve Him better, for that’s my notion of what religion should do. The Bible says we can go straight to God through Jesus Christ, and pray to Him as our Father; and all these things seem to me only to stand in the way; and when we want to be praying, we are instead looking about at the goings on, and listening to the music. ’Tisn’t that I haven’t a respect for the parson and the church; but when I go to church, I go to pray and to hear God’s word read and explained from the pulpit in a way simple people can understand.”

Clara found much the same opinions expressed by all she visited. The general came every day to see her, to strengthen and support her. His conversation had a very good effect on Miss Pemberton, whose eyes having once been opened to the tendencies of the ritualistic system, she was enabled to see it in its true light. She resolved to have nothing more to say to Mr Lerew, and to refuse to receive him, should he call. Soon after Clara returned home he had started on a tour to collect funds for his college, and as he was absent, Clara was saved from the annoyance she had expected. The general was fortunately paying a visit to Clara and her aunt when Mr Lerew at length came to call on Miss Pemberton to enquire why she had not during his absence attended church. It was agreed that it would be better to admit him. He tried to assume his usual unimpassioned manner as he entered the room; but the frown on his brow and his puckered lips showed his annoyance and anger. He had not had the early training which enables the Jesuit priest effectually to conceal his feelings. He had evidently heard that Clara had left the convent, as he showed no surprise at seeing her. He probably would have behaved very differently to what he did, had not the general been present. Shaking hands with all the party, he took a seat, and brushing his hat with his glove, cleared his throat, and then said, “I was afraid, Miss Pemberton, that you were ill, as you have not, I understand, favoured the church with your presence for the last two Sundays.”

“I had my reasons for not going,” answered Miss Pemberton; “and I may as well tell you that I purpose in future not to attend your church, as I see clearly that your preaching and the system carried on there leads Romeward; and I have no wish to become a Romanist or to encourage others by my presence to run the risk of becoming so either.”

“Romanist! Romanist!” exclaimed Mr Lerew; “I have no dealings with Rome; I don’t want my people to become Romanists.”

“The proof of the pudding is in the eating, Mr Lerew,” answered Miss Pemberton, dryly. “I have expressed my resolution, and I hope to adhere to it.”

Mr Lerew was not prepared with an answer; but turning to Clara, he said, “I trust, Miss Maynard, that though you have thought fit to abandon the sacred calling to which I had hoped you would have devoted yourself, you will still remain faithful to the Church.”

“I cannot make any promise on the subject,” answered Clara, being anxious not to say anything to irritate the vicar. “I believe that I was before blinded and led away from the truth, when I was induced to enter the sisterhood of Saint Barbara, and I now desire to retrieve my error.”

“I understand you, ladies,” exclaimed the vicar, losing command of his temper. “Remember that by deserting the Church you are guilty of the heinous crime of schism, for which, till repented of, there is no pardon here or hereafter. General Caulfield, I fear that you have much to answer for in having set the example in my parish; you will excuse me for saying so.”

“It is you and those who side with you who are guilty of the schism of which you speak,” said the general, mildly. “The Church of England protests clearly against the errors of Rome; and you, by adopting many, if not all those errors, are virtually cutting yourself off from that Church, although you retain a post in it. But let me explain that the schism spoken of in the New Testament is the departing from the truth of the Gospel, and the practices it inculcates; in other words, those who leave Christ’s spiritual Church. My great object is to draw my fellow-creatures into that Church; to induce them to accept Christ as the Way, the Truth, and the Life; to persuade them to grasp that hand so lovingly stretched forth to lead them to the Father. I ignore the schism of which you speak, invented by the sacerdotalists to alarm the uneducated. You have my reply, Mr Lerew, and I wish you clearly to understand that I purpose, with God’s assistance, by every means in my power to make known the truth of the Gospel in this parish and in every place where false teaching prevails.”

“Then I shall look upon you as a schismatic and a foe to our Church,” exclaimed Mr Lerew, rising.

“I have already explained to you the true meaning of schism,” said the general, quietly, “and have particularly to request that all further discussion on this subject may cease. Miss Pemberton and her niece have expressed their sentiments, and you have long known mine. I trust that none of us will change; and anything further said on the subject can only cause annoyance.”

Mr Lerew saw that he had lost his influence over Clara and her aunt, and not wishing to remain longer than he could help in the general’s society, quickly took his departure. He had not as yet seen Mr Lennard since his return, nor had he heard the cause of poor Mary’s death; he at once drove over to his house. Instead of the hearty manner Mr Lennard usually exhibited, he received his visitor with marked coldness. Mr Lerew was puzzled.

“I am sorry that my absence from home has prevented me hitherto from calling on you,” he said; “but I rejoice to have you back, and I hope that you will assist at the celebrations in my church.”

“I come to a sad home, deprived of my young daughter by death, and my son by his perversion to the Church of Rome,” answered Mr Lennard, gravely, not noticing the last remark. “I know that my child has left this world for a far better; but I cannot forget that the seeds of her disease were produced by the system practised at the school you recommended, Mr Lerew, as also that my son’s perversion was much owing to the instruction received from the tutor under whom, by your advice, I placed him. The daughter of my late friend Captain Maynard has happily escaped from the toils you threw around her; and though I am ready heartily to forgive the injuries you have inflicted on me, I feel myself called on to expose the traitorous efforts you and others with whom you are associated are making to uproot the Protestant principles of the Church. I believe that I am actuated by no hostile feeling towards yourself personally; but I will take every means in my power to put a stop to the practices which you pursue in your church.”

“You acknowledge yourself, then, an enemy to me and to the Church!” exclaimed Mr Lerew, who felt braver in the presence of Mr Lennard, whom he considered a weak man, than he had in that of General Caulfield.

“I desire not to be an enemy to you personally,” answered Mr Lennard, mildly; “but to your system, which is calculated to lead your flock fearfully astray, I am, and trust I shall ever remain, an inveterate foe.”

In vain did Mr Lerew endeavour to win back his former dupe. Mr Lennard had clearly seen the chasm which divides the Protestant Church of England from the Romish system and its counterpart, Ritualism, and, as an honest man, he was not to be drawn over. Again defeated, the vicar of Luton-cum-Crosham had to take his departure. He still, however, found dupes to subscribe sufficient funds for the establishment of his college, and a Lady Superior of high ritualistic proclivities to take charge of it, and masters who, provided they got their stipends, cared nothing about the object of the institution. By putting out his candles and omitting some of the ceremonies at his church whenever the bishop or rural dean came to visit it, he was able to retain his living. By means of a plausible prospectus, he, with other ritualistic brethren, induced the parents and guardians of a number of young ladies, tempted by the moderate expense and advantages offered, to send them to the college, where, with the usual superficial accomplishments they received, their minds were thoroughly imbued with ritualistic principles. General Caulfield and Mr Lennard prevented several of their friends from being thus taken in. A good many people were staggered when they heard that the vicar’s wife and his patrons—Lady Bygrave and Sir Reginald—had become Romanists. They had all three lately set off for Rome itself, under the escort of the Abbé Henon. They were there received with due honour by the Pope, and had the satisfaction of hearing from the infallible lips of his Holiness that England would, ere long, be won from the power of the infidel Protestants, and restored to the bosom of the Catholic Church; and believing themselves to be not the least important members of the British race, they returned home to spread the joyful intelligence among those who were ready to believe them. The chapel erected in their park had almost as large a congregation as that of the parish church, especially as winter approached, and blankets and coals were liberally distributed among the worshippers.

Clara, meantime, had pursued the even tenor of her way. Her aunt was greatly changed for the better; she had become kind and considerate to her, and frequently accompanied her in her visits among the poor and suffering in the wide district she had taken under her charge. Though Clara generally drove in her pony-carriage, she occasionally, when the distance was not too great, went on foot. She had one day thus gone out, carrying a basket stored with delicacies for several sick people, when, as she was proceeding along a sheltered lane, overhung with trees, she heard a quick footstep behind her. She turned her head and saw Harry. Her first impulse was to rush towards him—then for a moment she stopped. He held out his arms.

“Can you forgive me for my folly, and the pain and grief I have caused you?” she exclaimed.

“I have forgotten it all in the happiness of seeing you thus employed, exactly as I should wish,” he answered; “never let us speak about it; my father has told me all. You were ever dear to me, even when I thought that I had lost you. You have learned to distinguish the true from the false, and I shall never for a moment, in future, have the slightest fear that, seeking for guidance from above, you will mistake the one for the other.”

The End.

William H G Kingston

"Voyages and Travels of Count Funnibos and Baron Stilkin"

Chapter One.

“What shall we do with ourselves, my dear Stilkin?” exclaimed Count Funnibos, yawning and stretching out his legs and arms, which were of the longest.

“Do! why, travel,” answered Baron Stilkin, with a smile on his genial countenance.

“Travel! what for?” asked the Count, yawning again.

“To see the world, to be sure,” answered the Baron.

“The world! why, don’t we see it by looking out of the window?” asked the Count.

“That’s what many people say, and fancy they know the world when they have looked out of their own windows,” observed the Baron.

“Ah, yes, perhaps you are right: you always are when I happen to be wrong, and you differ from me—unless you are wrong also,” replied the Count. “But where shall we go?”

“Why, round the world if we want to see it;—or as far round as we can get,” said the Baron, correcting himself; “and then we shall not have seen it all.”

“When shall we start?” asked the Count, brightening up; “next year?”

“Next fiddlesticks! this afternoon, to be sure. Don’t put off till to-morrow what can be done to-day, still less till next year. What’s to hinder us? We have no ties.”

“Yes, there are my neck-ties to come from the laundress,” said the Count, who was addicted to taking things literally; “and I must procure some new shoe-ties.”

“Never mind, I’ll get them for you in good time,” said the Baron. “You have plenty of money, so you can pay for both of us, which will simplify accounts.”

“Yes, to be sure, I hate complicated accounts,” remarked the Count, who thought the Baron the essence of wisdom, and that this was an especially bright idea. “And what luggage shall we require?”

“Let me see: you have two valises—one will do for you and the other for me,” said the Baron, putting his fore-finger on his brow in a thoughtful manner. “All, yes; besides the ties you will require a shirt-collar or two, a comb to unravel those hyacinthine locks of yours, a pair of spectacles, and a toothpick. It might be as well also to take an umbrella, in case we should be caught out in the rainy season.”

“But shouldn’t I take my slippers?” asked the Count.

“What a brilliant idea!” exclaimed the Baron. “And that reminds me that you must of course take your seven-league boots.”

“But I have only one pair, and if I put them on I shall be unable to help running away from you, and we could no longer be called travelling companions.”

“Ah, yes, I foresaw that difficulty from the first,” observed the Baron. “But, my dear Funnibos, I never allow difficulties to stand in my way. I’ve thought of a plan to overcome that one. You shall wear one boot and I’ll wear the other, then hand in hand we’ll go along across the country almost as fast as you would alone.”

“Much faster—for I should to a certainty lose my way, or stick in a quagmire,” observed the Count.

“Then all our arrangements are made,” said the Baron. “I’ll see about any other trifles we may require. Now let us pack up.”

“You have forgotten my ties,” observed the Count.

“Ah, yes, so I had,” observed the Baron, and he hurried off to the laundress for them. He soon returned, and the valises being filled and strapped up, the Baron tucked one under each arm.

“Stop,” said the Count, “I must give directions to my housekeeper about the management of my castle and estates during my absence.”

“Tell her to bolt the windows and lock all the doors of the castle, so that no one can get in; and as for the estates, they won’t run away,” said the Baron.

“Thank you for the bright idea; I’ll act upon it,” answered the Count. “Still, people do lose their estates in some way or other. How is that?”

“Because they do not look properly after them,” answered the Baron.

“But mine are secured to my heirs,” said the Count.

“Then they cannot run away unless your heirs run also, therefore pray set your mind at rest on that score; and now come along.” The Baron as he spoke took up the two portmanteaus, which were patent Lilliputians, warranted to carry any amount of clothing their owners could put into them, and they set off on their travels.

“In what direction shall we go?” asked the Count.

“That must depend upon circumstances,” answered the Baron. “Wherever the wind blows us.”

“But suppose it should blow one day in one direction and another in the opposite, how shall we ever get to the end of our voyage?” inquired the Count, stopping, and looking his companion in the face.

“That puzzles me, but let us get on board first, and see how things turn out,” observed the Baron. “Ships do go round the world somehow or other, and I suppose if they do not find a fair wind in one place they find it another.”

“But how are they to get to that other place?” asked the Count, who was in an inquisitive mood.

“That’s what we are going to find out,” observed the Baron.

“But must we go by sea?” asked the Count. “Could not we keep on the land, and then we shall be independent of the wind?”

“My dear Count, don’t you know that we cannot possibly get round the world unless we go by sea?” exclaimed the Baron. “I thought that you had received a better education than to be ignorant of that fact.”

“Ah, yes, to be sure, when I have condescended to look at a map, I have observed that there are two great oceans, dividing the continent of America from Europe on one side, and Asia on the other, but I had forgotten it at the moment. However, is it absolutely necessary to go all the way round the world? Could we not on this excursion just see a part of it, and then, if we like our expedition, we can conclude it on another occasion.”

“But how are we to see the world unless we go round it?” exclaimed the Baron, with some asperity in his tone. “That is what I thought we set out to do.”

“Ah, yes, my dear Baron, but, to tell you the truth, I do not feel quite comfortable at the thoughts of going so far,” said the Count, in a hesitating tone. “Could not we just see one country first, then another, and another, and so on? We shall know far more about them than if we ran round the globe as fast as the lightning flashes, or bullet or arrow flies, or a fish swims; or you may choose any other simile you like to denote speed,” observed the Count. “In that case we should only see things on our right hand, and on our left, and I do not think we should know much about the countries towards either of the Poles.”

“Your remark exhibits a sagacity for which I always gave you credit,” observed the Baron, making a bow to his friend. “But I tell you what, if we stop talking here we shall never make any progress on our journey. Let us go down to the quay and ascertain what vessels are about to sail, and we can accordingly take a passage on board one of them.”

“We could not well take a passage on board two,” observed the Count.

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the Baron; “very good, very good; but come along, my dear fellow; stir your stumps, as the English vulgarly express it; let us be moving; Allons donc, as a Frenchman would say.” And arm in arm the two travellers proceeded to the quay. On reaching it they observed an individual of rotund proportions, with a big apron fastened up to his chin, seated on the end of a wall smoking a long clay pipe, and surrounded by chests, bales, casks, and packages of all descriptions. He looked as if he was lord of all he surveyed: indeed there was no other individual in sight except a person coming up some steps from the river and bringing several buckets suspended from a stick over his shoulders, but he was evidently a hewer of wood and a drawer of water, and therefore of no account in the eyes of the burly gentleman.

“Friend,” said the Baron, making a bow to the latter individual, “can you inform me where we shall find a vessel about to sail round the world, and when she is likely to proceed on her voyage?”

The latter individual took a sidelong glance at the Baron, and then at the Count, and blew a puff of smoke, but made no answer.

“The poor man is perhaps deaf,” suggested the Count. Whereon the Baron in louder tones exclaimed, “Can you tell me, friend,”—the burly individual blew another cloud of smoke—“where shall we find a vessel about to sail round the world, and when she commences her voyage?” continued the Baron.

The burly individual opened his eyes as wide as his fat cheeks would allow him, then blew a fresh cloud of smoke, and with the end of his pipe, evidently not wishing to fatigue himself by speaking, pointed along the quay, where the masts of numerous vessels could be seen crowded together.

“Thank you, friend,” said the Count, making a bow, for he always piqued himself on his politeness. The Baron felt angry at not having his question answered more promptly, and only gave a formal nod, of which the burly individual took not the slightest notice.

The two travellers continued on, picking their way among the casks, cases, bales, packages and anchors, and guns stuck upright with their muzzles in the ground, and bits of iron chain and spars, and broken boats, and here and there a capstan or a windlass, tall cranes, and all sorts of other articles such as encumber the wharves of a mercantile seaport. As they went along the Baron asked the same question which he had put to the burly individual of several other persons whom he and his friend encountered; some laughed and did not take the trouble of replying, others said that there were vessels of all sorts about to sail to various lands, but whether they were going round the world was not known to them.

“We must make inquiries for ourselves,” said the Baron. “Remember that those who want a thing go for it, those who don’t want it stay at home; now, as we do want to know where those ships are about to sail to, we must go.”

“But, my dear Baron, a dreadful thought has occurred to me. I quite forgot to speak to Johanna Klack, my estimable and trustworthy housekeeper, to give her directions as to her proceedings during my absence. I really think I must go back, or she will not know what to do.”

“No, no, my dear Count, I cannot allow you to do so foolish an act. I know Johanna Klack too well for that,” said the Baron, with some bitterness in his tone. “She’ll not let you go away again; she’ll talk you to death with arguments against your going; she’ll lock you up in the blue room, or the brown room, or in the dungeon itself, and I shall have to proceed alone. More than half the pleasure of the voyage will be lost without your society; besides which, I have no money to pay for my passage, for you will remember that you undertook to do that.”

“Then, I will leave my portmanteau and my umbrella with you as a security,” said the Count, trying to get his arm free from that of his friend.

“Ha, ha, ha! that will be no security at all,” observed the Baron. “Why, it would be the cause of my destruction. Just see how I should be situated. Johanna Klack will shut you up, and you will disappear from this sublunary world for a time, at all events. It is already known that we set out on our travels. I shall be discovered with your portmanteau as well as my own, and accused, notwithstanding my protestations of innocence, of having done away with you, and before Johanna Klack allows you to reappear I shall to a certainty be hung up by the neck, or have my head chopped off, or be transported beyond seas. Johanna Klack may be a very estimable and charming individual, but I know her too well to trust her. Let her alone; she and your steward being, as you say, thoroughly honest, will manage your affairs to your satisfaction. When we are once away—two or three hundred miles off—you can write and tell her that you are gone on your travels, and give such directions as you may deem necessary. Come along, my dear fellow, come along; I fear even now that she may have discovered our departure and may consider it her duty to follow us.”

“If she does, she had better look out for the consequences,” said the Baron to himself.

The Count yielded to his friend’s arguments, and they continued their course. As they reached the more frequented parts of the quay, where the larger number of vessels were collected, they observed a party of jovial sailors assembled in front of a wine-shop door; some were seated at their ease on benches, either smoking or holding forth to their companions, who were standing by listening. They looked perfectly happy and contented with themselves. One lolling back with his legs stretched out, who was evidently the orator of the party, and thought no small beer of himself, was spinning an interesting yarn or making some amusing jokes.

“Those are the sort of mariners I should like to sail with,” observed the Baron. “They are stout fellows, and probably first-rate seamen. Let us draw near and hear what they are talking about.”

The sailors took no notice of the Count and Baron as they approached.

“I tell you I’ve been to the North Sea and to the South Seas, to the Red Sea and the Black Sea, and the Yellow Sea too, and crossed the Atlantic, Pacific, and Indian Oceans scores of times; and I’ve sailed to the North Pole and South Pole, and all the world round, and I have seen stranger sights than have most men, from the day they were born to the day they died. The strangest spectacle I ever beheld was once in the Indian Ocean. We were sailing along with a fair breeze and studding sails set below and aloft, when we saw coming towards us five water-spouts, just like so many twisted columns: dark clouds seemed to come from the sky, and piles of water rose out of the ocean. It was a bad look-out for us, for we expected to have them aboard our ship, when they would have sent her to the bottom in no time. But our skipper was not a man to be daunted by difficulties. As soon as he saw them coming he ordered the guns to be loaded and run out. As the first came near he fired, and down fell the waterspout with a rushing sound into the ocean. ‘It is your turn next,’ he sang out, pointing a gun at another, which he treated in the same fashion; but three came on together, when he blazed away at them and all were knocked to pieces in a moment; and the ocean was as calm as it had been before we saw them. You may well say that was curious. I have heard of water-spouts doing much damage, but I never saw a ship swamped by one.”

The Count and Baron were much interested, and got still nearer, that they might not lose a word.

“I told you, mates, that I had been to the North Pole and South Pole, and I’ve seen wonderful sights there also. What do you think of an iceberg a mile long, two or three hundred feet high? I have been among such, and surrounded by them too, in a way which seemed as if it was impossible we should ever get free again. When the sun is shining they’re beautiful to look at: some with great caverns below, with icicles hanging down from the roof, and the top of the berg covered with what one might fancy to be towers, steeples, and ruined castles and arches, all glittering and shining just as if they were made of alabaster and precious stones; and the sea a deep purple, or sometimes blue, with streaks of yellow and red. You’d think it was cold enough there, but the summer up in the North is one long day, with the sun in the sky all the time; and I have known it pretty hot there—hot enough to set the icebergs melting, and the water rushing down their sides in fountains. Now and then, when the under part is worn away, they get top-heavy, and over they go, just like a porpoise making a somersault. It does not do to be near them on those occasions, for they’d send the stoutest ship to the bottom in a moment; and even at a distance I have known bits of ice come down on the deck big enough to crack a blackamoor’s head, though we were many fathoms off it.

“As I said, the summer is short, and that is the only time ships can sail about, and make their way among the ice. Then comes the winter, and terribly long that is; it lasts well-nigh ten months, and for all that time the ship is shut up just as fast as if she was in a dock with the entrance closed by stone. There she lies, housed over, with topgallant-masts struck, and if it was not for the stoves below, which must be kept alight at all hours of the day and night, people would be frozen to death: I have heard, indeed, of a whole ship’s company being turned into ice. For many days during the time the sun is below the horizon, and there is one long night; the stars, however, when the sky is clear, shine brightly, and sometimes the Northern lights blaze up and sparkle, and people can see their way over the ice, but it is not pleasant travelling, and one has to wear wonderfully thick clothing, and mits on the hands, and to cover up all but the eyes, nose, and mouth, or a man would get frost—bitten very quickly. Then bears come prowling about, and they are awkward customers to meet alone, for they have powerful jaws and sharp claws, and one hug is enough to squeeze the breath out of a person. They have carried off many a poor fellow who has wandered away from his ship. Besides the bears there are Arctic foxes, with white fur, and though they do not attack a fellow on his feet with a thick stick in his hand, yet I do not know how they would treat him if they found him lying down unable to defend himself.

“Sometimes ships, before they can get into harbour, are caught in the ice, and have to pass the winter out in the sea, if they have time to cut a dock before the ice presses on them. They may thus be tolerably secure, but I have known ships to be crushed to atoms before they have had time to do that, and their crews have had to get on board other ships, or make for the land, and spend the winter there in snow huts; or they have perished. Still, many people have passed two and three winters together in the Arctic regions, and have kept their health and been happy, when they have had sufficient firing and good food. On one of those occasions I learned to read and write, which I did not know how to do before, and much use it has been to me ever since.

“Then we had amusements of all sorts. We rigged a theatre on board, and acted plays and recited, and had a masquerade, and funny sort of dresses we appeared in. But we had work to do also; we had to build a wall of snow round the ship, so that in cold weather we were protected from the wind when we took our exercise, running round and round inside it. The worst part of the business was the long night and the bitter cold, for it was cold, I can tell you; and glad enough we were when we saw the sun rising just above the hillocks of ice far away to the southward, and though for some time it was for a very short period above the horizon, yet day after day at noon it appeared higher and higher, and its rays shed some warmth down upon us.

“Still the winter was not over, and our captain arranged to make some journeys to explore the country. In that part of the world dogs are often used to draw sleighs, but as we had no dogs we were compelled to drag them ourselves, about five men to each sleigh, which is a sort of long carriage without wheels, with iron runners like two skates placed under it, and the goods lashed along on the top. We carried our provisions, tents, and cooking utensils. When the ice was smooth it was pretty easy travelling, but we often had to drag the sleighs up steep places, over hillocks, and rough ground, and then it was heavy work, and we could only make good a few miles a day.

“A man need be pretty strong and hardy to go through that sort of work. At night we slept inside our tents, as close together as we could pack, the only warmth we could obtain being from the spirit lamps we carried, which served also to warm up our cocoa and cook our food. I was not sorry when the journey was over, though we were merry enough during it. At length we got out of harbour, but we had still not a few dangers to encounter. Sometimes we were nearly driven on shore by the floes of ice pressing on us; at others we ran a great risk of being nipped by getting between two floes which approached each other; then there was the chance of the icebergs falling down on us. We several times had to cut our way with saws through the ice to get into open water. We were heartily glad when we were free altogether, and sailing along with a fair wind over the ocean to the southward, leaving the world of ice astern. However, I should be ready to go again, and so would most fellows who were with me, I have a notion.”

“That’s more than I should, after what I have heard,” observed the Count to the Baron. “I object excessively to take a trip to the North Pole, wherever else we may go. I have no fancy, either, to be sent to the bottom by a waterspout.”

“Wherever we go we may expect to meet with some danger or other,” said the Baron. “It adds zest to the pleasure of travelling.”

“I would rather avoid the zest,” said the Count. “But shall we ask these brave fellows what ship they belong to. Perhaps she’s not going to the North Pole or the Indian Seas on this occasion, and they evidently form a sturdy crew. Will you speak to them or shall I?”

“I’ll address them,” said the Baron, and stepping up to the seamen, he said—

“Brave sailors, I have heard the account your shipmate has been giving you of his adventures, and as we are desirous of sailing round the world, we should be glad to take a passage on board the ship to which you belong.”

“Unless you were to chop yourselves up into a good many portions you’d find that a hard matter, master,” answered one of the seamen. “We all happen, do ye see, to belong to different ships, and some don’t belong to any ship at all, and when we do sail, the chances are we go to as many parts of the world.”

“Then, most gallant sailors, will you have the kindness to inform us what ship is likely next to sail from this port, and whither is she bound?” said the Baron.

“As to that, I heard old Jan Dunck, skipper of the galiot Golden Hog, saying that he was about to sail for Amsterdam with the next tide. It wants but an hour or so to that time, and if you look sharp about it you may get on board and make your arrangements with him before he trips his anchor,” answered the sailor.

“Thanks, brave sailors, for the information you have afforded us,” said the Baron. “You will confer a further favour if you will show us where the said galiot Golden Hog lies at anchor. Among this vast fleet of shipping we should otherwise have considerable difficulty in discovering her, and my friend Count Funnibos will, I am sure, reward you handsomely.”

“Reward is neither here nor there, but I don’t mind showing you old Dunck’s craft, if you will come along with me.”

Thus saying, the sailor, getting up, put his hands in his pockets, and led the way along the quay. On one side it was bordered by high houses, with curious gables; the floors projecting one beyond the other, and little terraces and balconies and excrescences of all sorts, carved and painted in gay colours, and cranes and beams, with blocks and ropes hanging from their ends. On the other side appeared a forest of masts, yards, and rigging, rising out of vessels of all shapes and sizes, in apparently such inextricable confusion that it seemed impossible they should ever get free of each other, and float independently on the ocean. On the opposite side was an old castle with four towers, looking very glum and gloomy; and more vessels and boats below it, leaving the centre of the river tolerably clear for other craft to pass up and down. The sailor rolled along with an independent air, not looking to see whether those he had offered to guide were following him; now and then, when passing an old shipmate it might be, or other nautical acquaintance, he gave a nod of recognition without taking his hands from his pockets or his pipe from his mouth.

“Who have you got in tow there?” asked one or two.

“Don’t know: they want to see the skipper, Jan Dunck, and I’m piloting them to where his galiot lies.”

“They look remarkably green, but they’ll be done considerably brown before old Dunck lands them,” he said in an under tone, so that the Count and Baron did not hear him. As they were going along the sailor stopped suddenly, and pointed to a black-whiskered man, wearing a tarpaulin hat on his head, with high boots, and a flushing coat.

“There’s the skipper, Jan Dunck, and there’s his craft just off the shore. I’ll tell him what you want, and wish you a good voyage,” said the seaman, who then went up to the skipper.

“If they pay for their passage, and do not complain of the roughness of the sea, or blame me for it, I’ll take them,” said the skipper, eyeing the Count and the Baron as he spoke.

The arrangement was soon concluded.

“But you promised that I should reward the sailor,” observed the Count to his friend.

“I will return him our profuse thanks. Such will be the most simple and economical way of paying the debt,” answered the Baron; and turning to the seaman, he said, politely lifting his hat, “Most brave and gallant mariner, Count Funnibos and Baron Stilkin desire to return you their most profuse thanks for the service you have rendered them, in conducting them this far on their journey, and making known to them this, I doubt not, worthy, stout, and sturdy captain, with whom they are about to commence their voyages over the treacherous ocean.”

“That’s neither here nor there; I was happy to do you a service and you’re welcome to it, only in future don’t make promises which you cannot pay in better coin than that you have treated me with; and so good day, Count Fuddlepate and Baron Stickum, or whatever you call yourselves,” answered the sailor; who, sticking his pipe in his mouth, which he had taken out to make this long speech, and putting his hands in his pocket, rolled back to where he had left his companions, to whom he failed not to recount the liberal treatment he had received in the way of compliment from the two exalted individuals he had introduced to Captain Jan Dunck.

Chapter Two.

“Well, Mynheers, the sooner we get on board the galiot the better,” said Captain Jan Dunck, addressing the Count and Baron. “She’s a fine craft—a finer never floated on the Zuyder Zee; she carries a wonderful amount of cargo; her accommodation for passengers is excellent; her cabin is quite a palace, a fit habitation for a king. She’s well found with a magnificent crew of sturdy fellows, and as to her captain, I flatter myself—though it is I who say it—that you will not find his equal afloat; yes, Mynheers, I say so without vanity. I’ve sailed, man and boy, for forty years or more on the stormy ocean, and never yet found my equal. I will convey you and your luggage and all other belongings to Amsterdam with speed and safety, always providing the winds are favourable, and we do not happen to stick on a mud-bank to be left high and dry till the next spring-tide, or that a storm does not arise and send us to the bottom, the fate which has overtaken many a stout craft, but which by my skill and knowledge I hope to avoid. However, I now invite you to come on board the Golden Hog, that we may be ready to weigh anchor directly the tide turns, and proceed on our voyage. There lies the craft on board which you are to have the happiness of sailing;” and Captain Jan Dunck, as he spoke, pointed to a galiot of no over large proportions which lay a short distance from the wharf, with her sails loosed ready for sea.

“Well, we are fortunate in finding so experienced a navigator,” observed the Count to the Baron, as they followed Captain Jan Dunck towards the steps at the bottom of which lay his boat. “He’ll carry us as safely round the world as would have done the brave Captains Schouten and Le Maire, or Christofero Columbo himself.”

“If we take him at his own estimation he is undoubtedly a first-rate navigator; but you must remember, my dear Count, that it is not always safe to judge of men by the report they give of themselves; we shall know more about them at the termination of our voyage than we do at present,” observed the Baron. “However, there is the boat, and he is making signs to us to follow him.”

The Count and Baron accordingly descended the steps into the galiot’s boat, in the stern of which sat the Captain, his weight lifting the bows up considerably out of the water. A sailor in a woollen shirt who had lost one eye, and squinted with the other, and a nose, the ruddy tip of which seemed anxious to be well acquainted with his chin, sat in the bows with a pair of sculls in his hand ready to shove off at his captain’s command.

“Give way,” said the skipper, and the one-eyed seaman began to paddle slowly and deliberately, for the boat was heavily weighted with the skipper and the Count and Baron in the stern, and as there was no necessity for haste, greater speed would have been superfluous.

“Is this the way boats always move over the water?” asked the Count, as he observed the curious manner in which the bow cocked up.

“Not unless they have great men in the stern, as my boat has at present,” answered the skipper.

“Ah, yes, I understand,” said the Count, looking very wise.

The boat was soon alongside the galiot, on board which the skipper stepped. As soon as he was out of her the bow of the boat came down with a flop in the water. He then stood ready to receive the Count and Baron. As he helped them up on deck, he congratulated them on having thus successfully performed the first part of their voyage. “And now, Mynheers,” he continued, “I must beg you to admire the masts and rigging, the yellow tint of the sails, the bright polish you can see around you.”

“You must have expended a large amount of paint and varnish in thus adorning your vessel,” observed the Count.

“I have done my best to make her worthy of her Captain,” answered the skipper, in a complacent tone, “and worthy, I may add, of conveying such distinguished passengers as yourselves.”

The Count bowed, and the Baron bowed, as they prepared to follow the skipper down through a small square hole in the deck with a hatch over it.

“Why, this is not as grand as I had expected,” observed the Count. “Not quite a palace, as you described it, Captain.”

“But it is as comfortable as a palace, and I find it far more so in a heavy sea,” observed the skipper. “For you must understand that if the vessel gives a sudden lurch, it is a great blessing not to be sent fifty feet away to leeward, which you would be if you were in the room of a palace. See what comfort we have got here—everything within reach. A man has only to rise from his chair and tumble into bed, or tumble out of bed, and sit down in his chair to breakfast. Then, when he dresses he has only to stretch out his hand to take hold of the things hanging up against the bulkhead.”

While the skipper was pointing out to his passengers the super-excellence of the accommodation his vessel afforded, a female voice was heard exclaiming, in shrill tones—

“I must see him, I must see my master, the Count! He has bolted, decamped, run off without so much as saying why he was going, or where he was going, or leaving me those full and ample directions which I had a right to expect.”

“Hark!” exclaimed the Count, turning pale. “That must be Johanna Klack; if she once sees me, she’ll take me back, to a certainty. Oh dear me, what shall I do?”

“I know what I will do,” cried the Baron, beginning to ascend the companion-ladder. “Captain Jan Dunck, keep the Count down here below; don’t let him show himself on any account. I will settle the matter. This female, this termagant, will carry off one of your passengers, and, as an honest man, you are bound to protect him.”

“Ja, ja,” said the Captain; “slip into one of those bunks and you will be perfectly safe, and if she manages to get down below, my name isn’t Jan Dunck.” Saying this, the skipper followed the Baron up on deck, and, clapping on the hatch, securely bolted it.

The Baron had grasped a boathook, the skipper seized a broomstick, and in a loud voice shouted to his crew, “Boarders! repel boarders!” In a boat alongside stood a female, her countenance flushed and irate, showing by her actions her intention of climbing up the vessel’s side. The crew obeyed their commander’s call, and from the fore hatchway appeared the small ship’s boy, holding a kettle of boiling water in his hand, while the rest had armed themselves with various weapons.

“Who are you, and what do you want?” asked Captain Jan Dunck, in a loud voice.

“I am that most ill-used person, Johanna Klack, the housekeeper, once honoured, respected, and trusted, of the noble Count Funnibos, who has been inveigled away with treachery and guile by that false friend of his, the Baron Stilkin. I’ve proof positive of the fact, for as I hurried along searching for the truants I met a brave mariner, who told me that he had not only spoken with them, but had seen them go on board this very vessel, and that, if I did not make haste, I should be too late to catch them. There’s the Baron; I know him well, and I am very sure that my master is not far off. I must have him, I will have him back!” and, making a spring, she endeavoured to mount the side of the vessel.

“Will you?” exclaimed the skipper, bestowing a rap on her knuckles which made the poor woman let go her hold of the rigging.

“Give it her,” cried the Baron, lunging at her with his boathook, at which the small ship’s boy rushed forward with the steaming kettle in his hand.

The unfortunate Johanna Klack, alarmed at what might be the consequences, sprang back to the other side of the boat, and, losing her balance, overboard she went, amid the jeers of the hard-hearted skipper and crew of the galiot Golden Hog. The hapless Vrouw, as she descended into the far from limpid water, screamed loudly for help, the waterman who had brought her off being too much astonished at first to render it.

“Shove off,” cried the skipper, “and hook the woman out of the water, but do not bring her alongside this vessel again, if you value your skull.”

The man obeyed, and, stretching out his boathook, got hold of the Vrouw’s garments and hauled her on board. The moment she had recovered her breath she insisted on being taken back to the galiot; but the old boatman was suddenly seized with a fit of deafness, and wisely pulled away in an opposite direction.

“Take me back! take me back!” cried Johanna Klack.

“I am rowing as hard as I can,” answered the boatman.

“Take me back to the vessel, on board which my honoured master is a prisoner,” shouted Johanna Klack.

“We shall soon be at the shore; you can then run home and change your wet garments,” answered the old boatman.

“I tell you I want to go back to that vessel,” cried the housekeeper, getting more and more angry and excited.

“Ja, ja, Vrouw; ja, ja, I will land you presently.”

All this time the boatman was observing the threatening gestures of Captain Jan Dunck and Baron Stilkin. At last he disappeared with his fare behind a crowd of vessels.

“Now, Captain,” said the Baron, “the sooner we put to sea the better, for I know Johanna Klack well enough to be certain that, if she does not come herself, she will send a posse comitatus, or a party of constables, or some other myrmidons of the law to arrest us under some false accusation or other, and we shall be carried on shore ignominiously as prisoners, and your voyage will be delayed.”

“Ja, ja, I understand all about that,” answered Captain Jan Dunck. “You boy, with the kettle of boiling water, go and carry it below, and help to get the galiot under weigh. Mate, turn the hands up and make sail.”

The crew consisted of the mate, the one-eyed mariner, and the small ship’s boy. The mate and the one-eyed mariner were on deck; they had only to turn up the small ship’s boy, who quickly made his appearance on being summoned, and they set to work to turn round the windlass, which soon won the anchor from its oozy bed. The sails were set, and as a light breeze had just then sprung up, the galiot began to move slowly down the canal towards the open ocean, which was yet, however, a good way off. As the breeze freshened the galiot moved faster and faster, and soon the town, with its church steeples and old towers and its crowd of shipping, was left behind.

“I think we might venture to let the Count up on deck,” observed the Baron. “He must be pretty well stifled by this time down in the hot cabin.”

“Ja, ja,” answered Captain Dunck; “let him up. No fear of the Vrouw Klack coming after him now; if she does, we shall see her at a distance, and make preparations for her reception.”

“But if she comes with a posse comitatus” asked the Baron; “what shall we do then?”

“Send the posse comitatus about their business,” answered Captain Dunck, flourishing a handspike. “I am skipper of this vessel, and no one shall step on board without my leave, or if they do I will trundle them overboard without their leave. Oh, oh, oh; let them just come and try it.”

On receiving this assurance from Captain Jan Dunck, the Baron, withdrawing the hatch, called to the Count to come on deck, and enjoy the fresh air and the beauty of the scenery. As no answer was returned, the Baron, beginning to feel alarmed, fearing that his friend had been truly suffocated, descended into the cabin. A loud snore assured him that the Count was fast asleep, forgetful of his castle, forgetful of the Vrouw Klack, forgetful where he was, and of all other sublunary matters.

“Count Funnibos, come and see the beautiful scenery,” shouted the Baron. Whereon, the Count starting up, hit his head such a blow against the woodwork close above, that he fell back almost stunned. He, however, soon recovered, and in a low voice asked the Baron what had happened.

“The last thing that has happened is that you gave your head a tremendous thwack,” said the Baron; “but my object is to invite you on deck to enjoy the beautiful scenery we are passing through, before we put out into the open ocean, when we shall see no more green fields.”

Thus summoned, the Count, getting out of the bunk, accompanied the Baron on deck. Then taking out his note-book he wrote: “Green fields, green trees, windmills pretty numerous, cows white and black still more so, sky and sea as usual, with here and there a vessel or other craft on the calm surface of the latter.”

“I see nothing more to describe,” he said, as he closed the book and returned it to his pocket.

Still the galiot glided on.

“It strikes me that there is some monotony in this kind of scenery,” observed the Count to the Baron; “but it’s pleasing, charming, and soothing to one’s troubled soul.”

At last the wind dropped, and the galiot lay becalmed.

“What are we going to do now?” asked the Count, finding that the vessel no longer moved through the water.

“Drop our anchor and wait till the ebb makes again, unless we wish to be driven up by the flood all the way we have come,” observed the skipper.

“What, and run the risk of meeting Johanna Klack!” exclaimed the Count, in a voice of alarm. “By all means do come to an anchor, my dear Captain.”

“That’s what I intend to do,” he answered; and he ordered the anchor to be let go.

Other vessels were in the same condition as themselves, so they had no reason to complain. The scenery was not particularly enlivening, though there were a few trees on the shore; but they were generally stunted in their growth, and bent by the winds. Here and there a small boat appeared, the occupants being engaged either in fishing, or in rowing across the river. One or two people were enjoying the luxury of bathing, and a man came down to fill a jar with salt water, probably to bathe the limbs of one of his children.

“How long are we likely to remain here, Captain Jan Dunck?” inquired the Count.

“As I said before, and say it again, till the tide turns or the breeze springs up,” answered the skipper. “What a hurry you appear to be in. The mariners in these seas have to learn patience—a valuable quality under all circumstances. If we grumbled every time we had a calm, or a foul wind, or stuck on a mud-bank, we should never cease grumbling.”

“Suppose, Captain, as we have nothing else to do, you or one of your crew would be good enough to spin us a yarn,” said the Count.

“One-eyed Pieter will spin you a yarn which will last into the middle of next week,” said the skipper.

“Then I think that he had better not begin,” observed the Count; “for I hope before that time we shall be indulging in fresh milk and eggs on shore.”

“You do, do you, noble sir?” said the one-eyed mariner, winking at the mate, or rather intending to do so, for he winked in an opposite direction, as was his custom, though he was unconscious of it. “We’re not out of the Scheldt yet, and if we don’t get a fair wind, it will be a pretty long time before we reach the Texel and get into the Zuyder Zee.”

“Ja, ja; one-eyed Pieter speaks but the truth. You must be prepared, when navigating the changeful ocean, to meet with foul winds as well as fair ones,” said the Captain. “Remember that I undertook only to convey you to your destination wind and weather permitting. No skipper ever takes passengers on any other terms.”

“I am prepared for whatever Fate wills,” said the Count, folding his hands.

“And so am I,” said the Baron. “And now I propose, as it is getting late, and I feel sleepiness stealing over my eyelids, that we turn into our bunks and resign ourselves to the keeping of the drowsy god.”

“I don’t know what you mean by talking of the drowsy god,” said the skipper. “As far as I can make out, you intend to take a snooze; that’s the best thing you can do.”

The Count and the Baron accordingly turned into their berths (not knocking their heads more than half-a-dozen times as they did so), and were very soon snoring away in concert. So ended the first day of their voyages and travels.

Chapter Three.

“A fair wind, Mynheers! a fair wind!” shouted Captain Jan Dunck down the cabin skylight. “Rouse up, rouse up; come on deck and see how the Golden Hog is walking along.”

“Walking along, what does he mean? do ships walk?” asked the Count, as, having turned out of his bunk and rubbed his eyes and yawned and stretched himself, he was beginning to dress.

“I suppose it is a nautical expression describing the rapid way a ship moves through the water,” observed the Baron. “But we will inquire of the worthy skipper when we get on deck.”

“Yes, and I will enter the expression in my note-book,” observed the Count.

The travellers were soon on deck. The galiot was gliding rapidly though smoothly through the somewhat yellow waters of the Scheldt. Land could be seen on both sides, but at a considerable distance, for it was here very broad, with villages, towers, curiously-formed landmarks, and here and there a few trees scattered about, just rising above the surface.

“We shall soon come off Vlissingen on our right, which the English call Flushing. It is the last place where, should you be tired of voyaging, I can land you,” said the skipper. “You must make up your mind therefore at once, as I shall not touch at another till we come off Brill, at the mouth of the Maas.”

“No, no; the Count and I are determined to continue our voyage,” answered the Baron; who, having discovered that Captain Jan Dunck had a store of good things on board, had no intention of leaving the vessel, and therefore did his best to dissuade his friend from setting foot on shore even when the galiot dropped her anchor off one of the quays of Flushing. Not far off was a landing-place, and people were hurrying up and down, and some even came off and endeavoured to persuade the travellers to come on shore and take up their abode at one of the hotels, where they were assured every comfort and luxury could be obtained at the most moderate prices. The Baron, however, declined for himself and his friend, being somewhat suspicious that, should they leave the galiot, Captain Jan Dunck might become oblivious of their existence and sail without them. In a short time the skipper himself returned, bringing off a quarter of mutton, a round of beef, several baskets of vegetables, half-a-dozen round, cannon-ball-like cheeses of ruddy complexion, bread, and other articles capable of supplying the wants of the inner man. The Baron’s eyes glistened, and the Count gazed with satisfaction at the supply of food handed up on deck.

“Why, Captain, you seemed anxious just now to induce us to quit your vessel, and now you bring this magnificent supply of good things,” said the Baron, patting his back.

“I was anxious to be rid of you,” answered the skipper, frankly. “Judging by the appetite you exhibited at breakfast this morning, you would have very soon eaten up all the provisions intended for the voyage; and one of two things I had to do—either to get rid of you and your companion, or to obtain sufficient food for your nourishment. I tried the first without success—go you would not, and I have now therefore been compelled to adopt the other alternative; hence this stock of provisions. Ja, ja, you understand. But here comes the breeze, we must not lose it. Up anchor, Pieter!”

Pieter, the mate, and small ship’s boy, went to the windlass, while the skipper stood at the helm. The galiot was soon got under weigh, and off she glided, not very fast at first, with her head towards the North Sea.

In a short time Flushing, with the masts and yards of its shipping, was lost to sight, and the galiot began ploughing the waters of the North Sea. Fortunately, the wind being off the land, it was tolerably smooth, and she glided on without inconveniencing her passengers.

“What is out there?” asked the Count, pointing across the apparently boundless waters towards the west.

“Thereabouts lies that little island I spoke of inhabited by the English people,” answered the skipper. “I hope they may keep to their island, and not come bothering us as they used to do in days of yore. All we want now is to be let alone, and to be allowed to carry on our commercial affairs like peaceable and well-disposed people—to build our dykes and to cultivate the soil. Think what we have done! We have won half of our country from the sea, and have converted the other half, once no better than a marsh, into dry land. Look at our magnificent towns, our canals, our green fields, our gardens and orchards, and just think what our industry has accomplished. A Dutchman has a right to be proud of his country, and so we are, and intend to defend it, as we always have done, to the last drop of our blood.”

The skipper, who grew enthusiastic, was standing at the helm, and he puffed away at his pipe till from the clouds of smoke that ascended the galiot might have been taken at a distance for a steamer.

“Holland is but a small country, though,” observed the Count.

“Yes, granted; but it has a large soul. Every inch of its soil is cultivated, or made to produce something. Think of the countless herds of cattle it feeds, and the mountains of cheeses shipped every year to all parts of the world, its ingenious toys, its gorgeous tulips, and the oceans of schiedam it supplies to thirsty souls, not to speak of its many other manufactures, which you will have the opportunity of inspecting during your travels. Other people inhabit fertile countries which they found ready prepared for them, we Hollanders have formed ours; we have won it after a fierce battle of long years from the greedy ocean, which is always endeavouring to regain the ground it has lost, but we keep the ocean in check with our wonderful dykes, and make it subservient to our requirements. You showed your wisdom, Mynheers, in determining to visit it before proceeding to other parts of the world. In my opinion, you’ll not wish to go further; it contains amply sufficient to satisfy the desire of your hearts. Ja, ja.”

Captain Jan Dunck emitted a vast column of smoke, and was silent for some minutes. He then had to take a pull at the main-sheet, for the wind was heading the galiot; he took another and another, and his countenance wore a less satisfactory aspect than it had done lately. The galiot began to pitch, for the seas were getting up, while she heeled over as much as galiots ever do, they being sturdy craft, loving upright ways and sailing best before the wind. If the skipper looked dissatisfied, his passengers were evidently much more so; their visages grew longer and longer, their eyes assumed a fleshy hue, their lips curled, and it needed no experienced physiognomist to pronounce them unhappy; conversation ceased, they spoke only in ejaculations such as “Oh! oh! oh! Oh dear! oh dear! oh dear!”

At last the Baron managed to say, “Ca–a–a–p–tain, i–i–i–i–sn’t there a harbour into which we can put till this storm is over?”

“Storm, do you call it,” laughed the skipper. “It is only a head wind, and we shall have to stand out to the eastward into the North Sea for a few leagues or so, till we can fetch the Texel.”

“Oh dear! oh dear! into the North Sea, did you say?” cried the Count. “How dreadful!”

“Horrible!” exclaimed the Baron.

“Detestable!” cried the Count.

“Well, Mynheers, to please you, remember, seeing that the galiot is likely to make as much leeway as she does headway, we will put into Brill, a town just now on our starboard hand, a short distance up the Maas. Hands about ship!”

The mate, the one-eyed mariner, and the small ship’s boy started up at their Captain’s call. The helm was put down, the jib-sheet let fly, and the galiot, after exhibiting some doubt as to whether she would do as was wished, came slowly round, her head pointing to the eastward.

“Why, what has become of the wind?” asked the Count, his visage brightening.

“The sea is much more quiet than it was, because we have just got under the land. See that bank away to windward, that keeps it off us. We shall soon be running up the Maas.”

In a few minutes the water became perfectly smooth, the Count and Baron recovered their spirits, and in a short time they arrived off a seaport town on the right bank of the Maas.

“There’s nothing very grand to boast of,” observed the Count, as he surveyed it through his binoculars.

“It has a history, notwithstanding,” observed the skipper. “It was here the first successful blow was struck for liberty, by those daring fellows ‘The Beggars of the Sea,’ under their gallant leader De la Marck. It is a town of pilots and fishermen, and as brave sailors as ever explored the ocean. Here, also, were born our gallant admirals Van Tromp and De Witt, and its harbour is as fine a one as any along the coast. Say what you like, Mynheers, Brill has as good a right to be proud of itself as many a place with greater pretensions. Do you feel disposed to go on shore and survey its advantages?”

“Thank you,” said the Baron, “taking all things into consideration, we will remain where we are; dinner will soon be ready, I think; our appetites are wonderfully sharpened by the sea air, and, remembering the store of provender you brought on board, it would be a bad compliment to you not to stay and help you consume it.”

“Ja, ja,” said the skipper, “do as you please, I am happy to have your company.”

The Baron, at all events, did ample justice to the skipper’s dinner, and all three spent the remainder of the day on deck, puffing away with their long pipes in their mouths, till it was difficult to say whether they or the galley fire forward sent forth the thickest wreaths. Notwithstanding this, the Baron declared that he was perfectly ready for supper at the usual hour, after which the two passengers turned into their berths and went to sleep. They were awakened by finding the vessel once more pitching and tumbling about, and, thinking that something was about to happen, they crawled up on deck.

“What’s the matter, Captain,” exclaimed the Count, in an agitated voice; “is there any danger?”

“No, but there’s no small amount of fear among some of us,” answered the skipper in a gruff voice. “We have got a fair wind, and are once more at sea.”

“What is that bright spot up there,” asked the Count, pointing to a light which streamed forth on the right hand.

“That, why that’s the Maas Lighthouse,” answered the skipper. “It marks the entrance to the river, and we shall soon round it, and be in the open sea. You’ll then have the satisfaction of once more bounding over the heaving wave.”

“From previous experience I must own that I would rather escape that satisfaction,” observed the Count, making a long face. “Couldn’t we manage to make our way through some of the numerous canals which I have heard intersect Holland in all directions?”

“We should have been a week or two, or even a month about it, if we had made the attempt,” answered the skipper. “We cannot tack in the canals as we can in the open sea. Now we can stretch away from the land as far as we like and then go about again, till we can head up again for the Helder.”

“Oh dear, oh dear, I suppose we must submit to our fate,” groaned the Count. “Baron, you have much to answer for, dragging me away from my castle and home comforts and the watchful care of that estimable person Johanna Klack.”

“Why, you were in a great hurry to escape from her not long ago,” answered the Baron, “and now you find fault with me because the sea happens to be a little rough.”

“When I wanted to escape from Johanna Klack we were in smooth water, and I would rather endure the clatter of her tongue than the roaring waves and the howling of the winds.”

“It is too late to complain now, Count; regrets are vain things at the best,” said the Baron. “Let us be content with the present; see, we’re getting close to the lighthouse.”

“So we are, I can distinguish it clearly,” said the Count. “And, hilloa, look up there at those gnats or moths, or what are they, fluttering about the light?”

“Ha, ha, ha! moths or gnats,” laughed the skipper; “why those are birds, sea-birds and land birds of all descriptions, who come there for the charitable purpose of being turned into pies and puddings and stews by the light-keepers. All the keepers have to do is to go out and catch them by their legs as they alight on the rails and wring their necks. Our friends up there need have no fear of starving; when the wind blows from the land they get land birds, and when from the ocean sea-birds, and as they are nowise particular—not objecting to the fishy flavour of the wild fowl—their pots and kettles are sure to be well supplied.”

“Under those circumstances I should not object to be a light-keeper,” observed the Baron. “The household expenses must be small, as they have no butcher’s bills to pay or taxes either.”

“It is a somewhat solitary life,” said the skipper. “Each man to his taste, I prefer sailing over the free ocean, with my stout galiot under my feet and plenty of sea room.”

“Couldn’t we stop and get some of the birds?” asked the Baron, who from habit was constantly thinking of the best way to supply his larder. “They would be a welcome addition to our sea-stock of provisions.”

“The lighthouse-men would consider that we were poaching on their preserves,” said the skipper; “besides which, if we were to go nearer than we now are, we should run the galiot ashore. See, we are already leaving the lighthouse astern, and are now clear of the river.”

“So I perceive,” groaned the Count, as the vessel had heeled over and began to pitch and tumble.

“Never fear, Count,” said the skipper, in an encouraging tone; “we shall soon be going free, and the galiot will then only roll pleasantly from side to side, and assist to rock you to sleep when you turn in your bunk.”

“I’d rather not be rocked to sleep in that fashion,” said the Count. “Ever since I was a baby I have been able to sleep perfectly well in my bed or arm-chair after dinner without being rocked. Couldn’t you manage to keep the galiot quiet, just to please me?”

“I could not keep her quiet to please the King of the Netherlands, or the Burgomaster of Amsterdam or Rotterdam; no, not if you paid ten times the sum you have for your passage-money,” answered the skipper, in a gruff tone.

“Then I suppose that I must submit to my hard fate,” groaned the Count. “Though I do wish—I cannot help wishing—that I had not come to sea; and I here register the firm resolution I now form, that of my own free will I will never—when once I set foot on shore—venture again on the stormy ocean.”

“Then I must observe, my dear Count, that we shall never manage to get round the world, as you led me to suppose, when we started on our travels, it was your desire to do,” observed the Baron.

“Yes, but I did not take into consideration that we should have to encounter so rough, ill-mannered, and boisterous a sea, and such howling winds,” answered the Count. “I had bargained to find the water as smooth as the Scheldt, and I still should have no hesitation about going round the world, providing you can guarantee that the ocean will keep perfectly quiet till we come back again.”

“As to that, I will guarantee that as far as my influence extends it shall remain as calm as a mill-pond,” said the Baron, in a confident tone. “Will that satisfy you, Count? If so, notwithstanding your unjust complaints, we will continue our travels.”

“Perfectly, perfectly,” said the Count. “I always take your word for what it is worth.”

“Ho! ho!” laughed the skipper, who overheard the conversation. “Look out there, Pieter. Are you keeping your weather eye open?” he shouted to the one-eyed mariner who was forward.

“Ja, ja, Captain; there’s a fleet of fishing boats ahead, we must keep to the eastward of them. Port the helm a little.”

Presently the Count and the Baron heard the tinkling of bells, and as they looked over the side of the vessel the Count exclaimed, “What are those Will-o’-the-Wisps dancing away there?”

“Ho! ho! ho!” laughed the skipper. “Those are the lights from fishing boats. We shall see them more clearly presently.”

As the galiot sailed on, the Count and Baron observed that the lights proceeded from lanterns hung up in the rigging, and that some vessels had huge beams with black nets attached to them which they had just hoisted up out of the water, and that the crews were turning out the fish caught in the pockets of the nets. Others, under easy sail, were gliding on slowly with stout ropes towing astern.

“They are trawlers catching turbot, brill, plaice, and other flat fish,” observed the skipper. “Our country has numberless advantages; we make as much use of the sea as many other nations do of the land, though, as I before said, we are carrying on a constant warfare with it, trying to turn it away from its ancient boundaries, and doing our best to keep it from encroaching on the soil we have once gained. Holland would never have become what she is, unless Dutchmen had been imbued with a large quantity of those valuable qualities, patience and perseverance.”

“Ah, you Dutchmen are indeed a wonderful people,” exclaimed the Count. “I am very glad that we thought of visiting your country before proceeding to other parts of the world. At the same time, if we had gone by land we should certainly have seen more of it than we are likely to do now.”

“Wait till daylight,” said the skipper, “and then you shall see what you shall see. I would advise you to go below and obtain some sleep, as at present, I will allow, the landscape is somewhat limited.”

“You are right; the chief objects we can distinguish are the tip of your nose and Pieter’s one eye, which I see blinking away when the light of the binnacle lamp falls on it,” observed the Baron. “We will follow your advice,” and he descended the companion-ladder.

The Count also commenced his descent into the cabin, but just before his head disappeared, he said: “You will oblige me greatly, Captain, by keeping the vessel as steady as you can; I find it very inconvenient to be tumbled and tossed about in the way we have been since we left the Maas.”

“Ja, ja,” answered the skipper, with a broad grin on his countenance, which, being dark, the Count did not observe.

Chapter Four.

“Come on deck, Mynheers! come on deck!” cried the skipper, calling down the skylight. “The sun will soon rise, you can enjoy a sight of the land.”

The Count and the Baron were soon dressed, and made their appearance on deck.

“There’s the land, Mynheers, and you will soon see the sun rising from behind it,” said the skipper, pointing with no little pride in his countenance to a long unbroken line of shore rising not many feet above the level of the ocean, with here and there a windmill towering above it; its arms just beginning to revolve as the morning breezes filled its sails. “There is Holland; look and admire.”

While he was speaking, the sun, throwing a ruddy light on the dancing waves, rose behind the long line of coast and its countless windmills. The wind was fair, and the vessel was still steering northward.

“How soon are we likely to get into the Zuyder Zee?” asked the Count.

“That depends on the continuance of the breeze,” answered the skipper. “If it blows fair for a few hours more, we shall be up to the Helder before noon; but if it shifts ahead, or a calm comes on, I shall have the pleasure of your company for some time longer.”

“With due respect to you, Captain Jan Dunck, I sincerely hope that the breeze will continue fair,” said the Count, making a polite bow, as he had no wish to offend the skipper, but felt constrained to speak the truth. “It is not of you or your galiot that I’m tired, but of this fidgetty sea which rolls and tumbles her about so thoughtlessly, to say the best of it.”

“But are you aware, Count,” said the skipper, “that the Zuyder Zee can roll and tumble in no gentle fashion? For your sakes it is to be hoped that we shall not have a storm till you land safely in Amsterdam.”

“Then I sincerely pray that the winds may be in a gentle mood,” said the Count.

“And in the meantime, Captain Jan Dunck, I propose that we go down to breakfast,” said the Baron, who had showed signs of impatience for some time past.

The Count and the Baron and the skipper sat down to breakfast. The two latter did ample justice to the good things placed before them; but the Count, after several heroic attempts to swallow a big sausage, had to confess that his appetite had vanished, and that he thought that the fresh air on deck would restore it. He there found the one-eyed mariner steering.

“Oh tell me, brave sailor, when are we likely to get to the Helder?” he asked in a tone which showed that he was but ill at ease.

“If you open your eyes wide enough, you will see it right ahead,” answered the one-eyed mariner. “That point of land out there, that’s the Helder; we shall sail close to it, if the wind holds fair, and the tide does not sweep us out again. There’s water enough there to float a seventy-four. On the other side is the island of Texel, and a very fine island it is for sheep; many thousands live on it; and if you wish to taste something excellent, I would advise you to obtain one of the green cheeses which are made from the milk of the sheep living on the island.”

“I will tell the Baron, who thinks more of eating than I do,” answered the Count. “But is that actually the Helder I see before me?”

“I told you it was,” answered the one-eyed mariner, in a gruff tone, as if he did not like to have his word doubted.

This was indeed joyful news to the Count, who already began to feel his appetite returning; and he could not resist the temptation of shouting through the skylight to the Baron, inviting him to come up and see the place.

“Sit quiet till you have finished your breakfast, there will be time enough then, and to spare,” observed the skipper, who knew very well that the tide was running out, and that the galiot could not stem it for some time to come.

In half-an-hour after this the galiot began to move ahead, and arrived off a huge sea wall, two hundred feet from the foundation to the summit, and built of Norwegian granite, a work constructed to protect the land from the encroachments of the ocean. Beyond it could be seen the tops of the houses and the steeples of a large town. Sailing on, the galiot came off the town of Nieuwe Diep, and the tall masts and yards of a number of large ships could be distinguished in the Royal Dockyard inside the bank.

“We Dutchmen are proud of this place,” observed the skipper. “Two hundred years ago a fierce naval battle was fought off here between the English and French, and our brave Admirals De Ruyter and Van Tromp, who gained the victory.”

After the galiot had passed Nieuwe Diep the wind shifted to the northward, and she ran on rapidly in smooth water till she came off Enkhuisen. Bounding that point she reached Hoorn, off which she brought up.

“The place is worth seeing,” observed the skipper; “and you may spend an hour or two on shore while I transact some business. You will remember that it was once the capital of North Holland, but it is now what some people call a dead city, and you will acknowledge that it is very far from being a lively one; however, it has something to boast of. It was here that Captain Schouten was born—he who sailed with Le Maire and discovered the southern end of America, to which he, in consequence, gave the name of his birthplace. You have heard of Cape Horn, I suppose.”

“Oh, yes; as to that, the Baron knows all about it,” said the Count. “We will follow your advice, Captain, and will be down on the quay again within the time you mention.”

“Well, this is a dead city,” said the Baron, as he and the Count walked through its ancient streets. “Everything about it seems to indicate that if it ever were alive it must have been a long time ago. What curious old houses, how quaint in form; many of them also are decorated with sculpture of all sorts, and, on my word, excessively well executed too.”

“I should be very unwilling to pass many days here,” remarked the Count, as passing along street after street they scarcely met a creature, quadruped or biped. The houses seemed untenanted—not a voice, not a sound was heard; yet they were all clean, in good preservation, and well painted, mostly of a yellow colour with red roofs, many of them with gable ends, one story being smaller than the other, so that towards the summit they presented an outline of steps. There were also numerous gateways, some handsomely carved, but they led nowhere, and indeed no one was seen to go in or out at them.

“I cannot stand this,” said the Count. “Let us go back to the port.” Here a certain amount of trade was going on. Hoorn is engaged largely in the curing of herrings; some vessels also were building, and it was evident from the number of cheeses stacked up ready for exportation that it must carry on a considerable commerce in that article. Floors above floors were piled with round red cannon-balls, emitting an odour powerful if not pleasant.

“After all, Hoorn is not so dead as I supposed,” observed the Baron.

Finding the skipper they embarked.

“You intend, I hope, to land us at Amsterdam to-night,” said the Count to the skipper.

“Don’t think there’s the slightest chance of it,” was the answer. “The wind has fallen, it will be stark calm in a few minutes; for what I can see it will be a calm all the night through and to-morrow also.”

“Then I propose that we go to dinner,” said the Baron. “I hope that it will be ready soon.”

“Dinner is it you want?” exclaimed the skipper. “What, did you not dine at Hoorn?”

“Certainly not,” said the Baron. “We were employed in seeing the town. We fully expected that you would have had dinner ready on our return on board. What has become of all the provisions you shipped, may I ask?”

“I landed them at Hoorn, where I took my own dinner,” answered the skipper. “You must manage to rough it on bread and cheese. There’s not much bread, but you may eat as much cheese as you like.”

“This is abominable treatment, Captain Jan Dunck,” exclaimed the Baron. “I insist that you obtain provisions at the first place you can reach, or else that you land us where we can obtain them. I am sure the Count agrees with me.”

“Ho, ho, ho!” laughed the skipper. “Who do you think is master of this ship? Did you ever hear the old song?

“Mynheer Jan Dunck,

Though he never got drunk,

Sipped brandy and water gaily;

He quenched his thirst

With a quart of the first,

And a pint of the latter daily.

“That’s just what I have been doing, although I’m as sober as a judge. I am ready for anything. You want to be landed, do you? Suppose I put you on shore on the island of Marken? It is not far off, and my boat will carry you there. What then will you say for yourselves? It is your own doing, remember.”

“This treatment is abominable,” exclaimed the Baron. “I appeal to your crew for their assistance, and ask them if they will stand by and see your passengers insulted in this fashion.”

“Ho, ho, ho!” laughed the skipper. “Hoist the boat out. We will soon see if my crew dare to disobey me. Pieter, there, be smart about it.”

The one-eyed mariner started up and eyed the Count and the Baron with his single blinker, making a grimace as much as to say he could not help it. He and the mate and the small ship’s boy soon got the boat into the water.

“Step in,” cried the skipper. “You said you wanted to be put on shore, and I am going to put you on shore. Pieter, you’re to row. If you want your dinners you’ll embark, if not you’ll go without them.”

“And are you going too, Captain Jan Dunck?” asked the Baron.

“Certainly, it is my intention,” answered the skipper, and the Count and the Baron, with their valises, got into the boat.

“Look after the vessel,” shouted the skipper to the mate and small ship’s boy, as he stepped into the boat and seated himself in the stern sheets, with the Count on one side and the Baron on the other and Pieter pulling. As there was not a breath of wind the water was perfectly smooth. The Baron’s hunger increased, the Count also had regained his appetite, and they were eager to reach the shore in the hopes of getting a dinner. The skipper said nothing, but looked very glum. At last the island appeared ahead, with a few huts on it and a tiny church in the midst, but it was green and pleasant to look at.

“That does not look like a place where we can get dinner,” observed the Baron, eyeing it doubtfully.

“And he does not intend to give you any dinner either,” whispered the one-eyed mariner, whose good-will the Count and Baron had evidently won. “Take my advice, tell him to go up and obtain provisions, and say that you will eat them on board.”

“What’s that your talking about?” exclaimed the skipper. “Silence there, forward!”

The one-eyed mariner rowed slower and slower, and managed to carry on the conversation alternately with the Count and the Baron. Suddenly the skipper, who had been partly dozing, though he had managed to steer the boat, aroused himself. “Pull faster, Pieter,” he shouted out: “I have heard what you have been talking about, and will pay you off.”

“I was merely giving the gentlemen good advice, Captain,” answered Pieter. “And there’s one thing I have to say to you; if you can get provisions at Marken, you had better do so in a hurry, for there’s a storm brewing, and it will be upon us before long. The mate and the boy won’t be able to manage the galiot alone, and she to a certainty will be wrecked.”

“A storm brewing, is there?” cried the Captain. “Well, then, the sooner we land at Marken the better. Pull away, Pieter, pull away.”

Pieter did pull, and in a short time the beach was reached. An old fisherman, with a pipe in his mouth and a red cap on his head, came down to see what the strangers wanted, as the Count and Baron stepped on shore.

“Friend,” exclaimed the Baron, “can you tell us where a good dinner is to be obtained in a hurry, for we are famishing.”

“A good dinner can undoubtedly be obtained in Marken,” answered the ancient fisherman with the red nightcap on his head; “but we are not accustomed to do things in a hurry in our island. Poultry have to be caught and their necks wrung, and the sheep have to be slaughtered and skinned and cut up, potatoes have to be dug, and the other vegetables gathered, the bread has to be made; but we have cheese, and you can eat as much of that as you like.”

“Plenty of cheese on board, we do not come on shore to obtain it!” exclaimed the Baron. “Captain Jan Dunck, you have grossly deceived us; you brought us onshore with the expectation of speedily obtaining a good dinner.”

“Ho, ho, ho!” laughed the skipper. “I said nothing of the sort; I undertook to land you, if you no longer wished to remain on board.”

“But you led us to suppose that you intended to go yourself and obtain a fresh supply of provisions at Marken,” said the Baron with emphasis; “and that is what we expected you to do.”

“Then, Baron Stilkin, you are very much mistaken,” answered the skipper. “You left my vessel of your own free will, and you have landed on this island of your own free will. I have fulfilled my engagement; if you want a dinner you must go and find it as best you can. I heard what Pieter was saying to you, and I intend to pay him off. Take up your portmanteaus, unless the old fisherman will carry them for you, and go your way; the storm, as Pieter observed, will be down upon us before long, and I must put off and return to the galiot.”

“I again say that you are treating us shamefully!” exclaimed the Baron. “Pieter, my brave friend, will you stand by us?”

“Ja, ja, that I will,” answered Pieter, who had stepped out of the boat. “If the Captain likes to go off, he may go by himself.”

The discussion had been going on for some time when Pieter said this. Not only had the wind risen, but the rain had begun to fall, and the Count and Baron were preparing to put up their umbrellas.

“It is very fortunate we brought them,” observed the Count. “Baron, your advice was sound when you suggested that we should do so.”

Meantime the skipper had been getting his boat ready; he had stepped the mast, and hoisted the sail.

“Pieter!” he exclaimed, “I want to say something to you.”

“What is it, Captain?” asked the one-eyed mariner, cautiously drawing near.

“Why, this!” cried the skipper. “That you are a treacherous old rascal, and that I intend to pay you off.”

As he spoke he hove a noose at the end of a rope over Pieter’s body, and before the one-eyed mariner was aware of what was going to happen, he was dragged off his feet into the water, while the skipper, hauling aft the main-sheet, sailed away, dragging poor Pieter through the foaming waters astern. In his struggles Pieter had moved the rope up to his neck, and was now in danger of being throttled.

“Stop, stop!” shouted the Count and the Baron in chorus. “Let that man go! What are you about to do with him? You’ll throttle him, or drag off his head, or drown him—you’ll be guilty of murder. We’ll report your conduct to the Burgomaster of Amsterdam, and all the other authorities of Holland. Release him, let him go!”

Captain Jan Dunck, who never looked back towards his victim, disregarding their threats and their cries sailed on, till he and his boat and the hapless Pieter disappeared amid the thick sheets of rain and the driving spray which surrounded them.

Chapter Five.

“Is there no chance for poor Pieter?” asked the Count, looking in the direction Captain Jan Dunck, his boat, and his unfortunate victim had gone.

“None, unless the skipper relents and drags him on board; and then I don’t think it likely that they will be on the best of terms,” answered the Baron.

“Do Dutch skippers generally treat their crews in the way Captain Jan Dunck has treated poor Pieter?” asked the Count of the ancient fisherman.

“It depends very much on the amount of schiedam they have taken aboard,” answered the ancient fisherman. “We of Marken do not behave in that fashion.”

“I am very glad to hear it,” said the Count, “as there seems a probability, till the storm is over, of our having to spend some time with you; if you were to do anything of the sort, we should undoubtedly report your conduct to the Burgomaster of Amsterdam, as we intend to report the conduct of Captain Jan Dunck, when we get there. And now, Baron, since it seems to be all up with the one-eyed mariner, and as at present we can do nothing to punish the perpetrator of the cruel deed, what shall we do with ourselves?”

“I propose that we request this ancient fisherman to conduct us to some hostelry, where we can obtain those creature comforts which we so much need, and wait in quiet and security till the storm is over. Worthy friend,” he continued, turning to the ancient fisherman, “I beg that you will have the goodness to conduct us to some inn, where we may obtain a dinner and rest after our adventures on the stormy ocean.”

“An inn,” ejaculated the ancient fisherman. “We have no inns in Marken, as few travellers are in the habit of visiting us. If, however, you will accept such hospitality as I can offer, you shall be welcome to it.”

“With all our hearts,” answered the Count and the Baron in chorus, and they followed the ancient fisherman, who led the way into the interior of the island. After passing through several narrow and dirty lanes they emerged into a more open space, where they found themselves surrounded by neat cottages, among which a number of people were moving about.

The men were all dressed as sailors—a brown knitted waistcoat and wide knickerbockers tied at the knees, thick black or blue woollen stockings, and wooden sabots or shoes, These sabots, the Count and the Baron observed, were taken off when the men entered a hut, so that it could be known how many people were inside by the number of sabots at the door. The women wore brown or chintz waistcoats, and short dark petticoats; many of them had their hair hanging down on either side of the face in long thick curls; their head-dresses were high white caps rounded at the summit and lined with some coloured material.

“Here is my house,” said the ancient fisherman, opening the door of one of the neatest cottages in the place, “and there is my vrouw.”

As he spoke an old lady got up and welcomed the travellers. She wore the dress which has been described, especially clean and picturesque, and in addition several gold ornaments. The cottage contained many marks of thrift; two carved oaken wardrobes stood one on either side, there was a clock of elaborate workmanship, and china plates of a curious pattern. A cheerful fire burned on the hearth, and the ancient fisherman’s wife soon busied herself with her highly-polished pots and pans in preparing a meal, the very odour of which made the Baron’s mouth water. Freshly-caught fish and a stew with potatoes and vegetables were quickly ready, and the Baron did ample justice to each dish placed on the table. The ancient fisherman informed them that the population of the island was about nine hundred; the men are all fishers, and pass the greater portion of their days on the water. On Sunday night, or rather as soon as Monday is commenced, the whole population go down to the port; the men embark in their boats, put to sea, and pass the week in fishing. The women return to their daily avocations till another Saturday afternoon comes round, when the men return home for their day of rest.

“Month after month, and year after year, we live the same style of life; the world wags on around us, but we hear little or nothing of its doings. We are contented and happy in our way, and wouldn’t change our island of Marken for any part of the Netherlands, or the whole of Europe to boot,” said the ancient fisherman.

“I am much inclined to stop among you,” observed the Count. “Only I should not like to have to go out fishing every day, especially in cold and wintry weather; but to sit here, for instance, with one’s feet before the fire, is very pleasant.”

The ancient fisherman laughed. “You must remember, Mynheer, that in order to obtain these comforts, my father and I have toiled on year after year, each adding a little; this cottage and what it contains, represents the labour, I may say, of centuries. Few things worth having are to be obtained without working. I can enjoy my ease and these comforts with a clear conscience, for I have laboured on for fifty years or more, adding to the store my father left me, and he laboured for more than fifty years, and my grandfather before him.”

“What examples you and your family are of patience and perseverance,” observed the Count.

“No, Mynheer, nothing wonderful,” answered the ancient fisherman, in a modest tone. “All the inhabitants of our part of the town have done much the same, and we bring up our children in the hope that they will follow our example. This, Mynheer, is the secret of our contentment and prosperity.”

“Then, when I marry and have children, I must bring them up to follow my example, and the same result will, I hope, follow,” said the Count.

“That depends upon the example you set them,” answered the ancient fisherman.

“Ah, yes; I must see about it, then,” said the Count. “I don’t know that as yet I have ever done anything very industrious. Perhaps, like me, they will become great travellers.”

“Perhaps, my dear Count, the less you say about it the better, at present,” observed the Baron. “We have not proceeded very far on our voyage round the world. In the meantime, I will thank our hostess for another cup of her excellent tea.”

As there seemed no probability of the storm abating, the Count and the Baron accepted the invitation given them by the ancient fisherman and his dame, to spend the night in their cottage. They had no beds to offer, but they had comfortable arm-chairs, pipes, tobacco, and a blazing fire.

“We might be worse off,” observed the Baron, as he extended his legs and folded his arms to sleep.

It being impossible to reach the mainland without a boat, the Baron suggested, that after their experience, it would be safer to have one of their own than to entrust themselves again to strangers, and the Count agreeing, they settled to buy one. The next morning, therefore, after breakfast, having wished their ancient host and hostess farewell, and the Count having slipped a coin into the hand of the latter as a remembrance, they purchased a boat, which the ancient fisherman recommended, and helped them to launch: they then together set forth to prosecute their travels.

Neither of them were very expert navigators, though the ancient fisherman gave them a shove off to assist them in their progress, which was remarkably slow. Sometimes they rowed one way, and sometimes another, and the boat consequently went round and round.

“You pull too hard,” cried the Count.

“You don’t pull hard enough,” answered the Baron. “That is the reason we don’t go as straight as we should.”

“Then perhaps if you take the two oars we shall go straighter,” said the Count.

To this the Baron objected, as he had no desire to undertake all the labour of the voyage. Somehow or other they managed, notwithstanding, to get to a distance from Marken: perhaps the tide was carrying them along in the direction of the Helder; that this was the case, however, did not occur to them. They saw the land clearly enough stretching out to the westward: there lay Monnickendam, there Edam, and, further to the south, Uitdam. “Experience makes perfect:” after some time they did manage to row in a fashion.

“I think we must be approaching the shore,” observed the Count. “It looks nearer than it did.”

“So it ought, since we have been rowing with might and main for the last two hours,” said the Baron, wiping the perspiration from his brow. “I wish that we had waited at Marken till we should have found a passage on board some vessel, or obtained the assistance of one of the islanders; this is heavy work, especially as we have come away without provisions.”

“So we have,” cried the Count. “Oh dear! oh dear! If we ever reach the shore, I shall be very much inclined to register a vow never again to tempt the stormy ocean.”

“Regrets are useless at present; let us get to the shore,” said the Baron.

But they rowed and rowed away in vain. Evening was approaching, and, though they had enjoyed a good breakfast, they were desperately hungry, and there appeared every probability that they would have to spend the night on the water. Fortunately it was calm, or they would have been in a still worse condition. Looking up, they at length saw an island, or a point of land with a tower on it.

“That must be one of the places on the coast,” observed the Count; “let us try to reach it.”

“But if we sit with our backs to the bows, as we have been hitherto doing, we shall not see it,” observed the Baron. “Let us stand up and row forward; then, perhaps, we shall go straighter than we have been doing.”

The Count agreed, and they rowed thus for some time.

Suddenly they were startled by a voice which in mournful accents said: “Oh, take me on board; take me on board!”

So great was the Baron’s alarm that he nearly sank down to the bottom of the boat, when on looking over his shoulder, what should he see but the countenance of the one-eyed mariner, who was endeavouring to haul himself on board.

“Are you yourself, or are you a ghost?” asked the Baron, in trembling accents.

“Can it be? Can it be our former shipmate?” cried the Count.

“I am indeed, most noble gentlemen, that unfortunate and ill-used individual,” answered the one-eyed mariner; for it was he himself, though his countenance was as pale as if he had really been a ghost, and his visage was elongated, the result of the sufferings he had gone through. Satisfied that he was a mortal being like themselves, the Count and the Baron at length assisted him to get into the boat.

“How did you escape?” asked the Baron eagerly.

“By a wonderful circumstance,” answered the one-eyed mariner. “I managed to get my hands free, and slipped my neck out of the noose, just as I was on the point of being strangled. I held on to the boat, however, and allowed myself to be dragged along at the stern. I knew that if I had attempted to get in Captain Jan Dunck would very soon have quieted me by a blow on my crown. At length I saw that we were passing yonder island, and, silently letting go the rope, I swam towards it; while he, unconscious of my escape, sailed on. I there landed, but it is a barren spot, where neither food nor fresh water is to be obtained. I thought that I should have perished; for after the strain on my throat I felt dreadfully thirsty, and capable of drinking up the Zuyder Zee itself, if it had been fresh water mixed with a due allowance of schiedam. At length I observed your boat, noble gentlemen, drifting by; I cannot compliment you by saying you were rowing, for you were going round and round in all directions. I guessed that you were land-lubbers—excuse my frankness—and that I might render you assistance in return for the service you would do me by enabling me to reach the shore. Not till you spoke, however, did I recognise you as my late shipmates, and now Mynheers, the best thing you can do is to let me take the oars and row steadily to the land; for, though hungry and thirsty, I have still some strength left in my battered frame.”

“By all means, worthy mariner, take the oars,” said the Baron, handing his to the sailor, while the Count followed his example. “We are ourselves nearly starving, and will promise you the best supper to be obtained wherever we may land, should we be fortunate enough to reach some hospitable part of the globe.”

The one-eyed mariner took the oars, and bending lustily to them, made the boat move along very much faster than she had done since the Count and the Baron had commenced their voyage.

“I was inclined, when we were rowing, to suppose that she was among the slowest that ever floated, or that there was something the matter with the oars,” observed the Count.

“People are very apt to find fault with the tools they employ, instead of laying the blame on themselves,” remarked the Baron, sententiously.

The one-eyed mariner cocked his one eye, as much as to say, “You are right, gentlemen;” but without speaking he rowed and rowed, now bending forward, now leaning back with all his might, every now and then looking over his shoulder to see that they were going in the right direction. It was getting darker and darker, and no friendly lights beamed forth from cottages or houses to indicate that they were approaching the inhabited part of the country.

“Shall we soon reach the shore,” asked the Baron, with a groan; “I am getting desperately hungry.”

“We shall not get there the sooner by talking about it,” answered the one-eyed mariner, who was beginning to lose his temper as he became more and more fatigued. “If you, Mynheers, had learned to row, you might have relieved me for a short time, till I had recovered my strength; but as we should never get there if I gave you up the oars, I must keep at it; only do not be continually asking me when we shall get there. I tell you we shall get there, wherever that may be, some time or other, if I keep rowing long enough.”

After this remark, the Count and the Baron thought it prudent to say nothing more to the one-eyed mariner. He rowed and he rowed. The land became more distinct, but no lights indicated the cheerful habitations of men. The Baron groaned, for he saw no prospect of obtaining a supper, yet it was better to be on dry land than in a small boat on the Zuyder Zee, with an individual of so uncertain a temper as the one-eyed mariner. At length they found themselves with banks on either side.

“I thought so,” said the one-eyed mariner, “we have reached the neighbourhood of Yollendam; this must be the Yoll—a better landfall than I expected. I do not know that provisions are to be obtained at the village, which is a mile or so off; but we will see.” And he rowed up the river, which had a more attractive appearance than might have been expected, for there was a small island covered with trees, and a mound several feet high on the opposite side, on which the eye could rest with pleasure. Before they had gone far the moon burst forth from behind some clouds, and shed along the waters of the stream its silvery light, which showed them a small vessel drawn up on the shore, and two or three people near her.

“Perhaps these persons have provisions on board,” exclaimed the Baron. “I could sup off a dry crust of bread and a piece of Dutch cheese with greatest willingness in the world. We will ask those strangers if they will kindly relieve our necessities. Brave sailor, good Pieter, old and worthy shipmate, have the goodness to pull in for the shore, and we will throw ourselves on the charity of those strangers.”

The one-eyed mariner gave a grunt, as if he valued but little the compliments paid him; but he obeyed, notwithstanding, and the boat soon reached the shore. The Baron and the Count then scrambled out, and made their way to where the crew of the vessel were seated.

“Worthy mariners,” began the Baron, in his usual style; “we are shipwrecked individuals, or rather, I should say, we have just come a long and perilous voyage in yonder small boat, without food or liquid with which to renew our strength, and we are well-nigh starving. We ask you forthwith to supply our necessities.”

“What’s the stout gentleman talking about?” asked one of the sailors of his companion. “I cannot make out what he says.”

“So far as I can understand, he and his friend are hungry, and want some grub,” observed the latter. “Food is it you want?” he continued, turning to the Count and the Baron. “Our vessel there, which we hope to get off at high tide, is laden with cheese, and you shall have one apiece if you like at cost price, with as much biscuit as you can eat and some schnapps into the bargain.”

“By all means, let us go on board at once,” cried the Baron. “I am grateful to you.”

“But we must not forget poor Pieter,” cried the Count. “Here Pieter, Pieter, we have got some food for you.”

Pieter had hauled up the boat, and, moving as fast as he could stagger, he accompanied the Count and the Baron and the crew of the sloop on board. The sailors were as good as their word, and produced a couple of round ruddy cheeses and a basketful of biscuits.

“Let us attack one first,” said the Baron, nearly breaking his knife in the attempt to make an incision in the rind; he succeeded in getting off some slices, and all three fell to. Pieter, who was the most hungry of the party, swallowed one huge lump after another, then held out his cup for a supply of schiedam.

“Never mind the water,” he observed. “This dry biscuit and cheese requires something potent to get it down.”

The Count, who had never tasted schiedam before, though he took his diluted with water, made wry faces at what he considered its nauseous taste, but he said nothing for fear of offending the captain and crew of the sloop. At length he declared that he could eat no more.

“I think I can go on a little longer,” said the Baron, who had attacked the second cheese.

“And I do not expect to leave off till midnight,” said the one-eyed mariner, helping himself to an additional slice. At last their meal came to a conclusion.

“Where are you bound for?” asked the Count of the skipper of the sloop.

“For Amsterdam,” answered the skipper.

“Then, Baron, don’t you think that it would be as well if we were to proceed on board this vessel, supposing the captain is willing to give us a passage?” said the Count.

“As to that, we might do worse,” answered the Baron. “We shall thus at all events accomplish our passage to Amsterdam by water as we intended, and the Zuyder Zee is not likely to prove as boisterous as the Northern Ocean.”

The skipper of the sloop having no objection to take the Count and the Baron, the arrangement was at once concluded.

“By-the-by, my friend,” said the Baron, “I hope you will manage to obtain some more nutritious and palatable provender than these red cheeses and hard biscuit for the voyage: they are all very well once in a way for supper, but I should not like to have nothing else to live on.”

The skipper promised to send to Yollendam, or if not to Edam, to obtain provisions for his passengers.

“And pray, Mynheers, what are you going to do with your boat,” asked the one-eyed mariner.

“I forgot all about her,” exclaimed the Count. “We will present her to you, my worthy friend,” he said. “You shall become her skipper, and, if you please, you are welcome to sail round the world in her, provided we are not compelled to accompany you.”

The one-eyed mariner gratefully accepted the gift. “I am a made man,” he said, “and need no longer be at the beck and call of Captain Jan Dunck, supposing he and the Golden Hog are still afloat. I will obtain fishing lines, and go out and fish and sell my fish, and build a cottage, and marry a wife, and live happy and independent to the end of my days.”

A bright idea seemed to strike the Count. “Friend, if you happen not to have found a wife in these parts, pray come over to Belgium, and I will there introduce you to a charming person, Johanna Klack by name, and you can take her away with you and settle at Marken or Urk, or any other island in or about the Zuyder Zee.”

“Excellent! the brightest idea, my dear Count, to which you ever gave birth,” exclaimed the Baron. “By all means, worthy Pieter, come. Don’t trouble yourself to look out for a wife here; they’re all very good in their way, but Johanna Klack is super-excellent, and she probably has saved up a whole stockingful of guilders. I feel very much inclined to go back with you at once to assist you in your wooing.”

“Mynheer,” said the one-eyed mariner, putting his finger to his nose, “‘good wine needs no bush.’ I have an idea or two. If this dame is so very charming, somebody with more personal attractions than I possess will have won her before I have the happiness of making her acquaintance; and you forget that, though I have got the boat, I have to obtain the fishing lines to catch the fish, to sell the fish, to go on doing that for some years, and then to build the house, and when the house is built it will be time enough for me to come in search of Vrouw Johanna Klack.”

“Well, well, we’ll talk about that to-morrow morning,” said the Baron, who did not feel very sanguine as to the speedy disposal of Johanna Klack’s fair hand.

Pieter, wishing them good night, went to sleep on board his boat, while they turned into two bunks in the small cabin of the sloop and slept soundly.

Chapter Six.

When the Count and the Baron awoke, they found to their surprise that the sloop was not only afloat but under weigh, and sailing over the waters of the Zuyder Zee. The skipper, who was short and broad, had a crew of two men, who were, he assured his passengers, amply sufficient for navigating the sloop.

“We shall not reach Amsterdam quite as soon as you might have expected, Mynheers,” he said; “for I purpose putting in at Monnickendam for a few hours. It is not a very lively place, though it was once a wealthy city, one of the twenty great towns of Holland, but its glory has passed away.”

As the object of the Count and the Baron was to see the world, they willingly agreed to visit this dead city of the Zuyder Zee. They were accordingly rowed on shore in the sloop’s boat.

“Well, this does seem to be a city of the dead, or else the inhabitants, if there are any, have gone to sleep,” observed the Baron, as he and the Count paced the streets, which were payed with yellow bricks. The houses were all red, and the Venetian shutters green—one house was almost exactly like another; not a door nor a window was open, not a face was to be seen at any of them; through the entire length of one long thoroughfare they met not a single person—not a cat, nor a dog, nor a sign of life. They went through street after street—every street was the same; only when they returned to the harbour a few people collected to inspect them, examining minutely their boots and hats, their coats and umbrellas.

“Well, gentlemen,” said the Baron, making them a profound bow, “you will remember us should we ever have the pleasure of paying your defunct city another visit.”

He and the Count stepped into the boat which was waiting to take them on board the sloop. Whatever other business the skipper transacted at Monnickendam, he had not omitted to imbibe a considerable amount of schiedam, and although when he stepped on deck he was as steady as a church steeple, there was a twinkle in his eye, and a mode of expressing himself which showed what he had been about. The Count and the Baron, however, did not at first discover this. When the sloop was got under weigh, he invited them into the cabin to partake of the dinner, which one of the crew had prepared. The wind was light, and the sloop glided steadily on.

“After all, I really do think I like the sea,” said the Count. “This style of navigation suits me—no trouble, no fatigue. We can eat and drink and go to sleep, and return on deck to enjoy the fresh air. When, Captain, do you think we shall reach Rotterdam?”

“Reach Rotterdam, Mynheers, why when the sloop gets there,” answered the skipper. “I cannot say how soon we shall reach it, the winds must know more about that than I do. We have Uitdam and Durgerdam to pass first, and the wind may fail us or become contrary. It was not in our agreement to tell you when we should get there; have patience, Mynheers, have patience; let the world go round as it likes, and have patience.”

This was not a very satisfactory answer, but as the Count and the Baron were tolerably comfortable they made no complaint. The skipper sat in his chair, and after he had finished dinner quaffed schiedam and water; one of the crew was engaged below in cleaning up the dishes and plates, the other was at the helm. Presently there came a loud cry, and the cutter heeled over. The Count, who was the most active of the party, jumped up to see what was the matter, while the man forward did the same.

“We’re run into by a big, lubberly ship,” cried the man at the helm.

The fact was very clear. The bowsprit of the big ship had caught the rigging of the sloop, and was bearing her over.

“What is going to happen?” asked the Count, in a state of no small trepidation.

“We shall be sent to the bottom if our mast and rigging are not carried away,” answered the man at the helm. The crew of the big ship were rushing out to the bowsprit end to try and clear the sloop, but that seemed no easy matter.

“Can’t you cut the rigging, my friends?” shouted the Count, who at a glance saw that by so doing the sloop would be set free.

“But we shall lose our mast if they do that,” said the man at the helm.

“Better lose our mast than be sent to the bottom,” answered the Count.

Again he shouted, “Cut, my friends, cut.”

The sailor who had sprung to the end of the jibboom, supposing the Count to be the captain, did as he was bid, and with a few strokes of an axe quickly severed the rigging, and the shrouds fell down on deck, while the sloop, gliding on, was quickly free of the ship.

“Why didn’t you keep a better look-out?” shouted the captain of the ship. “It was your own fault in getting in our way.”

“Ja, ja,” answered the man at the helm, who like the skipper had been indulging in potations of schiedam. The skipper himself now came on deck, to which the Baron had just before made his way, and began storming and raging. The crew of the big ship only laughed at him and sailed proudly on, while the sloop lay helpless on the water.

“The sooner we repair the rigging the better,” observed the Count, who never put himself out, whatever happened. The only man who was capable of doing this was the one who had been forward; he at once lowered down the mainsail and saved the mast from being carried away, which it might have been had a slight puff of wind come on.

“Put the vessel to rights, you lubbers,” cried the skipper. “I am going below to finish my bottle of schiedam.”

“Ja, ja,” answered the sober man of the crew. “Mynheers, will you help me, and we shall be able to do it,” he said, addressing the Count and the Baron.

They consented to do their best to pull and haul as much as was required.

“That’s all I want,” he said, fixing a rope to the severed rigging and going aloft with it. Having passed it through a block he told them to haul away. When the upper end had reached the masthead he lashed it there as securely as he could.

“That will do, provided we do not get a strong breeze. Now, Mynheers, help me to set the mainsail.”

The Count and the Baron hauled away right lustily, and the sail was soon set.

“Now,” said the sober sailor to the man who had been at the helm, “go forward and sleep; it is the only thing you’re fit for at present.”

The seaman obeyed, and disappeared down the fore hatchway. The sloop sailed on and on. The Count looked into the cabin and saw that the skipper was fast asleep; the Baron went forward and found half his crew employed in the same way.

“Never mind,” said the sober sailor; “the wind is fair, and provided no other big ship runs us down we shall get safely to Amsterdam soon after nightfall.”

This was cheering news to the travellers, and they promised a handsome reward to the sober sailor if he would take them in safely.

“Glad to do that for my own sake,” he answered. “It won’t be my fault if we do not.”

Still, as the wind was light the sloop sailed slowly; yet it was very evident, from the number of vessels they encountered, that they were approaching the great emporium of commerce; but the evening was drawing on, and darkness would increase the dangers of the voyage. At length they could only see lights glittering here and there, ahead and on every side, and tall masts rising out of the water. Now and then shouts warned them to get out of the way of some vessel, and the sober sailor shouted in return.

“Now, Mynheers, whichever of you can steer the best take the helm, and we will bring the sloop to an anchor. We must wait till daylight to get through the outer drawbridge.”

“I never steered in my life,” answered the Count.

“Nor I either,” said the Baron.

“Then do one of you take the tiller and do as I tell you,” said the sober sailor.

“Baron, I leave that honour to you,” said the Count; “I do not feel quite up to it.”

The Baron, who would have been ready to steer a seventy-four if he had been asked, at once took the tiller in hand, and, as the sailor sang out, “Pull the tiller towards you,” or “Put it away from you,” he did as he was bid. They glided on in the darkness, the lights round them twinkling like fireflies. At last the sailor hauled down the jib and foresail. “Now put it from you,” he sang out, “as far as you can.” Then there came a splash, and the cable ran out, and the sober sailor requested the Count and the Baron to help him lower the mainsail.

“Now I have you all snug,” he said, “I can put you on shore, or you can remain on board till morning if you wish it.”

“I think we had better remain on board,” said the Baron; “I do not fancy going into a strange town at midnight without knowing an inch of my way, or what hotel to go to.”

“I agree with you,” observed the Count, “though I cannot say that I anticipate much pleasure in passing the night in a close cabin with a tipsy skipper snoring as loud as a grampus.”

“Not pleasant, certainly,” remarked the Baron; “and I am ready to sacrifice myself for your benefit, if our friend here will take me on shore and wait for me while I search for an hotel; whether I find one or not, I will come back to you.”

The Count gladly agreed to this proposal; and the sober sailor, launching the boat, at once put off with the Baron, intending, as he said, to land him at a quay at no great distance. The Count walked the deck impatiently waiting his return; and, as he heard the skipper and the man forward snoring, he began to regret that he had not himself also gone. The sober sailor and the Baron were a long time absent.

“What can have become of them?” exclaimed the Count, over and over again. He had sat down to rest in the after part of the vessel, when he saw some one moving forward; and, going in that direction, he discovered the sailor who had been asleep.

“What are you about there?” he asked.

“Giving more scope to the cable,” was the answer. “The tide has risen, and the sloop wants it.”

“All right, I suppose,” thought the Count, and he went aft, while the sailor descended, and was soon again fast asleep. The Count heard a noise such as rope makes when running over wood. Presently he observed that the objects, dimly seen through the gloom of night, were moving. “What can have happened?” he thought. Faster and faster they moved. The vessel appeared to be in a rapid current.

“Oh, dear! oh, dear! what is happening?” he cried out; and he shouted to the skipper and the man forward, but neither answered him. Presently the vessel struck against the side of a house which rose out of the water, then against a pier, then she bounded off, then once more she came with tremendous force against another house, which appeared to be a store, carrying away her bowsprit. “She will go to the bottom, and I shall be drowned,” thought the Count; and he scrambled up the rigging just as the head of the mast poked its way in at a large opening in the wall. Climbing the shrouds of a vessel was a feat the Count had never before accomplished, and was very contrary to his habits; but he exerted himself to the utmost. The unpleasant recollection came upon him, as he was doing so, that these were the shrouds which had been severed when the ship ran into the sloop, and he feared, naturally, that they would give way at the very moment that he was upon them. This made him climb the faster. Now, as the vessel heeled over, his feet touched the wall of the building, and he feared that he might be jammed against it. The darkness prevented him from seeing clearly what was befalling the hull, but his impression was that it was going down into the deep canal, and that the skipper and the remaining portion of his crew would be drowned; but he had no desire to share their fate, and was utterly unable to help them. He shouted, however, loud enough to arouse them out of any ordinary slumber; but the schiedam they had drunk had so completely lulled their senses that they heard not his shouts, or the bumping of the vessel against the wall. He therefore continued his ascent till he reached the top of the mast, when, getting hold of a beam which projected from the opening in the building, he hauled himself up. Just as he did so the mast cracked; the vessel with a jerk heeled over to the opposite side; he was left clinging to the beam while she was borne away by the tide into the darkness. Again he shouted to try and arouse the skipper, but no human voice replied to his cries.

Chapter Seven.

The Count felt about with his feet till they touched the floor of the loft into which he had scrambled. “Here I am landed at last, at all events,” he said to himself; “but this, though dry enough, is not a pleasant place in which to pass the night; and besides, my friend Stilkin will be searching for me, and be very much alarmed at not finding the vessel, or if he does find her—supposing she has not gone to the bottom—when he discovers that I have absconded. What can I do? I must try and get down into the street, and then, perhaps, I shall meet him and relieve his anxiety. I wish that I had a light, though, as I shall run the risk of tumbling down some trap-door and breaking my neck. I must move cautiously. This appears to be a lumber loft of some sort; it cannot contain valuable merchandise, or the opening through which I made an entrance would have been closed. Well, I am of opinion that this is the least pleasant of my adventures.” The Count stopped. Looking back, he observed the outline of an opening through which came a small amount of light—such light as exists at night. This assisted him to direct his course across the floor of the loft: he moved cautiously, for every moment he knocked his feet against pieces of plank, and broken chests, and casks, and heaps of old sails, and fragments of rope piled up to be turned into oakum, and broken chains, and scraps of iron, and worn-out brooms and brushes. “I suppose there is an outlet somewhere, though I cannot yet distinguish it,” he said to himself. “These things have probably been brought up from below; but suppose they have been only hoisted in through the window, I shall be imprisoned as effectually as if I had been shut in by bars and bolts, for I certainly cannot make my escape through the opening by which I entered; I should only fall into the canal. Dear me! dear me! this is unpleasant. I wish that I had stayed at home in my old castle. However, wishes are vain things. I must try to get out somehow or other.” Again he began to grope about, feeling with his hands and feet, but in spite of all efforts could discover no outlet. “Probably, after all, it will be wiser to sit down and wait till daylight,” he thought. He accordingly sat himself down on a pile of rope, but he had not sat there long before he heard strange noises, a clattering and clambering of some creatures or other, and presently two or three came bounding over his feet.

“Those must be rats,” he said to himself. “I have heard of a species which comes from Norway, great savage creatures, a few dozen of which would eat up a man at a meal; if I go to sleep they may eat me up, and that will be objectionable in the highest degree. It is very clear that I must get out of this if I wish to keep a whole skin in my body. Come! arouse thee, brave Funnibos! let it not be said that the last of thy race was eaten up by rats.”

He once more got up and resumed his search; as he was feeling about his hands struck against a large ring: “This perhaps is a trap-door,” he thought. Standing on one side, he pulled with all his might; it yielded, and he found that he was lifting it up.

“Yes, this is a trap-door, and the means of escape presents itself, but I must take care that there is a ladder by which to descend, or I may pitch down head foremost and crack my skull.” Stooping over, he discovered to his satisfaction that there was a ladder, and he accordingly descended, holding on very tight with his hands, while he felt with his feet. At last he reached the bottom, and found himself on a lower story; the windows, however, if there were any, were closed. He was not much better off than he had been on the story above; still, having succeeded thus far, he was determined not to be defeated, and again he began to search about. The chamber appeared to have but little in it; now and then he knocked against a chest or a box, and stumbled over other articles, till suddenly he nearly fell head foremost down a stair. “This must lead somewhere, at all events,” he thought; and by a banister which he discovered on one side he began cautiously to descend, feeling with one foot before he lifted up the other. Down and down he went till he got into a passage between some stone walls. “Come, perhaps this will conduct me to the street, or to the street door, and, if it is only closed with bolts and bars, I may withdraw them and set myself free. I only hope that there may be no inhabitants who may take me for a burglar, and shoot me before I have time to explain matters. I must go cautiously, so as to make no noise.” He was going on feeling the walls on both sides, and putting one foot slowly before the other, when he observed a faint light streaming up from an opening on one side. The opening was a doorway; as he reached it the light became stronger, and he saw some stone steps leading to yet a lower story.

“This seems strange,” he muttered, “I understood that the houses in Amsterdam were built on piles to keep them out of the water, and I should have supposed that a flight of steps so low as this would lead one into it; but there must be some one down there, or this bright light would not be coming up. Perhaps I had better go back to try and find my way to the street door, as I had intended, lest that somebody should consider that I am intruding; however, having got thus far, I will try and solve the mystery.” He, therefore, again descended step by step. He found himself in a small vaulted chamber, in the centre of which was a table covered with retorts, jars, glasses of all shapes and sizes, and other chemical apparatus, while at a chair was seated a tall, grey-headed old gentleman, stirring the contents of a clay bowl with a glass tube; his eyes were so intently fixed on the bowl that he did not discover the presence of a stranger. A lamp burning on the table shed the light around on the wizen countenance of the aged alchemist, on the walls of the chamber, and on the roof, from which hung suspended several iron chains, and stuffed birds and beasts and other creatures of curious form, unlike anything the Count had before seen. He stood for some time watching the proceedings of the unknown alchemist and considering what he should do; at last he gave a cough to attract attention. The old man looked up, and regarded him with a fixed stare.

“Who are you, and whence do you come?” he asked in a hollow voice. “Are you a spirit from the vasty deep, or have you risen from the nether world?”

“Though I am not a spirit, I have come from the vasty deep, for I am a shipwrecked traveller,” answered the Count. “In a most extraordinary manner I was landed in a loft above this building, and have found my way down here. My object at present is to get out into the street of Amsterdam, for I presume I am in that city, and to discover my friend and companion, Baron Stilkin, who had, fortunately for himself, gone on shore before the catastrophe occurred, which nearly cost me my life; and I shall be very, very much obliged to you, most reverend Seignor, if you will show me the door.”

“At present I cannot on any account do that,” answered the alchemist. “It might prove the destruction of my hopes were I to leave this crucible for a moment. Know that I am on the point of making the great discovery which is the object of my life,” and the old man went on stirring as before.

“What is that discovery, may I ask?” inquired the Count.

“The means of converting tin into silver, and copper into gold; or rather, I may say, the discovery of the philosopher’s stone, for which the sages of past centuries have searched in vain, but which I firmly believe it has been reserved for me to find out. I shall then become the richest individual in Amsterdam, and I have resolved to employ my wealth in rebuilding the city. I purpose to lay the foundations with granite instead of wooden piles, on which it now stands; to increase the width and depth of its canals, and double their present dimensions; to erect a church in the centre which shall surpass that of Saint Peter’s or Saint Paul’s; to make the inhabitants the most wealthy and healthy, the best and most contented people on the face of the globe. These are grand designs, you will allow, most noble stranger, for I perceive you are capable of appreciating them: these are sufficient to induce a man to burn the midnight oil, to spend his days in ceaselessly labouring at his allotted task.”

“Perhaps you will be good enough to make haste and discover this philosopher’s stone, and then let me out at your street door; for I am desperately hungry, and wish to find a hotel where I may obtain a supper and bed, in case I should not meet with Baron Stilkin, who landed for the express purpose of looking for one.”

“Wait a few moments longer, my friend,” said the alchemist, still stirring on. “You would not surely have me throw away the labour of years to gratify your selfish object. Just step aside in the meantime into that recess, as I am not quite certain what is about to happen. There may come an explosion, such has occurred before now, and then at the bottom of this crucible I firmly believe that I shall discover the philosopher’s stone. It has never appeared yet, but, once in my possession, I shall leave this cold vault for ever, and emerge into the upper world, to commence the great undertaking I have designed. Stand aside! stand aside! at any moment there may be an explosion.”

The Count at first thought that the wisest plan would be to escape up the stone steps, as he had no wish to be exposed to the effects of the expected explosion; but, curious to see the result, he stepped aside, as the old alchemist advised him, into a recess of the vault. Still the alchemist stirred on, but nothing occurred. The Count was losing patience when he heard the sound of feet descending the steps.

“Here comes my familiar spirit,” muttered the alchemist; “he always does come just when I am about to make my grand discovery.”

“He treads very heavily for a spirit!” thought the Count.

At that moment a remarkable and unattractive-looking person came into the light of the lamp; he was a short, thick-set man, with a huge head, almost a dwarf, dressed in a long coat and high boots, carrying in his hand a kettle.

The alchemist as he saw him started up. “Why have you come? Why hast thou come, thou enemy of science? thou who, night after night, hast prevented me from making the grand discovery, the aim of my existence, thou disturber of my studies, thou foe of the human race!”

“You know well enough, Mynheer Bosch, that what you say is all nonsense, and that I will not allow you to abuse me in this fashion,” exclaimed the dwarf, lifting up the kettle as if he were about to throw it at the philosopher’s head. “Come along, and leave your old bottles and jars; it is high time that you were in bed, and my business is to see you safe there, and to lock you up till to-morrow morning.”

“But I have a visitor,” said the philosopher, calming down, and looking perfectly resigned to his fate. “A visitor who may become my pupil, and aid me in making my grand discovery, which has, through your interference, been so long delayed.”

“Any one who desires to become your pupil must be a remarkably silly fellow,” observed the dwarf. “If he is there, let him show himself. Come out, whoever you are, and I’ll know how you ventured into this house without leave.”

The Count, on hearing this, stepped forth from his hiding-place. “Honest man, pray understand, in the first place, that I have no desire to become the pupil of this philosophical gentleman, that I most unintentionally entered the house, and shall be extremely obliged to you if you will let me out as soon as possible,” he said; and he briefly explained how he had happened to get into the loft.

“That being the case, as soon as I have secured this poor old man for the night, I will show you out into the street,” answered the dwarf; and taking hold of the lamp with one hand and with the other grasping the arm of the philosopher, who moved on as meekly as a lamb, he led the way up the steps, the Count following close behind. After proceeding along several passages he reached a door, when, producing a key from his pocket, he opened it.

“Go in,” he said to the philosopher, “and wait till I come back.” The latter obeyed, and the dwarf locked him in.

“Now, Mynheer,” he said, “having disposed of that poor old fellow for the present, I will show you the way out into the street; but take care you do not fall into the canal. You will not find any hotel in this part of the town fit for a gentleman of your rank; but if you go on straight before you and then turn to the right, then to the left, then to the right again, you may possibly meet with your friend whom you desire to find; if not, a watchman will take charge of you, should he not lock you up, and will help you to find an hotel.”

This was not altogether satisfactory, for the Count doubted very much whether he should be able to follow the directions he had received; but he wanted to get into the open air, and he hoped that he should somehow or other find his way. He was not in the best possible mood, and had little expectation of finding the Baron; he was desperately hungry, and was afraid that his portmanteau was lost, which would certainly be the case if the sloop had gone to the bottom. However, finding himself in the open air, he went along what appeared to be a narrow road, with houses on one side and a canal on the other. The odour which rose from the latter in the night air was far from pleasant, but he soon got accustomed to it. He was inclined to shout out the Baron’s name as he went along, but it occurred to him that some of the watchers of the night might accuse him of being a disorderly person, and carry him off to prison, though whenever he saw anyone approaching he asked in a subdued tone, “Is that you, Baron Stilkin?” But no one acknowledged himself to be the Baron. Thus the Count went on, no one impeding his progress. According to the dwarfs advice, he did turn to the left and then to the right, then to the left again, and turned several times, till he forgot how many times he had turned or where he was. For a long time he met no one of whom to inquire the way. At last he heard footsteps approaching. “Is that you. Baron Stilkin?” he asked, as he had done before.

“What, whose voice is that?” exclaimed some one.

The Count, hoping that it was the Baron, replied, “Count Funnibos.”

“What, my dear Count, is it you yourself?” exclaimed Baron Stilkin, for he it was, and, rushing into each other’s arms, they wept, overcome by their feelings. The Count narrated the extraordinary adventures he had met with.

“And what about our portmanteaus and umbrellas? what will become of them?” exclaimed the Baron.

“They are on board the sloop, and, for what I can tell, at the bottom of the Zuyder Zee,” said the Count.

“We must endeavour to regain them forthwith if they are afloat, or fish them up if they are at the bottom,” said the Baron. “Come along. I left the sober sailor waiting for me. We may possibly find him, and at once put off in search of our property.”

“But I should prefer having some supper first,” exclaimed the Count. “I am well-nigh starving.”

“Never mind, my dear Count,” said the Baron, “I have eaten enough for two, and there’s no time to be lost. It is of the greatest importance that we should forthwith recover our portmanteaus and umbrellas. Why, we have all the money in them, and our note-books and journals.”

“And my ties and tooth-brush,” put in the Count. “Of course, of course. I will still the cravings of my appetite and sacrifice my feelings for the common weal.”

“Eight, right; a noble principle,” said the Baron. “I shall be able to enjoy a second supper with you when we return.” And the Baron acting as guide, they set off for the quay where, to the best of his belief, he had left the sober sailor. Wonderful to relate, the sober sailor was there, waiting patiently, smoking his pipe with his arms folded, a picture of resignation. As far as could be perceived in the gloom of night, he did not appear to be much surprised at hearing of the accident which had befallen the sloop.

“Cheer up, Mynheers, we will find her,” he said. “She’s not likely to have got far. There’s a bit of a current round that point, but after that the tide runs slowly, and she will have been brought up by some other vessel across which she’s been driven, or is still floating slowly out towards the Zuyder Zee.” Saying this, he bent to his oars and pulled away down the canal. The lights glittered from the upper windows of many houses, showing that the inhabitants were not yet in bed, and the tall masts of numerous vessels towered up towards the sky, with yards across seen indistinctly in the gloom of night. The moon shone forth and shed her pale light on the smooth surface of the water, which looked bright and silvery, very different to the hue it is apt to wear in the daytime.

“If I were not so hungry and so anxious about our portmanteaus and umbrellas I should enjoy this,” observed the Count.

“I do enjoy it,” said the Baron, stroking his waistcoat. “As to our portmanteaus and umbrellas, my mind is greatly relieved by the assurances of our friend the sober sailor here.”

“I hope you are so with sufficient reason,” observed the Count, who was in low spirits, as people often are when they are hungry.

“I told you so, I told you so; there’s the sloop,” shouted the Baron. “I am right, am I not, friend mariner?”

“Ja, ja, that’s she,” answered the sober sailor, pulling towards the sloop, which was, as he had asserted would be the case, floating leisurely along, like a snail on a garden path. He soon pulled up alongside, when the Count and the Baron scrambled on board. The tipsy skipper and his tipsy crew were still both fast asleep in their respective bunks.

“Now I consider that it would be right and proper to let them float on after we have recovered our portmanteaus and umbrellas,” said the Baron.

“It would be more kind and charitable to anchor the sloop, or to take her alongside the nearest vessel we can reach,” said the Count. “What do you say, worthy mariner?”

“We cannot anchor her, because my messmate slipped her cable and left the anchor in the canal,” answered the sober sailor. “But we will tow her alongside another vessel and make her fast, where she will remain safe enough till I have conveyed you, Mynheers, and your luggage to the shore. We sailors make it a point of honour to look after our shipmates when they get overtaken by too abundant potations of schiedam or any other liquor.”

“But you do not mean to say that you ever get overtaken?” asked the Count.

“Not unless it is my turn to enjoy that pleasure,” answered the sober sailor. “It was my turn to-night to keep sober, as it would never do for the whole crew to get drunk together.” Having said this, the sober sailor stepped into the boat, and towed the sloop up to a vessel which lay conveniently near. Having secured her, and informed her skipper and crew of the condition of his skipper and crew, he pulled away up to the landing-place, carrying the Count and Baron, with their portmanteaus and umbrellas. They were not long, after landing, in finding a hotel, on entering which the first words the Baron uttered were, “Supper for two.”

“I thought that you had supped,” remarked the Count.

“My dear Count, do you think I should be so uncourteous as not to eat a second to keep you company?” said the Baron, smiling blandly. They, were soon seated at table, and the Baron did ample justice to his second supper.

Chapter Eight.

“Then here we are in Amsterdam,” said the Count to the Baron, as they sauntered out of their hotel after breakfast. “I wonder whether all these people have come to do us honour on hearing of our arrival.”

“They probably have not heard of our arrival,” said the Baron. “They are, as you will perceive, market people, and others who have come in these boats surrounding the landing-slips;” and he pointed across the crowd which thronged the quay to the canal, on which boats of various sizes were coming and going, mostly laden with cheeses and other merchandise to supply the city of Amsterdam.

“Ah, yes; you are probably correct,” remarked the Count. “Now let us set forth and inspect this great city.”

A guide, who had noticed them leaving the hotel, offered his services to conduct them through the streets, and to give them the information which as strangers they would naturally require.

“Thank you,” said the Baron, who, thinking him a very polite gentleman, made him a bow. “We accept your services.”

“Come then, Mynheers, come then,” said the guide; “with me as your conductor, you will see more of the city in a few hours than you would by yourselves in as many days. You will understand that Amsterdam is the largest town in Holland,” he commenced. “It is built in the shape of a crescent, or horse-shoe, and is situated at the influx of the Amstel into the Y; the latter, though it is called a river, is in reality an arm of the Zuyder Zee, and forms our harbour; hence the name of Amsterdam—the dam of the Amstel, or Amster. Now I will lead you to the docks, close to which we now are—they are capable of accommodating a thousand vessels; the locks, you will observe, are of enormous strength, which it is necessary they should be, so as to resist the inroads of the sea. We take great precautions to keep it out, and with good reason, for our streets are much below its level, and were it to break in they would be completely flooded. Our city is nine miles in circumference, while canals of various sizes intersect it in every direction, and divide it into ninety islands, which are connected by means of nearly three hundred bridges. A broad moat, or canal, also runs almost completely round it, a portion of which is flanked with avenues of elms, which have a handsome and picturesque appearance. Our houses are constructed on foundations of piles, and as some of these give way, either destroyed by worms or becoming rotten by age, the houses are apt to lean about in various directions, which artists say look very picturesque, but are not so pleasant to the inhabitants, who, however, live on in them, hoping that, as they have been in that condition for some years, they will not tumble down just yet. Now and then they do come down, but people get accustomed to that sort of thing. Many years ago our great corn magazine sank into the mud, the piles on which it stood being unable to support the weight of three thousand five hundred tons of grain, which were stored in the building at that time. You will observe the style of the houses, many of them built of Dutch brickwork, which foreigners justly admire. Our canals are not quite as deep as they should be, although we have dredging machines constantly engaged in removing the mud, which is thus apt to be stirred about in an unpleasant manner as every barge comes up, and strangers declare that an excessively offensive odour rises from them, especially on hot days; but we who live here are not inconvenienced, in fact we rather doubt the statement; there may be a smell, but it surely cannot be an unpleasant one.”

“As to that,” answered the Count, holding his pocket-handkerchief to his nose, “it must depend upon what people consider unpleasant; for my part, I prefer the scent of orange blossoms or eau de Cologne to it.”

The guide, who seemed anxious to fulfil his promise of enabling them to see the city in a brief period of time, trotted them along the quays at a rapid rate, pointing out to them the great dyke which prevents the Zuyder Zee from washing into the town; then he conducted them up one street and down another, over bridges and along banks of canals innumerable, till they had not the slightest idea of where they were going or what they were seeing. He poured out his information also at so rapid a rate that the Count could with difficulty make the shortest notes. Museums and picture galleries of various sorts were pointed out to them.

“You will be able to see those by and by,” observed the guide; “at present my object is to exhibit to you the outside of the city.”

The whole day was expended in viewing the city, and even then a large portion remained to be seen, which they flattered themselves they should do on another occasion. They then, pretty well tired, returned to their hotel.

“Now, Count, in what direction shall we next bend our steps?” asked the Baron. “If we were at sea the wind might settle that point, but on shore the matter is more complicated.”

“Come with me, Mynheers, to Zaandam,” said a gentleman, who was seated opposite to them at table and heard the Baron’s question.

“I suppose there’s something to be seen there?” the Baron asked.

“Certainly there is something to be seen,” said the gentleman. “There’s the house of Peter the Great, who lived there while he was working as a shipwright, and there are windmills.”

“There are a good many windmills in other parts of Holland,” observed the Count.

“But the windmills of Zaandam beat them all hollow,” answered the gentleman. “There are no fewer than four hundred in and about Zaandam, employed in all sorts of labour: some grind corn, some saw timber, others crush rape-seed, while others again drain the land, or reduce stones to powder, or chop tobacco into snuff, or grind colours for the painter. Those of Zaandam are of all shapes and descriptions, and many of them are of an immense size—the largest in the world.”

“We will go to Zaandam,” said the Count; and the next morning he and the Baron accompanied their new friend, whom they took care to ascertain was not a professional guide, down to the quay, whence a steamboat was about to start to their intended destination.

In little more than an hour having crossed the waters of the Y, they landed at Zaandam. They were not disappointed with respect to the windmills, which, as there was a fair breeze, seemed to be all very busy, the sails whirling round and round and doing their duty with all earnestness, as duty ought to be done. When the wind slackened it was not their fault if they did not go as fast. They could distinguish the flour mills, which generally had a balcony running round half-way up; but the draining mills were smaller, and had no balcony. Zaandam, however, did not look like a town, it more resembled a straggling village; the houses—small, painted a bright green, with red roofs—peeping out on the banks of the river amid the trees in all directions.

Suddenly the Count began whirling his arms about in a way which made the Baron fancy he had gone mad.

“What is the matter?” he exclaimed.

“I cannot help it,” answered the Count, still looking up at the windmills. “How they go round and round and round in all directions; it is enough to turn one into a windmill. I feel inclined already to become one.”

“Don’t, don’t!” cried the Baron, seizing his friend’s arms and holding them down. “Don’t look at those whirlabout sails, but come let us go and see the house of Peter the Great, which was the chief object of our visit to this place.”

“Peter the Great, ah, I have heard of him; how long did he live here?” asked the Count.

“Not very long,” said their friend. “Zaandam was in those days a great ship-building place, and he came here to instruct himself in the art; but the people found out who he was, and shocked his modesty by staring him out of countenance, so he went away to Amsterdam, where among the crowd he was less likely to be discovered.”

Proceeding along a canal bordered by a few dilapidated houses, they arrived before a zinc building, which has been erected to cover the hut in which Peter the Great lived. An ancient individual, who had charge of it, admitted them within the outside covering.

“Peter of Russia was a great man, there’s no doubt about that,” observed the Baron. “But from the appearance of this edifice he must have been contented with a very inferior style of accommodation; for there appear to be but two small rooms, and every plank of the walls is out of the perpendicular, and every beam far off the horizontal, while the floors resemble the surface of a troubled sea.”

The hut was constructed of wood, old planks nailed roughly together, some running in one direction, some in another. As the travellers entered they rolled about as if they had suddenly become giddy. The furniture too was limited; it consisted of a couple of curiously shaped old chairs, a table and a bedstead of antique form and simple construction. The walls were adorned with portraits of Peter the Great and his wife, who certainly, judging by her picture, was no beauty.

“I observe that a number of persons of celebrity have carved their names on the walls; I think we ought to do the same, to let it be known to all the world, who come after us, that we have been here,” said the Baron, taking out his penknife. “Here are some names, great persons undoubtedly, and, as far as I can judge, English; let me see, one is Jones, the other is Smith, and a third Brown—we will add ours.”

“Have the kindness to put mine, then,” said the Count. “I should wish to appear in such excellent company, but carving on wood is not one of my talents.”

The Baron accordingly with the tip of his penknife wrote, or rather carved, “Count Funnibos and Baron Stilkin,” putting the date of their visit. Well satisfied with his performance, he took another glance round the room, about which the Count had been staggering, looking at the various corners and crevices, as if he expected to find the Great Peter in one of them, sawing or planing, or perhaps supping off a bowl of porridge. The ancient keeper informed them that the building was erected by a former Queen of Holland—a Princess of Russia—to prevent this relic of her ancestor being swept off the face of the earth. On one of the walls was a marble tablet, placed there by the Emperor Alexander to commemorate a visit he paid to the hut, which showed to the Count and Baron that another great person had been there before them.

Chapter Nine.

On returning to the town of windmills, they encountered the gentleman who had advised them to pay a visit to the place.

“I am going on to Alkmaar,” he observed, “and should be rejoiced to have your company; it is a place well worth seeing, and you will have further experience of Dutch scenery on the way.”

“We will go, by all means,” said the Count, who, as it saved him the trouble of thinking, was glad to receive suggestions regarding their route. They accordingly went on board the steamer, which was already pretty well filled with country people, butter-sellers, peddlers, gardeners, and others, very clean and respectable and picturesque in their costume. There was a vast amount of shouting and holloaing and talking as the boat passed through a narrow lock, which conducted them into the direct line of canal navigation to the place they purposed visiting. As they glided on, they observed the banks on either side lined with windmills; here and there were small houses painted green with red roofs—indeed, red roofs were seen everywhere, like British soldiers skirmishing, as the colour was toned down and mellowed by time and weather. On and on they went, sometimes looking down from the canal to the country below them, for the water was on a higher level than the land.

“It would be an awkward business if a breach were to be made in the banks, and the water were to run out over the country,” observed the Count.

“We take precautions against that, by making the banks broad and strong, as you will observe,” remarked their friend. “But such an event has occurred more than once, sometimes by accident, and at others purposely, to prevent the approach of an enemy, when in a few hours a whole district has been laid under water.”

“When that occurs, the fields and the orchards and the cottages of the inhabitants must be destroyed,” observed the Count.

“Undoubtedly,” answered his companion. “But we Dutchmen are patriotic, and willingly sacrifice our own interests for the good of the country; besides which the chief sufferers have seldom been consulted—our leaders have decided that it was necessary, and it has been done. In this way Alkmaar was defended against the Spaniards, and Leyden was relieved by a fleet of the ‘Beggars of the Sea,’ which, sailing across the submerged land, brought provisions and reinforcements to the starving garrison.”

League after league was passed over by this watery way; trees there were, but they were scarcely of sufficient height to break the uniform appearance of the level country.

“My dear Baron,” said the Count, taking his friend by the button-hole, “I have at length settled a point in my mind which has long puzzled me; I have heard that philosophers differ as to whether the earth is round or flat, and now you will agree with me that we have proof positive that it is flat. Look round on every side—the country is as level as a billiard table, the water in the canals does not run one way more than another, there’s not a single elevation between us and the distant horizon. Yes, I am convinced of the fact: one does learn something by travelling.”

The Baron, who was seldom in an argumentative mood, smiled blandly, and replied, “Yes, my dear Count, you are probably right as far as Holland is concerned. When we reach other parts of the world we may be compelled, against our better judgment, to change our opinion, but time enough for that when we get there; let us at present side with those who hold to the opinion that the world is flat, but not with those who pronounce it stale and unprofitable, for Holland is certainly not unprofitable, or the people would not look so wealthy, fat, and comfortable.”

After the canal had made several turnings, the tall steeples of Alkmaar, quaint and ancient, appeared in sight, but it was some time before the steamer reached the quay of that picturesque town.

Leaving the steamboat, the Count and the Baron at once going to an hotel, ordered dinner to be prepared, having invited their new friend to join them.

“Though Alkmaar is a place of no great importance at present,” observed their friend, “it can boast of three things—its heroic defence against the Spaniards, of which I will give you an account by-and-by as we walk round the ramparts; of its cleanliness, of which you have ocular proof; and of the vast amount of excellent cheese which it exports; indeed, it is said to do more business in cheese than any other town in the world. There are also two or three quaint and curious buildings which are worthy of a visit.”

“We will visit them in their turn,” observed the Baron.

As he descended the steps of the hotel he evidently created some sensation among the market people, fishwives, the butter-sellers, and others who thronged the streets. Perceiving this, he stopped short and looked about him with a benignant air. “Perhaps, if I were to take up my residence here, I might be elected Burgomaster,” he thought to himself, “though at home it might be beneath my rank to enter into commerce. I should have no objection to deal in cheese, they look so clean, and taste so nice, and have so fragrant an odour. A million cheeses exported by Baron Stilkin and Company would sound well, and even though I were to make a profit of only a styver per cheese, would come to a good sum annually—I will see to it.” His cogitations were interrupted by the appearance of the Count and their friend, who now invited him to accompany them round the town. Their friend was an enthusiastic patriot, and having shown them Alkmaar, and described its heroic defence against the Spaniards, advised them as to the course they should afterwards pursue. They accordingly set off and visited Haarlem and Leyden, the Hague—the royal capital—and Rotterdam, the great commercial city rivalling Amsterdam, Gouda, and Utrecht, which possesses a cathedral and a fine old tower rising to the height of three hundred and twenty feet above the ground.

“And now I propose that, as we have seen all these towns, we go forth and enjoy something of the country, before we leave Holland,” said the Count.

“Agreed,” answered the Baron, and so it was settled.

Chapter Ten.

Once more the Count and the Baron were in the country. As yet they had made but little progress in their journey round the world, but they were not disheartened.

“We shall do it in time,” remarked the Count. “And it strikes me that if we were to put on my seven-league boots we should go much faster.”

“But, my dear Count, have you seen them lately?” asked the Baron. “A dreadful idea has occurred to me. I am afraid that I left one of them on board of the Golden Hog, and if she has gone to the bottom your seven-league boot has gone also, and with only one it is very clear that we shall not go ahead with the desirable rapidity.”

“Then I suspect we must do without them,” said the Count, who always took matters easily. “We must depend upon our own legs and such means of conveyance as present themselves. With the help of the railways, steamboats, trackboats, and horse carriages, we may still manage to get along. By-the-by, could we not manage to engage a balloon? We might get over the country at greater speed than even with my seven-league boots.”

“We should not see much of it in that way, I suspect,” observed the Baron.

“Oh, yes! A fine bird’s-eye view, such as an eagle enjoys,” exclaimed the Count.

“I decidedly object to aërial travelling,” said the Baron. “It does not suit my figure, and I always feel giddy if I look down from a height. Sailing on the treacherous ocean is bad enough, and even railways are not altogether satisfactory. Give me the firm ground, a nice easy chaise on four wheels, steady horses, and an experienced coachman, and I can enjoy travelling. But here we are at Nighterecht, a pleasant, rural-looking place. It boasts of an inn, though not a large one, but we can enjoy the primitive simplicity of the inhabitants.”

On reaching the inn, having announced themselves, they were received by the landlady with all the courtesy and respect due to persons of their exalted rank.

“We must ask you, good Vrouw, to direct us to any objects worthy of inspection in this neighbourhood, that we may visit them while you are preparing dinner,” said the Baron.

“Objects worthy of inspection,” said the Vrouw; “there are the houses, and the fields, and the canals, we have two—one passing close to the village, the other a little way in the rear—and five windmills, all in sight without the trouble of going in search of them. We expect that there will be something too which will take place to interest your lordships this afternoon. A stranger arrived this morning with a cart containing a large cask, the contents of which he proposes to exhibit to all those who will pay him a guilder each; the guilders are to remain with him, the contents of the cask are to be divided among the spectators. You will, of course, Mynheers, remain to witness the spectacle, and to enjoy the benefits which may be derived from the contents of the cask. Some say it is full of one thing, some of another, but no one knows what. Notices have been sent round in all directions, and we expect to have a numerous gathering, which will, at all events, prove profitable to my establishment.”

The Count and the Baron, not being hurried, agreed to remain. As soon as dinner was over they observed a number of persons collecting under the trees in front of the inn, which stood, as the landlady assured them, on the top of a mountain, though the descent to the canal was scarcely more than twenty feet, comparing it with the level region around. In a short time a burly individual appeared, and, with the aid of two or three others, placed a huge cask on a central spot under the trees with the head facing down the hill. He then forthwith took his seat astride on the top of it.

“Now, noble Mynheers and lovely Vrouws, you have come to see something very wonderful; but before I exhibit the mystery I must request you to hand me in the guilders, for unless I obtain a sufficient number the cask remains closed.”

The people were flocking in from all parts, for at that time of the evening they had nothing in particular to do. The Count and the Baron drew near. The burly personage astride of the cask continued his address, while two or three attendants who had come with him went round to collect the coin.

“You will understand, brave Hollanders, that any one who is disposed to give two guilders or three guilders is welcome to do so, and will, I hope, reap a proportionate reward,” he cried out at the top of his voice.

The Count, who had become much interested, wondering what was coming out of the cask, proposed putting in five guilders.

“As you like,” observed the Baron, “but it is wise, as a rule, to know what you are going to get for your money, and I suggest that we promise the individual on the cask an ample reward should we be satisfied. It would be as well not to pay more than anybody else.”

“But then we can scarcely claim the privilege of standing in the front rank,” observed the Count. “Come, he shall have two guilders.”

“As you like, it will save me the necessity of putting my hand in my purse,” said the Baron.

The attendants having collected all the money they were likely to get, the individual on the cask, in a sonorous voice, announced his intention of exhibiting its contents. For some time past there had been strange noises proceeding from it, the cause of which no one could understand.

“Are you prepared to see what you shall see?” cried the stout individual, riding astride on the cask. “Make ready, then. One, two, three;” and by some contrivance or other, he suddenly caused the head of the cask to fall out to the ground, when a chorus of mews and feline shrieks and cries as if long pent up burst forth, followed by an avalanche of cats with labels fixed to their tails; who, gazing for a moment at the assemblage, dashed frantically forward, some in one direction, some in another, blinded by the light suddenly let in on their eyes: one made a rush at the Baron, and had almost seized his chin, while her claws stuck into his shirt-front before he could knock her off; another made a dash at the Count, who fled precipitately. Each cat, perhaps with the impression that she was ascending a tree, sprang first at one of the bystanders, and then at another; and then, if driven aside, dashed frantically forward down the slope, upsetting half a dozen of the spectators as they endeavoured to make their escape.

“I told you, Mynheers and lovely Vrouws, that I should astonish you,” exclaimed the stout individual on the cask. “Each of you shall be welcome to the cats you can catch.” A few boys and girls, who seemed to consider it great fun, made chase after the cats. The Count and the Baron, and not a few other persons, being considerably irate at the hoax that had been practised upon them, turned furiously towards the burly individual, who still kept his seat on the cask.

“How dare you sit there laughing at us!” exclaimed one.

“You impudent fellow! you deserve to be ducked in the canal,” cried another.

“You will only receive your due if we kick you out of the village,” cried a third.

“A very proper way to treat him,” exclaimed a fourth.

“Then let us begin!” exclaimed a fifth.

The stout individual, finding the tide of public favour had decidedly turned against him, leaped off his cask, and fought his way through the angry crowd, who had, fortunately for him, been somewhat dispersed by the cats. Some tried to catch him, others tried to trip him up; but he was a stout fellow, and was not to be easily caught. Dodging in and out among them, till seeing a narrow lane which no one at the moment was guarding, he dashed down it, hoping to make his escape from the village; but instead of leading him to the outside, as he had hoped, it conducted him to the very centre. On he ran, followed by the whole crowd, the Count and Baron joining in the hue and cry. The village resounded with shouts of “Stop thief! stop thief!” but these only made the burly individual run the faster. A few of the inhabitants had made a short cut, hoping to meet him in front; but they only arrived in time to catch him by the skirts of his coat, which gave way as he sprang by them; several others made a grab at him, some at the collar, some on one side, some on the other, till the coat was reduced to shreds, when slipping his arms out of it he again sprang forward. The Count and the Baron, who had been rushing on with the crowd, were by some means or other separated. The Count having lost sight of the chase, thinking after all that it was no business of his, returned to his inn. It would have been well for the Baron if he had done the same; but as he was running on at a more rapid rate than he was wont to move, he tripped and fell; the rest of those engaged in the pursuit, in their eagerness scarcely perceiving what had happened, passed him by, leaving him to regain his legs as best he could. As soon as he had got up, he went on again at less speed, and in a more cautious manner.

“I should like to see that fellow castigated,” he said to himself. “Never was served a more abominable trick. Where can he have gone? If I don’t make haste I shall not see what happens.” He accordingly ran on again; now he turned up one narrow lane, now down another, till he had completely lost himself. “It cannot be a large place, however,” he thought, “and I shall easily find my way back to the inn. Ah! I think I hear the shouts of the people.”

He began to run on; presently he distinguished cries of, “There he is, there he is! That must be he, just his size! Well catch him now!”

“I hope they will,” thought the Baron, and on he went; but as he happened to turn and glance over his shoulder, to his surprise, he saw that the people were following him. “We shall have him now! we shall have him now!” he heard the mob shouting. “That must be he! He is up to all sorts of tricks. Take care he does not escape us. Stop thief! stop thief!”

The Baron not liking the sounds, and fearing that there might be some mistake, thought it best to keep ahead of the mob, and bolted down the first opening he discovered. To his great satisfaction, at the further end, he saw not only the inn, but the Count standing at the door of it. The mob were close behind him, now excited more than ever by their running, uttering all sorts of threats, and making unpleasant gestures with their fists, sticks, and staves.

The Count looked astonished, scarcely comprehending what was happening. Never had the Baron run so fast, puffing and blowing as he went, and expecting every moment to drop from fatigue. Several persons were collected about the door of the inn, who seemed to be amused at watching him as he ran. At that moment two baker’s boys, carrying between them a large basketful of pies and cakes and loaves, and some paper bags of flour, happened to be passing the inn door. The Baron, in his hurry not seeing them, ran against the basket, when over he went with his legs in the air, his arms and shoulders and the larger part of his body into the very middle of the pies and cakes and bags of flour. The boys with looks of alarm held on firmly to the handles, without making any attempt to assist him, while he, overcome by his unusual exertions, was utterly unable to help himself. The Count, for the moment, was too much astonished to do anything, but stood with arms uplifted exclaiming, “My dear Baron, what has happened? Do get out of that;” while other persons who stood by only cruelly grinned at his misfortune. At length the Count, recovering his presence of mind, descended the steps to the assistance of the hapless Baron, who certainly was more frightened than hurt, though covered from head to foot with flour and dough and the contents of the meat pies and fruit tarts, producing an extraordinary and ludicrous effect.

The mob, who had by this time come up, shouted, “We have him at last. Now where shall we carry him to? What shall we do with him? He has given us a pretty long chase, and deserves to be well ducked, or tarred and feathered!”

“My dear people,” exclaimed the Count, “you have made a mistake; this is my friend, Baron Stilkin, who joined you in the chase of that roguish fellow who let the cats out of the cask, and whom I am afraid you let go as well as the cats.”

The mob still insisted that the Baron was the man of whom they were in chase, and it required all the Count’s eloquence to persuade them to the contrary; but his pitiable plight rather amused them than excited their compassion. Some of them had even the cruelty to beg him to start again, and give them another chase. At length the kind-hearted landlady of the inn, coming out, begged him to enter, undertaking to wash his waistcoat and shirt-front, and to put him to rights.

“Thanks, my good Vrouw, thanks; and if you will prepare some supper for me, I shall be doubly grateful, for I am terribly hungry after my long run,” answered the Baron.

“First let me get off the paste and flour, jam and grease,” said the Vrouw, bringing a brush and a towel and water; and she rubbed and scrubbed for some minutes with such good effect that the Baron’s garments were restored to their primitive lustre.

“And now my outward appearance has been polished up, pray look after the interests of my inner man,” said the Baron, placing his hands to his heart. “I shall ever bear in mind the polite attention with which you have treated me, though it will take some time to forget the want of discernment your townsmen have exhibited in mistaking me for that abominable cat-man. What could have induced him to play such a trick?”

The landlady admitted that she had met no one who could solve the mystery.

“Nor have I,” said the Count. “I have been making inquiries in all directions, but not a person has been able to give me the wished-for information.”

While the Vrouw went off to prepare supper for the Count and Baron, they seated themselves at a table in the neat little guest room to wait for it. Directly afterwards in came one of the bakers’ boys, demanding payment for the pies and tarts, the puddings and flour, injured and scattered by the Baron.

“Pay you for getting in my way and causing me to fall over your abominable basket, to the great injury of my waistcoat and shirt-front, breeches and coat; not to speak of the undignified position I was compelled to assume amid the jeers and laughter of the surrounding populace!” exclaimed the Baron, eyeing the small baker’s boy.

“I am told by my master to demand payment, and payment he says he must have,” answered the small baker’s boy.

“Our wisest course will be to pay the demand made on us, and I would advise you in future not to tumble into a baker’s basket if you can help it,” said the Count.

The Count, who was always open-handed, paid the demand made on the Baron, to the infinite satisfaction of the small baker’s boy. The Baron’s spirits revived after he had done justice to the supper prepared by the kind-hearted Vrouw.

“In what direction shall we next bend our steps?” asked the Count.

“I have a fancy to visit the province of Guelderland, the region of roses; and afterwards Friesland, celebrated throughout Holland for the beauty of its fair dames and its ancient and interesting cities,” answered the Baron.

“How shall we travel?” asked the Count.

“I have been giving the matter my earnest consideration,” answered the Baron, “and I have arrived at the conclusion that the easiest, the pleasantest, if not the most expeditious, mode of travelling will be by Trek-Schuit, or canal-boat, where we can sit at our ease or sleep and eat while we are dragged smoothly on over the placid water.”

“Certainly, the idea is an excellent one,” said? the Count, who was always ready to do what the Baron proposed.

Accordingly the next morning, as the Trek-Schuit was passing the village, they took their seats on board, and proceeded on their journey.

Chapter Eleven.

The Trek-Schuit is a long canal-boat, divided into two compartments, forming a first and second class, and is drawn by a trotting horse along the towing-path. It contains seats well cushioned for sleeping, a table for meals, and every other convenience for ease-loving people who are not in a hurry. A pleasanter mode of conveyance cannot be conceived; there is no shaking or vibration; in rainy weather the cabin is warm and comfortable, and in fine weather the passenger can sit on deck and watch the fast receding landscape. Such was the character of the boat in which the Count and Baron were now travelling. The scenery need not be minutely described; but it presented a pleasing level on every side, and the canal being in many places raised above the surrounding country, they could look down from their seat on the deck of the boat on the corn-fields and broad green meadows, scattered over with farmhouses and cottages, and occasionally with a few trees. Windmills of course very often made their appearance, and cows, generally black and white, but mixed sometimes with a few red ones, were to be seen on every hand. The scenery, though unvaried, was not wearisome, especially when the sun shone brightly; and the fields looked fresh and green, and the water sparkled, and everywhere marks of man’s industry were to be seen. Sometimes locks had to be passed, and the boat either ascended or descended a few feet, but it was not often she left the usual level. The particulars of the journey need not be detailed, as no adventures of especial interest were met with. Leaving the Trek-Schuit they continued their journey on land, having engaged a vehicle of antique form, the box handsomely sculptured, highly coloured and gilt, and the harness well burnished. It was drawn by a fine black horse ornamented with red bows. They stepped in, and away they dashed at a rapid rate along the well-kept road. At length, early one afternoon, they alighted at a small inn, where they resolved to remain for a day or two, that they might become better acquainted with the country and its inhabitants than they could be either by gliding through it on board a Trek-Schuit, or galloping along the road in a vehicle.

“Now,” said the Baron, after he and the Count had satisfied the cravings of the inner man, “let us go forth in search of adventures.” They walked along arm-in-arm, as was their wont, looking about them.

“Ah, what do I see!” exclaimed the Count. “A pretty villa, embowered by trees! a rarity in these regions. I wonder whether the inhabitants are as attractive as their residence: so lovely a spot may be the abode of the most graceful of sylphs. Even at this distance we can see what pretty creepers adorn its trellised porch; how green the lawn, how bright are the flowers; and see, yonder, how the blue river dotted by white sails sparkles in the sunlight!”

“Ah, very beautiful, but I should not be surprised to find it inhabited by some stout double-fisted Vrouw or surly old bachelor,” said the Baron.

The Count and the Baron walked on till they reached the garden, which was separated from the road by a light paling. On more level ground it would have been by a moat or ditch.

“Ah!” exclaimed the Count. “My dear Baron, there are two young ladies seated among the roses, charming and graceful, instead of the old Vrouw you predicted we should find; and there is a little girl with her doll on the grass, and in the porch I see an elderly lady with a young boy. What a beautiful family picture!”

“Ah! but do you not observe that elderly gentleman with spectacles, smoking his pipe,” said the Baron, as they advanced a few steps, and the individual spoken of came into sight. “He regards us with no friendly gaze through those spectacles of his, as if he already looked on us with suspicion.”

“We will hope that his thoughts are of a more amiable character,” said the Count. “At all events, let us approach, and show him that we are worthy of any attentions he may be disposed to bestow on us.”

“Come along, then; bashfulness is not among the list of my vices,” said the Baron. And together they advanced to the palings, when, simultaneously taking off their hats, they each made a profound bow to the two ladies, when the old gentleman, with spectacles on his nose and pipe in his hand, standing near the flower basket, turned round his head and regarded them with an inquiring glance.

“This is my friend, Count Funnibos,” said the Baron; whereon the Count, making another bow towards the old gentleman with the spectacles, said, “And this is my friend and travelling companion, Baron Stilkin,” on which the Baron made a bow towards the old gentleman in spectacles and another towards the young ladies seated among the roses, who gracefully bent their heads in recognition of the compliment. The old gentleman, not to be outdone in civility, advancing a few paces, made two polite bows in return.

“Come, we have produced some impression,” whispered the Baron to the Count. “We must not let the grass grow under our feet. I will speak to them. Most excellent and esteemed Mynheer,” he said, “Count Funnibos and I are travellers round the world, imbued with a desire to see everything interesting, beautiful, wonderful, and strange on our way, and especially the habits and customs of the inhabitants of the countries we visit. We shall therefore esteem it a favour if you will allow us to make your acquaintance, and that of your charming family. Those young ladies are, I presume, your daughters, and your excellent Vrouw, seated under the porch, is, I conclude, affording instruction to one of the younger members of your family.”

“You are perfectly right, Mynheers. As you have announced you names, I am bound to inform you that mine is Hartog Van Arent, those three ladies are my daughters, and the elder lady is my Vrouw, to whom I shall have the happiness of introducing you if you will come through the gate you will find a little further on near the house.”

Again the Count and Baron bowed, and expressed the honour they should feel at being introduced to the Vrouw Van Arent and her charming daughters. The young ladies, on hearing this, smiled sweetly, and rising from their seats approached the house to be in readiness to be introduced to the strangers. The Vrouw welcomed them cordially, as Dutch ladies are accustomed to receive guests, and the young ladies were not behind their mother in that respect, while the little girl ran up with her doll, which she held up to be admired, thinking more of it than herself. In a few minutes the Count and the Baron made themselves perfectly at home, as if they had known the family all their lives. Mynheer Van Arent invited them to enter the house, and after partaking of an early supper, they spent a pleasant evening. The young ladies played the piano and sang, if not artistically, with sweet voices, so that the Count and the Baron professed themselves completely captivated. They were considering it time to take their departure, when another guest was announced, and a gentleman entered who was received by Mynheer Van Arent and his Vrouw in as cordial a manner as they had been. He was introduced to the Count and the Baron as Mynheer Bunckum. He made them a somewhat stiff bow, which they returned with, their usual politeness. He evidently was taking great pains to make himself agreeable to the young ladies, who seemed, however, not over-inclined to encourage his attentions.

At last, pulling out his watch, he observed that it was getting late, looking at the Count and the Baron at the same time as a hint to them to take their departure; but they waited till he had made his bow and retired, then, after some more agreeable conversation, they also bowed themselves out of the house.

“Truly,” observed the Count, “this has been the pleasantest evening we have spent since we started on our travels.”

“So pleasant that I presume you will wish to spend some more of the same character,” remarked the Baron.

“Indeed I do,” said the Count. “For, to confess the truth, I have lost my heart.”

“Have you, indeed!” exclaimed the Baron. “To which of the fair ladies, may I ask?”

“That remains as yet a secret unknown to myself,” said the Count. “They are both so charming.”

“Pray, as soon as you can discover the secret, do not conceal it from me,” said the Baron. “I have particular reasons for asking.”

All this time they were not aware that they were closely followed by some one, who must have heard every word they said. Suddenly the sound of a footfall reached their ears, and turning they saw a figure, who, finding that he was discovered, rapidly retreated.

“Stop!” cried the Count, “whoever you are; we wish to have a few words with you.”

“Stop, I say!” repeated the Baron. But their shouts were unheeded, and neither of them felt inclined to give chase.

“Who can that be?” asked the Count.

“That is the question,” answered the Baron. “What do you say to Mynheer Bunckum? He cast a jealous eye at us, as if he considered we were rivals.”

“Then he should have come up and spoken to us like a man,” said the Count. “We must be on our guard, at all events, for he evidently has no friendly feeling towards us.”

The Count and the Baron met with no further adventures till they reached the inn.

Chapter Twelve.

The next morning the Count and the Baron rose from their downy slumbers and took breakfast, to which the Baron paid due attention, as he did, in truth, to all his meals.

“Now, my dear Baron, what do you say—shall we continue our journey, or again pay our respects to the estimable family of Van Arent?” asked the Count.

“At this hour, I fear, from what I know of the habits of the people, that our visit would not be welcome,” said the Baron. “The young ladies are probably engaged in milking the cows, or making butter, or superintending the manufacture of cheese. We should catch them in their working-dresses, and be considered intruders.”

“Then the best thing we can do is to sally forth and see the country,” said the Count. “But yet I should not like to leave this part of it without again having the happiness of basking in the smiles of those charming young ladies, Vrouw Margaret and Vrouw Isabelle.”

“I think you may be content with basking in the smiles of one of the two,” remarked the Baron, “I flatter myself that the smiles of the other are directed towards me.”

“We won’t quarrel on the matter,” said the Count, who greatly disliked to dispute. “I was going to tell you that I have an idea.”

“Have you, indeed!” exclaimed the Baron. “It is not often you indulge in anything of the sort, tray let me know what it is.”

“My idea is this,” said the Count. “You know that I am an exquisite player on the violin, though I did not bring one with me; for I might have been mistaken, had I done so, for an itinerant musician. The idea that has occurred to me is that I will purchase one, so that I may be able to accompany the fair Vrouws when they play the piano. They are sure to be delighted, and I shall be raised still higher in their good graces.”

“You are only thinking of yourself,” muttered the Baron. “But suppose,” he added aloud, “no violin is to be found in this rural district, how can you obtain one?”

“I propose that we proceed to the nearest town, where such instruments are sure to be on sale; and we can return by the evening, when we are more likely to be admitted into Mynheer Van Arent’s family circle,” said the Count. “You, Baron, surely play on some instrument, and you might obtain it at the same time.”

“The only instruments I play are the Jew’s harp and the kettle-drum, and I am afraid that neither are very well suited to entertain ladies in their drawing-room,” said the Baron.

“Not exactly. The latter would be rather too cumbersome to carry about,” said the Count. “However, let us set forth, or we shall not have time to return before the evening.” Fortunately they found a Trek-Schuit just starting for the far-famed town of Sneek.

Occasionally the boat passed between some of the small towns and villages they had seen afar off, composed of neat houses with yellow and blue blinds. The housewives, in golden casques, the usual headdress, standing at the doors often exhibited a bright copper jug glistening in the sun. The travellers frequently passed numerous boats, the men on board of which saluted them politely. They appeared good-natured, happy fellows, with ruddy countenances, light hair, and rings hanging to their ears. They were mostly dressed in red shirts, blue and white knickerbockers fastened at the knee, and thick brown woollen stockings. The boat, as she glided on, was generally accompanied by sea-gulls, storks with long legs and outstretched necks, flights of lapwings, and other species of the feathered tribe, uttering their plaintive cries, and ever and anon as they skimmed the waves diving below the water to bring some hapless fish in their long slender beaks.

“Here we are,” cried the Count, as they glided into the picturesque little town of Sneek, with its houses of white woodwork and painted window-frames, its winding streets and high-arched bridges, its trees and shady walks along the canals, its gaily-painted canal-boats, and its picturesque water-gate. The town itself was soon inspected, while the Count and the Baron on their way made inquiries for the instrument the former was anxious to purchase. They were almost giving up the search in despair, when they heard of a manufacturer who was said to have produced violins which, in the hands of an artist, were capable of giving forth such touching sounds that many who heard them were moved to tears.

“That is just the description of instrument I require,” exclaimed the Count.

He and the Baron hastened on to the shop of the manufacturer. It was an ancient building, the front of which looked as if, before long, it would become acquainted with the roadway. There were not only violins, but other musical instruments and curiosities of all sorts.

“Before I part with the violin I must hear you play,” said the vendor; “I never allow my instruments to go into unskilled hands.”

The Count eagerly took the violin, and played a few notes. The Baron produced his pocket-handkerchief, and placed it to his eyes.

“Touching, very touching!” he exclaimed.

“You will do,” said the vendor.

The Count, well pleased with his purchase, asked the Baron if he could find any instrument to suit him.

The Baron shook his head, mournfully. “I must depend on my voice; and, provided I do not catch a cold, that will, I hope, produce as much effect as your fiddle.”

“We shall see,” said the Count.

Leaving the shop, they hastened back to the Trek-Schuit, which was about to return the way they had come. The journey occupied so long a time that the shades of evening were already stealing over the landscape when they reached their inn. Though the Count was eager at once to set out for the house of Mynheer Van Arent, the Baron declared that, without his supper, he could not sing at all. By the time that was finished it was dark.

“Now,” said the Count, “let us go; even for you, Baron, I cannot wait longer.”

The Count, of course, carried his violin.

“As it is too late to present ourselves, we will remain outside among the trees. You shall play an air, and I will sing a song, and we will then go in and ascertain the effect,” said the Baron.

They soon got to a part of the shrubbery where they could effectually conceal themselves. Overhead they observed a tall tree—one of the branches of which extended to the walls of the house.

“Now,” whispered the Baron, “shall I sing, or will you commence an air on your violin?”

“I will begin,” said the Count, who was on the point of drawing the bow across the strings, when the Baron grasped his arm.

“Hark!” he said; “look up there.”

What was their astonishment to observe a figure climbing the ancient tree they had remarked close above them. They, at all events, had not been discovered. Higher and higher the person climbed, till he gained a bough extending towards the house. Along it he made his way. When near the end, he stopped and threw several pieces of a branch he broke off against the shutter of a window, which was at no great distance from where he stood.

The Count, thus interrupted in his intended serenade, with jealous eyes watched the proceedings of the stranger, fully expecting that either Vrouw Margaret or Vrouw Isabelle would appear at the window. At length it opened, when, instead, the more portly form of Vrouw Van Arent herself came into view. She gazed with open eyes at the stranger standing up on the bough of the tree.

“Who are you, who thus, in so unseemly a way, ventures to disturb the quiet of our abode?” she asked, in somewhat angry tones.

“Hist, hist, Vrouw Van Arent! I am Ten Dick Bunckum. Not wishing to appear in the presence of your fair daughters, I have taken this method of warning you of a danger which threatens your family. Yesterday evening two persons were received in your house, who pretend to be a Count and a Baron. I have strong evidence, if not proof positive, that they are strolling musicians, who are travelling about the country to prey on the unwary. My great desire is to put you on your guard against them.”

“I am much obliged to you for your good intentions, Mynheer Bunckum, but would rather you had taken some other method of warning me, instead of throwing sticks at this window.”

“I could not tell whether those pretended Count and Baron were already in your house; and, as my object was to avoid meeting them, I climbed into this tree that I might wait till I saw you approach the window.”

“The Count and Baron have not come to the house this evening, and I would advise you, Mynheer Bunckum, to descend from your perilous position, and allow my husband and me to arrange our family affairs as we think right and best; and I must again beg you to get off that tree, and take care, as you do so, that you do not fall down and break your neck.”

“I obey you, Vrouw Van Arent,” answered Mynheer Bunckum, cautiously retracing his steps along the branch, while the lady of the mansion shut the window, and closed the shutter over it, which completely excluded the light.

The Count and the Baron meantime waited in their place of concealment, fully believing that Mynheer Bunckum, on reaching the ground, would discover them. They had no wish that he should do this, as it would show him that they were aware of his malignant designs. They therefore drew close under the bushes, scarcely venturing to to breathe. They could hear him, as he reached the ground, threatening vengeance on their heads. He passed so close to them that the Baron, by catching hold of his leg, might have tripped him up, and punished him for his false accusations; but they wisely allowed him to go on, as they considered that such a proceeding would not be calculated to raise them in the estimation of Mynheer Van Arent and his family. They waited till he had got to some distance when, coming out of their place of concealment, they followed him to ascertain in what direction he was going. He was evidently too much put out to venture that evening into the presence of the ladies.

On the way to their inn they naturally looked about them to the right hand and to the left, as well as occasionally behind, to be certain that their jealous rival, as they considered Mynheer Bunckum, was not following them. He all the time was engaged in forming a design against their liberties of which they had no notion. On reaching the inn, they found a note on pink paper in a delicate female hand purporting to come from Mynheer Van Arent, inviting them to accompany his family to a picnic on the banks of the Meer on the following morning.

“By all means we will go,” exclaimed the Count. “I will take my violin, and who knows what may happen.”

In the course of conversation they made inquiries about the various people in the neighbourhood of the landlady, whose good graces they had won.

“What sort of a person is Mynheer Bunckum?” asked the Count.

“He owns the castle of Wykel, not far from this. It is said that he is trying to win the hand of one of the daughters of Mynheer Van Arent, but whether or not he will gain her is a question. I desire to put you on your guard against him, Mynheers, for he is not a man to be trifled with.” Proceeding at an early hour the next morning to the house of Mynheer Van Arent, they found the family prepared for their excursion. The distance to the lake was not great, and on reaching the pier, running out a short distance into the shallow water, a large boat of substantial build was seen alongside. She of course was round-sterned, drawing but little water, but had tolerably sharp bows; her poop was gilded and carved, as was her stern, while every part was either varnished or brilliantly coloured. She was indeed the family yacht. Instead of white canvas her sails were of a dark red hue, though of fine material; she had a comfortably fitted-up cabin, with every luxury on board. Numberless other vessels, broad and shallow, were sailing here and there over the lake, their sails either red brick or saffron-coloured, reflected on the violet-tinted waters, which contrasted with the silvery hue of the sky, and a green ribbon of land bordering the lake. These flat-bottomed, bulging round vessels were employed in distributing the produce of the neighbouring farms to all parts of the country around.

A short sail on board the yacht took the party to the point which had been selected for their picnic, at which other yachts of a similar construction quickly arrived, and the viands they had brought were then carried on shore, and spread under the shade of the trees. Mynheer Bunckum before long made his appearance, looking gloomy and morose, as he observed the strangers. The Count and the Baron were introduced to a number of persons, who did their best to make themselves agreeable. The feast having concluded, at which if there was not much wit there was a great deal of laughter, the party retreated to a more shady spot, where the Count was requested to favour them with an air on his violin. He gladly complied, and elicited general applause, greatly to the annoyance of Mynheer Bunckum, who, getting up, retired to a distance, and sat himself down, fishing-rod in hand, on a point which projected into the lake, as if such music was not worth listening to.

Meantime a boat had arrived on the beach containing three or four urchins from a neighbouring village, one of whom climbed up on a bank overlooking the spots where the party were collected, and the dinner cloth was spread. He had so placed himself that he could make a signal to his companions: two of these shortly afterwards getting out of their boat, and seeing him beckon, cautiously crept along the shore towards where the party had been enjoying their meal. There was no doubt about their object: they filled not only their capacious pockets, but some large handkerchiefs which they had brought, with everything on which they could lay their hands, especially the silver spoons and forks and other plate. Then at a sign from their companion they rapidly retreated, he quickly following, unnoticed by Mynheer Bunckum or any one else. On reaching their boat, away they pulled with their booty, and were soon out of sight. The Baron and two or three other gentlemen, whose appetites had not been fully satisfied, returned shortly after this to the table, if so it could be called, and though they observed that some of the things had been disarranged, it did not occur to them that the spot had been visited by robbers. The Baron was the last to leave and return to the ladies. Not till the servants came to pack up the plates and dishes, and knives and forks, was the robbery discovered. Just then Mynheer Bunckum, who had got tired of fishing, and had returned to the table, on hearing that several articles were missing, exclaimed:

“I know who is the robber, I saw what that Baron was about. I shall now be able to prove that my suspicions were correct!”

He, however, made no further remark at the time, so that the harmony which had prevailed during the picnic was not disturbed. On the approach of evening the various parties separated to their different homes. The Count and the Baron accompanied Mynheer Van Arent and his family to theirs, whence after a friendly farewell they returned to their inn.

Chapter Thirteen.

The day following the picnic on the Meer, the Count and the Baron set out to pay a visit to the Van Arent family. As yet, however, they could not tell whether the courteous treatment they had received was simply owing to their being strangers of rank. The Count fancied that his performances on the violin, and the Baron supposed that his fascinating powers of conversation, and other attractive qualities, had something to do with it. On reaching the house they were told that the ladies had gone to take a walk at some distance.

“Perhaps we may meet them,” said the Count to the Baron.

They inquired of the servant in what direction the ladies had gone. He pointed to the northward, and they set out; they walked on and on till they arrived at a wood, such as is not often found in that part of the country, and they observed an ancient tower with battlements rising up amid the trees.

“This looks like an interesting place,” observed the Count, “let us explore it.”

“By all means,” answered the Baron. And they walked on with that air of curiosity generally exhibited by strangers when arriving at a place worth seeing.

“Fine trees and shady walks, really my castle scarcely exhibits anything finer; if I marry the fair Isabelle, it’s just the sort of place I should like to possess; but we may pay it a hurried visit,” said the Count.

“Then it is the Vrouw Isabelle on whom your regards are fixed?” observed the Baron.

“It was but a slip of my tongue,” said the Count. “I did not intend to betray my secret.”

“All right, my dear Count; to say the truth, my heart has been captivated by the Vrouw Margaret, so that we shall not be rivals.”

“That is a fortunate circumstance,” observed the Count, in a somewhat supercilious tone. “However, you must remember that we, both of us, have to ascertain the feelings of the ladies; at present we are left somewhat in the dark on that subject.”

“I cannot say that I think so,” answered the Baron, drawing up his shirt-collar. “I flatter myself that the Vrouw Margaret regards me with peculiar distinction.”

“Did I possess more vanity in this case, I might have said the same with regard to Vrouw Isabelle,” said the Count.

“You do, do you!” exclaimed a voice from among the bushes, which made the Count and the Baron start.

“Who could that have been?” exclaimed the Count.

“Where did it come from?” cried the Baron.

“Let us try to discover the eavesdropper,” said the Count.

“We had better not,” whispered the Baron. “Depend upon it the person, whoever he is, is prepared for us. We had better move on, and not in future talk so loudly of our private affairs.”

“Your advice is good,” said the Count; “we will follow it.”

And they moved on a short distance, paying much less attention than before to the beauties of the scenery. They had just reached the neighbourhood of what appeared to be an old summer-house, now neglected and disused, for it was thickly overgrown with ivy and various creepers. Looking up close to it they observed a board, on which was painted in large letters, “Whoever is found trespassing in these grounds will be punished with the utmost rigour of the law.” Scarcely had they read this unpleasant announcement, when they observed at the farther end of the walk a party of men, who from their costume were evidently huntsmen or gamekeepers, led by a person whom they recognised at a glance as Mynheer Bunckum, their jealous rival.

“There are the robbers! There are the impostors! There are those thieves and vagabonds, who have come here pretending to be noblemen travelling for their pleasure. On! on! seize them, my men! treat them with no ceremony.”

Mynheer Bunckum, though he shouted, did not move himself, and his followers appeared to hesitate for a few moments. This gave time to the Count and Baron to retreat behind the summer-house.

“Come along, Count, we must trust to our legs to escape from these fellows,” cried the Baron, and he set off running as fast as he could go.

“Stop! stop!” cried the Count. “You will be seen to a certainty and overtaken; come in here, I perceive an opening, and we shall be able to lie hid, while our jealous rival passes by.”

The Baron, however, did not hear him, but still rushed on.

“I shall be seen if I attempt to run,” thought the Count. Without more ado he slipped through an opening in the side of the wall, in his hurry forgetting to feel his way. He had made but a few steps when, to his dismay, he found himself descending, and fully believed that he was about to be precipitated down a well. Greatly to his relief he reached the bottom sooner than he had expected.

“Here, at all events, I shall be secure while our jealous rival and his men are hunting about for me; but I am afraid the Baron has very little chance of escaping. I might have got into rather a pleasanter place; it is somewhat damp; I hear the frogs croaking, and feel the slippery efts and other creatures crawling about. I only hope that there are no venomous snakes; but, by the by, how am I ever to get out again? We should have acted more wisely had we walked up boldly to Mynheer Bunckum, and apologising for having entered his grounds, wished him good morning. It is entirely owing to the Baron’s cowardice that I am placed in this very unpleasant position.”

Such were the thoughts which passed through the Count’s mind, for he did not speak them aloud. He heard the voices of Mynheer Bunckum and his men, as they searched round and round the building, but none of them looked into the well, or if they did, failed to discover him. At length, to his great relief, their voices grew less and less distinct, and he was satisfied that they were moving on.

“At all events this delay will have enabled the Baron to make his escape, and I hope that by and by, when these people have given up the search, I shall be able to rejoin him,” he thought.

Meantime the Baron had continued his course. Not being much accustomed to running, he soon began to puff and blow, and wish that he could find some place in which to hide himself, and recover his wind. Instead of taking the direct path along which he and the Count had come, rightly suspecting that if he did so he should quickly be observed, he turned aside to a wilder part of the wood; he stopped every now and then to try and recover his breath, and to ascertain if the Count was following. Having no landmark to direct him, he completely lost himself, and became very uncertain whether he was making his way out of the wood, or only getting further into it.

“It was very selfish and unmannerly in Count Funnibos not to accompany me,” he said to himself. “We might have helped each other out of this difficulty; and, indeed, at any moment Mynheer Bunckum and his myrmidons may overtake me, and in the vicious mood they are in, I do not know how I shall be treated. Ah! there I see a large hollow tree. Yes, there is an opening at the bottom, I will creep in and try to conceal myself within the stem till the hue and cry is over.”

Suiting the action to the word, the Baron knelt down, and was about to crawl into the opening when he saw a movement of the bushes at a little distance off, and presently a head popped up above them.

“I hope that I was not observed,” he thought, and he quickly crawled in at the hole, unfortunately, as he did so, knocking off his hat, which rolled away on one side; he dared not crawl out again to look for it, and could only hope that it would be concealed by the tall grass and underwood which grew around. The Baron stood trembling and quaking in his boots, every moment expecting to be discovered, while he felt sure that the face of which he had caught a glimpse was no other than that of the jealous rival.

He listened anxiously; he could hear the cracking of the boughs, and then the sound of footsteps approaching. Nearer and nearer drew the footsteps; presently he heard an exclamation of surprise.

“Why, this is the hat of one of them,” said a voice.

“Yes; it is that of the fat, ridiculous little man who pretended to be a Baron,” answered a female voice.

Was it possible? Yes, the Baron felt sure that the voice was that of the fair Vrouw Margaret on whom he had placed his affections.

“Little doubt whose hat it is,” observed the first speaker. “Very likely his pockets are even now full of your father’s and Mynheer Baskerville’s plate. What shall we do with him if we catch him?”

“I must leave him to your tender mercies,” said Vrouw Margaret. “As he deceived us so grossly I cannot plead for him. Punish him as you think fit, and then let him go, if he will promise not to come near our house again.”

“We have not caught him yet, though,” observed Mynheer Bunckum. “But here come my men, and we’ll make a thorough search in the neighbourhood.”

The Baron at this trembled more and more; while Mynheer Bunckum and Vrouw Margaret were speaking he heard several other persons approaching, who had, he judged by the remarks they let fall, been searching in vain for the Count. No one seemed to remark the hole in the tree; indeed, probably judging by the Baron’s figure, they did not suppose that he could have crawled into it.

“The chances are the two went off together,” remarked one of the keepers, “and by this time they are well out of the park.”

“But what about this head-piece?” said Mynheer Bunckum, holding up the Baron’s hat.

“He may have dropped it in his flight,” said the keeper.

“If that is the case, we ought to be still pursuing them,” said Mynheer Bunckum. “On, my men, and bring them back to me dead or alive! Come, Vrouw Margaret, we will continue our ramble; really, it is scarcely worth while to take so much trouble about the capture of these contemptible people, were it not to recover your father’s and Mynheer Baskerville’s plate.”

They had gone but a short distance when they observed one of the keepers returning.

“I must hurry on the others,” said Mynheer Bunckum. “Stay but a moment, my fair Vrouw, and I will return to you,” he said, and hastened away.

Just then a shout fell on the ear of Vrouw Margaret, and she made her way in the direction from which it proceeded, when looking over the bushes she caught sight of the keeper dragging on the unfortunate Baron by the collar of his coat. The keeper was a knowing fellow, a strong, sturdy Frieslander. Suddenly it struck him that the Baron, in spite of his rotund figure, might have crept into the hole at the bottom of the old oak; and as the Baron’s hat had been found near it, he divined, and truly, that it had been knocked off while the Baron was creeping in. He accordingly had gone back for the purpose of ascertaining whether his suspicions were correct. Putting in his hand, he felt one leg, then he felt another. The Baron in vain tried to draw them up out of the way; the sturdy Frieslander hauled and hauled much in the same way as he would have pulled a snake out of its hole, and dragged the hapless Baron out of the hollow tree.

“I have got you, Mynheer, have I?” he said, looking at the Baron’s pale countenance. “Why did you hide? Honest men do not try to conceal themselves. Come along, and answer for yourself to Mynheer Bunckum, and tell us what has become of your companion.”

The Baron was too much alarmed to reply or to offer any resistance; indeed, in the grasp of the sturdy Frieslander it would have been useless, so like a lamb he accompanied his captor. Suddenly, however, he saw a fair face looking over the bushes—it was that of the Vrouw Margaret. The sight aroused all the manhood within him; he knew himself to be innocent, he knew that the treatment he was receiving was owing to the ill-feeling of a jealous rival. He determined to show that he would not submit tamely to be ill-treated, and suddenly starting forward he endeavoured to free himself from the grasp of his captor. A fatal resolution—the Frieslander in a moment tripped up his heels, and down he fell with his face on the ground, while the Frieslander knelt over him exclaiming—

“You will escape me, will you! you are mistaken, Mynheer;” and, his anger aroused, seizing the Baron by the hair, he rubbed his face in the muddy ground.

In vain the Baron tried to free himself, in vain he tried to cry out; the moment he opened his mouth, down went his face again into the mud till he was well-nigh suffocated.

“Will not you, Vrouw Margaret, have pity on me? Will you not interfere to save me from this cruel indignity?” he exclaimed, but the Vrouw Margaret calmly watched the proceedings of the sturdy Frieslander as if she highly approved of them.

“Will you go along quietly?” asked the Frieslander, after he had subjected the Baron for some minutes to this disagreeable treatment. “Say ‘yes,’ or ‘no;’ for, if you say ‘no,’ be prepared for another mouthful of mud.”

“Yes, yes; I will go!” cried the Baron, the conduct of the fair Vrouw cutting him to the heart.

“Well, then, I will let you get up; but remember, the instant you attempt to release yourself, down you go again, and perhaps in a less pleasant place than the last.” Saying this the sturdy Frieslander placed the Baron on his legs.

“Come, you must wash the mud off your face in yonder pool,” said the Frieslander, “for you look more ridiculous than you can well imagine.”

The Baron accepted his captor’s offer, for not only his mouth and nostrils, but his very eyes were filled with mud.

“Come, you look a little less ridiculous now,” said the Frieslander with a taunting laugh, as he led the Baron past the spot where, Vrouw Margaret was standing. In vain the Baron stretched out his hands and entreated her to plead for him, but she turned aside her head, and his captor dragged him along till they met Mynheer Bunckum and the rest of his men.

“I have got one of them!” cried the Frieslander. “What is to be done with him? I have not yet examined his pockets, so cannot say whether the stolen plate is in them.”

“We will soon ascertain that,” said Mynheer Bunckum.

The unfortunate Baron Stilkin was subjected to the indignity of being searched. Only such ordinary things as a gentleman carries about with him were discovered in the Baron’s pockets, but certainly no silver forks or spoons.

“And where is your companion?” asked Mynheer Bunckum in an authoritative tone.

“I know no more than the man in the moon. I parted from him when we read the notice that trespassers on this estate would be prosecuted; till then we did not know that we were trespassing, but on discovering that such was the case, we were retiring when, your shouts alarming us, we proceeded farther than we should otherwise have done.”

“Then you say you know nothing about the so-called Count Funnibos?”

“I know nothing about the real Count Funnibos, for real he is, as I am a real Baron!” cried the ill-treated noble, his spirits rising once more. “I conclude that he is by this time out of these grounds, and on his way to the inn where we are residing; and I must beg you to understand, Mynheer, that we shall forthwith proceed to the Hague, and lay a formal complaint before our Ambassador of the way in which we distinguished foreigners have been treated.”

“I will take the consequences,” answered Mynheer Bunckum; and turning to his servants, he said, “We have no evidence against the man; conduct him to the confines of the estate, and with such kicks as you feel disposed to bestow, let him go his way.”

“I protest, I loudly protest against this treatment!” cried the Baron.

But the sturdy Frieslander with his companions, utterly regardless of all the Baron could say, dragged him along till they reached the outskirts of the estate, when, placing him before them, they bade him run for his life, which to the best of his power he endeavoured to do to save himself from the kicks they had threatened to bestow. On he ran, not once looking behind him, followed by the derisive laughter of the sturdy Frieslander and his companions.

Chapter Fourteen.

Mynheer Bunckum’s head butler or steward, a person who was looked upon with great respect on account of the embroidered coat he wore, was passing, shortly after the events narrated in our last chapter, the ruined building in which the Count, unable to release himself, still lay concealed, when a groan reached his ear. Not being a believer in ghosts or goblins, on hearing it he exclaimed, “Oh, oh! that’s a human voice; somebody must have tumbled down the well. Whoever that somebody is, I will get him out; but how that is to be done is the question.” He hunted about till he discovered a hay-rake with a long handle. “This will serve me as a fishing-rod, and I should not be surprised to find a fish at the end of it.” The steward accordingly went to an opening in the wall just above the well; he plunged down the rake and quickly brought it up without anything at the end. “I must try again,” he said, and he passed it round the wall. “I have got something now,” he exclaimed, and he began to haul away. “A heavy fish at all events,” he cried out. Though a muscular man, as most Frieslanders are, he had a hard job to haul up the rake. At last, stooping down, his hand came in contact with the collar of a man’s coat. He hauled and hauled away; his rake had caught in the hyacinthine locks of Count Funnibos, whose countenance of a cadaverous hue now came in sight.

“Ho, ho!” cried the steward. “Who are you, may I ask?”

The Count was too much exhausted and alarmed to make any answer, and even when the steward set him on his legs, he had to lean against the ivied wall to support himself.

“You are the person, I have a notion, who has been giving us all this trouble,” said the steward, looking the Count in the face. “If so, come along with me, and my master, Mynheer Bunckum, will know what to say to you.”

“I had no intention of giving you or any one else any trouble,” answered the Count, when he at last found words to express himself. “I am much obliged to you for pulling me out of that dreadful hole, and shall be still further obliged if you will brush my clothes, and then conduct me through these grounds so that I may return to my hotel, which I am anxious to reach this evening.”

The steward on hearing this, instead of acceding to the Count’s request, burst into a loud fit of laughter.

“Ho, ho, ho! Very likely indeed,” he answered. “You must come along with me into the presence of Mynheer Bunckum, and he will settle how to dispose of you.”

“But I have no wish to see Mynheer Bunckum,” said the Count; “indeed, I have a decided objection to do so. He has allowed the most unjust suspicions to take possession of his mind.”

“I care not a pin for your objections,” said the steward. “Come along with me, I can waste no further time: come along, I say;” and the steward laying hold of the Count by one arm, and the collar of his coat with the other hand, walked him along the path towards the castle in the fashion policemen are wont to treat offenders in the streets of London. The Count was too weak from hunger, alarm, and fatigue to offer any resistance, and allowed himself to be conducted in the direction the steward chose to go. They soon reached the castle; the steward, on inquiring for Mynheer Bunckum, was informed that he had gone out with the fair daughters of Mynheer Van Arent.

“Then there is but one thing to be done,” observed the steward. “We must lock up this stranger in the dungeon till our master returns. Where are the keys?” They were quickly brought to him, and aided by the domestics of the establishment, he led the Count down a flight of stone steps to the dungeon.

“My friend,” said the Count, who was beginning to recover, “this is very extraordinary treatment, but I presume you are acting under orders. I have a request to make. I am very hungry, and shall feel grateful if you will bring me some food; and, as I scarcely know otherwise how to pass the period of my incarceration, I shall be still further obliged if you will supply me with a violin, should you have such an instrument in the castle.”

“Ho, ho, ho!” laughed the steward. “Then you are a strolling musician, as we have heard it reported. Well, we happen to have a violin, for I play it myself, and you shall be supplied with food, as I conclude Mynheer Bunckum would not wish to starve you to death.”

“Thank you, my good friend, I am much obliged to you for your promise; at the same time, I beg leave to remark that I am not a strolling musician, but am as I represent myself, Count Funnibos.”

“That is neither here nor there,” said the steward, “you shall have the food and you shall have the violin; now please go down those steps, and make yourself as much at home as you like.”

Finding resistance useless, the Count descended the steps into a large vaulted chamber, which appeared from the contents on which the light fell through the open door, to be used as a lumber-room or store-room rather than as a prison.

“Is this a fit place in which to thrust a gentleman?” said the Count, feeling his dignity considerably hurt. “Had it been a dungeon, with chains and bolts and bars, it would have been only such as many an unfortunate nobleman has been compelled to inhabit. But to be treated as if I were a piece of lumber is unbearable.”

“We have no such refined opinions in this country, Mynheer,” said the steward, with a grin on his countenance. “But make yourself happy, there is a chest for you to sit on and another on which your supper shall be placed. As to your bed and bedding we will see about that by-and-by, and the violin you ask for shall be brought forthwith. Perhaps in return you will favour me with a tune, as I am a lover of music, and shall be pleased to hear you play.”

The Count, who, though not very wise in all matters, made the best of everything, sat himself down on the chest with folded arms to consider how, under the disagreeable circumstances in which he was placed, it would be best to act. “One thing is very clear, that Mynheer Bunckum has got the upper hand of me. The best thing I can do as soon as I obtain my liberty is to take my departure. The fair Isabelle may or may not care a stiver for me, and if she does not I must wish her farewell and try to forget her charms.”

Just as he had arrived at this wise resolution the door opened, and the steward reappeared with a violin in his hand, followed by a servant bringing a very respectable supper.

“Thank you, my friend, thank you,” said the Count, getting up; “I should be happy to show you my gratitude at once by playing a tune, but I think that I shall play with more spirit after I have partaken of this food, for, as you may suppose, I am pretty well starved.”

“I shall be happy to await your pleasure,” said the steward, who was struck by the Count’s polite manner, and lifting up the dish-covers he helped him liberally to the contents of the dishes. The Count, considering all things, did ample justice to the meal set before him, as well as to a bottle of Rhenish wine.

“I might have been worse off,” he observed, greatly revived. “And now you shall have a tune.”

Whereon, taking the fiddle and screwing up the keys, he began to play in a way which astonished the Friesian steward.

“Really, you are a master of the art, Mynheer,” he observed. “Such notes have never before proceeded from that violin.”

“I am happy to please you,” answered the Count, “And now I must beg you, as soon as your master returns, to request that he will either set me at liberty and have me conveyed safely back to my hotel, or else give me better accommodation than this vault offers for the night.”

The steward faithfully promised to carry out the Count’s wishes, and, observing that he had duties to attend to, took his leave. The Count then, resuming his violin, once more began to play; the tunes he chose were such as especially suited his present feelings; they were of a gentle, pathetic character, often mournful and touching. He played on and on. Little was he aware who was listening to them. Could he have looked through the thick walls of his dungeon, he would have beheld a female form, her handkerchief to her eyes, leaning on the parapet of a terrace which ran along one of its sides. The lady whose tender feelings he had excited was no other than Isabelle Van Arent, who, with her sister and father and mother, had come that afternoon to pay a visit to Mynheer Bunckum. At length the Count ceased playing, and the lady tore herself away from the spot to rejoin her family, to whom she could not refrain from speaking of the pathetic music to which she had been listening.

“Oh, that must have been my steward, Hans Gingel. I know he plays the fiddle,” observed Mynheer Bunckum, “and he sometimes goes to some out-of-the-way corner that he may not disturb the rest of the household, who are not generally inclined to be enraptured by his music.”

“But he must, I assure you, be a very good player,” urged the fair Isabelle.

“I dare say he can manage to produce a few good notes sometimes,” said Mynheer Bunckum, in a careless tone. “Probably distance lent enchantment to the sound. I will not advise you to allow him to play very near at hand.”

Vrouw Isabelle looked puzzled, and began to fancy that her ears had deceived her; at all events, the Count had not obtained the advocate he might have gained, had she known who was the hidden musician to whom she had been listening. Mynheer Bunckum waited till his guests were gone, when he summoned his steward, Hans Gingel. “Has anything been heard of the other stranger?” he asked.

“I have him safe enough in the dungeon,” answered the steward. “He is not a bad fellow after all, as he takes the way he has been treated with wonderful good humour.” And the steward described the mode in which he had hauled the Count out of the well. “He is a rare player, too, on the violin, and I lent him mine to amuse himself with.”

“Then it was not your music with which Vrouw Isabelle was so delighted just now,” observed Mynheer Bunckum.

“No, no, no!” answered the steward laughing, “my strains are not calculated to draw tears from a lady’s eyes; to tell you the truth, Mynheer, I believe he is a Count after all.”

“His playing only agrees with the story of his being a travelling musician,” observed Mynheer Bunckum.

“But travelling musicians are not as polite and well-mannered as our prisoner,” said the steward. “I know a gentleman when I meet him.”

“But supposing he is a real Count, and the other fellow who was so unceremoniously kicked out of the place is a Baron, I may be somewhat in a scrape,” said Mynheer Bunckum.

“I will enable you to get out of it, then,” said Hans Gingel. “Let me visit the prisoner, and propose to him to make his escape. He has really won my regard, and I should be glad, were it not displeasing to you, to set him at liberty. He will only be too happy, I suspect, to get away, and will probably not trouble you, or the family of Mynheer Van Arent, any longer by his presence.”

“But I accused him and his companion of stealing the plate at the picnic, and I certainly do not know who else could have taken it,” said Mynheer Bunckum.

“As to that, I am sure he is incapable of such an act, and he would not associate with any person who was. I am, therefore, of opinion that neither he nor the Baron stole the plate; indeed, one of the men on board the yacht told me that he observed a boat with several boys approach the shore during the picnic, and that they climbed up the bank, as he supposed, to amuse themselves by watching what was going forward, or to obtain a few cakes or sweetmeats which any of the party might be disposed to give them. Now, since the plate is missing, it is much more than probable that those young monkeys took it, and, if search is made in the village, probably it will be found that they were the thieves.”

“That alters the whole complexion of affairs,” observed Mynheer Bunckum. “I am satisfied that the Baron, if such he is, will not become my rival, and Vrouw Isabelle is free to choose whom she will; therefore by all means set the Count at liberty as you propose, only don’t let him know that I am aware of what you are doing, and advise him and his companion to take their departure from this part of the country as soon as possible.”

“I will carry out your orders, Mynheer,” was the answer. The steward waited, however, till night closed in, when, with a lantern in hand, he repaired to the dungeon.

“Count Funnibos,” he said, “for such I believe you truly are, your music, and your manners, and your gentle behaviour have completely won my heart; and as I took you prisoner under what, you will allow, were somewhat suspicious circumstances, I must give myself the privilege of setting you free; and if you will consent to leave as I advise, you may do so without difficulty or danger, and by to-morrow morning be far beyond the reach of those whom you may look upon as enemies.”

The Count thought for some moments before he replied. He recollected that he had been unjustly imprisoned, accused of robbery, and insulted by the lord of the mansion; but it would save a vast deal of trouble to himself and everybody else if he were to go away and let the matter drop. He quickly, therefore, decided on the latter course.

“I accept your offer, my friend,” he answered. “When shall we set out?”

“I would advise you, Count, to wait for some hours, till everyone is in bed, and there is no risk of your being discovered and followed. I will then come for you, and conduct you down to the river, where you will find numerous boats in which you can cross the Meer, and soon make your way to the seaboard; and thence either proceed to Amsterdam by water, or go across the Zuyder Zee to Hoorn, or any other place on its shore.”

“Your plan just suits my fancy,” said the Count. “But my friend and companion, Baron Stilkin, what will become of him?”

“You can write and tell him to join you at whatever place you may happen to reach,” said Hans Gingel. “It would cause considerable delay were you to go back to your inn.”

The Count thought the matter over, and reflected that it would be very pleasant to enjoy a few days of independent action.

“I have an idea,” he said to the steward. “I will write a note to Baron Stilkin desiring him to return to Amsterdam, and to wait for me there, if you will undertake to have it delivered.”

“Very gladly, Mynheer,” answered Hans Gingel. “I will get you paper and pens. Now, if you can rest in tolerable comfort propped up between these chests, I will come for you at the hour named, and as you may grow hungry, bring you some more food to stay your appetite.” The note to the Baron was written, the Count discussed the second supper, and, having recovered from his fatigue, was perfectly ready, when the steward appeared, to make his escape from the castle.

“Tread softly,” said the steward, as he led the way up the steps. “It is important not to awaken Mynheer Bunckum or any of the servants. I have shut up the dogs, so that they will not bark unless they hear a noise.”

Cautiously they proceeded, the steward holding a lantern and the Count following close at his heels. They were soon out of the dungeon, when the steward, turning to the right, led the way along a narrow passage which conducted them to the opposite side of the building. The steward then, producing a key from his pocket, opened a door, the lock gliding back smoothly as if it had been well oiled, they passed on, and the Count found himself in the open air.

“We are now outside the castle,” whispered the steward; “but should Mynheer Bunckum look out of his window he might perhaps fancy that we are thieves, and fire off his blunderbuss at our heads; so be cautious, and do not speak above a whisper till we get to a distance.”

“I am afraid that I shall not be able to find my way in the dark,” whispered the Count.

“Do not be anxious on that subject,” answered the steward. “I intend to accompany you till day breaks, and see you safe on the high road.” They walked on and on till day began to dawn. The fresh morning air revived the Count’s spirits, and he was more than ever satisfied with himself at the thoughts of starting on an independent tour without the company of the Baron.

“I will buy a gun, and a knapsack, and a telescope, and a shooting-dress, and will trudge across the country, living on the produce of the chase. I saw a vast number of birds as we came along on the canals and borders of the Meers, and I shall have no lack of sport. Such a life suits my present mood.”

“A very excellent plan,” observed the steward; “but I would advise you to employ some more rapid means of locomotion than your own legs afford till you get to a distance from this. Mynheer Bunckum may be wandering about in the Neighbourhood, and should he fall in with you the consequences may be disagreeable.”

“I will take your advice, my friend,” said the Count; “but I must first procure the gun and the telescope, the knapsack and the shooting-dress.”

“Certainly, and I shall be happy to assist you in that object. We can at once proceed to Sneek, which being one of the chief places of the province of Friesland, everything you require can be procured.”

“I am overwhelmed by your kindness, and I accept your offer,” said the Count. And they proceeded on their way, having stopped to breakfast at a house of a friend of the steward.

They reached Sneek about noon. The articles the Count required were speedily procured.

“And now farewell, my friend,” he said, taking the steward’s hand. “We are brothers of the bow, and I look upon you as a friend who has rendered me an essential service, although you did haul me out of the well in a somewhat rough fashion.”

The steward made an appropriate answer, and they parted—he to return to Bunckum Castle, the Count to proceed to the southward.

Chapter Fifteen.

The Count, as evening approached, reached the borders of a Meer a short distance from the Zuyder Zee. It was fringed by trees and by tall reeds almost as high as the trees, which grew partly in the water and partly out of it. “If I could find a boat I might take a passage in her to the other side of the Meer, and thus continuing my journey obtain rest at the same time,” he thought.

He hunted about, and at last found a path, at the further end of which he observed a barge with her bows run into the bank. Having left his knapsack and gun on the bank, he stepped on board, thinking that some of the crew might appear. Seeing no one, he was again going on shore, when the after hatch was flung open and three huge heads adorned by nightcaps, with big staring eyes expressive of wonder, popped up, each face being more ugly than the other.

“Who are you?” asked the first.

“What business have you on board here?” inquired a second.

“Where do you come from, where do you want to go?” asked a third, the ugliest of all three.

“Really, gentlemen,” said the Count, bowing, for he was always polite, “you overwhelm me with questions. My object is to cross the Meer, or to get to some inn or farmhouse where I may pass the night in comfort.”

“Ho, ho, ho!” exclaimed the last speaker. “You will not find any inn or farmhouse where you can pass the night on the borders of this Meer, but we’ll give you a passage to the other end, for which we are bound when we have had our suppers, always provided you are willing to pay for it.”

“Certainly,” replied the Count. “I am willing to pay for everything I obtain. Your barge looks like a very safe one, and I will therefore engage a passage.”

“Safe! I should think she was safe,” answered the ugly individual. “It would require a gale to upset her with all sail hoisted. Trust Captain Jan Dunck for that.”

Upon this the Count looked harder than before at the ugly man’s countenance. “What, are you Captain Jan Dunck?” he inquired.

“No doubt about that, though I do not command so large a craft as formerly,” said the ugly man. “If I mistake not, you are Count Funnibos, whom I, once upon a time, brought round from Antwerp, and landed at Amsterdam.”

“No, you did not land me at Amsterdam,” answered the Count; “you landed me on the island of Marken, when you played that scurvy trick upon poor Pieter. I thought that you had been lost.”

“So I nearly was, for the Golden Hog went down, but my mate and small ship’s boy were saved. Here is one of them.”

The mate gave a wink of recognition.

“So you want me to carry you across the lake—is that it?” continued the skipper.

“Such is my wish,” said the Count, though, at the same time, he felt very doubtful about trusting himself and his fortunes to Captain Jan Dunck.

“Well, we’ll get under weigh immediately,” said the skipper. “Though there is no wind, we can pole the barge a considerable part of the distance.”

“But I must first get my luggage, my fowling-piece, my knapsack, and telescope,” said the Count.

“Well, be sharp about it,” answered the skipper. “Time and tide wait for no man.”

“But there is no tide in this lake, and you did not appear to be in a hurry when I came on board,” said the Count.

“For the best of reasons, we were fast asleep,” answered the skipper, as the Count went for his luggage, which neither the skipper, the mate, nor the crew offered to carry for him. He therefore brought it on board himself, for he had become wonderfully independent during his travels. He sat himself down on his knapsack, expecting that the skipper would at once get under weigh; but that individual, instead of doing so, dived again below, followed by his mate and his crew, to discuss some supper which they had stowed away in a locker.

While the Count sat awaiting the return of the skipper and his crew on deck, he observed another boat in the distance, in which was a single man. The person appeared to have been watching the barge, and now cautiously approached, using a paddle, so as to make as little noise as possible. He was apparently about to address the Count when the skipper popped up his head, with his mouth full of food, on which the stranger immediately began to row away in an opposite direction.

“Hilloa, you! have you anything to say to me? If not, keep your distance, or you will have to smart for it!” shouted the skipper.

The stranger made no reply, but rowed slowly away, and Captain Jan Dunck again dived into the cabin. The stranger then stopped, and made a sign to the Count. Soon afterwards the mate and the crew, returning on deck, cast off the rope which secured the barge to the bank, and taking up some long spars, began to pole out into the lake, while the skipper sat at the helm smoking his pipe. He smoked and smoked as he used to do on board the Golden Hog, but did not invite the Count to join him. After some time the water became too deep for poling, and the mate and the crew took to their oars. The water was calm, and there appeared to be no possibility of danger; but yet the Count did not feel altogether comfortable.

“And so you say that one-eyed Pieter threatened to bring me to justice?” growled Captain Jan Dunck.

“I said nothing of the sort,” answered the Count; “I told you that the Baron and I took one-eyed Pieter on board our boat. Had he been drowned, you would have been guilty of his death; and you ought to be thankful to me for saving you from committing so great a crime.”

“Ho, ho, ho!” laughed the skipper, and his mate and crew laughed in chorus. After the crew had rowed for some time, an island appeared in view, with dunes, or sandhills, rising over a considerable portion. It was a barren-looking spot, as far as the Count could judge in the fast increasing gloom of night.

“We are going to put into the shore there,” said the skipper, pointing to it. “If you take my advice, you will land.”

“But that is not the sort of place to which I wish to go,” said the Count. “My object on board your barge was to take a passage to some habitable region, where I could obtain food, rest, and shelter.”

“The sea-gulls will afford you plenty of food; as to rest, you can lie down on the sand; and as for shelter, your pocket-handkerchief will afford you as much as you are likely to find.”

“I protest against being so treated,” said the Count, naturally growing indignant.

“To whom do you protest,” asked the skipper, “to me or my crew? There’s no one else to hear you, and we do not care the snuff of a candle for your protestations.”

The mate and the crew uttered not a word.

“I must submit to my hard destiny,” thought the Count; “I have not made a very brilliant commencement of my sporting adventures, but I set out with the intention of shooting birds, and apparently the island abounds with them.”

In a short time the barge touched the sandy beach.

“You will step on shore, Count Funnibos,” said the skipper, with an ill-favoured grin on his countenance.

“But I have paid my passage-money, and I protest.”

“We settled that point some time ago,” said the skipper; “you will step on shore, as I have just remarked.”

The Count looked at the mate and the crew. Their countenances wore the same ill-favoured expression as did that of the skipper. They merely placed a plank from the bow of the barge to the beach.

“You will walk along the plank, Count Funnibos,” said the skipper.

The Count took up his knapsack, his gun, and his telescope, and, shrugging his shoulders with as dignified an air as he could assume, obeyed. The moment he had set foot on the island, the plank was withdrawn and his retreat cut off. Directly afterwards the mate and the crew shoved the barge away from the shore, and began rowing as before, while the skipper resumed his seat at the helm, and puffed calmly from his pipe, as if he had just performed some meritorious act. A few sea-birds came flying in with loud cries and shrieks from their daily fishing excursions over the waters, but they would not have afforded him a palatable meal even if he had shot one of them.

“The sand is soft, that is one comfort,” he thought; “and there are no wild beasts, wolves, or bears to trouble me; it might have rained, or there might have been a strong cold wind, or I might have been more hungry than I am; so I might have been worse off. A boat of some sort will probably be passing during the day and take me off. I may at present consider myself very like that great hero, Robinson Crusoe, or any other mariner who has been wrecked or marooned on a desert island.”

These sort of thoughts occupied his mind till he fell fast asleep. Having had a long walk the previous day, he was more tired than usual, and did not once wake during the whole night. The rays of the rising sun glaring into his eyes aroused him, and he sprang to his feet, feeling rather stiff and somewhat chilled, for the night had been cold. He climbed to the top of a sand-hill, that he might take a wider survey. Scarcely had he reached it than he observed a boat approaching the shore. Putting down his gun and knapsack, he took out his telescope, and that he might steady it, stretched himself on the side of the sand-hill. Having adjusted the focus, he directed it towards the boat. She came nearer and nearer. He saw that she contained several people, who seemed to have the intention of landing.

“I shall now be able to escape from this,” he thought.

As the boat approached he could clearly distinguish the features of those in her. He could not be mistaken; three were ladies—the Vrouw Van Arent and her two daughters; three were gentlemen—Mynheer Van Arent, Mynheer Bunckum, and a stranger. They helped the ladies out of the boat, and then all six walked along the beach. The stranger offered his arm to the fair Isabelle, which she took with evident willingness. Mynheer Bunckum walked on with Vrouw Margaret, and the old couple followed.

“No, I cannot join them. I cannot so demean myself as to ask for a passage to the shore,” muttered the Count. “I only hope that they will not discover me. I shall certainly not discover myself, if I can help it.”

If curiosity had brought the party to the island, they were soon satisfied, for in a short time they re-embarked, and the Count had lost his chance of escaping for that time.

“It is better that it should be so,” he said. “I should only have had to answer disagreeable questions, and perhaps have subjected myself to further indignities.”

Hunger now compelled him to seek for food, and loading his gun, he looked out for a bird which might come within range, but the birds all kept at a wary distance. He observed, further to the south, that the island was very much lower, and that the birds frequented it in greater numbers; he accordingly bent his steps in that direction. It appeared level, and, as far as he could judge, easy to walk over. On reaching it, however, he found that it was sprinkled with so many shallow pools that he would speedily wet his boots through, therefore, sitting down on the first dry spot he came to, he pulled them off and hung them over his shoulders.

“Come, I feel something like a sportsman now,” he said to himself.

Immediately afterwards a duck came quacking by within range. He fired, and, to his infinite satisfaction, brought it to the ground. He rushed eagerly forward to secure his prize, and although it went fluttering on for some distance, he succeeded in catching it, and, wringing its neck, hung it behind him.

“I need no longer fear dying of starvation, even although I may have to spend a day or two on this desert spot,” he said to himself.

To his delight he brought down, before long, another duck, and was now thinking of returning to the higher ground, when he saw a boat passing near the further end of the low part of the island. He rushed forward to make a signal, hoping to attract the attention of those on board, but by the time he had got to the point to which he was directing his steps, the boat was at such a distance that his signals could not be seen. On and on he went; the sea-fowl came shrieking and quacking round him, when, to his dismay, he observed that dark clouds were gathering in the sky, threatening a storm of no gentle nature.

“This sort of work is all very well in fine weather, but I have no fancy to be exposed to drenching rain and howling wind,” he said to himself. “I must get back, at all events, to the higher ground.”

He had got so far from it, that this was no easy matter. Before he had walked for many minutes, down came the rain like a sheet of water, driven against him by the fierce wind.

He had now good reason to be seriously alarmed. The water in the pools, before scarcely up to his ankles, now reached almost to his knees. “Can the dykes have been burst through?” he thought. “If so, my fate is sealed—not only mine, but that of numbers of the inhabitants of the surrounding district.” From the rapid way in which the surface of the Meer rose he felt convinced that this must be the case. Still the love of life compelled him to try and save himself, and he did not despair; although, as far as he could see, no means of making his escape were likely to present themselves.

Chapter Sixteen.

As he was hurrying on along the shore, he saw what looked to him like a wheelbarrow, with a heap of gourds or inflated skins, or some other roundish objects, though he could scarcely at the distance distinguish what they were. He reached the spot. “Come, at all events, if the waters rise, as I fear they will, these things will enable me to construct a raft on which I may manage to float on the troubled waters,” he said to himself.

Lashing them together, he took his seat on the top of this curiously constructed raft. Scarcely had he done so, when the waters came rushing over the island, and carried him and his raft far away as they swept onward in their course. On and on he went, his very natural fear being that he should be carried into the Zuyder Zee; he soon, however, came in sight of land raised above the waters, on which he could distinguish cottages and other buildings.

“Well, this is a new style of navigation, but I ought to be thankful that I have got something to keep me above water,” he said to himself.

He of course, as he glided on, was looking about in all directions, and he now caught sight in the distance of what he hoped was a boat. Again and again he cast his eager gaze at the object. Yes, it was a boat, and a man was in her; he waved his hat and shouted. As he approached, the Count looked at him; yes, he was, there could be no doubt about it, the one-eyed mariner, old Pieter, who shouted—

“Hold on, Mynheer! hold on! and I will soon be up to you.”

“What, don’t you know me?” asked the Count, as Pieter got near.

“Bless me, of course I do; and glad I am to have come to take you on board, or you might have been carried away into the Zuyder Zee, or somewhere else, for aught I can tell. When I saw you on board Captain Jan Dunck’s vessel, I tried to get near enough to warn you that you must beware of him, as I felt sure that he would play you some scurvy trick or other. He has been going on from bad to worse, all owing to the oceans of schiedam he has poured down that ugly mouth of his.”

This was said when the Count was comfortably seated in the stern of Pieter’s boat. There was another person on board whom the Count recognised as the small ship’s boy, who had long been Pieter’s faithful companion. He nodded and smiled his recognition, and seemed highly delighted at again meeting with the Count.

“And now where shall we go?” asked Pieter.

“To the nearest shore where I can obtain food and shelter, and change my wet garments,” answered the Count.

“Well, you do look dampish,” observed Pieter.

“Damp! I have been wet to the skin for these hours past, and almost starved to death in the bargain,” said the Count.

“Then I will lose no time in taking you to Meppel, or any other place we can most easily reach.” And bending his back to the oars, the one-eyed mariner pulled away.

“‘One good turn deserves another,’ as the old saying is,” observed Pieter, for he wanted to say something to keep up the Count’s spirits. “You saved my life and gave me this boat, and now I have the satisfaction of saving yours.”

“You are an honest fellow, Pieter, and as I prize honest men, of whom I have not discovered as many as I desire in the world, I should be glad if you and the small ship’s boy will accompany me, and I will endeavour to obtain some post which I consider suited to your merits.” Old Pieter gladly accepted the Count’s offer, and it did not make him pull the less vigorously. All night long they rowed on, till they arrived at a part of the country which the flood had not reached. Here Pieter took the Count to the house of a farmer to whom the honest boatman was well known, having been on various occasions employed by him. The good farmer treated the Count with the utmost hospitality and kindness. It was some days, however, before the Count had sufficiently recovered to be once more himself, and able to extend his walks beyond the precincts of the farm. He had gone one day to some distance, when he saw a large and picturesque house rising amid an extensive shrubbery; an open gate invited him to enter. As he walked along he caught the sound of voices, and presently found himself in the presence of a party of gentlemen, seated round a table with books and papers before them. Conspicuous on one side was a large easel supporting a handsome picture. “Ah! this is something out of the way,” thought the Count, and advancing he made a bow and introduced himself.

“You are welcome, noble Count, to our revels,” said one of the gentlemen, who appeared to be the president. “But ours is a feast of reason and the flow of soul, and we are met here to discuss works of art, to hear read the practical effusions of our members, and to enjoy the society of men of intellect and erudition.”

“A very praiseworthy and satisfactory mode of passing time, and I am fortunate in having fallen into such good company,” remarked the Count.

The various members of the society individually welcomed him. A poet had just read some verses he had composed, which were received with thundering applause, one of the excellent rules of the society being that every one was to praise the works of the rest. The artist now exhibited his paintings; when the others had admired them to their fill, the Count looked at them through his spectacles, and if he did make a mistake, and suppose that a horse was a cow, or a sheep a pig, he wisely kept his opinion to himself, merely exclaiming: “Beautiful! how true to nature. What exquisite colouring; what elegant outlines! yet all are equalled by the composition.” As no one asked him to point out the individual excellencies of which he spoke, he was looked upon as a first-rate judge of art.

“Now, gentlemen, as our friend Scrubzen has not been able to-day to complete his grand picture, I am deputed to invite you to inspect it to-morrow, when it will be in a more forward state. We shall, I hope, be favoured by your presence, Count Funnibos?”

“By all means,” answered the Count, who was highly pleased with the society into which he had fallen; and he parted from them to return to the house of his hospitable entertainer. The next morning he set out to repair to the house of which the president had given him the address.

“Several of Scrubzen’s admirers have already arrived,” said the president, whom he met at the door; “and with them a distinguished foreigner.”

As the Count and the president entered, they saw at the further end of the room a large picture on an easel representing a coast scene. On one side stood the artist explaining the details of his painting; a number of ladies and gentlemen were gazing at it with admiring glances; but one figure especially attracted the attention of the Count. It was, there could be no doubt about it, Baron Stilkin, whom he thought had long since reached Amsterdam, or had returned to his family mansion. Yes, it was the Baron, not decreased in rotund proportions since they parted. “Grand, very grand!” he exclaimed in sonorous tones, approaching the picture. “It reminds me forcibly of the best of Claude’s productions; exquisite colouring!”

“And what is your opinion, Count Funnibos?” asked the President.

“He has grown wonderfully fat,” answered the Count, who was thinking of the Baron. “I fear that no carriage can be found strong enough to take him home.”

“I beg your pardon, Count, I was speaking of the picture,” remarked the President. The Baron, however, had heard the Count’s voice; turning round, he opened his arms to give him a friendly embrace.

“What, my dear Count! Is it you, yourself?”

“I think you ran away and left me to my mysterious fate,” said the Count, with a slight degree of stiffness. “I conclude that you did not receive my letter requesting you to meet me at Amsterdam, and stating the reasons for my not rejoining you sooner; however, I am very glad to see you again.”

“No, indeed, I received no letter,” answered the Baron. “Had I done so, it would have saved me a world of anxiety.”

“We must remember that we are in the presence of strangers,” said the Count. “Our friend here desired to know my opinion of that magnificent picture. I may add that it surpasses my utmost expectations.”

His opinion highly pleased the artist as well as the spectators, who were delighted to find their countryman’s production so highly praised by two distinguished foreigners.

“And now, Count,” said the Baron, as they walked away arm in arm, “I am compelled to return home. My son, the hope of my house, is about to marry a lady whose magnificent fortune will retrieve the fallen fortunes of our family. Will you accompany me?”

“By all manner of means,” answered the Count. “I have met with sufficient adventures, or rather misadventures, to satisfy me for the rest of my life. I have seen a large portion of Holland, if not the whole of it, and I am satisfied that it is as well worth seeing as any country in the world.”

“Your decision gives me infinite satisfaction,” answered the Baron. “We will go back to-morrow, and I hope that you will be present at the wedding of my beloved son. I would rather he married the lady himself, though she is of an age which might have been considered suitable to me.”

The Count and the Baron travelled back, accompanied by Pieter and the small ship’s boy, at a far greater speed than that at which they had performed their outward journey. The Count was greatly relieved that his castle and estates had not run away during his absence, although Johanna Klack, at the very hour of his arrival, gave him notice that she must give up his service.

“To-morrow is the day fixed for my dear son’s wedding,” said the Baron, who had called on the Count. “You will, I trust, honour him and me by your presence, and that of your household.”

“By all means,” said the Count. “I will come myself, and bring one-eyed Pieter and the small ship’s boy. It will be a novel and interesting spectacle to them.”

The Count and his attendants arrived. The happy bridegroom appeared dressed in the height of fashion, the hour for the nuptial party to set out had struck.

“I must go in and bring forth the bride,” he said; and he soon reappeared with a female, holding a large bouquet in her hand. She wore a wreath of roses and a white veil over her head; her neck was long, so was her nose; her figure was the reverse of stout, but that in a youthful female is to be admired.

“Is that a mop-stick with clothes hung on it?” whispered the small ship’s boy, as he gazed at the future Baroness.

“My dear Baron,” said the Count, after he had made a profound bow to the lady, “how did your son manage to make up his mind?”

“I made it up for him,” answered the Baron. “He is a dutiful son, and does whatever I tell him. Suppose we change the subject, and when the nuptials are over, what do you say to setting out again on our travels? I shall be as ready as before to keep the accounts, and I hope to put a fair share into the common fund.”

“I will think about it,” said the Count. “At present, I have had travelling enough to satisfy me for some time to come; and as Johanna Klack has left my service, I do not know into whose hands I can satisfactorily leave the charge of my castle and estates during my absence.”

The End.

W.H.G. Kingston

"Count Ulrich of Lindburg"

Chapter One.

On the banks of the river Saal, in Merseburg, forming part of Saxony, at the time of which we speak, governed by the aged and excellent Elector Frederick, stood the Castle of Lindburg. It was one of those feudal piles of the Middle Ages, impregnable to the engines of ancient warfare, but which were destined to crumble before the iron shots with which cannon assailed them, as the system they represented was compelled to succumb to the light of that truth which the Gospel was then diffusing over the greater part of Europe.

Ulrich, Count von Lindburg, or the Knight of Lindburg, as he was often called, sat in a room in his Castle, with his arm resting on a table and a book before him, at which, however, his eyes seldom glanced; his looks were thoughtful and full of care. He had engaged in much hard fighting in his younger days, and now all he wished for was rest and quiet, though the state of the times gave him but little hope of enjoying them. In his own mind, too, he was troubled about many things. Four years before the time at which he is introduced to the reader, he had visited Worms, during the time the Diet, summoned by the Emperor Charles the Fifth, was sitting, and was among those who found their way into the great hall where the Emperor and the chief princes, bishops, and nobles of the land were sitting, when Dr Martin Luther, replied to the chancellor of Treves, the orator of the Diet, who demanded whether he would retract the opinions put forth in numerous books he had published and sermons he had preached.

“Since your most serene majesty and your high mightinesses require from me a clear, simple, and precise answer, I will give you one, and it is this: I cannot submit my fate either to the Pope or to the councils, because it is clear as the day that they have frequently erred and contradicted each other. Unless, therefore, I am convinced by the testimony of Scripture or by the clearest reasoning, unless I am persuaded by means of the passages I have quoted, and unless they thus render my conscience bound by the Word of God, I cannot and will not retract, for it is unsafe for a Christian to speak against his conscience.” And then, looking round on that assembly before which he stood, and which held his life in its hands, he said, “HERE I STAND, I CAN DO NO OTHER. MAY GOD HELP ME! AMEN!”

The assembly were thunderstruck. Many of the princes found it difficult to conceal their admiration; even the emperor exclaimed, “This monk speaks with an intrepid heart and unshaken courage.” Truly he did. This is the weakness of God, which is stronger than man. God had brought together these kings and these prelates publicly to confound their wisdom. These bold words had had also a deep effect on the Knight of Lindburg, and he kept meditating on them as he rode homeward towards the north. Could it, then, be possible that the lowly monk—the peasant’s son—should be right, and all those great persons, who wished to condemn him, wrong? Was that faith, in which he himself had been brought up, not the true one? Was there a purer and a better? He must consult Father Nicholas Keller, his confessor, and hear what he had to say on the subject. The Knight carried out his intention. Father Nicholas was puzzled; scarcely knew what answer to make. It was a dreadful thing to differ with the Church—to rebel against the Pope. Dr Martin was a learned man, but he opined that he was following too closely in the steps of John Huss, and the Knight, his patron, knew that they led to the stake. He had no wish that any one under his spiritual charge should go there. As to the Scriptures, he had read but very small portions of them, and he could not tell how far Dr Martin’s opinions were formed from them. The Knight was not satisfied. He asked Father Nicholas to explain what was the Church, and if it was not founded on the Scriptures, on what was it founded? Father Nicholas replied that it was founded on Peter, and that the popes were Peter’s successors, and that therefore the Church was founded on the Pope. The Knight remarked that from what he had heard of Peter he must have been a very different sort of person to Leo the Tenth, and he asked what we knew about Peter, and indeed the other apostles, except through the Scriptures? Father Nicholas, shaking his head at so preposterous a question, replied, “Through tradition.” The Knight asked, “What is tradition?” Father Nicholas hesitated—coughed—hemmed—and then said, “My son, tradition—is tradition! And now let us change the subject, it is becoming dangerous.”

The Knight was not yet satisfied, and he determined to look more particularly into the matter. When, therefore, his son Eric came home, and expressed a strong desire to migrate to Wittemburg, that he might pursue his studies under the learned professors of that University, Drs. Martin Luther, Melancthon, Jerome Schurff, Jonas Armsdorff, Augustin Schurff, and others, he made no objection. Dame Margaret, his wife, however, and Father Nicholas, loudly protested against Eric’s going among such a nest of heretics.

“He will be perverted,” they exclaimed; “he will share the fate of Huss.”

“I have promised him that he shall have his will, and perhaps he will be able to come back and tell us the meaning of tradition,” answered the Knight, with a peculiar look at Father Nicholas. “There are, besides, two or three other things about which I want him to gain information for me.”

Dame Margaret knew from experience that when the knight, who was an old soldier and wont to rule in his own house, said a thing, he meant it. She therefore held her peace, and it was finally arranged that Eric should forthwith set off for Wittemburg.

Dame Margaret was a very well-meaning woman. She could not prevent her son from going to the heretical University, but she hoped by her admonitions and warnings that she might prevent him from imbibing the dangerous principles which she understood were taught there. She consulted Father Nicholas on the subject; indeed she never failed to consult him on all subjects, temporal as well as spiritual, connected with her family, so that the father had a good deal of influence in the household. He did not give her any great hopes of success.

“With all respect be it spoken of a son of yours, Eric has ever been obstinate and dull-headed, and turned a deaf ear to all my ghostly counsels and exhortations. Very like his father, the knight, I regret to say,” he observed; “however, there can be no harm in warning him. Tell him all I have told you about that heresiarch, Dr Martin, and if he believes what you say, you may thus have the happiness of counteracting the effects of the evil and abominable instructions he will receive.”

This was a bright idea. Father Nicholas had been accustomed to say a good many hard things of Dr Luther and his friends. The plan must succeed. While, like a good mother as she really wished to be, Dame Margaret was preparing Eric’s shirts and hosen, a new cloak, and other things for his journey, she sent for her son that she might talk to him. She was alone; Eric kissed her hand affectionately, as he entered, and stood respectfully before her—

“You are going away for a long period from your father and me, and from our esteemed Father Nicholas, and you will be exposed to countless perils and dangers, my son,” she began. “You have a desire to go among those people, holding new-fangled doctrines, for the sake of the novelty and excitement; that is but natural, so I scarcely blame you; but beware, my son, this Dr Martin himself is, I hear, a wild, unstable character, a roisterer and wine-bibber, who desires to overthrow our holy Father, the Pope, for the sake of ruling, by his wicked incantations and devices, in his stead.”

“Others speak very differently of him, my mother,” answered Eric, humbly; “but I shall know more about him when I have been to Wittemburg and heard what he and his friends have to say for themselves.”

“Alas, it may be too late when you once get into his toils,” sighed Dame Margaret. “They say that he has a compact with the Evil One, and he it is who gives him the wonderful power he possesses over men’s minds and makes them oppose our Father, the Pope, and our holy mother Church.”

“I have not heard that Dr Martin Luther has been guilty of any deeds such as those in which the Evil One especially takes delight, and we must judge of people by the works they perform,” answered Eric, in the gentle tone which his affectionate respect for his mother induced him to employ. “I know that Dr Martin is a learned man; he desires to introduce learning and a pure literature into our fatherland, and he is moreover an earnest seeker after the truth, and has sincerely at heart the eternal interests of his fellow-men. He is bold and brave because he believes his cause to be righteous and favoured by God. That is the account I have heard of him; I shall know whether it is the true one when I get to Wittemburg.”

“They say that he preaches that the convents should be thrown open, and the priests allowed to marry, because he himself wants to take a wife. They say that the motives for all he does are very evident,” continued Dame Margaret, not listening to her son’s remark.

“I should have thought that had he been plotting from the first to oppose the power of the Pope for the sake of marrying he would have taken a wife long ago. There has been nothing to hinder him. Certainly not many ‘pfaffen’ would have been so scrupulous. He himself has remained single, and is a man, several of my friends who know him assure me, singularly abstemious; often he goes a whole day or more without food, and his usual meals are of the simplest kind. It is true that when he mixes with his fellow-men his heart expands and he does not refuse the wine cup or the generous food placed before him. His is no churlish spirit to turn away from the good things kind Heaven has provided for man. God sends us trials, but He intends us to enjoy what He has in His loving mercy given us in this world, and never throws temptations to sin in our way, as some foolish teachers would make us believe. But as to Dr Martin’s mode of life, I shall be able to tell you more about it when I have been to Wittemburg.”

Dame Margaret sighed deeply, she had not yet quite said her say, that is, what Father Nicholas had told her to say. “My son,” she continued, “I am informed that evil people are saying many wrong things against our Holy Father, the Pope; that he has no business to call himself head of the Christian Church; that he is an extravagant, worldly man; that many predecessors have been as bad as bad could be. Indeed I cannot repeat all the dreadful things said of him.”

“But suppose, dear mother, that all the things said of him are true; suppose that Saint Peter never was at Rome, that he did not found a Church there, and was never Bishop of Rome; that designing men, for their own ambitious ends, have assumed that he was, and pretended to be his successors, and finally, finding the success of their first fraud, have claimed the right of ruling over the whole Christian world. But, however, when I go to Wittemburg I shall better know the truth of these things, and if they are calumnies, learn how to refute them.”

“Oh! my son! my son! how can you even venture to utter such dreadful heresies?” shrieked Dame Margaret, even before Eric had finished speaking; then, hearing his last words, she added, “Of course they are calumnies; of course you will refute them, and you will come back here, after you have completed your studies, and be the brave opponent of this Dr Martin and all his schismatic crew. But, my son, one of my chief objects in sending for you was to bestow on you a most invaluable relic, which will prove a sure and certain charm against all the dangers, more especially the spiritual ones, by which you may be surrounded. Neither Dr Martin nor even the Spirit of Evil himself will be able to prevail against you if you firmly trust to it, Father Nicholas assures me; for it contains not only a bit of the true cross, but a part of one of Saint Peter’s fishing-hooks, and a portion of the thumb-nail of Saint James. Let me put it round your neck, my son, and thus armed I shall, with confidence, see you go forth to combat with the world, the flesh and the devil.”

Dame Margaret spoke seriously; she was merely giving expression to the common belief in relics entertained, not only by ignorant peasants but by the highest nobility and the great mass of the population, a belief encouraged by the priests, who thus secured a sure market for their own manufactures. The excellent Elector Frederick, who became one of the great champions of the Reformation, had a short time before employed several dignitaries of the Church to collect relics for him, and had purchased a considerable number for very large sums. In the war between France and Spain, every Spanish soldier who was killed or taken prisoner was found to have a relic round his neck with a certificate from the priest who had sold it, that it would render his body invulnerable to the bullets or swords of the enemy. There is a very considerable sale of such articles, even to the present day, in Roman Catholic countries. Eric was therefore well aware of the value his mother would attach to the one she desired to bestow on him, yet he had already imbibed too large a portion of truth from the writings of Dr Luther and others, and the portions of Scripture he had read, not to look on the imposition with the contempt it deserved; still he was too dutiful a son to treat his mother’s offer with disrespect. He thought a minute or more, and then replied slowly—

“I will not take your relic, mother, for I am already provided with a protection which will be sufficient for all the dangers I am likely to encounter. I will say nothing now as to the relic. When I have been to Wittemburg I may be able to tell you something more of its actual value.”

Nothing that Dame Margaret could say would induce him to take the article. On repeating the conversation with her son to Father Nicholas, she expressed a hope that Eric was not possessed of an evil spirit, which had induced him so pertinaciously to refuse the proffered gift.

Father Nicholas bit his lip, frowned, said he could not say, it might possibly be an embryo one, such as had clearly entered into Dr Martin and many other persons at that time. It would certainly be safe to exorcise him, but the difficulty would be to get so obstinate a young man as Eric to submit to the operation. He would think about it, and try and devise some means by which the ceremony might be performed without the patient having the power to resist.

This promise afforded a considerable amount of comfort to Dame Margaret, who had felt very uneasy ever since the idea had seized her, for she could not otherwise account for her son’s refusing so inestimable a gift.

The last night Eric slept at home he had a dream, at least he was not quite certain whether he was awake or dreaming. He opened his eyes and saw a light in the room, and his mother and Father Nicholas, and his sister Laneta, and his father’s old henchman, Hans Bosch, who had often carried him in his arms, when he was a child, and still looked on him in the light of one, standing round his bed. His mother held a basin, and Hans a book, and the priest a censer, which he was swinging to and fro, and muttering words, in very doggerel Latin, while ever and anon, he sprinkled him with water from the basin. What Laneta was about, he could not exactly make out, but he thought that she had a box in her hands, which she held open. Had he not been very sleepy and tired he would have jumped up and ascertained whether what he saw was a vision or a reality; but, shutting his eyes, he went off soundly to sleep again, and sometime afterwards, when he awoke, the room was in darkness and he was alone.

His mother, the next morning, regarded him with much more contented looks than her countenance had worn for the last day or two.

It may as well be here mentioned that Eric discovered during his journey the precious relic, which he had declined taking, fastened into the collar of his cloak. He sighed and said to himself—

“Then, poor mother, let it be; should I take it out and should any misfortune happen to me she will say it was for want of the relic; if it remains and I receive damage I may the better prove to her the worthlessness of the thing. No wonder the sheep go astray when they have so ignorant a pastor as Father Nicholas.”

Chapter Two.

Eric, on the morning of his departure from home, had a private leave-taking with his father. The Knight, though an old soldier, was a peaceably-disposed man, yet in spite of all he could do he had foes and troubles. A certain Baron Schenk, of Schweinsburg, unjustly claimed rights over a portion of the Knight’s property. It was clearly impossible for the Knight to accede to the Count’s demands, for had he done so fresh ones would instantly have been made until the Count might have claimed possession of Lindburg itself. The Count had often threatened to come and insist on his claims at the point of the sword, but the Knight had reminded him that as two people could play at that game he might find that he gained nothing by the move. Still he occasionally received a message which showed him that the Count had not forgotten his threats, and this always troubled him, not because he feared his enemy, but because he wished to be quiet and at peace with all his fellow-men. He had a long talk with his son and gave him much good advice. The two understood each other thoroughly.

“My son,” he said, “you are going forth into the world; and will meet with a great variety of characters. Treat your fellow-men with a kindly regard and do them all the good in your power, but put your whole trust in God alone. While you cling to Him He will never forsake you—I know that you are honest and single-hearted. Do that, and I have no fear for you. Take my blessing, Eric. Write when you can and tell me all about Dr Martin and his companions. I wish that I were young enough to go to the University with you; I would give much once more to hear that man speak as he did at Worms.”

Eric set forth not as a poor scholar, on foot, but as the son of a Knight and a Noble of the land, on horseback, accompanied by Hans Bosch, who led a sumpter-horse loaded with his baggage. Both were armed, as was necessary in those times, with swords and pistols; the latter being somewhat large and unwieldy weapons. Eric, as befitted his station, had learned the use of his sword, and Hans was an old soldier who had grasped a pike for nearly half a century. Hans and Eric had always been good friends. The old soldier was not ignorant of what was going on in the world, but he had not as yet made up his mind which side to choose. He suspected the bias of his master, and that of his mistress was very evident. As yet, however, he clung to the old opinions. Eric, though high-spirited and manly, was thoughtful and grave above his years, and Hans respected his opinions accordingly. He had before been at the University of Erfurth, but the fame of Wittemburg had reached him, and, what had still more influence, several of the books written at Wittemburg, and he had been seized with a strong desire to migrate thither.

Hans could not read himself, but he was inquisitive. He plied his young master with questions, to which Eric very willingly made replies.

“Then you put no faith in the Pope, nor believe that he is the only rightful ruler of the Church?” observed Hans in reply to a remark made by his young master.

“I have been led to doubt the supremacy he claims from all I have read,” answered Eric modestly. “More especially do I believe that he is not a descendant of the Apostle Peter from what I have read in my Greek Testament. I there find that Saint Paul, on one occasion, thus wrote of this supposed chief of the Apostles: ‘When Peter was at Antioch, I withstood him to the face, because he was to be blamed,’ (Galatians two 11.) Peter was also sent especially to preach to the Jews and not to the Gentiles. Paul, when writing from Rome, sends no salutations from him, which he would have done had Peter been there; indeed he never once mentions his name. The third or fourth Christian Bishop of Rome speaks of Saint Paul having suffered martyrdom under the emperors; but, by the way he speaks of Saint Peter, evidently believing that he suffered martyrdom elsewhere in the east, and does not allude to his having been at Rome. If, therefore, the very foundations of the pretensions of these august Pontiffs are defective, what can we think of the rest of their claims? However, when I have been some time at Wittemburg, I hope to know more about the matter.”

“But, my dear young master, if you upset the foundation of our faith, what else have we to build on? I, for one, as an old soldier who has seen the world, say that we can not go on without religion,” exclaimed Hans, in a tone which showed the perturbation of his mind.

“That is right, Hans,” answered Eric, “but, my old friend, we do not destroy the real foundation of our faith, we only overthrow the false and cunningly-devised superstructure. The foundation of our faith is in the sufficient sacrifice once made for man by Jesus Christ, the Son of God, on the cross, and the complete justification of all who repent and put faith in that sacrifice. That is what Dr Martin Luther teaches. He says that no man should venture to come between the sinner and God; that Christ is the only one Mediator—the go-between, you understand—that He is all-loving, and all-merciful, and all-kind, that by any one else interfering He is insulted, and that all indulgences, penances, works, are the devices of the Evil One to make man lose sight of the full, free, and perfect redemption which Christ has wrought for us.”

“That sounds like a good doctrine,” observed Hans, thoughtfully, “the ‘pfaffen’ will not like it, because it will deprive them of their influence and the chief portion of their gains; but how do you know that it is the true one, my young master?”

“Because it is in the Word of God, the Bible. And I am very certain that God, who has done so much for us, would not have left us without a clear statement of His will—clear rules for our guidance, and therefore I believe that the Bible is the Word of God,” observed Eric.

Hans rode on in silence. He was meditating on his young master’s remarks. They had not gone more than a league or two when some sharp cries reached their ears. They came from some person before them. They rode on, and arrived in sight of a big youth who was belabouring with a thick stick, in the middle of the road, a young boy. The boy had something under his cloak, which the youth was insisting on his keeping concealed. Eric’s generous feelings were at once excited. He could never bear to see the strong tyrannising over the weak. He rode forward and demanded of the big lad why he was thus ill-treating the little one. The youth did not reply, but looked up sulkily at him. Eric turned to the little fellow.

“This is the reason, noble sir,” answered the boy, “he is my ‘bacchante,’ and I am a poor little ‘schütz.’ We are poor scholars seeking education at the schools. For the protection he affords me he insists that I shall provide him with food. Lately his appetite has been very great, and I have not got enough for him, and to-day he insisted on my stealing this goose, and hiding it under my cloak, that if it was discovered I might be punished and he escape.”

“So, my master, and is this the way you afford your protection?” exclaimed Eric, looking angrily at the big bacchante. “What is your name, my little schütz?” he asked of the boy.

“Thomas Platter,” was the answer. “I come from Switzerland, and have for long been wandering about, finding it hard to live in one place for want of food.”

“Then, Thomas Platter, know that I am going to Wittemburg, where there is a good school; and, if you desire it, you shall remain with me and pursue your studies, and if you ever have to beg for bread, it shall be for yourself alone. Are you willing to accept my offer?”

“Gladly, most noble sir,” answered the boy, throwing down the goose and springing out of the way of the big bacchante, who sought to detain him. Hans, who once had a little boy who died when he was of the age of Thomas Platter, approved of his young master’s generous offer, and undertook to carry the lad behind him on his horse to Wittemburg. The bacchante grumbled and looked very angry at this, and threatened to come after Thomas and carry him off; but Eric advised him to make no attempt of the sort as the boy was now under his protection. They rode on and left him grumbling and threatening as before. Thomas seemed highly pleased at the change. He was evidently a sharp, clever little fellow, though simple-minded and ignorant of the world. He was the son of a poor shepherd, but the desire to gain knowledge induced him to quit his father’s cottage and to go forth in search of that education which he could not gain at home. He had met with all sorts of adventures, often very nearly starving, now beaten and ill-used by his bacchante, a big student, from whom he received a doubtful sort of protection, now escaping from him and being taken care of by humane people, wandering from school to school, picking up a very small amount of knowledge, being employed chiefly in singing and begging through the towns to obtain food. Such was the type of a travelling student in those days. Frequently he had companions, three or four schützen and twice as many bacchantes, the former performing, in fact, in rough style, the part of fags to the older students. The big bacchante, from whom Thomas had escaped, was a relative who had promised to befriend him. It was in the unsatisfactory manner described that he had performed his part.

The next day, as Eric and his companions approached the town of Jena in Thuringia, they overtook a solitary horseman. From his appearance he seemed a knight, as he had a long sword by his side, and a red cap on his head, and was habited in hosen and jerkin, with a military cloak over his shoulders, though he was without armour. He exchanged courteous salutations with the young noble, and enquired whither he was going. On hearing that it was Wittemburg he seemed well pleased.

“Yes, I am migrating thither from Erfurth, for I desire to study under one whom I consider the great light of the age, Dr Martin Luther,” answered Eric.

“Then you have never met Dr Martin,” said the stranger.

“Not personally, but I know him by his works,” answered Eric. “That way methinks we may know a man far better than those we may see every day who have written nothing for our instruction. Still I desire to go to Wittemburg that I may drink at the fountain’s head, and listen to the words which fall from the Doctor’s own lips.”

“Young man,” said the stranger, turning a pair of dark, flashing eyes upon Eric, “be assured that if you drink at the Fountain Head—the pure spring from which Dr Martin is wont to drink, you will do well—that is, the Word of God, the Holy Scriptures. Of them you can never drink too much, and yet no fountain can afford so satisfactory a draught. But beware how you imbibe knowledge from other sources; from the traditions of men; from mere human learning. It is the too common want of caution in that respect which leads so many men astray. Seek for the enlightenment and guidance of the Holy Spirit, and give your whole heart and soul to the study of the Scriptures. In that way you will most assuredly gain the best of all knowledge.”

Talking in this way, old Hans riding up close behind them, to catch the words which fell from the stranger’s mouth, they approached the town. Before, however, they could reach it, a fearful storm, which had been threatening for some time, burst upon them. They pushed on as fast as their steeds could move, to obtain, as they hoped, shelter in the town, and now Eric perceived that the stranger, whom he had supposed to be a knight, was no very great horseman, and more than once he feared, when a vivid flash of lightning made the animal he bestrode spring on one side, that he would be thrown to the ground; still he kept his seat, nor seemed to think of danger, every now and then addressing Eric on some subject of deep interest.

On entering the town they found every one keeping holiday, for it was Shrovetide, and mummery and feasting, and amusements of all sorts were going forward. No one would attend to them, nor could they obtain accommodation of any sort in the town, even where they could dry their damp clothes. At last they were advised to proceed on through the town, where outside the gates, on the other side, they would find an hostelry, the “Black Boar,” at which they would obtain accommodation. They were not misled. The landlord received them courteously, and seemed, by the affectionate greeting he gave their companion, to be well acquainted with him. Eric considered that it was too early in the day to stop, and as his and his attendant’s horses were fresh, he proposed, after taking some refreshment, to proceed on another stage or two further. During the repast the stranger continued the conversation which had been interrupted by their approach to Jena. Little Thomas Platter, who was sitting at the table as well as Hans, listened with attentive ear to all that was said. When Eric rose to depart, the stranger bade him a cordial farewell.

“I too am on my way to Wittemburg,” he observed, “we may meet there, I hope, ere long, and you will then judge whether the tales that have been told of Dr Martin are true or false.”

Eric was very much interested in the stranger, and puzzled to know who he could be.

“He is a man of learning and a man of consequence,” he observed as he rode along. “I would that I possessed one quarter of his learning. How his countenance lights up when he speaks, and how the words flow from his lips. He is a man to move his fellow-creatures by his eloquence, or I mistake his looks and mode of utterance.”

“What think you, my young sir, if he should prove to be Dr Martin himself?” said Hans.

“It more than once occurred to me that such might be the case; but is Dr Martin likely to be out in these parts, and would he be habited in such a costume as that worn by this stranger?” asked Eric.

“It was Dr Martin notwithstanding that,” exclaimed the little Platter; “you will see, my masters, when we get to Wittemburg, you will see.”

This incident added very much to the interest of the journey. They rode on for some leagues, when, as they were not far off from the place where they purposed resting for the night, they saw a band of horsemen approaching them. It was easy to see by their dress and general appearance that he who rode at their head was their lord, with two companions of inferior rank, and that the rest were his retainers. They had a particular swaggering look which showed that they belonged to a class of persons common in those days, who followed the fortunes of any lawless noble who could employ them, and were ever ready to commit any deed of violence their master might command. Eric kept as close to one side of the road as he could to avoid giving cause of offence. They eyed him narrowly as he passed, and especially looked at Hans, who wore the livery of his house.

“Who can those people be?” asked Eric. “Their looks are far from pleasant, nor did they deign to give us the usual salutation which courtesy demands as they rode by.”

“Alas! I know them well,” answered Hans. “He who rode at their head is no other than Baron Schenk of Schweinsburg, your father’s greatest and, I may say, only enemy. If he guesses who you are, my dear young master, I fear that he will not let us escape unmolested; for he is a man who delights in blood and violence, and were not our Castle a strong one, and defended by brave hearts and willing hands, it is my belief that he would long ago have attacked it, and carried off all he could find of value within. My advice, therefore, is that we put spurs to our horses, and place as great a distance as we can as soon as possible between him and ourselves. Hold on, little Platter, away we go!”

“Your advice is good, Hans,” said Eric, as he urged on his steed. It was likely to be of little avail, however, for at that instant the clatter of horses’ hoofs was heard, and looking round they saw that half-a-dozen of the Baron’s retainers were spurring after them. This, of course, only made Eric and his attendant more anxious than ever to escape. Their horses were good ones, and they might still distance their pursuers.

“Let me drop, kind sir,” exclaimed little Platter; “I am only delaying you, and it little matters if I fall into the Baron’s hands; I am not worth killing!”

Hans laughed, and answered, “You would break your limbs if I let you go, and your weight is but as that of a feather to my old steed Schwartz. Hold on boy—hold on! We have promised to protect you, and we are not the people to cast you off at the first sign of danger.”

They galloped on as fast as their steeds could put feet to the ground; but they had already performed a good day’s journey, and were somewhat tired. Their pursuers’ horses, on the contrary, were fresh, it seemed, and when Hans looked over his shoulder, he saw at once that they were gaining on them. Still he was not a man to give in without an effort. “We’ll try it on a little longer, my young master, and then face about and show them the edges of our swords. Maybe, like bullies in general, they are cowards, and if we put on a bold front, they will make off.” This counsel was too good not to be followed. Still the Baron’s retainers were gaining on them. A wood was on either side. They might dash into it, and make their escape, but that was not then a mode of proceeding to suit Eric’s taste. “Now then we’ll do as you suggest, Hans,” he exclaimed. Pulling up their steeds, they turned sharply round and drew their swords. This, however, did not produce the effect they had hoped. They now saw, indeed, that the remainder of the band were coming up. At this moment little Platter let himself slip from behind Hans to the ground, saying, as he did so, “I can be of no service to you here; but I can, maybe, if I get away.”

Before the horsemen came up he had darted into the wood, where, had they thought it worth while searching, they would have had no little difficulty in finding him.

“There is no use fighting, I fear, my young master,” said Hans, unwillingly sheathing his sword.

“We are outnumbered, and it will only be giving our foes an excuse for slaying us should we attempt to resist them.”

Eric, seeing the wisdom of the old soldier’s advice, likewise returned his sword into the scabbard. When the Baron’s retainers came and surrounded them, he demanded, in a firm voice, what they required.

“We are to conduct you to our lord. He will question you as he thinks fit,” answered one of the men, seizing Eric’s bridle. Another took hold of Hans’ bridle, and, with a couple of men on either side of them, they were conducted along the road.

They had not gone far, when they were met by the Baron.

“Ah, my young sir, you are I understand Eric von Lindburg; I have at length got a hostage for your father’s good behaviour,” he exclaimed, exultingly. “You will find pleasant lodging in the Castle of Schweinsburg, for the next few years or more of your life, if your father does not yield to my demands. I have long been looking for this opportunity, now it has arrived. Ha, ha, ha!”

Eric kept a dignified silence, merely saying, “I am in your power, Baron Schweinsburg. I cannot choose, but do what you command.”

This calm reply somewhat annoyed the Baron.

“Ah, we shall find you a tongue ere long, young sir,” he observed, with a savage expression, as they rode along.

The party went on at a rapid rate till it was nearly dark, when they stopped at an hostelry to refresh themselves, a strong guard being placed in the room into which the prisoners were conducted. The moon then rising, they continued their journey, and at length, perched on a rocky height, the grey walls of the old Castle of Schweinsburg rose before them. A steep pathway led them up to a bridge thrown across a deep chasm, which almost completely surrounded the building, and had rendered it impregnable to the assaults of foes armed only with the engines of ancient warfare. In the court-yard the Baron ordered them to dismount; and four armed men conducted them up a winding staircase to a room at the top of a high tower, from which, unless provided with wings, there seemed but little chance of escaping.

In a short time their luggage was brought up to them, followed by a tolerably substantial supper.

“The Baron does not intend to starve us, at all events,” observed old Hans. “Come, my dear young master, eat and keep up your spirits. Matters might have been much worse. Perhaps we may ere long find some means of escaping, let the Baron guard us ever so carefully. At all events, let us hope for the best.”

Chapter Three.

At the time our story commenced Dr Martin Luther was still residing in the Castle of Wartburg, where he had been concealed by order of the Elector Frederick, for nearly a year after leaving Worms, to preserve him from the rage of his defeated enemies. His friends, however, well knew where he was, and he had lately been summoned back to Wittemburg, where his presence was much required.

Several months had passed away since Eric had quitted home, when one day a man, with a large pack on his back, presented himself at the Castle-gate, and demanded to see the Knight. He was admitted.

“Well, friend, what would you with me?” asked the Knight.

“I have books to sell, and will show them to you forthwith,” answered the colporteur, unslinging his pack. “Here is one lately printed—worth its weight in gold, and more.”

The Knight took it. It bore the simple title—“The New Testament. German. Wittemburg.”

“That is the very book I want,” exclaimed the Knight, eagerly. “Yes, I doubt not that it is worth its weight in gold. By whom has it been done into German?”

“By Dr Martin Luther,” answered the colporteur. “He began the work when shut up in the Wartburg, and has only lately finished it with the help of Dr Melancthon. Here are some other works by him. Will you take them?”

“Yes, three—four—one copy of each. There is payment,” said the Knight, laying down some gold pieces.

“I take but the proper price,” answered the colporteur, returning most of them to him.

“You are an honest man,” said the Knight. “If the books you sell have made you so, they must be good.”

“The books certainly are good, and I am more honest than I was. Once I ate the bread of idleness, indulged in sloth, and was of no use to any one. Now I labour for my food, and try to obey my Lord and Master,” answered the colporteur.

“Why, what were you?” asked the Knight.

“A monk,” answered the colporteur; “a lazy, idle monk. Dr Luther’s books came among us, and we read them, and some of my more learned brethren translated the Testament to us who were ignorant of Greek, and we agreed that as Jesus Christ came into the world to set us an example as well as to die for our sins, and that as He ever went about doing good, our system of life could not be the right one. The more we looked into the matter, the more satisfied we became that it was altogether opposed to the Gospel, and so we resolved forthwith to leave it. Some who had the gift of preaching went forth to preach the Gospel; others have begun to learn trades that they may support themselves; and, as I have a good broad pair of shoulders, I offered to carry throughout our fatherland the Gospel book, and other works of Dr Luther, which had proved so great a blessing to our souls; and though I cannot preach, I can go about and tell people that, through God’s love, Christ died for all men; that there is but one Mediator between God and man, Jesus Christ; and that men will be saved, not by dead works, but by a living faith in Him, which will produce fruits unto righteousness, an earnest desire to imitate Him, to serve Him, to spread these glad tidings among all mankind.”

“It seems to me, in my humble wisdom, that you did right,” observed the Knight. “However, do not tell Father Nicholas this it you meet him. Whenever you return this way, call here and bring me more books.”

“Gladly; and I shall have some portions in German of the Old Testament, in translating which Dr Luther is hard at work,” said the colporteur.

“By what name shall I remember you, friend?” asked the Knight.

“John Muntz is my proper name, bookseller and labourer in Christ’s service,” answered the colporteur, as he bade the Knight farewell.

Sturdy, honest John Muntz went his way throughout the land, selling Luther’s and Melancthon’s books, with the New Testament and such parts of the Old as they issued from the press, sometimes reading their contents, sometimes telling to single persons or to small assemblies, in simple language, of the glorious old truths thus brought once more to light. It may be, in the great day, that many far-famed preachers will be surprised that humble John Muntz, and other labourers such as he, in the Lord’s vineyard, have turned more souls into the way of righteousness than they.

The Count of Lindburg took his books into his own room and locked them up, that he might read them at leisure. He was not prepared just then to enter into a controversy with Father Nicholas, and he wished for quiet. He knew that his good wife and his daughter Laneta would take the part of the priest, and he had an idea that when Eric came back from Wittemburg he would prove a valuable ally on his side. Now and then, however, as he read on, he felt very much inclined to rush down and proclaim not only to his wife and the priest, but to the whole household and neighbourhood, the wonderful truths here so clearly proved and explained. But though he rose from his seat with the book in his hand and opened the door, he went back and sat down again. Though brave as a lion in war, and often impetuous at home, he was still timid in his own household. His womenkind and Father Nicholas had found out his weak point, and knew where to assail him.

The knight had always wished to act rightly according to his convictions, consequently when some few years before this time—that is, a short time before he paid the visit to Worms, where he first heard Dr Luther speak—he had been urged by Father Nicholas and his wife to allow his youngest daughter Ava, to become, as they called it, the spouse of Christ, or, in other words, to enter a nunnery; she raising no objection, he consented, believing, as he had been assured, that her eternal happiness would thus be secured, and that she would be better provided for than becoming the wife of one of the rough, fierce, warlike, beer-drinking knights, who alone were likely to seek her hand. The knight, however, often sighed as he thought of his fair blooming little Ava shut up in the monastery of Nimptsch, and wished to have her back again to sing and talk to him and to cheer his heart with her bright presence, but he dared not to express his feelings to any of his family, as he knew that they would be considered rank heresy. Often he would have liked to write to his dear child, but, in the first place, he was but a poor scribe, and in the second, he guessed that any epistle he might send would be opened by the lady superior, and its contents scanned before delivery, and adverse comments made, if it was not withheld altogether. So little Ava stayed on at the convent, embroidering priests’ dresses and other ornaments for churches, and attending mass. Whether or not she ever felt like a wild bird shut up in a cage, wishing to be free, he could not say; he thought it possible. She was wont once to go about the Castle singing like a bright happy bird, not shut up in a cage then. He wondered whether she sang now. He was sure that the nun’s dress could not become her as the bright-coloured bodice and skirt she wore. He wondered, too, whether she ever went out now, as she was accustomed to do when at home, among the cottagers in the neighbourhood, with a basket of food and simples, and distributed them to the sick and needy with gentle words, which won their hearts, or whether when mendicants came to the gate she stopped and listened to their tales of suffering, relieved them when she could, and seldom failed to drop a tear of sympathy for their griefs, which went like balm to the hearts of many. He opined that the high-born ladies of the monastery of Nimptsch would scarcely condescend thus to employ their time. They undoubtedly were brides of Christ, but, as the lady abbess had once remarked, it was the business of His more humble spouses to imitate His example in that manner. After the Knight had been thinking in this style, when he descended into the hall he was invariably accused of being sullen and out of temper. Not that he had any fault to find with his good Frau Margaret, or with his daughter Laneta. They were excellent, pious women in their way. They had embroidered five altar-cloths, seven robes of silk for the Virgin Mary, and three for Saint Perpetua, Saint Agatha, and Saint Anne; they had performed several severe penances for somewhat trifling faults; not a piece of meat had passed their lips during Lent; and they had fasted on each Friday and other canonical days throughout the year. Alms they gave whenever they could get money from the Knight for the purpose, and doles of bread to the poor with stated regularity; indeed, they felt sure that they would richly have merited heaven, even with a less amount of good deeds. Still they were desirous of making security doubly secure.

When, therefore, in the year 1517, that is, before Ava went to the convent, Dr John Tetzel, prior of the Dominicans, apostolic commissary and inquisitor, set up his pulpit and booth in the neighbouring village for the sale of indulgences, they had been among the crowds who had flocked to his market. Near him was erected a tall red cross, with the arms of the Pope suspended from it.

“Indulgences, dear friends,” he exclaimed, when he saw a large mob collected round him, “are the most precious and noble of God’s gifts. See this cross; it has as much efficacy as the cross of Christ. Come, and I will give you letters, all properly sealed, by which even the sins which you intend to commit may be pardoned. I would not change my privileges for those of Saint Peter in heaven, for I have saved more souls by my indulgences than the apostle by his sermons. There is no sin so great that an indulgence cannot remit; only pay, pay well, and all will be forgiven. Only think, for a florin you may introduce into Paradise, not a vile coin, but an immortal soul, without its running any risk. But, more than this, indulgences avail not only for the living, but for the dead. For that repentance is not even necessary. Priest! noble! merchant! wife! youth! maiden! do you not hear your parents and your other friends who are dead, and who cry from the bottom of the abyss, ‘We are suffering horrible torments! A trifling alms would deliver us; you can give it, and you will not.’” Then Tetzel had told them how Saint Peter and Saint Paul’s bodies were rotting at Rome because the Pope, pious as he was, could not afford to build a proper edifice to shelter them from the weather without their help. “Bring—bring—bring!” he shouted, in conclusion.

Dame Margaret and her daughters were greatly moved by these appeals, though little Ava thought the monk need not have shouted so loudly. The dame, who had just before persuaded her lord to give her a good sum of money, bought a large supply of indulgences, not only for herself and daughters, but for the Knight, who, she secretly believed, required them far more than they did, because he never performed penances, made quick work at confession, and regularly grumbled on fast-days; besides, she could not tell of what sins he might have been guilty in his youth. She did not tell him what she had done, but she felt much more happy than before to think that they would now all go to heaven together. She would even, in her zeal, have made further purchases, had not Father Nicholas expostulated with her, observing that it would be much better if she paid the money to enable him to say masses, which would prove quite as efficacious; and, besides, be spent in Germany instead of going to Rome. She was greatly horrified, some time after this, to hear the Knight inveigh furiously against Tetzel and his indulgences, and call him an arch rogue and impostor. Of course, on this, she did not tell him how she had spent his money, lest he might make some unpleasant reflections on the subject; besides, she suspected that he would not appreciate the advantages she had secured for him. But this was after Ava had been sent away to Nimptsch.

Chapter Four.

Eric, now a close prisoner in the Castle of Schweinsburg, felt very indignant at the treatment he had received, and apprehensive of the consequences of his capture by his father’s enemy. Though the fierce Baron would not have scrupled to put an ordinary man to death, he did not think he would venture to injure him or his person further than keeping him shut up. It was on his father’s account that he was most anxious, as he guessed that the Baron had seized him for the sake of enforcing his unjust claims on Count von Lindburg, and that unless these were yielded to, he himself might be kept a prisoner for years. Who indeed was to say what had become of him? The Baron and his retainers were the only people cognisant of his capture, except little Platter, and of course he would have run away, and must have been too frightened to be able to give any clear account of the matter. It would be, of course, supposed that he and Hans had been set on by robbers, of whom there were many prowling about the country, and been murdered in some wood, and their bodies buried or thrown into a pond.

“Patience, my dear young master,” answered Hans, when Eric had thus expressed his apprehensions; “we are in a difficulty, of that there is no doubt, but I have been in a worse one and escaped out of it. Once your honoured father and I were captured by the Saracens, and we fully expected to lose our heads, but the very last night we thought that we should be alive on earth we had a file conveyed to us in a loaf of bread by a little damsel who had taken a fancy to his handsome countenance, and we were able to let ourselves down from the window of our prison. A couple of fleet horses were in readiness, and we were away and in Christian territory before the morning dawned. I have been praying heartily to the Holy Virgin and to the Saints, and I have no doubt that they will help us.”

“I have not the slightest hope of any such thing, my good Hans,” said Eric, who had already imbibed many Protestant opinions. “It is God in heaven who hears our prayers. If He will not attend to them, no one else will, for He loves us more than human beings can, whether they are in this world or in another. He often, however, works out His plans for our good by what appear to us such small means that we fail to perceive them. I have read in the Greek Testament that ‘Not a sparrow falls to the ground but that He knows it; and that even the very hairs of our head are all numbered.’ Is it likely, therefore, that He would employ any intermediate agents between Himself and man, except the one great, well-beloved intercessor, His only Son. Would He even allow them to interfere if they were to offer their services? Our Lord Himself, when, on one occasion, His mother ventured to interfere in a work He was about, rebuked her, though with perfect respect, with these remarkable words, ‘Woman, what have I to do with thee?’ Again, when on the cross, He recommended her to the care of His well-beloved disciple, Saint John; he said, ‘Behold thy mother!’ ‘Woman, behold thy Son!’ O Hans, I wish that you and all the people of our fatherland, could read the Bible itself in our own tongue, you would than see how different is the religion we have been taught by the ‘pfaffs’ to that which Jesus Christ came on earth to announce to sinful man. It will be happy for our country should that day ever come, because then the people will be able to understand on what their religion is grounded, and be able to refute the false arguments of those who oppose it. There is a certain young professor at Wittemburg whose works I have read with peculiar delight, as he seems, even more than Dr Martin impressed by a sense of the love God has for man, and His willingness to hear all who go to Him in the name of His dear Son.”

Old Hans was silent for some time. At last he looked up, and said, “There seems to me a good deal of truth in what you have remarked, my young lord. I always used to think that God is too great to trouble himself with the affairs of us poor people, whatever He may do with kings and princes, and so He employs the saints to look after us, and the saints, not wishing to come out of heaven on all occasions, employ the ‘pfaffs’ (priests) to do their works, only it has struck me now and then that they have made great mistakes in their agents, at all events they have got hold of very bad ones.”

This conversation took place after Eric and his attendant had been three or four days prisoners in the Castle. They had had a sufficiency of food brought to them, and had altogether been treated better than they had expected. They were interrupted by the entrance of a young page, who, saluting Eric respectfully, said that he had been sent by his lady, the Baroness, who desired to see him, and that he was ready to conduct him into her presence.

Eric was naturally surprised at this message. He was not even aware that there existed a Baroness Schweinsburg. Hans, as an old soldier, deemed it right to be cautious. He whispered a few words into his young master’s ear.

“No, impossible!” answered Eric, giving a searching glance at the page, “the boy is honest. There can be no treachery intended.”

“Not quite certain of that,” whispered Hans. “I should like to go with you, my dear young master.”

“Be assured that no injury will happen to me,” said Eric. “I am ready to accompany you to your lady, my boy.”

“I suppose that I may come also?” said Hans. “It does not become a young noble to be without his attendant.”

“My orders were only to conduct the young gentleman himself into the presence of my mistress,” answered the page frankly, “nevertheless, I can ask my mistress; she will probably not object.”

“No, no, I will accompany you alone if your noble lady graciously desires to see me,” exclaimed Eric, following the page, who led the way down the stairs of the turret.

Hans went to the door and anxiously listened, glancing round the room for something that he might use as a weapon, should it be required in his young master’s defence. Eric meantime followed the page without hesitation down the steps and through several passages till they arrived at the door of a room in the lower part of the Castle. The page threw it open, and, with a respectful bow, begged Eric to enter.

He did so, and found himself in the presence of a lady who, although no longer young, was of a handsome and prepossessing appearance. She rose as he entered, and, presenting her hand, begged him to be seated.

“I regret to hear what has happened,” she said, “and I have just received a communication from one whom I know, and whose works have had a great influence on me, and have had I trust, also on my good lord. He has heard of your capture on your way to Wittemburg, and of your detention here, and he writes earnestly that you may be liberated forthwith, and allowed to proceed on your journey. My good lord is absent so that I cannot at once, as I would wish, plead your cause with him; but I will write to him and obtain his permission to liberate you, and to make all the amends in my power for the inconvenience you have suffered. I am not ignorant of the quarrel which exists between my lord and the Count, your father; but I consider, that you should not, in consequence, be made to suffer. Still, if what has happened becomes known, it will only still further the increase the enmity which exists between our families; and for that reason, and for the sake of the blessed faith we hold, I would entreat you not to allow the outrage which has been committed against you to become generally known. When, as it is necessary, you mention it to the Count, your father, beg him to overlook it, and not to retaliate, as it is but natural he should do. If you can give me this promise, I shall the better be able to plead with my good lord, and I think and hope his mind might be changed, and that the wounds which have so long existed may be healed.”

Eric, much struck by the words spoken by the Baroness, and by her tone and manner, without hesitation gave the promise she requested. Who could be the friend who had pleaded with her on his behalf, and by what means had he been informed of his capture? He would ask the lady.

“My informant is the most excellent and pious Dr Martin Luther,” she answered. “He encountered you on his journey to Wittemburg, to which place he has just returned from his long residence in the Castle of Wartburg. You had with you a little ‘schütz,’ who, escaping when you were attacked by our people, whose livery he knew, watched the direction in which you were taken. Immediately he set off to Wittemburg to give information of what had become of you, and the very first person he encountered was Dr Martin whom he at once recognised as your companion on the road, in spite of his change of dress. The Doctor knew well that I could not be cognisant of what had occurred, and he hoped that my good lord would not be insensible to a direct appeal from himself. I feel sure that he did not miscalculate his influence with my lord; still it would ill become me, as a wife, to set you at liberty without his cognisance, and I must beg that you will allow me, in the mean time, to treat you as an honoured guest.”

Some further conversation shewed Eric that the Baroness had attentively read many of the works of Dr Luther, Melancthon, and others; and that they had produced a great influence on her mind, and had not been without some effect, as she supposed, on that of her husband. It was thus that the principles of the reformers were affecting all ranks and conditions of men, while a still greater effect was shortly to be produced by the wide circulation of the translation of the Holy Scriptures made by Dr Luther in Wartburg, and at this moment being printed in Wittemburg.

Suddenly Eric found his condition completely changed. He had given his word that he would not quit the Castle till the Baroness had heard from her lord, and he was now treated by all with the greatest respect. The lady herself was not the only one who had imbibed the principles of the Reformation, and Eric found several works of the Wittemburg Doctor, parts of which, with her permission, he read aloud to her household. At length the Baron returned. He had a long interview with his wife, and not without a struggle did he yield to Dr Martin’s request; but the better spirit prevailed, he acknowledged himself in the wrong, entreated Eric’s pardon, and having given him a farewell feast, escorted him on his way until they came in sight of Wittemburg.

“Truly, my master,” observed Hans, “the Gospel, of these Wittemburg doctors is a wonderful thing. It has changed a fierce, boasting, hard, grasping Baron into a mild and liberal man. It has procured us our liberty, who were doomed, I feared, to a long captivity. I must ask leave to remain with you at Wittemburg that I may learn more about it.”

This permission was easily granted, and thus, as Hans did not return home, the Count of Lindburg was not made acquainted till long afterwards of the insult which had been put on him by the Baron of Schweinsburg, and they had been happily reconciled in all other matters, both professing the same glorious faith, and united in the bonds of a common brotherhood.

Eric took up his abode with the family of Herr Schreiber Rust, to whom he had been recommended. The next day, as he went forth to attend the lecture of Dr Martin Luther, he found little Platter eagerly looking out for him. Great was the boy’s delight when he saw him. “I knew that my young lord would come here without delay to hear the Doctor, and so I have been every day waiting for you,” he exclaimed. “I find too, that it was he himself whom we rode with and talked with so long. Ah! he is a great man.”

Eric had much for which to thank little Platter, and that he might prove his gratitude effectually, he at once added him to his household, that thus the boy might pursue his studies without having to beg for his clothing and daily bread. It was interesting to see Hans Bosch, the old soldier, following his young master from hall to hall, and also to church, endeavouring to comprehend the lessons he heard. All the important truths he did understand and imbibe gladly, and great was his satisfaction when the little Schütz Platter undertook to teach him to read that he might study by himself the Gospel in German, which Dr Luther had just translated, and was, at that time, issuing from the press. Well might the supporters of the Papal system exclaim with bitterness that their power and influence were gone when the common people had thus the opportunity of examining the Bible for themselves, by its light trying the pretensions which that system puts forth. Would that all professing Protestants, at the present day, studied prayerfully the Word of God, and by its light examined the doctrines and the system of the Church of Rome. It would show them the importance of making a bold stand for the principles of the Reformation, unless they would see the ground lost which their fathers so bravely strove for and gained.

Chapter Five.

Eric at once set steadily to work to study, attending regularly the lectures of the various professors, more especially those of Dr Luther. That wonderful leader of the Reformation was now giving a course of sermons on important subjects in the chief church in the town. On all occasions when he entered the pulpit the church was crowded with eager and attentive listeners. He had a difficult task to perform. During his absence at Wartburg various disorders occurred. Several enthusiasts, from various parts of the country, mostly ignorant, and little acquainted with the Gospel, assumed the title of prophets, and violently attacked every institution connected with Rome—the priests in some places were assailed with abuse as they were performing the ceremonies of their Church—and these men, at length, coming to Wittemburg, so worked on some of the students that the churches were entered, the altars torn up, and the images carried away and broken and burnt. The enthusiasts were known as the prophets of Zwickau, from the place where they first began to preach their doctrines. To put a stop to these disorders, Luther had been entreated to return from the Wartburg to Wittemburg. The proceedings which have been described were in direct opposition to the principles on which he, Melancthon, and other leaders of the Reformation had been acting. Their whole aim from the first, was to encourage learning, to insist on the study of the Scriptures, to do nothing violently, and to persuade and lead their fellow-men to a knowledge of the truth.

No great movement ever advanced with more slow and dignified steps than the Reformation. The existence of gross abuses produced it. Had the Romish hierarchy been willing to consent to moderate reforms, they might not humanly speaking, have lost their influence, and the whole of Europe might still have groaned under their power. But God had not thus ordered it. By their own blindness and obstinacy they brought about their own discomfiture. Luther himself was eminently conservative. He never altogether got rid of some of the notions he had imbibed in the cloister. Step by step he advanced as the light dawned on him—not without groans and agitations of mind—yielding up point after point in the system to which he had once adhered.

Eric was present at one of the first of the important series of sermons which the great Doctor preached on his return to Wittemburg. The enthusiasts had refused to be guided by the Gospel. They had asserted (misunderstanding the Apostle) that it mattered little how a man lived, provided he had faith, and that they had a right to compel others by force, if necessary, to adopt their views.

“It is with the Word we must fight,” said the great Doctor, in reply to these opinions. “By the Word we must overthrow and destroy what has been set up by violence. Let us not make use of force against the superstitious and unbelieving. Let him who believes approach—let him who believes not keep away. No one must be constrained. LIBERTY IS THE VERY ESSENCE OF FAITH.”

Entering the pulpit, he addressed the congregation in language full of strength and gentleness, simple and noble, yet like a tender father inquiring into the conduct of his children.

“He rejoiced,” he told them, “to hear of the progress they had made in faith,” and then he added, “But, dear friends, WE NEED SOMETHING MORE THAN FAITH, WE NEED CHARITY. If a man carries a drawn sword in a crowd, he should be careful to wound no man. Look at the Sun—two things proceed from it—light and heat. What king so powerful as to bend aside his rays? They come directly to us, but heat is radiated and communicated in every direction. Thus faith, like light, should be straight, RADIATE ON EVERY SIDE, AND BEND TO ALL THE WANTS OF OUR BRETHREN. You have abolished the mass, in conformity, you say, to Scripture. You were right to get rid of it. But how did you accomplish that work? What order—what decency did you observe? You should have offered up fervent prayers to God, and obtained the sanction of the legal authorities for what you proposed doing; then might every man have acknowledged that the work was in accordance with God’s will.

“The mass is, I own, a bad thing. God is opposed to it, but let no one be torn from it by force. We must leave the matter in God’s hands. His word must act, and not we. We have the right to speak; we have not the right to act. LET US PREACH; THE REST BELONGS TO GOD. Our first object must be to win men’s hearts, and to do this we must preach the Gospel. God does more by His word alone than by the united strength of all the world. God lays hold upon the heart, and when that is taken all is gained. See how Saint Paul acted. Arriving at Athens, he found altars raised to false gods. He did not touch one; but, proceeding to the market-place, he explained to the people that their gods were senseless idols. His words took possession of their hearts. Their idols fell without Paul having raised his hand.

“I will preach, discuss, and write, but I will constrain none, for faith is a voluntary act. Observe what has been done: I stood up against the Pope, indulgences and other abominations, but without violence or tumults. I put forward God’s Word. I preached and wrote. This was all I did. Yet while I slept or gossiped with my friends, the Word that I had preached overthrew Popery, so that not the most powerful prince nor emperor could have done it so much harm. What would have been the result had I appealed to force? Ruin and desolation would have ensued. The whole of Germany would have been deluged with blood. I therefore kept quiet and let the Word run through the world alone. ‘What, think you,’ Satan says, when he sees men resorting to violence to propagate the Gospel, as he sits calmly, with folded arms, malignant looks, and frightful grin? ‘Ah, how wise these madmen are to play my game!’ But when he sees the Word running and contending alone on the battle-field, then he is troubled, his knees knock together, and he shudders and faints with fear.”

Speaking of the Lord’s Supper, his remarks are of great importance. “It is not the outward manducation that makes a Christian, but the inward and spiritual eating, which works by faith, and without which all forms are mere show and grimace,” he observed. “Now this faith consists in a firm belief that Jesus Christ is the Son of God; that, having taken our sins and iniquities upon Himself, and having borne them on the Cross, He is Himself their sole and almighty atonement; that He stands continually before God; that He reconciles us with the Father, and that He hath given us the sacrament of His body to strengthen our faith in His unspeakable mercy. If I believe in these things, God is my defender; although sin, death, hell, and devils attack me, they can do me no harm, nor disturb a single hair of my head. This spiritual bread is the consolation of the afflicted, health to the sick, life to the dying, food to the hungry, riches to the poor.”

These sermons caused much discussion, not only in the University, but throughout Germany. Eric was among those who entered most eagerly into the subjects brought forth by the Reformers. He soon formed several friendships with his brother students. His most intimate friend was Albert von Otten, who was rather older than himself, and had been some years at the University. He was intimate, too, with Melancthon, Armsdorff, and others.

“Dr Philip has written on that subject,” observed Albert, speaking of the last of Dr Martin’s sermons. “Here are some remarks from fifty-five propositions, which were published some time back.”

“Just as looking at a cross,” he says, “is not performing a good work, but simply contemplating a sign that reminds us of Christ’s death, just as looking at the sun is not performing a good work, but simply contemplating a sign that reminds us of Christ and His Gospel, so partaking of the Lord’s Supper is not performing a good work, but simply making use of a sign that reminds us of the grace that has been given us through Christ.

“But here is the difference, namely, that the symbols invented by men simply remind us of what they signify, while the signs given us by God not only remind us of the things themselves, but assure our hearts of the will of God.

“As the sight of a cross does not justify, so the mass does not justify.

“As the sight of a cross is not a sacrifice either for our sins or for the sins of others, so the mass is not a sacrifice.

“There is but one sacrifice—but one satisfaction—Jesus Christ. Besides Him there is none other.” Dr Carlstadt was the first to celebrate the Lord’s Supper in accordance with Christ’s institutions. On the Sunday before Christmas-day he gave out from the pulpit that, on the first day of the New Year, he would distribute the Eucharist in both kinds to all who should present themselves; that he would omit all useless forms, and wear neither cope not chasuble. Hearing, however, that there might be some opposition, he did not wait till the day proposed. On Christmas-day, 1521, he preached in the parish church on the necessity of quitting the mass and receiving the sacrament in both kinds. After the sermon he went to the altar, pronounced the words of consecration in German; then, turning to the people, without elevating the host, he distributed the bread and wine to all, saying, “This is the cup of my blood, the blood of the new and everlasting covenant.” At the end he gave a public absolution to all, imposing no other penance than this, “Sin no more.”

No one opposed him, and in January the Council and University of Wittemburg regulated the celebration of the Lord’s Supper according to the new ritual.

Thus fell the mass—the chief bulwark of Rome. It, and Transubstantiation, had for three centuries been established. “It had tended to the glory of man—the worship of the priest. It was an insult to the Son of God; it was opposed to the perfect grace of His Cross, and the spotless glory of His everlasting Kingdom. It lowered the Saviour, it exalted the priest, whom it invested with the unparalleled power of reproducing, in his hand, and at his will, the Sovereign Creator.”

From the time of its establishment the Church seemed to exist not to preach the Gospel, but simply to reproduce Christ bodily. The Roman Pontiff, whose humblest servants created at pleasure the body of God Himself, sat as God in the temple of God, and claimed a spiritual treasure, from which he issued at will indulgences for the pardon of souls. (Note 1.)

Luther at length agreed to have a conference with the prophets of Zwickau. They said that they could work miracles. He desired them to do so. They became furiously enraged. He quickly upset their pretensions, and they, the same day, quitted Wittemburg, thoroughly defeated. Thus by the wisdom of one man, tranquillity was restored, and the Reformation was able to proceed with sure and certain footsteps, unmolested.

The work of all others with which, next to the Testament, Eric was most delighted, was Melancthon’s “Common-places of Theology,” written during the time Luther had resided in the Wartburg.

It was a body of doctrine of solid foundation and admirable proportion, unlike any before written. He considered that the foundation on which the edifice of Christian theology should be raised is “a deep conviction of the wretched state to which man is reduced by sin.”

Thus the truth was promulgated through the length and breadth of the land, while Luther, by his translation of the Bible, was preparing the means by which all classes could imbibe it from its fountain head. Not only the students at the universities, but women and children, soldiers and artisans, became acquainted with the Bible, and with that in their hands, were able successfully to dispute with the doctors of the schools and the priests of Rome. Eric had been very anxious to learn more of the early life of Dr Luther than he before knew, that he might refute the statements Father Nicholas had been fond of making concerning him. He could not have applied to a better person than Albert, who had been acquainted with the family of Conrad Cotta, with whom Martin had resided while at Eisenach, and who had ever after taken a deep interest in his welfare and progress.

It is that Ursula, Conrad Cotta’s wife, the daughter of the burgomaster of Ilefeld, who is designated in the Eisenach chronicles as the pious Shunamite, Martin, while singing to obtain food with which to support himself while pursuing his studies at the school of Eisenach, and having often been harshly repulsed by others had attracted her attention. She had before been struck by hearing his sweet voice in church. She beckoned him in, and put food before him that he might appease his hunger. Conrad Cotta not only approved of his wife’s benevolence, but was so greatly pleased with the lad’s conversation that he from henceforth gave him board and lodging in his house, and thus enabled him to devote all his time and energies to study.

“John Luther, Dr Martin’s father, was a miner, residing at Eisleben, where, on the 10th of November, 1483, our Doctor was born,” began Albert. “When he was not six months old, his parents removed to Mansfeldt. John Luther was a superior man, industrious and earnest. He brought up his children with great strictness. Believing that Martin had talent, he was anxious that he should study for the law, and he obtained for him the best education in his power. First he was sent to Magdeburg, but finding it impossible to support himself at that place, he moved to Eisenach. Among the professors was the learned John Trebonius, who, whenever he entered the schoolroom, raised his cap. One of his colleagues inquired why he did so? ‘There are among those boys, men of whom God will one day make burgomasters, counsellors, doctors, and magistrates. Although you do not see them with the badges of their dignity, it is right that you should treat them with respect,’ was the answer. Martin had been two years at Erfurth, and was twenty years old, when, one day, examining the books in the public library, he found a Latin Bible—a rare book—unknown in those days. Till then he imagined that the fragments selected by the Church to be read to the people during public worship composed the whole Word of God. From that day it became his constant study and delight. A severe illness, brought on by hard study, gave him time for meditation. He felt a strong desire to become a monk, under the belief that by so doing he should attain to holiness. All this time living with the excellent Cotta family, nothing could be more exemplary and orderly than his life. Though animated and lively and delighting in music, he had, from his boyhood, been serious-minded and earnest in the extreme, and at no period did he give way to the excesses of which his enemies accuse him. On his recovery from his illness, he paid a visit to his parents at Mansfeldt; but he did not venture to express the wish he entertained of entering a monastery, from fearing that his father would disapprove of it. On his return journey he was overtaken by a fearful storm, and he made a vow that, should he escape destruction, he would devote himself to the service or God. His whole desire was now to attain holiness. He believed that he could not find it in the world. He bade farewell to his friends, he entered the cloister, his father’s expostulations and anger caused him grief, but he persevered. In spite of all the penances and severities he underwent, he could not attain to the holiness he sought. It was not to be found in the convent. He found, too, a true friend in Staupitz, the Vicar-general of the Augustines for all Germany, a man eminent for his learning, his liberality, and true piety. The elector, Frederick the Wise, founded, under his direction, the University of Wittemburg, to which, by his advice, the young doctor was shortly appointed professor. It is worthy of remark that, long after Dr Martin had ceased to think of purchasing heaven by his abstinence, so simple were his tastes, that a little bread and a small herring often composed his only meal in the day, while often he was known to go days together without eating or drinking. The great movement owes much to Staupitz. Dr Martin opened all his heart to him, and told him of all his fears about his own want of holiness, and the unspeakable holiness of God. ‘Do not torment yourself with these speculations,’ answered the Vicar-general. ‘Look at the wounds of Jesus Christ—to the blood that He has shed for you; it is there that the grace of God will appear to you. Instead of torturing yourself on account your sins, throw yourself into your Redeemer’s arms. Trust in Him—in the righteousness of His life—in the atonement of His death. Do not shrink back, God is not angry with you; it is you who are angry with God. Listen to the Son of God, He became man to give you the assurance of Divine favour. He says to you, You are my sheep, you hear my voice; no man shall pluck you out of my hand.’ Still Dr Martin could not understand how he was to repent, and be accepted by God. ‘There is no real repentance except that which begins with the love of God and of righteousness,’ answered the venerable Staupitz. ‘In order that you may be filled with the love of what is good, you must be filled with the love for God. If you desire to be converted, do not be curious about all these mortifications, and all these tortures, Love Him who first loved you.’ A new light broke on Dr Martin’s soul, and, guided by it, he began to compare the Scriptures, looking out for all the passages which treat on repentance and conversion. This was his delight and consolation. He desired, however, to go further; Staupitz checked him. ‘Do not presume to fathom the hidden God, but confine yourself to what He has manifested to us in Jesus Christ,’ he said; ‘Look at Christ’s wounds, and then you will see God’s counsel towards man shine brightly forth. We cannot understand God out of Jesus Christ. In Him the Lord has said, You will find what I am and what I require; nowhere else, neither in heaven nor in earth, will you discover it.’ Again Staupitz advised him to make the study of the Scriptures his favourite occupation, and represented to him that it was not in vain that God exercised him in so many conflicts, for that He would employ him as His servant for great purposes. Truly have the words of the good old man come true. Yet Dr Martin was far from enlightened. He was to obtain full emancipation from the thraldom of Rome in Rome itself. He was sent there to represent seven convents of his own order, who were at variance with the Vicar-general. He had always imagined Rome to be the abode of sanctity. Ignorance, levity, dissolute manners, a profane spirit, a contempt for all that is sacred, a scandalous traffic in divine things. Such was the spectacle afforded by this unhappy city. Even when performing their most sacred ceremonies, the priests derided them. Some of them boasted that when pretending to consecrate the elements, they uttered the words ‘Panis es et panis manebis; vinum es et vinum manebis.’ While himself performing mass, on one occasion, the priest near him, who had finished his, cried out, ‘Passa—passa—quick—quick!—have done with it at once!’ It was the fashion at the Papal Court to attack Christianity, and no person could pass for a well-bred man unless he could satirise the doctrines of the Church. These, and numberless other abominations, which he saw and heard, must greatly have shaken his faith in the sanctity of Rome; and, at length, on a certain occasion, his eyes were completely opened. The Pope had promised an indulgence to all who should ascend on their knees a staircase, which it is pretended was brought from Pilate’s Judgment-hall, and that down it our blessed Lord had walked. It is called ‘Pilate’s Staircase.’ While he, with others, desirous of obtaining the promised indulgence, was laboriously climbing up the stair on his knees, he thought that he heard a voice of thunder crying out, ‘The just shall live by faith.’ He rose at once, shuddering at the depth to which superstition had plunged him, and fled from the scene of his folly. Yes, those words are the key-note of all the arguments by which our glorious work must be supported,” exclaimed Albert. “Yes, faith without works justifies us before God; that is the fundamental article Dr Martin holds. Soon after his return he was made Doctor of Divinity, and could now devote himself to the study of the Holy Scriptures, and, which was of the greatest importance, lecture on them. While thus engaged, he ever, from the first, pointed to the Lamb of God. The firmness with which he relied on the Holy Scriptures imparted great authority to his teaching. In him also every action of his life corresponded with his words. It is known that these discourses do not proceed merely from his lips—they have their source in his heart, and are practised in all his works. Many influential men, won over by the holiness of his life, and by the beauty of his genius, not only have not opposed him, but have embraced the doctrine to which he gave testimony by his works. The more men love Christian virtues, the more men incline to Dr Martin. But I need say no more to refute the calumnies which have been uttered against him. See what instances he has given, too, of his dauntless character. When the plague broke out here he refused to fly, but remained employed in translating the New Testament. See how boldly he nailed his theses against indulgences to the church doors; how bravely he burnt the Pope’s bull. Although the Elector would not allow Tetzel to enter his dominions, he got to a place within four miles of Wittemburg, and many people purchased indulgences. While Dr Martin was seated in the confessional, many of these poor dupes came to him and acknowledged themselves guilty of excesses. ‘Adultery, licentiousness, usury, ill-gotten gains’—still they would not promise to abandon their crimes, but trusting to their letters of indulgence obtained from Tetzel, showed them, and maintained their virtue. Dr Martin replied, ‘Except ye repent, ye shall all likewise perish.’ This circumstance still further opened his eyes to the abuses and evil system of the Church to which he belonged, but not even yet had the idea of separating from her occurred to his mind, not indeed until the Pope anathematised Dr Martin for speaking the truth did he acknowledge that he was indeed Antichrist, and that no true Christians could hold communion with him.”

Eric soon became as warm an admirer of Dr Martin Luther, as was his friend, Albert von Otten. The Reformation movement was now proceeding, seemingly with far more rapid strides than before. The Bible was being disseminated; the convents thrown open—or, at all events, their inmates were leaving them—superstitions were being abolished; a pure form of worship was being established in numerous places; and, what was of the greatest importance, young men of high talent and courage were being educated in the principles of the Reformation to spread the pure light of the Gospel throughout all parts of Germany.

Little Thomas Platter made great progress in his studies, and bid fair to grow up an earnest Christian and industrious man, amply paying Eric for the care he bestowed on him.

Hans Bosch, when his young master was about to return home, begged that he might come back with him to Wittemburg.

“I there got an abundance of substantial food for my soul, while Father Nicholas serves us out only piecrust, filled with dry dust that is neither meat nor drink,” said the old man, as he looked up while packing his young master’s valise.

Note 1. Merle D’Aubigne’s “History of the Reformation.”

Chapter Six.

Eric, with his friend, Albert von Otten, arrived unexpectedly one day, to the Knight’s very great satisfaction at Lindburg. The Knight embraced his son affectionately.

“I have a great many questions to ask, and difficulties for you to solve, my son,” he said, as he beckoned him to come to his room.

“And I, father, have very many things to say to you, so that we shall have plenty to talk about. Albert will, in the meantime, entertain my mother and Laneta.”

“And now, Eric, what do you think of this Dr Luther?” asked the Knight, after he had looked along the passage which led to his room, and locked the door.

“Think, father! That he has brought light out of darkness—that he has made the boldest stand that ever man has done against the power, the tyranny, the impositions of the Pope, and the superstitions which he and his predecessors have ever encouraged for the sake of filling their pockets, utterly regardless of the souls they led away from Christ and salvation,” exclaimed Eric, warming as he proceeded. “He has done, and he is doing a glorious work, and though his foes were to burn him to-morrow, they could not extinguish the light he has kindled. He teaches that man is by nature sinful and alienated from God, but that God so loved the world that He sent His Son to become a sacrifice for man’s sins, to suffer instead of man, and thus to enable him, through repentance and faith in that sacrifice, to be reconciled to Himself; that Christ is the only Mediator between God and man; neither His mother Mary, nor the Saints, have anything to do in the matter; that they required His sacrifice as much as others, and that, therefore, fasts, penances, invocation of saints, masses for the dead, purgatory, indulgences, are all the inventions of the popes to put money into their pockets, or into the pockets of the priests, their supporters, or of the devil, to lead souls astray.”

“I heartily agree with him, Eric. See, I have read something about the matter already,” said the Knight, going to the oak chest in which he kept his treasures, and bringing out the Testament and some of Dr Luther’s works. “I never found myself a bit the better for fasts or penances, whenever I thought that I ought, for my sins, to endure them; and, as for indulgences, I felt very much inclined to kick that scoundrel Tetzel out of the place when I heard that he had come to sell them in this neighbourhood. Now, tell me, does your friend, Albert von Otten, preach? He looks as if he had the gift of speech.”

“Indeed he has,” said Eric. “He has the power of moving the hearts of his hearers.”

“Then he shall preach in our church next Sunday, and to all in this Castle as well, in spite of what Father Nicholas may say to the contrary!” exclaimed the Knight. “I have long wanted you, Eric, to take Father Nicholas in hand; you may be able to convince him, and your mother too—she is a good woman, but bigoted and obstinate, begging her pardon, and I should have had no peace if I had once begun, unless I had come off the conqueror at once. Albert von Otten will help you.”

Eric gladly undertook the task. It was the chief object he had had in view since he had himself been converted to the truth. He immediately broke ground. His mother and Laneta were very much astonished at his doctrine, but they would not acknowledge that he was right. Father Nicholas had scarcely a word to say in return, so he put on the stolid look of a schoolboy brought up unwillingly to receive a lecture.

“Young men’s dreams,” he muttered, “or devices of Satan to draw men from the true Church. Ah, the Bible is, as I always said, a dangerous book. Little did those who wrote it dream what mischief it would cause in the world.”

The minds of the whole household were much agitated by the subjects of which Eric and his friend spoke to them. Still more so was the Knight himself the next day, when the colporteur, John Muntz, presented himself at the gate, and, demanding to see him, put into his hand a letter from his own little daughter Ava. He read it over and over again, and his countenance beamed with satisfaction. He immediately called Eric to him, ordering refreshment to be brought in the meantime for John Muntz in the hall, and desiring him to talk to his people and to sell any of his books if he could. Ava, after sending greeting to him and her mother, and love and duty, continued:

“And now, dear father, I must tell you that I cannot longer endure this life. It was only while I believed that I was doing God service that I loved it. Now I am certain that it is directly contrary to His law. I have read the New Testament carefully with prayer, and I can find nothing there to sanction it. We are told not to bow down to images—not to use vain repetitions in prayers; we are employed the greater part of each day in doing these two things. We invoke dead saints, we worship the Virgin Mary, we fast, we perform penances to merit heaven, and all the time the Bible tells us that there is but one Mediator between God and man, Jesus Christ, and that by repentance and through faith in Him can we alone become righteous and meet to enter the kingdom or heaven. I cannot tell you one-half of the objections I have to remain here. There are also eight other nuns who desire to leave, and they have written to their parents to the same effect, though some of them tremble as to what will be the answers; others say that there was so much grief when they went away, that they are certain that there will be rejoicing to get them back. I know how sorry you and mother and Laneta were when I left home, that I have no doubt that you will be glad to have me return. But how are we to get away?—there is the difficulty. We know that we are watched, and that every effort will be made to detain us.”

“I have no doubt that there will!” exclaimed Eric. “Sister Ursula, as they call their lady abbess, would move heaven and earth to detain them if she knew that they wished to escape. Do not write, lest the letter should fall into the old dame’s hands; but let me go with Albert, and depend on it we shall find means before long of letting out the caged birds.”

The Knight, without saying what Albert proposed, showed Ava’s letter to Dame Margaret. She was horrified.

“What! a professed nun break her vows?” she exclaimed. “A bride of Christ forsake her bridegroom! Horrible profanity! No. I love Ava as my daughter, but I can never receive one who is so utterly neglectful of all her religious obligations. You must write and tell her that is impossible to comply with her request. I am sure Father Nicholas will agree with me.”

“Dear wife,” said the Knight, calmly, “When I allowed our little Ava to become a nun, it was to secure, as I thought, her happiness in this life and the next. She tells us that, in one respect, our object has signally failed, and there is a book I have been reading which convinces me that it will not advance in one single respect our object with regard to the other. Therefore, let our dear Ava come home, and do you and Laneta receive her as should her mother and sister. I mean what I say, Margaret, and advise Father Nicholas to hold his tongue about the matter.”

The Lady Margaret, watching her lord’s eye, and being a discreet woman, came to the conclusion that it would be wise to keep silent, but she secretly resolved to use every exertion to prevent so terrible a scandal taking place in her family. The Knight, however, was an old soldier, and suspecting what was passing in the mind of his better half, determined to be beforehand with her.

“She will be writing to that Sister Ursula to keep the poor little dove under double lock and key,” he said to himself. “Eric will have a difficulty even to get a sight of her. I must tell him what I suspect, and leave it to him to foil the plans of his lady mother; she is a good woman though, an excellent woman in her way, but she would have been much the better it we had never been saddled with Father Nicholas. I will make him go the right-about one of these days, when he least expects it, if he does not reform his system. And here, Eric you will want money. Don’t stint in the use of it. It will accomplish many things. Silver keys open locks more rapidly than iron ones, and I would give every coin I possess to get our dear little Ava back again.”

Eric and his friend, meantime, were making preparations for their journey, and as soon as their horses could be got ready they rode off. They were, however, seen by Dame Margaret, who immediately suspected where they were going. Unfortunately, Father Nicholas had just then entered the Castle. She forthwith told him all she knew and thought, and urged him to find a quick messenger, who would outstrip the young men and warn the lady abbess. Father Nicholas hurried off with a purse which the lady put into his hand, to find a person to carry his message, resolving to take the credit to himself of the information he was sending.

Ava Lindburg and her companions in the monastery of Nimptsch were eagerly awaiting the reply to the letters they had written to their homes requesting permission to return. They were all young, and several of them pretty; but as they had been among the most sincere of the sisterhood, so they had the most rigidly performed all the fasts, penances, vigils, imposed on them, and already the bloom of youth had departed, and the pallor or the ascetic had taken its place.

Poor girls! they had sought peace, but found none; they desired to be holy, but they had discovered that fasts, penances, and vigils—the daily routine of formal services—long prayers, oft repeated, had produced no effect; that their spirits might be broken by this system, but that it could change their hearts.

“We are shut out from the great world, certainly,” wrote one of them, “but we have one within these walls, and a poor miserable, trivial, life-frittering, childish, querulous, useless, hopeless set of inhabitants it contains. This is not the house of Martha, and Mary, and Lazarus—this is not such an abode as Jesus would desire to lodge in. If He were to visit us, it would be to tell us to go forth into the world to fulfil our duties as women, not, like cowards, to shrink from them, to fight the good fight of faith, to serve Him in the stirring world into which He came, in which He walked, in which He lived, that He might be an example to us. Though He has not come to our convent, He has sent us a message full of love and compassion—His Testament, the Gospel—and it has given us fresh life, fresh hopes, fresh aspirations; and through its teaching we are sure of the Holy Spirit which He promised. Other books have been sent us to assist in opening our eyes. We are convinced that this mode of life is not the one for which we were born; that it is a life, not of holiness, but of sin, for it is useless, for it is aimless, for it is against the teaching of the Gospel.”

The answers came at length. Tears flowed from the eyes of some, sobs burst from the bosoms of others, while several turned paler even than before, and their hands hung hopelessly by their sides. Many of the letters were full of kind expressions, while other parents chided their daughters harshly for contemplating the possibility of breaking their vows, and abandoning the life of holiness to which they were devoted; but one and all wound up by declaring that they would not allow such a stigma to rest on their noble families as would arise were they to encourage a daughter to abandon her holy calling. Little Ava received no answer to her epistle sent by the colporteur, and she was eagerly looking out for his return. He had told her how eagerly her father had bought his books, and she had still some hopes that the reply would be favourable. She could not, however, fail to observe the severe look with which the lady abbess regarded her, and she was still more alarmed when she found that her Testament, and several books by Drs. Melancthon and Luther, had been taken out of her cell. In truth, the lady abbess had received the communication sent by Father Nicholas, and was on the watch, expecting to see the gay young student, Eric of Lindburg, and his companion arrive, intending afterwards to commence a system of severe punishment on the offending Ava. The lady abbess was not aware that Ava was only one of many whose eyes had been opened, and who desired their freedom.

Chapter Seven.

One bright afternoon, in the month of May, 1524, a light waggon, driven by a venerable-looking person with a long white beard, stopped before the gate of the convent of Nimptsch, and from out of it stepped a merchant of equally venerable and still more dignified appearance. He begged the portress to present his humble respects to the lady abbess, with a request that he might be allowed to offer for sale to the noble ladies numerous articles which they might find acceptable. The lady abbess, having carefully surveyed the venerable merchant and his driver through a lattice above the gate, was satisfied that they might, without danger, be admitted into the court-yard. The horses were, however, somewhat restive, and it required, evidently, all the strength the old driver possessed to keep them quiet while his master took out his bales and boxes, and conveyed them, with somewhat feeble steps, into the room were strangers, such as he, were received. An iron grating ran across it, within which the nuns were collected; but there existed a small window, through which articles could be handed for inspection.

The merchant evidently understood the tastes and requirements of nuns. There were silks for embroidery and gold-thread, and beads, and pencils, and brushes, and colours for illuminating missals, and paper and writing materials, and various manufactures for making artificial flowers; he had even spices and mixtures for making confectionery. There was linen also, coarse and fine, and all the materials of the exact hue required by the sisters for their dresses; indeed, it would have been difficult to say what there was not in Herr Meyer’s waggon which the nuns could possibly require. The price, too, at which he sold his goods was remarkably low, and the nuns of Nimptsch were not at all averse to making good bargains. Unfortunately, however, he discovered that he had only brought specimens of many of the articles. His large waggon he had left at Torgau. He would, therefore, take the orders with which the holy ladies might honour him, and return next day with the goods.

The merchant, Herr Meyer, was better than his word, for he returned the next day not only with the articles ordered, but with many other curious things, which he had brought, he said, for the inspection and amusement of the ladies, and the servants and attendants in the house; the good portress especially was remembered. There were carriages and animals which ran along the ground by themselves, and a house in which a door opened, when out of it came a cock which crowed, and then a small bird came out of an upper window and sang, and then a woman looked out to ascertain what the noise was about. Numerous toys of a similar character the merchant had brought, he said, from Nuremburg.

Meantime the horses in the waggon became very frisky, the merchant, therefore, went down, with most of his boxes to help quiet them, he said, leaving the abbess and her nuns busily engaged with the toys; the portress, too, was still watching the cock coming out of the house and crowing, and the bird singing, and the woman looking out to see what it was all about.

“These horses will be doing some mischief, Karl, if they stay shut up in this court-yard,” exclaimed the merchant. “I will open the gate, and then if they choose to gallop off they will soon get tired, and you can come back for me and my goods.”

Suiting the action to the word, he undid the bars of the gate, and Karl drove through, pulling up, however, directly he was outside. The portress ran out, for such a thing as allowing a stranger to open the gate was against all rule.

“Stay, I have some more curious things,” said the merchant. And he stepped into the waggon.

Just at that moment something must have startled the horses, for they set off at full speed, the driver in no way attempting to stop them. The lady abbess and the nuns looked out through the bars of the windows, expecting to see Herr Meyer, after his horses had had a good gallop, return with the other curiosities he had said he possessed. They looked and looked, but they looked in vain. At last they came to the conclusion that some accident had happened. For this they were very sorry, as they all agreed that a more pleasant-spoken, liberal merchant they had never seen. The opinions, however, of the lady abbess and some of the elder sisters were somewhat modified, when at vespers, as all the nuns were assembled, Sister Ava, and another young and pretty nun, her great friend, Sister Beatrice, were missing. They were not in their cells. The whole convent was searched; they were not to be found. Never had there been such a commotion among the authorities and elder sisters, though most of the young ones took the matter very quietly, and did not search for what they knew well was not to be found. Remembering the warning she had received, the lady abbess had a strong suspicion that Eric Lindburg was at the bottom of the matter. This was only the beginning of her troubles. Somehow or other, fresh heretical books were introduced into the convent, and the young nuns had so completely mastered the contents of those of which they had been deprived that they were able to discuss them and explain them to the elder sisters. Even the abbess herself could not answer many of their arguments which they boldly put forth, nor indeed could the father confessor, nor the other visiting priests. Of the last one heartily agreed with them, and the others boldly acknowledged that there was a great deal of truth in what they said. Gaining confidence, nine young ladies at last united to support each other, and positively refused to attend mass or any services when adoration was paid to the Virgin Mary or to the saints, and demanded that as their vows were taken in ignorance, and that as they were directly contrary to the Gospel, they should be released from them, and allowed to return into the world to fulfil their duties as virtuous women and citizens.

Those in authority were astonished and utterly confounded, and hesitated to take any harsh measures. Public opinion they well knew outside the convent walls ran pretty strongly in favour of the nuns’ opinions. As their friends would not receive them at home, the young ladies resolved to repair in a body to some respectable place with order and decency. Through some means their resolution was made known to two pious citizens of Torgau, Leonard Koppe and Wolff Tomitzsch, who offered their assistance. “It was accepted as coming from God Himself,” says an historian of that time. Without opposition they left the convent, and Koppe and Tomitzsch received them in their waggon, and conveyed them to the old Augustine convent in Wittemburg, of which Luther at that time was the sole occupant.

“This is not my doing,” said Luther, as he received them; “but would to God that I could thus rescue all captive consciences, and empty all the cloisters. The breach is made.”

Catharine Bora, who afterwards became his wife, found a welcome in the family of the burgomaster of Wittemburg, and the other nuns, as soon as their arrival was known, were gladly received in other families of similar position. It may here be remarked that the facts of the case completely refute the vulgar notion, put forth by the enemies of the Reformation, that Luther commenced the work of the Reformation for the sake of enabling himself and other monks and priests to marry. His mind was long in doubt whether monks ought to marry. Many months after he became acquainted with the excellent Catharine, when his friends pressed him to marry, he replied:

“God may change my heart if it is His pleasure, but I have no thought of taking a wife. Not that I feel no attractions in that state, but every day I expect the death and punishment of an heretic.”

Not till more than a year after Catharine Bora had escaped from the convent did she become the wife of Martin Luther.

Chapter Eight.

The Count von Lindburg had been anxiously waiting news from Eric, but none had arrived. The Lady Margaret had been assured by Father Nicholas that his message had been safely delivered to the Abbess of Nimptsch, and that, in spite of all master Eric and his plausible friend might do, she would take very good care her little prisoner should not escape her.

The Knight was growing anxious; he was afraid that something had gone wrong, when, one afternoon, a light waggon, the horses which drew it covered with foam, drove up to the gate of the Castle. Over the drawbridge it dashed, for the porter did not hesitate to admit it, and a venerable-looking old gentleman, habited as a merchant, descending, handed out two young girls in peasants’ dresses. The Knight caught sight of the waggon, and hurrying down, one of the girls was soon in his arms.

“My own Ava! My pet little bird, and you have escaped from your cage! Welcome—welcome home, and praised be God who has given me this great blessing!” he exclaimed, again and again kissing her cheek.

His child wept as she hung on the old man’s neck. While this was taking place, the other young lady looked about very much astonished and frightened, though there was nothing particularly to frighten her, and the grave merchant was doing his best to reassure her.

“Well done, Eric, my boy—well done, Albert von Otten!” exclaimed the Knight, when he could bring himself to turn his attention for a moment from his recovered daughter.

“Oh! thank Albert, father; it was he thought of the plan; he designed the whole of it. I merely acted the part he selected for me,” answered Eric.

“I thank him heartily, then; for very well done it has been, and you have both my eternal gratitude,” said the Knight. “And this young lady, I conclude that she helped you in the undertaking?”

“No; it was they helped me to run away, as Ava did not like to go alone, and she promised me an asylum under your roof.”

“And you shall have it, if the Pope and all the cardinals were to come and demand you. They shall pull the walls down before I will give you up. And now tell me who you are, my dear fraülein?”

“I am Beatrice von Reichenau, of Swabia. My father, Count von Reichenau, and my mother decline to receive me, and yet they love me, I am sure; but, alas! they little know the horrors of the life to which they had devoted me.”

“Better times will come, my sweet fraülein!” said the Knight, who just then saw everything in a bright light.

Meantime, Dame Margaret, Father Nicholas not being in the Castle, having seen the waggon and the young ladies get out of it, and guessing what had happened, and that her fine scheme had failed, went to the great hall, accompanied by Laneta, that she might receive Ava with becoming dignity, and reprimand her in a manner suitable to her offence. She had just taken her post when the Knight entered with timid little Ava clinging to his arm, looking more sweet and lovable than ever in her becoming peasant’s dress, and not a bit like a wicked runaway nun. As soon as she saw her mother, she ran forward and threw herself into her arms, half weeping and half smiling.

“Oh, mother—mother, I am so thankful to see you again!” she cried.

Dame Margaret began her speech, but it would not come out. Nature asserted her rights over bigotry and superstition; she burst into tears, and, folding her daughter to her bosom, exclaimed, “And I, Ava, am glad to have you, darling!”

“I always said that she was a good woman, and now I am convinced of it,” said the Knight. “Father Nicholas has done his best to spoil her, but, thank Heaven! he has not succeeded, and his reign is pretty well over, I suspect.”

Laneta, who really in her way loved her sister, followed her mother’s lead, and embraced Ava affectionately. The Dame Margaret was also not a little gratified when she found that her daughter’s companion in her flight was so high-born a girl as Beatrice von Reichenau.

“If a young lady of her rank could do such a thing, it surely could not be so very wrong,” she said to herself.

Her reasoning was not very good, but it served just then to smooth matters.

Ava and her friend were not idle in the Castle, nor did they confine their labours to it. Their mild, gentle, subdued manners and earnest and zealous spirits attracted all hearts with whom they came in contact. The glorious truths they had received into their own souls they were anxious to impart to others, nor did they feel that any trouble, any exertion, was too great for them to take to forward that object. Still it was very evident that to effect any speedy change on a large scale among the peasantry a preacher was required. Albert von Otten had been made a priest in the days of his ignorance, before he went to Wittemburg, and he remembered the Knight’s offer to let him preach in the neighbouring church. Father Nicholas somewhat demurred, but the Knight assured him that Albert von Otten, he was sure, would only preach sound doctrine, and advised him to hold his tongue. Such a sermon as Albert preached had never been heard in that church. He said not a word about himself. He held up but one object—Christ Jesus walking on earth, Christ Jesus crucified, Christ rising again, Christ ascending into heaven, Christ sitting on the right hand of God pleading for sinners. Then he added:

“Dear friends, once a man came among you to sell you what he called indulgences; were they indulgences to commit sin, or indulgences to obtain pardon? What impious imposition! Oh! dear friends—dear friends! God’s gifts of grace are free—are priceless. The blood of His only Son purchased them for us once for all. Gifts, gifts—free, free gifts—are what God offers; no selling now, no purchasing now—that has all been done. Christ has paid the price for every sin that man has committed or ever will commit, and man can by his works not add one jot, one tittle, to that all-sufficient price. God’s offer is all of free grace. Man has but to look to Christ, to repent, to desire to be healed, and he will be forgiven, he will be accepted and received into heaven. Dear friends, when Moses was leading the Israelites out of Egypt, the land of persecution, of slavery, of idolatry, through the wilderness, they were visited by a plague of venomous serpents whose bite sent fiery pains through their bodies, which speedily terminated by their death. God then ordered Moses to make a brazen serpent (the serpent being among the Egyptians the emblem of the healing power, which was well understood by them (Note 1)). This serpent he was to raise up on a pole in a conspicuous part of the encampment, and all who simply looked at it, desiring to be healed, were instantly to be healed. Moses asked no price, no reward; the bitten sufferers were only to exert themselves to look to ensure being healed. Christ Himself told His disciples, ‘As Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so shall the Son of man be lifted up’—that was Himself on the cross, ‘that all’—of every tongue, and kindred, and nation,—‘who believe in Him’—that is to say, look on Him as the Israelites at the brazen serpent—‘shall not perish’—shall not die of the fiery bite of sin—‘but have eternal life.’ This is Gospel—Gospel truth. Then what becomes of indulgences, penances, fasts, invocations to saints, to the Virgin Mary, gifts, alms, if bestowed with the idea of purchasing aught? All useless, vain, insulting to God’s generosity, mercy, kindness. It is as if a great noble were to pardon a poor man who had grossly offended him, and, moreover, to bestow a favour on him, and the poor man were to offer him a groat as payment, saying, ‘No, I cannot receive your pardon and your favour as a free gift; I must return you something; indeed, a groat is not much, neither do I very greatly value your pardon, because I do not think my offence was very great, nor your favour, which, after all, is but small.’

“‘Foolish man,’ the lord would say, ‘I bestowed that pardon and that favour on you in my beneficence. I require nothing in return but your gratitude and your obedience, and that you should speak of my name and fame among my other vassals, and live in amity with them, doing them all the service in your power. Say, foolish man, what else can a poor, helpless, decrepit, broken-down creature like yourself do for me?’ What should you say, dear friends, if this poor wretched man were to answer, ‘No, but there are a set of people in your dominions, who assume to be your ministers, though to be sure they make a mockery of your name and love to send people over to serve your enemies,’ I can buy of them what they call indulgences, which they say are much better than your free pardon; besides, I may offend as often as I please, and you will be compelled to forgive me because I have paid them; and if it were not for these indulgences, I could fast, I could beat myself, and perform numberless other penances; I could mumble petitions to you, not thinking of what I was saying; indeed, I have no fear but what I can make ample amends to you for this gift which you have bestowed, for this pardon which you have offered. Dear friends, you will say what a weak, conceited, foolish, impudent wretch is that man of whom you speak; and yet what are you doing when you perform penances, and fasts, and such-like works? What did you do when you purchased that mountebank impostor Tetzel’s indulgences? Confess—confess that he swindled you out of your money, but O do not, by trusting to them, which you might as well do as a sinking man to a feather or a straw in the raging ocean, allow the arch-deceiver Satan to swindle you out of your souls.”

This address, of which many similar were delivered at that time throughout Germany and Switzerland, produced a great effect in the village. No one heard it more eagerly, or with greater delight, than Ava and her companion. It brought out clearly so much of what they had read in the convent.

“God’s free grace! God’s free grace!” they repeated to each other. “Oh, what a loving, merciful God he must be!”

It made Father Nicholas very uncomfortable. Had he, then, all his life been encouraging a system of imposture? It was a question he would have to answer somehow. Dame Margaret also went back to the Castle sorely troubled in mind. She thought that she had by purchasing Tetzel’s indulgences, secured the salvation of herself and all her family. She was fond of a bargain, and she thought that really she had made a good one by the expenditure or a few gold ducats, considering the advantage to be gained. And now she was afraid that she, and her husband, and children were no nearer heaven than they were before she had bought the indulgences; and from the description Tetzel gave of it, purgatory must be a very disagreeable place, but she comforted herself by thinking that Tetzel might have imposed on his hearers in that matter also.

As, however, there was no lack of Testaments in simple, clear German, and parts of the Bible also, and Albert, and Eric, and Ava, and Beatrice too, able and anxious to explain it, gradually both Dame Margaret’s and Laneta’s eyes were opened, and their faith in the system to which they had before clung was greatly shaken. Father Nicholas, however, could not be so easily turned from his old notions, and now came that terrible convulsion caused by the outbreak of the peasantry and the sad blood-shedding which followed.

“Ah,” he exclaimed, triumphantly, “see the work which Luther and his followers have produced!”

“No such thing,” answered the Knight, indignantly; “you ought to know that these attempts were commenced long before Dr Luther was heard of. Discontent has been fermenting among them for many years. They have some reason and a great deal of folly on their side. They have done their work like foolish savages as they are, and they will suffer the fate of fools, though, in the meantime, they may do a great deal of mischief.”

Note 1. An interpolation of the author’s, this fact probably not being known in Luther’s days.

Chapter Nine.

It was at the eventful period described in the last chapter that the Count von Lindburg was first introduced to the reader, leaning on his elbow, with a book before him, in his turret-chamber. He had great cause for thoughtfulness. Eric and Albert had gone to Wittemburg. Ava and Beatrice had continued earnestly labouring among the surrounding peasantry, and the minds of the poor people had been awakened by Albert’s sermons with great success; Dame Margaret and Laneta continued wavering; and Father Nicholas, though he did not openly oppose the Gospel, persevered in all his old practices, and remained ready to take the winning side. Public events were one cause of the Knight’s anxiety, and, besides, it was rumoured that insurgents were appearing in his neighbourhood, threatening to attack his, among other surrounding castles. It would be wrong to deny that the Reformation was not in a certain degree connected with the rebellion of the peasants, but in this manner: the liberty which the Gospel demands for all men when the spirit of that Gospel is received into their hearts, makes them ready to submit to rulers and endure persecutions patiently; but when, though men know its truths, their hearts have not been regenerated, they being aware of their rights as men appeal to the sword to obtain them.

Certain fanatics, also, had appeared, who, though professing to found their doctrines on the Bible, were greatly opposed to the principles of the Gospel. The most notorious of these was Thomas Munzer, pastor of Alstadt, in Thuringia; another was John Muller, of Bulgenbach, in the Black Forest, the inhabitants of which he rallied round him, and raised the standard of rebellion. Here the insurrection began. On the 19th of July, 1524, some Thurgovian peasants rose against the Abbot of Reichenau, who would not accord them an evangelical preacher. Ere long thousands were collected round the small town of Tengen, to liberate an ecclesiastic who was there imprisoned. The revolt spread rapidly, from Swabia as far as the Rhenish Provinces, Franconia, Thuringia, and Saxony. At Weinsberg, Count Louis, of Holfenstein, and seventy men under his orders, were condemned to death by the rebels. A body of peasants drew up with their pikes lowered, whilst others drove the Count and his soldiers against this wall of steel. At the approach of the peasants, the cities that were unable to resist them opened their gates and joined them. Wherever they appeared they pulled down the images and broke the crucifixes. Many nobles, some through fear and others from ambition, joined them.

In vain Luther wrote to them, “Rebellion never produces the amelioration we desire, and God condemns it. What is it to rebel if it be not to avenge one’s self? The devil is striving to excite to revolt those who embrace the Gospel, in order to cover it with opprobrium; but those who have rightly understood my doctrine do not revolt.”

At length the princes threw off their lethargy; the imperial forces marched to encounter the peasants, and defeated them in every direction. The nobles were soon victorious, and retaliated with most terrible severity on the misguided men. The peasants were hung up by hundreds at the roadside, the eyes of numbers were put out, and some were burnt alive, and in all parts of the country the Romish style of worship was re-established. Still the rebellion was far from being stamped out, and large bodies of insurgents were in arms in different parts of the country besides those in the neighbourhood of the Castle of Lindburg. The Knight had done his best to put his Castle in a state of defence, and his own tenantry promised to come in and fight to the last gasp should it be attacked. Ava and Beatrice, notwithstanding the state of things, went about the country as before, fearless of danger. “We are doing our duty,” they answered, when Dame Margaret expostulated with them; “we are carrying out the work to which we devoted our lives, in helping our suffering fellow-creatures, in making known the love of God through His dear Son, and He will protect us.”

The Knight, as I have said, having done all that a man could do, sat down in his study, to quiet his mind by reading. He found it, however, a difficult task. Even when he managed to keep his eyes on the page, his mind let them labour alone, and refused to take in the matter they attempted to convey. It was a positive relief when he heard a horse’s hoofs clattering into the court-yard. He hurried down to hear the news brought by the horseman. It was truly alarming. The scout who had been sent out by the Knight to gain information, stated that a body of some thousand men were advancing, threatening to destroy all the Castles in the district, and that Lindburg was the first on their line of march. Not a moment was to be lost. He instantly sent out messengers, some to summon his retainers, and others to bring in provisions. The drawbridge was raised, the gates secured. Dame Margaret and Laneta were greatly alarmed. Father Nicholas, who had arrived with all the ornaments of the Church, and as much as his mule could carry, urged the ladies, and all he could get to listen to him, to invoke the protection of the saints. “These new-fangled doctrines brought about all these disorders; ergo, you must go back to the old system to avert them, if it is not already too late.”

The Knight advised him to talk sense or keep silence, but the time was opportune, he thought.

“Religion must be supported,” he answered, meaning the Romish system, “or we shall be undone.”

From the top of the watch-tower a cloud of dust was seen rising. It was caused by the insurgent peasants, horse and foot, approaching.

“Poor people, they have many real causes of complaint. I wish they had remained quiet, for their own sake, and allowed the law to right them,” observed the Knight.

“Let us pray for them that their hearts may be changed, and that they may see their folly and wickedness,” said Ava; and Beatrice repeated the sentiment.

Just then three horsemen were seen approaching the Castle at full speed. The Knight soon recognised his son and Albert von Otten; the other was a stranger.

“Ah, they come to bring us the aid of their swords,” exclaimed the Knight. “Three gentlemen will be a host in themselves when opposed to those unhappy serfs.”

The drawbridge was lowered to admit them. Eric directed that it should be left down, as they were going again to sally forth immediately. He embraced his father and mother and sisters, and he might have said a few words to Beatrice, as certainly Albert did to Ava, and Eric introduced the stranger as Frederick Myconius, professor of divinity.

“Welcome, gentlemen; but I thought, I confess, that you were fighting men come to aid in defence of the Castle. I was counting on your good swords.”

“Our good swords you shall have, father,” answered Eric, taking off the belt to which hung the scabbard of his weapon. “But we ourselves cannot wield them. We go forth with other weapons than those of steel, and trusting to other strength than an arm of flesh to quell these misguided men. Dr Myconius will address them, as Dr Martin Luther has already addressed thousands, and turned them aside from their purpose of vengeance. We have, though, no time to lose.”

“Go forth, my son—go forth, my friends; I feel sure that God, who sees all our actions, will protect you with His Almighty arm in so noble and pious an object,” exclaimed the Knight, holding the sword which had been given to him.

The three brave young men rode forth from the Castle unarmed, and hastened towards the rebel host. They well knew the danger, humanly speaking, to which they were exposing themselves, but not for a moment did they hesitate doing what they knew to be right. They were soon face to face with the insurgent band, led on by a man in a red cloak and hat and white plume. They were a wild savage set of beings in appearance. Many a bold man might have hesitated to encounter them. Those who now advanced to meet them trusted not in their own strength to deliver them. Dr Myconius rode first. As he drew close to the insurgents, he lifted up his arm and said, “Bear with me, dear friends, while I address a few words to you, and ask you what you seek? what are you about to do? what object do you desire to gain? Is it one well-pleasing to God, or is it not rather one He abhors? Is it revenge? The Gospel of Jesus Christ will not permit its indulgence. Is it to overthrow principalities and powers? The Gospel orders us to obey them. Is it to oppose the power of the Papacy? The light of truth can alone do that. Is it lust, rapine, murder, you desire to commit? Those who do such things can never inherit the kingdom of heaven. Listen, dear friends, to those who love you, who feel for you, who know that you have souls to be saved—precious souls above all price in God’s sight, for them He sent down His Son on earth to suffer far more wrongs than you have ever suffered. Endanger not these precious souls by the acts you contemplate. Turn aside from your purpose, fall on your knees, and pray to God to enlighten your minds, to give you patience above all things to bear your sufferings here for a short time, that, trusting in the merits of Christ Jesus, who once suffered for you, and now reigns and pleads for you, you maybe raised up to dwell with Him, to reign with Him in happiness unspeakable for ever and ever.”

Such was the style of eloquence with which one of the great leaders of the Reformation addressed the lately infuriated insurgents. It went to their hearts; they acknowledged its truth, the power from which it flowed, and yielded to its influence. Peaceably they divided into small parties; thus they returned to their villages, to their separate homes, speaking as they went of the love of Christ, and the sufferings He had endured for their sakes, and praying that they too might endure any sufferings it might please their heavenly Father to call on them to bear with patience for His sake, that thus the Christian character might be exalted in the eyes of the world.

The three friends returned to the Castle. The success of their undertaking was heard of with astonishment. The Knight went to his Testament, and came back exclaiming, “I see, I see, it was the right way to do it. It was the way Jesus Christ would have acted, and I doubt not He was with you to counsel and guide you.”

Dame Margaret and Laneta, and even Father Nicholas, confessed that the mode they had employed with Dr Martin Luther and others, to put down the insurrection, was far more satisfactory and sensible than that which the Roman Catholic nobles and knights had pursued with cannon-balls, bullets, and sharp swords. The two ladies at length, through the gentle influence of Ava and Beatrice, completely abandoned the errors of Rome, and embraced the truths of evangelical religion. Father Nicholas, still clinging to the idolatry to which he had been accustomed, was compelled to give up his cure, and thankfully accepted a small pension from the Knight, on condition that he should keep silence till he had learned the truth. Albert von Otten, notwithstanding his rank, gladly became the humble pastor of Lindburg, and little Ava as gladly became his most efficient helpmate, while Beatrice von Reichenau married Eric. The Knight arrived at a green old age, and though there was little peace in the world, he found it in his home and in his heart, and saw his grandchildren grow up pious Christians and sound brave Protestants.

W H G Kingston

"Dick Cheveley"

Preface.

So extraordinary are the adventures of my hero, Master Richard Cheveley, son of the Reverend John Cheveley, vicar of the parish of S—, in the county of D—, that it is possible some of my readers may be inclined to consider them incredible, but that they are thoroughly probable the following paragraph which appeared in the evening edition of the Standard early in the month of November, 1879, will, I think, amply prove. I have no fear that any sensible boys will be inclined to follow Dick’s example; but if they will write to him at Liverpool, where he resides, and ask his advice, as a young gentleman did mine lately, on the subject of running away to sea, I am very sure that he will earnestly advise them to stay at home; or, at all events, first to consult their fathers or mothers, or guardians, or other relatives or friends before they start, unless they desire to risk sharing the fate of the hapless stowaway here mentioned:—

“A shocking discovery was made on board the National steamer England, which arrived in New York from Liverpool on the 29th October. In discharging the cargo in the forehold a stowaway was found in a dying state. He had made the entire passage of thirteen days without food or drink. He was carried to the vessel’s deck, where he died.”

My young correspondent, in perfect honesty, asked me to tell him how he could best manage to run away to sea. I advised him, as Mr Richard Cheveley would have done, and I am happy to say that he wisely followed my advice, for I have since frequently heard from him. When he first wrote he was an entire stranger to me. He has had more to do with this work than he supposes. I have the pleasure of dedicating it to him.

William H G Kingston.

Chapter One.

Some account of my family, including Aunt Deb—My father receives an offer—A family discussion, in which Aunt Deb distinguishes herself—Her opinions and mine differ considerably—My desire to go to sea haunts my dreams—My brother Ned’s counsel—I go a-fishing in Leighton Park—I meet with an accident—My career nearly cut short—A battle with a swan, in which I get the worst of it—A courageous mother—Mark Riddle to the rescue—An awkward fix—Mark finds a way out of it—Old Roger’s cottage—The Riddle family—Roger Riddle’s yarns and their effect on me—Mark takes a different view—It’s not all gold that glitters—The model—My reception at home.

We were all seated round the tea-table, that is to say, my father and mother, my five sisters, and three of my elder brothers, who were at home—two were away—and the same number of young ones, who wore pinafores, and last, but not least, Aunt Deb, who was my mother’s aunt, and lived with us to manage everything and keep everybody in order, for this neither my father nor mother were very well able to do; the latter nearly worn out with nursing numerous babies, while my father was constantly engaged in the duties of the parish of Sandgate, of which he was incumbent.

Aunt Deb was never happy unless she was actively engaged in doing something or other. At present she was employed in cutting, buttering, or covering with jam, huge slices of bread, which she served out as soon as they were ready to the juvenile members of the family, while my eldest sister, Mary, was presiding at the tea-tray, and passing round the cups as she filled them.

When all were served, my father stood up and said grace, and then all fell to with an eagerness which proved that we had good appetites.

“I say, Aunt Deb, Tom Martin has lent me such a jolly book. Please give me another slice before you sit down. It’s all about Anson’s voyage round the world. I don’t know whether I shall like it as well as ‘Robinson Crusoe’ or ‘Captain Cook’s Voyages,’ or ‘Gulliver’s Travels,’ or the ‘Life of Nelson,’ or ‘Paul Jones,’ but I think I shall from the look I got of it,” I exclaimed, as Aunt Deb was doing what I requested.

“I wish, Dick, that you would not read those pestiferous works,” she answered, as, having given me the slice of bread, she sat down to sip her tea. “They are all written with an evil intent, to make young people go gadding about the world, instead of staying contentedly at home doing their duty in that state of life to which they are called.”

“But I don’t understand why I should not be called to go to sea,” I replied; “I have for a long time made up my mind to go, and I intend to try and become as great a man as Howe, or Nelson, or Collingwood, or Lord Cochrane, or Sir Sidney Smith. I’ve just to ask you, Aunt Deb, what England would be without her navy, and what the navy would be unless boys were allowed to go into it?”

“Stuff and nonsense, you know nothing about the matter, Dick. It’s very well for boys who have plenty of interest, for sons of peers or members of parliament, or judges or bishops, or of others who possess ample means and influence, but the son of a poor incumbent of an out of the way parish, who knows no one, and whom nobody knows, would remain at the bottom of the tree.”

“But you forget, Aunt Deb, that there are ways of getting on besides through interest. I intend to do all sorts of dashing things, and win my promotion, through my bravery. If I can once become a midshipman I shall have no fear about getting on.”

“Stuff and nonsense!” again ejaculated Aunt Deb, “you know nothing about the matter, boy.”

“Don’t I though,” I said to myself, for I knew that my father, who felt the importance of finding professions for his sons according to their tastes, had some time before written to Sir Reginald Knowsley, of Leighton Park,—“the Squire,” as he used to be called till he was made a baronet, and still was so very frequently, asking him to exert his influence in obtaining an appointment for me on board a man-of-war. This Sir Reginald had promised to do. Aunt Deb, however, had made many objections, but for once in a way my father had acted contrary to her sage counsel, and as he considered for the best. Still Aunt Deb had not given in.

“You’ll do as you think fit, John,” she observed to him, “but you will repent it. Dick is not able to take care of himself at home, much less will he be so on board a big ship among a number of rough sailors. Let him remain at school until he is old enough to go into a counting-house in London or Bristol, where he’ll make his fortune and become a respectable member of society, as his elder brother means to be, or let him become a master at a school, or follow any course of life rather than that of a soldier or a sailor.”

I did not venture to interrupt Aunt Deb, indeed it would have been somewhat dangerous to have done so, while she was arguing a point, but I had secretly begged my father to write to Sir Reginald as he had promised, assuring him that I had set my heart on following a naval career, and that it would break if I was not allowed to go to sea. This took place, it will be understood, some time before the evening of which I am now speaking.

Aunt Deb suspected that my father was inclined to favour my wishes, and this made her speak still more disparagingly than ever of the navy.

Tea was nearly over when the post arrived. It only reached us of an evening, and Sarah, the maid, brought in a large franked letter. I at once guessed that it was from Sir Reginald Knowsley, who was in London.

I gazed anxiously at my father’s face as he read it. His countenance did not, however, exhibit any especial satisfaction.

“Who is it from?” asked my mother, in a languid voice. “From Sir Reginald,” he replied. “It is very kind and complimentary. He says that he has had great pleasure in doing as I requested him. He fortunately, when going down to the Admiralty, met his friend Captain Grummit, who has lately been appointed to the ‘Blaze-away,’ man-of-war, and who expressed his willingness to receive on board his ship the son of any friend of his, but—and here comes the rub—Captain Grummit, he says, has made it a rule to take no midshipmen unless their parents consent to allow them fifty pounds a year, in addition to their pay. This sum, the Captain states, is absolutely necessary to enable them to make the appearance he desires all his midshipmen to maintain. Fifty pounds a year is a larger sum, I fear, than my purse can supply,” observed my father when he had read thus far.

“I should think it was, indeed!” exclaimed Aunt Deb. “Fifty pounds a year! Why, that’s nearly half of my annual income. It would be madness, John, to make any promise of the sort. Suppose you were to let him go, and to stint the rest of his brothers and sisters by making him so large an allowance—what will be the result, granting that he is not killed in the first battle he is engaged in, or does not fall overboard and get drowned, or the ship is not wrecked, and he escapes the other hundred and one casualties to which a sailor is liable? Why, when he becomes a lieutenant he’ll marry to a certainty, and then he’ll be killed, and leave you and his mother and me, or his brothers and sisters, to look after his widow and children, supposing they are able to do so.”

“But I shall have a hundred and twenty pounds full pay, and ninety pounds a year half-pay,” I answered; “I know all about it, I can tell you.”

“Ninety pounds a year and a wife and half-a-dozen small brats to support on it,” exclaimed Aunt Deb in an indignant tone. “The wife is sure to be delicate, and know nothing about housekeeping, and she and the children will constantly be requiring the doctor in the house.”

“But you are going very far ahead, Aunt Deb, I haven’t gone to sea yet, or been made a lieutenant, and if I had, there’s no reason why I should marry.”

“There are a great many reasons why you should not,” exclaimed Aunt Deb.

“I was going to say that there are many lieutenants in the navy who have not got wives, and I do not suppose that I shall marry when I become one,” I answered.

“It seems pretty certain that you will never be a lieutenant or a midshipman either, if it depends upon your having an allowance of fifty pounds a year, for where that fifty pounds is to come from I’m sure I don’t know,” cried my aunt. “As it is, your poor father finds it a difficult matter to find food and clothing for you all, and to give you a proper education, and unless the Bishop should suddenly bestow a rich living on him, he, at all events, could not pay fifty pounds a year, or fifty shillings either, so I would advise you forthwith to give up this mad idea of yours, and stay quietly at school until a profitable employment is found for you.”

I looked up at my father, feeling that there was a good deal of truth in what Aunt Deb said, although I did not like the way she said it.

“Your aunt only states what is the case, Dick,” said my father. “I should be glad to forward your views, but I could not venture, with my very limited income, to bind myself to supply you with the sum which Sir Reginald says is necessary.”

“Couldn’t you get Sir Reginald to advance the money?” I inquired, as the bright idea occurred to me; “I will return it to him out of my pay and prize-money.”

Aunt Deb fairly burst out laughing.

“Out of your pay, Dick?” she exclaimed. “Why fifty pounds is required over and above that pay you talk of, every penny of which you will have to spend, and supposing that you should not be employed for a time, and have to live on shore. Do you happen to know what a midshipman’s half-pay is? Why just nothing at all and find yourself. You talk a good deal of knowing all about the matter, but it’s just clear that you know nothing.”

“I wish, my dear Dick, that we could save enough to help you,” said my mother, who was always ready to assist us in any of our plans; “but you know how difficult I find it to get even a few shillings to spend.”

My mother’s remark soothed my irritated feelings and disappointment, or I should have said something which might not have been pleasant to Aunt Deb’s ears.

We continued talking on the subject, I devising all sorts of plans, and arguing tooth and nail with Aunt Deb, for I had made up my mind to go to sea, and to go I was determined by hook or by crook; but that fifty pounds a year was, I confess, a damper to my hopes of becoming a midshipman.

If I could have set to work and made the fifty pounds, I would have done my best to do so, but I was as little likely to make fifty pounds as I was to make fifty thousand. Aunt Deb also reminded my father that it was not fifty pounds a year for one year, but fifty pounds for several years, which he might set down as three hundred pounds, at least, of which, through my foolish fancy, I should be depriving him, and my mother, and brothers, and sisters.

There was no denying that, so I felt that I was defeated. I had at length to go to bed, feeling as disappointed and miserable as I had ever been in my life. To Ned, the brother just above me in age, who slept in the same room, I opened my heart.

“I am the most miserable being in the world!” I exclaimed. “I wish that I had never been born. If it had not been for Aunt Deb father would have given in, but she hates me, I know, and always has hated me, and takes a pleasure in thwarting my wishes. I’ve a great mind to run off to sea, and enter before the mast just to spite her.”

Ned, who was a quiet, amiable fellow, taking much after our kind mother, endeavoured to tranquillise my irritated feelings.

“Don’t talk in that way, Dick,” he said in a gentle tone. “You might get tired of the life, even if you were to go into the navy; but, perhaps, means may be found, after all, to enable you to follow the bent of your wishes. All naval captains may not insist on their midshipmen having an allowance of fifty pounds a year; or, perhaps, if they do, some friend may find the necessary funds.”

“I haven’t a friend in the world,” I answered. “If my father cannot give me the money I don’t know who can. I know that Aunt Deb would not, even if she could.”

“Cheer up, Dick,” said Ned; “or rather I would advise you to go to sleep. Perhaps to-morrow morning some bright idea may occur which we can’t think of at present. I’ve got my lessons to do before breakfast, so I must not stop awake talking, or I shall not be able to arouse myself.”

I had begun taking off my clothes, and Ned waited until he saw me lie down, when he put out the candle, and jumped into bed. I continued talking till a loud snore from his corner of the room showed me that he was fast asleep. I soon followed his example, but my mind was not idle, for I dreamed that I had gone to sea, become a midshipman, and was sailing over the blue ocean with a fair breeze, that the captain was talking to me and telling me what a fine young sailor I had become, and that he had invited me to breakfast with him, and had handed me a plate of buttered toast and a fresh-laid egg; when, looking up, I saw his countenance suddenly change into that of Aunt Deb.

“Don’t you wish you may get it?” he said. “Before you eat that, go on deck and see what weather it is.”

Of course I had to go, when to my astonishment I found the ship rolling and pitching; the foam-covered seas tossing and roaring; the officers shouting and bawling, ordering the men to take in sail. Presently there came a crash, the masts went by the board, the seas dashed over the ship, and I found myself tumbling about among the breakers, until it seemed almost in an instant I was thrown on the beach, where I lay unable to crawl out of the way of the angry waters, which threatened every moment to carry me off again. In vain I tried to work my way up the sands with my arms and legs. Presently down I came, to find myself sprawling on the floor.

“What can have made all that row?” exclaimed Ned, starting up, awakened by the noise of my falling out of bed.

“I thought I was shipwrecked,” I answered.

“I’m glad you are not,” said Ned. “So get into bed again, and if you can go to sleep, dream of something else.”

Feeling somewhat foolish, I did as he advised, but I had first to put my bed-clothes to rights, for I had dragged them off with me to the floor. It was no easy matter, although I was assisted by the pale light of early morning, which came through the chinks of the shutters.

In a short time afterwards Ned again got up to go to his books, for he, being somewhat delicate, was studying under our father, while I, who had been sent to school, had just come home for the holidays. I had a holiday task, but had no intention of troubling myself about it at present. I was, therefore, somewhat puzzled to know what to do. While I was dressing, it occurred to me that I would go over to Leighton Park with my rod, to try the ponds, hoping to return with a basket of fish. I might go there and get an hour’s fishing, and be back again before breakfast. I tried to persuade Ned to accompany me, but he preferred to stick to his books.

“Much good may they do you,” I answered, rather annoyed. “Why can’t you shut them up for once in a way. It’s a beautiful morning, and by going early we are sure to have plenty of sport, and you can learn your lessons just as well after breakfast.”

“Not if I had been out three or four hours fishing, and came home wet and dirty; and I want to get my studies over while the day is young, and the air fresh and pure. I can read twice as well now as I shall be able after breakfast.”

“Well, if you are so unsociable, I must go by myself,” I said, getting down my rod from the wall on which it hung with my fishing-tackle and basket. Swinging the latter over my shoulder I crept noiselessly out of the room and down stairs. No one was stirring, so I let myself out by a back door which led into the garden. Even our old dog “Growler” did not bark, for he was, I suppose, taking his morning snooze after having been on the watch all night.

Before setting off I had to get some bait. I found a spade in the tool-house and proceeded with it to a certain well-known heap in the corner of the kitchen garden, full of vivacious worms of a ruddy hue, for which fish of all descriptions had a decided predilection. Even now, whenever I smell a similar odour to that which emanated from the heap, the garden and its surroundings are vividly recalled to my mind. I quickly filled a box, which I kept for the purpose, with wriggling worms. It had a perforated lid, and contained damp moss.

“I ought to have thought of getting these fellows yesterday and have given them time to clean themselves,” I said to myself. “They’ll do, notwithstanding, although they will not prove as tough as they ought.” Shouldering my rod I made my way out of the garden by a wicket gate, and proceeded across the fields on which it opened towards Leighton Park. The grass was wet with dew, the air was pure and fresh, almost cold; the birds were singing blithely in the trees. A lark sprang up before me, and rose into the blue air, warbling sweetly to welcome the rising sun, which he could see long before its rays glanced over the ground on which I was walking. I could not help also singing and whistling, the bright air alone being sufficient to raise my spirits. I hurried away, as I was eager to begin fishing, for I wanted the fish in the first place, and I knew in the second that Ned would laugh at me if I came back empty handed. The pond to which I was going, although supplied by the same stream which fed the ornamental piece of water in the neighbourhood of the Hall, was at a distance from it, and was accessible without having to pass through the grounds. It was surrounded by trees, and one side of the bank was thickly fringed by sedges which extended a considerable way into the water. It served as a preserve for ducks and wild fowl of various descriptions, and was inhabited also by a number of swans, who floated gracefully over its calm surface. As they were accustomed to depend upon their own exertions for a subsistence, they generally kept at a distance from strangers, and I had never been interrupted by them when fishing. I made my way to a spot where I knew that the water was deep, and where I had frequently been successful in fishing. It was a green bank, which jutted out into a point, with bushes on one side, but perfectly free on the other. I quickly got my rod together, and my hook baited with a red wriggling worm. I did not consider that the worm wriggled because it did not like to be put on the hook, but if I had been asked I should have said that it was rather pleased than otherwise at having so important a duty to perform as catching fish for my pleasure. I had a new float, white above and green below, which I thought looked very pretty as I threw my line out on the water. Up it popped at once, there being plenty of lead. Before long it began to move, gliding slowly over the surface, then faster and faster. I eagerly held my rod ready to strike as soon as it went down; now it moved on one side, now on the other. I knew that there was a fish coquetting with the bait, trying perhaps to suck off the worm without letting the hook run into its jaws. Before long down went the float, and I gave my rod a scientific jerk against the direction in which the float was last moving, when to my intense satisfaction I felt that I had hooked a fish, but whether a large or a small one I could not at first tell. I wound up my line until I had got it of a manageable length, then drew it in gradually towards the bank. I soon discovered that I had hooked a fine tench. It was so astonished at finding itself dragged through the water, without any exertion of its fins, that it scarcely struggled at all, and I quickly hauled it up on the bank. It was three-quarters of a pound at least, one of the largest I had ever caught. It was soon unhooked and placed safely in my basket. As I wanted several more I put on a fresh worm, and again threw my line into the water.

Some people say there is no pleasure in float-fishing, but for me it always had a strange fascination, that would not have been the case, if I could have seen through the water, for I believe the interest depends upon not knowing what size or sort of fish has got hold of the hook, when the float first begins to move, and then glides about as I have described, until it suddenly disappears beneath the surface. I caught four or five fine tench in little more than twice as many minutes. I don’t know why they took a fancy to bite so freely that fine bright morning. Generally they take the hook best of a dull, muggy day, with a light drizzling rain, provided the weather is warm. After I had caught those four fish, I waited for fully ten minutes more without getting another bite; at last, I came to the conclusion that only those four fish had come to that part of the pond. There was another place a little further on, free of trees and bushes, where I could throw my line without the risk of its being caught in the bushes above my head; I had not, however, generally gone there. Tall sedges lined the shore, and water-lilies floated on the greater part of the surface and its immediate neighbourhood. It was also somewhat difficult to get at, owing to the dense brushwood which covered the ground close to it. I waited five minutes more, and then slinging my basket behind my back, I made my way to the spot I have described. After catching my line two or three times in the bushes, and spending some time in clearing it, I reached the bank and unslinging my basket quickly, once more had my float in the water. The ground, which was covered with moss rather than grass, sloped quietly down to the water, and was excessively slippery. As I held my rod, expecting every moment to get a bite, I heard a low whistling sound coming from the bushes close to me. At first I thought it was produced by young frogs, but where they were I could not make out. I observed that several of the swans I have before mentioned were floating on the surface not far off. Now one, now another would put down its long neck in search of fish or water insects. Presently one of them caught sight of me, and came swimming rapidly towards the extreme point of the bank. In an instant it landed, and half-flying, half-running over the ground, came full at me through the bushes. To retreat was impossible, should it intend to attack me, but I hoped it would not venture to do so. Before, however, I had any time for considering the matter, it suddenly spread its powerful wings, with one of which it dealt me such a blow, that before I could recover I was sent down the slippery bank, and plunged head over heels into the water. In my fright I let go my rod, but instinctively held out my hands to grasp whatever I could get hold of.

The swan, not content with its first success, came after me, when, by some means or other. I caught hold of it by one of its legs. To this day I don’t know how it happened. The water was deep, and I had very little notion of swimming, and having once got hold of something to support myself I was not inclined to let go, while the swan was as much astonished at being seized hold of as I was. I shouted and bawled for help, although, as no one was likely to be at the pond at that early hour, or passing in the neighbourhood, there was little chance of obtaining assistance.

Away flew the swan, spreading out her broad wings to enable her to rise above the surface. Instead of seeking the land, to my horror, she dragged me right out towards the middle of the pond; while the other swans, alarmed at seeing the extraordinary performance of their companion, flew off in all directions. Fortunately I was able to keep my head above the surface, but was afraid of getting a kick from the other leg of the swan as she struck the water with it to assist herself in making her onward way, but as I held her captive foot at arm’s length, fortunately she did not touch me. I dared not let go with one of my hands, or I should have tried to seize it. Whether it was instinct or not which induced her to carry me away from her nest I cannot tell, but that seemed to be her object. I felt as if I was in a horrid dream, compelled to hold on, and yet finding myself dragged forward against my will. The pond was a long and narrow one, but it seemed wider than it had ever done before. The swan, instead of going across to the opposite bank, took a course right down the centre. My shouts and shrieks must have filled her with alarm. On and on she went flapping her huge wings. I knew that my life depended upon being able to hold fast to her foot, but my arms were beginning to ache, and it seemed to me that we were still a long way from the end. When we got there, I could not tell what she might do. Perhaps, I thought, she might turn round and attack me with beak and wings, when, exhausted by my struggles, I should be unable to defend myself. Still I dared not venture to let go. I heartily wished that I had been a good swimmer, because then, when we got near the end, I might have released her and struck out, either for one side or the other. As it was, my safety depended on being dragged by her to the shore. She frequently struck the water with her wings. Showers of spray came flying over my head, which prevented me from seeing how near I was to it. At last I began to fear that I should be unable to hold on long enough. My arms ached, and my hands felt cramped, still the love of life induced me not to give in.

I shouted again and again. Presently I heard a shout in return.

“Hold on, young fellow. Hold on, you’ll be all right.” This encouraged me, for I knew that help was at hand. Suddenly, as I looked up, I saw the tops of the trees, and presently afterwards I found the swan was trying to make her way up the bank, while my feet touched the muddy bottom.

I had no wish to be dragged through the bushes by the swan, so, as I was close to the shore, I let go, but as I did so, I fell utterly exhausted on the bank, and was very nearly slipping again into the water. The swan, finding herself free after going a short distance, closed her wings, and recollecting, I fancy, that I had been the cause of her alarm, came rushing back with out-stretched neck, uttering a strange hissing sound, preparing, as I supposed, to attack me. I was too much exhausted to try and get up and endeavour to escape from her. Just as she was within a few feet of me, I saw a boy armed with a thick stick spring out from among the bushes, and run directly towards her. A blow from his stick turned her aside, and instead of making for me, she again plunged into the water, and made her way over the surface in the direction from which we had come.

“I am very much obliged to you, my fine fellow, for driving off the swan, or I suppose the savage creature would have mauled me terribly, had she got up to me.”

“Very happy to have done you a service, master; but it didn’t give me much trouble to do it. However, I would advise you not to stop here in your wet clothes, for the mornings are pretty fresh, and you’ll be catching a bad cold.”

“Thank you,” I said, “but I do not feel very well able to walk far just yet.”

“Have you got far to go home?” he asked.

I told him.

“Well, then, you had better come home with me to my father’s cottage. It is away down near the sea, and he’ll give you some hot spirits, and you can turn into my bed while your clothes are drying.”

I was very glad to accept his proposal, for I did not at all fancy having to go home all dripping, to be laughed at by my brothers, and to get a scolding from Aunt Deb into the bargain, for I knew she would say it was all my own fault, and that if I had not been prying into the swan’s nest, the bird would not have attacked me. I did not, however, wish to lose my rod and basket of fish, and I thought it very probable that if I left them, somebody else would carry them off. I asked my new friend his name.

“Mark Riddle,” he answered.

“Before I go I must get back my rod and basket of fish; it won’t take us long. Would you mind coming with me?”

“No, master, I don’t mind; but I would advise you to be quick about it.”

Mark helped me up, and as I soon got the use of my legs, we ran round outside the trees as fast as we could go. The basket of fish was safe enough on the bank, but the rod was floating away at some distance.

“Oh dear, oh dear. I shall never be able to get it,” I exclaimed.

“What! Can’t you swim, master?” asked Mark.

I confessed that I was afraid I could not swim far enough to bring it in.

“Well, never you mind. I’ll have it in a jiffy,” and stripping off his clothes he plunged into the water and soon brought in the rod.

“There’s a fish on the hook I’ve a notion,” he said, as he handed me the butt end of the rod.

He was right, and as he was dressing, not taking long to rub himself dry with his handkerchief, I landed a fine fat tench.

“That belongs to you,” I said. “And, indeed, I ought to give you all the fish I have in my basket.”

“Much obliged, master; but I’ve got a fine lot myself, which I pulled out of the pond this morning, only don’t you say a word about it, for the Squire, I’ve a notion, doesn’t allow us poor people to come fishing here.”

I assured Mark that I would not inform against him, and having taken my rod to pieces and wound up my line, I said that I was ready to set out. Mark by that time was completely dressed. Just as we were about to start I saw the swan—I suppose the same one which had dragged me across the pond—come swimming back at a rapid rate towards where we were standing, in the neighbourhood, as I well knew, of her nest. Whether or not she fancied we were about to interfere with her young, we could not tell, but we agreed that it was well to beat a retreat. We accordingly set off and ran on until we reached the further end of the pond, when Mark, asking me to stop a minute, disappeared among the bushes, and in a few minutes returned with a rough basket full of fine tench, carp, and eels. I had a notion that some night-lines had assisted him to take so many. I did not, however, ask questions just then, and once more we set off running. Wet as I was, I was very glad to move quickly, not that I felt particularly cold, for the sun had now risen some way above the trees, and as there was not a breath of air, his rays warmed me and began to dry my outer garments. I must have had a very draggled look, and I had no wish to be seen by any one at home in that condition. In little more than a quarter of an hour we came in sight of a cottage situated below a cliff on the side of a ravine, opening out towards the sea. A stream which flowed from the Squire’s ponds running through it.

“That is my home, and father will be right glad to see you,” said Mark, pointing to it.

A fine old sailor-like man with a straw hat and round jacket came out of the door as we approached, and began to look about him in the fashion seafaring men have the habit of doing when they first turn out in the morning, to ascertain what sort of weather it is likely to be. His eyes soon fell on Mark and me as we ran down the ravine.

“Who have you got with you, my son?” he asked.

“The young gentleman from the vicarage. He has had a ducking, and he wants to dry his clothes before he goes home; or maybe he’d call it a swanning, seeing it was one of those big white birds which pulled him in, and towed him along from one end of the pond to the other, eh, master? What’s your name?”

“Richard,” I replied, “though I’m generally called Dick,” not at all offended at my companion’s familiarity.

“You are welcome, Master Dick, and if you like to turn into Mark’s bed, or put on a shirt and pair of trousers of his, we’ll get your duds dried before the kitchen fire in a jiffy,” said the old sailor. “Come in, come in; it doesn’t do to stand out in the air when you are wet through with fresh water.”

I gladly entered the old sailor’s cottage, where I found his wife and a young daughter, a year or two older than Mark, busy in getting breakfast ready. I thought Nancy Riddle a nice-looking pleasant-faced girl, and her mother a good-natured buxom dame. As I had no fancy for going to bed I gladly accepted a pair of duck trousers and a blue check shirt belonging to Mark, and a pair of low shoes, which were certainly not his. I suspected that they were Nancy’s best.

I quickly took off my wet things in Mark’s room, and getting into dry ones, made my appearance in the room which served them for parlour, kitchen, and hall, where I found the table spread, with a pot of hot tea, cups and saucers, a bowl of porridge, a loaf of home-made bread, and a pile of buttered toast, to which several of Mark’s freshly caught fish were quickly added. I offered mine to Mrs Riddle, but she answered—

“Thank you kindly, but you had better take them home to your friends, they’ll be glad of them, and we’ve got a plenty, as you see.”

I was very thankful to get a cup of scalding tea, for I was beginning to feel somewhat chilly, though Mrs Riddle made me sit near the fire. A saucer of porridge and milk, followed by some buttered toast and the best part of a tench, with a slice or two of bread soon set me up.

Nancy, however, now and then got up and gave my clothes a turn to dry them faster—a delicate attention which I duly appreciated. Mr Riddle, who was evidently fond of spinning yarns, as most old sailors are, narrated a number of his adventures, which greatly interested me, and made me more than ever wish to go to sea. Mark had already made a trip in a coaster to the north of England, and I was much surprised to hear him say that he had had enough of it.

“It is not all gold that glitters,” he remarked. “I fancied that I was to become a sailor all at once, instead of that I was made to clean out the cabin, attend on the skipper, and wash up the pots and the pans for the cook, and be at everybody’s beck and call, with a rope’s-end for my reward whenever I was not quick enough to please my many masters.”

“That’s what most youngsters have to put up with when they first go to sea,” remarked his father. “You should not have minded it, my lad.”

I found that Mark’s great ambition was to become the owner of a fishing-boat, when he could live at home and be his own master. He was fonder of fishing than anything else, and when he could not get out to sea he passed much of his time with his rod and lines on the banks of the Squire’s ponds, or on those of others in the neighbourhood. He did not consider it poaching, as he asserted he had a perfect right to catch fish wherever he could find them, and I suspect that his father was of the same opinion, for he did not in any way find fault with him. When breakfast was over Mark exhibited with considerable pride a small model of a vessel which he and his father had cut out of a piece of pine, and rigged in a very perfect manner. I was delighted with her appearance, and said I should like to have a similar craft.

“Well, Master Cheveley, I’ll cut one out for you as soon as I can get a piece of wood fit for the purpose,” said the old sailor; “and when Mark and I have rigged her I’ll warrant she’ll sail faster than any other craft of her size which you can find far or near.”

“Thank you,” I answered, “I shall be very pleased to have her; and perhaps we can get up a regatta, and Mark must bring his vessel. I feel sure he or I will carry off the prize.”

As I wanted to get home, dreading the jobation I should get from Aunt Deb for not making my appearance at prayer-time, I begged my friends to let me put on my own clothes. They were tolerably dry by this time, though the shoes were still wet, but that was of no consequence.

“Well, Master Dick, we shall always be glad to see you. Whenever you come this way give us a call,” said the old sailor, as I was preparing to wish him, his wife and daughter good-bye.

I shook hands all round, and Mark accompanied me part of the way home. I parted from him as if he had been an old friend, indeed I was really grateful to him for the way in which he had saved my life, as I believed he had done, when he drove off the enraged swan.

Chapter Two.

Aunt Deb’s lecture, and what came of it—My desire to go to sea still further increases—My father, to satisfy me, visits Leighton Hall—Our interview with Sir Reginald Knowsley—Some description of Leighton Hall and what we saw there—The magistrate’s room—A smuggler in trouble—The evidence against him, and its worth—An ingenious plea—An awkward witness—The prisoner receives the benefit of the doubt—Sir Reginald consults my father, and my father consults Sir Reginald—My expectations stand a fair chance of being realised—The proposed crusade against the smugglers—My father decides on taking an active part in it—I resolve to second him.

On reaching home, the first person I encountered was Aunt Deb.

“Where have you been, Master Dick?” she exclaimed, in a stern tone, “you’ve frightened your poor father and mother out of their wits. They have been fancying that you must have met with some accident, or run off to sea.”

“I have been fishing, aunt,” I answered, exhibiting the contents of my basket, “this shows that I am speaking the truth, though you look as if you doubted my word.”

“Ned said you had gone out fishing, but that you promised to be back for breakfast,” she replied, “it has been over half an hour or more, and the things have been cleared away, so you must be content with a mug of milk and a piece of bread. The teapot was emptied, and we can’t be brewing any more for you.”

“Thank you, aunt. I must, as you say, be content with the mug of milk and piece of bread you offer me,” I said, with a demure countenance, glad to escape any questioning. “I shall have a better appetite for dinner, when I hope you will allow these fish to be cooked, and I fancy that you will find them very good, I have seldom caught finer.”

“Well, well, go in and get off your dirty shoes, you look as if you had been wading into the pond, and remember to be home in good time another day. While I manage the household, I must have regularity; the want of it throws everybody out, though your father and mother do not seem to care about the matter.”

Glad to escape so easily, I hurried away. My father had gone out to visit a sick person who had sent for him. My brothers and sisters were engaged in their various studies and occupations, and my mother was still in her room. Jane, the maid, by Aunt Deb’s directions, brought me the promised mug of milk and piece of bread, and I, without complaint, ate a small piece of the one, and drank up the contents of the other, and then said I had had enough, and could manage to go on until dinner-time. It did not strike me at the time that I was guilty of any deception, though I really was; but I was afraid if I mentioned my visit to Roger Riddle’s cottage, the rest of my adventures in the morning would come out, and so said nothing about the matter.

When my father came home, I told him that I was sorry for being so late, but considering the fine basket of fish I had brought home, it would add considerably to the supply of provisions for the family, and hoped he would not be angry with me.

“No, Dick, I am not angry,” he said, “but Aunt Deb likes regularity, and we are in duty bound to yield to her wishes.”

“I wish that Aunt Deb were at Jericho,” I muttered to myself, “and I should not have minded saying the same thing aloud to my brothers and some of my sisters, for we most of us were heartily tired of her interference with all family arrangements, and were frequently on the verge of rebellion, but my father paid her so much deference, that we were afraid of openly breaking out.”

Finding that my father was disengaged, I followed him into the study, and again broached the subject of going to sea.

“Couldn’t you take me to Squire Knowsley, and talk the matter over with him,” I said. “You can tell him that 50 pounds a year is a large sum for you to allow me, and perhaps he may induce Captain Grummit to take me, although I may not have the usual allowance. I promise to be very economical, and I would be ready to make any sacrifice rather than not go afloat.”

“Sir Reginald came back yesterday, I find,” said my father. “You know, Dick, I am always anxious to gratify your wishes, and as I do not see any objection to your proposal, we will set off at once to call on him; perhaps he will do as you desire. If he does not, it will show him how anxious you are to go to sea, and he may assist you in some other way.”

I was very grateful to my father, and thanked him for agreeing to my proposal.

“It won’t do, however, for you to go in your present untidy condition,” he remarked; “go and put on your best clothes, and by that time I shall be ready to set off.”

I hurried to my room, and throwing my clothes down on my bed, rigged myself out in the best I possessed. I also, as may be supposed, put on dry socks and shoes. It did not occur to me at the time, that the condition of the clothing I threw off was likely to betray my adventure of the morning. I went down stairs and set off with my father. We had a pleasant walk, although the weather was rather hot, and in the course of about an hour arrived at Leighton Park.

Sir Reginald, who was at home, desired that we should at once be admitted to his study, or rather justice-room, in which he performed his magisterial duties. It was a large oak room, the walls adorned with stags’ horns, foxes’ brushes, and other trophies of the chase, with a couple of figures in armour in the corner, holding candelabra in their hands. On the walls were hung also bows and arrows, halberds, swords, and pikes, as well as modern weapons, and they were likewise adorned with several hunting pictures, and some grim portraits of the Squire’s ancestors. On one side was a bookcase, on the shelves of which were a few standard legal works, with others on sporting subjects, veterinary, falconry, horses and dogs, and other branches of natural history.

Sir Reginald himself, a worthy gentleman, with slightly grizzled hair and a ruddy countenance, was seated at a writing-table covered with a green cloth, on which was a Bible and two or three other books, and writing materials. He rose as we entered, and received us very courteously, begging my father and me to take seats near him on the inner side of the table.

“You will excuse me, if any cases are brought in, I must attend to them at once. I never allow anything to interfere with my magisterial duties. But do not go away. I’ll dispose of them off-hand, and shall be happy to continue the conversation. I want to have a few words with you, Mr Cheveley, upon a matter of importance, to obtain your advice and assistance. By-the-bye, you wrote to me a short time ago about a son of yours who wishes to enter the naval service. This is, I presume, the young gentleman,” he continued, looking at me, “Eh! My lad? And so you wish to become a second Nelson?”

“I wish to enter the navy, Sir Reginald, but don’t know whether I shall ever become an admiral; my ambition is at present to be made a midshipman,” I answered boldly.

“I am very ready to forward your wishes, although it is not so easy a matter as it was a few years ago during the war time. I spoke to my friend Grummit, who has just commissioned the ‘Blaze-away,’ and he expressed his willingness to take you. I think I wrote to you, Mr Cheveley, on the subject.”

“That is the very matter on which I am anxious to consult you, Sir Reginald,” said my father. “You mentioned that Captain Grummit insists on all his midshipmen having an allowance from their friends of 50 pounds a year, and although that does not appear to him probably, or to you, Sir Reginald, a large sum, it is beyond the means of a poor incumbent to furnish, and I am anxious to know whether Captain Grummit will condescend to take him with a smaller allowance.”

“I am sorry to say he told me that he made it a rule to receive no midshipman who had not at least that amount of private property to keep up the respectability of his position,” answered Sir Reginald, “and from what I know of him, I should think he is not a man likely to depart from any rule he may think fit to make. However, my dear Mr Cheveley, I will communicate with him, and let you know what he replies. If he still insists on your son having 50 pounds a year, we must see what else can be done. Excuse me for a few minutes, here come some people on business.”

Several persons who had entered the hall, approached the table. One of them, a dapper little gentleman in black, with a bundle of papers in his hand, took a seat at one end, and began busily spreading them out before him. At the same time two men, whom I saw were constables, brought up a prisoner, who was dressed as a seafaring man, handcuffed.

“Whom have you got here?” asked Sir Reginald, scrutinising the prisoner.

“Please, your honour, Sir Reginald, we took this man last night assisting in running contraband goods, landed, as we have reason to believe, from Dick Hargreave’s boat the ‘Saucy Bess,’ which had been seen off the coast during the day between Milton Cove and Rock Head.”

“Ah, I’m glad you’ve got one of them at last. We must put a stop to this smuggling which is carried on under our noses to the great detriment of the revenue. What became of the rest of the crew, and the men engaged in landing the cargo?”

“Please, your worship, the cargo was sprighted away before we could get hold of a single keg or bale, and all the fellows except this one made their escape. The ‘Preventive’ men had been put on a wrong scent, and gone off in a different direction, so that we were left to do as best we could, and we only captured this one prisoner with a keg on his shoulders, making off across the downs, and we brought him along with the keg as evidence against him.”

“Half a loaf is better than no bread, and I hope by the punishment he will receive to induce others now engaged in smuggling to abandon so low a pursuit. What is your name, prisoner?”

“Jack Cope, your worship,” answered the smuggler, who looked wonderfully unconcerned, and spoke without the slightest hesitation or fear.

“Well, Mr Jack Cope, what have you to say for yourself to induce me to refrain from making out a warrant to commit you to gaol?” asked the magistrate.

“Please, your worship, I don’t deny that I was captured as the constables describe with a cask on my shoulders, for I had been down to the sea to fill it with salt water to bathe one of my children whose limbs require strengthening, and I was walking quietly along when these men pounced down upon me, declaring that I had been engaged in running the cargo of the ‘Saucy Bess,’ with which I had no more to do than the babe unborn.”

“A very likely story, Master Cope. You were caught with a keg on your shoulders; it’s very evident that you were unlawfully employed in assisting to run the cargo of the vessel you spoke of, and I shall forthwith make out the order for your committal to prison.”

“Please, your worship, before you do that, I must beg you to examine the keg I was carrying, for if it contains spirits I am ready to go; but if not, I claim in justice the right to be set at liberty.”

“Have you examined the keg, men,” said the squire, “to ascertain if it contains spirits?”

“No, your worship, we would not venture to do that, seeing that t’other day when one of the coastguard broached a keg to see whether it had brandy or not he got into trouble for drinking the spirits.”

“For drinking the spirits! He deserved to be,” exclaimed Sir Reginald. “However, that is not the point. Bring the keg here, and if you broach it in my presence you need have no fear of the consequences. There can be little doubt that we shall be able to convict this fellow, and send him to gaol for twelve months. I wish it to be understood that I intend by every means in my power to put a stop to the proceedings of these lawless smugglers, who have so long been carrying on this illegal traffic with impunity in this part of the country.”

Jack Cope, who had kept a perfectly calm demeanour from the time he had been brought up to the table, smiled scornfully as Sir Reginald spoke. He said nothing, however, as he turned his glance towards the door. In a short time a revenue man appeared carrying a keg on his shoulders.

“Place it on the table,” said Sir Reginald. “Can you swear this is the keg you took from the prisoner?” he asked of the constable.

“Yes, your worship. It has never been out of our custody since we captured it,” replied the man.

“And I, too, can swear that it is the same keg that was taken from me!” exclaimed the bold smuggler in a confident tone.

“Silence there, prisoner,” said Sir Reginald, “You are not to speak until you are desired. Let the cask be broached.”

A couple of glasses and a gimlet had been sent for. The servant now brought them on a tray. One of the officers immediately set to work and bored a couple of holes in the head and side of the cask. The liquid which flowed out was bright and sparkling. The officer passed it under his nose, but made no remark, though I thought his countenance exhibited an odd expression.

“Hand it here,” said Sir Reginald. “Bah!” he exclaimed, intensely disgusted, “why, it’s salt water.”

“I told you so, your worship,” said Jack Cope, apparently much inclined to burst into a fit of laughter. “You’ll believe me another time, I hope, when I said that I had gone down to the seaside to get some salt water for one of my children; and I think you’ll allow, your worship, that it is salt water.”

“You are an impudent rascal!” exclaimed Sir Reginald, irritated beyond measure at the smuggler’s coolness. “I shall not believe you a bit the more. I suspect that you have played the officers a trick to draw them away from your companions, and though you escape conviction this time, you will be caught another, you may depend upon that; and you may expect no leniency from me. Set the prisoner at liberty, there is no further evidence against him.”

“I hope, Sir Reginald, that I may be allowed to carry my keg of salt water home,” said the smuggler demurely. “It is my property, of which I have been illegally deprived by the officers, and I demand to have it given to me back.”

“Let the man have the keg,” said Sir Reginald in a gruff voice. “Is there any other case before me?”

“No, your worship,” replied his clerk.

And Jack Cope carried off his cask of salt water in triumph, followed by the officers and the other persons who had entered the hall.

I had observed that Jack Cope had eyed my father and me as we were seated with the baronet, and it struck me that he had done so with no very pleasant expression of countenance.

“These proceedings are abominable in the extreme, Mr Cheveley,” observed the justice to my father. “We must, as I before remarked, put an effectual stop to them. You have a good deal of influence in your parish, and I must trust to you to find honest men who will try and obtain information, and give us due notice when a cargo is to be run.”

“I fear the people do not look upon smuggling as you and I do, Sir Reginald,” observed my father. “The better class of my parishioners may not probably engage in it, but the very best of them would think it dishonourable to act the part of informers. I do not believe any bribe would induce them to do so.”

“Perhaps not, but you can place the matter before them in its true light. Show them that they are acting a patriotic part by aiding the officers of the law in putting a stop to proceedings which are so detrimental to the revenue of the country. If they can be made to understand the injury which smuggling inflicts on the fair trader, they may see it in a different light from that in which they at present regard it. The Government requires funds to carry on the affairs of the nation, and duties and taxes must be levied to supply those funds. We should show them that smuggling is a practice which it is the duty of all loyal men to put a stop to.”

“I understand your wishes, Sir Reginald, and agree with you that energetic measures are necessary; and you may depend upon my exerting myself to the utmost.”

“My great object, at present, is to capture the ‘Saucy Bess.’ The revenue officers afloat will, of course, do their duty; but she has so often eluded them that my only hope is to catch her while she is engaged in running her cargo. I will give a handsome reward to any one who brings reliable information which leads to that desirable result.”

“I am afraid that, although one or two smugglers may be captured, others will soon take their places; as while the present high duties on spirits, silks, and other produce of France exist, the profit to be made by smuggling will always prove a temptation too strong to be resisted,” observed my father. “If the smugglers find that a vigilant watch is kept on this part of the coast they will merely carry on their transactions in another part.”

“At all events, my dear Mr Cheveley, we shall have the satisfaction of knowing that we have done our duty in removing what I consider a disgrace to our community,” observed Sir Reginald. “As to lowering the duties, that is what I will never consent to. I shall always oppose any scheme of the sort while I hold my place in Parliament. I feel that I am bound to preserve things as they are, and am not to be moved by the brawling cries of demagogues.”

“Of course, Sir Reginald, you understand these things better than I do. I have never given my mind to politics, and have always been ready to record my vote in your favour, and to induce as many as possible of my parishioners to follow my example.”

All this time I had been sitting on the tenter-hooks of expectation, wondering if my father would again refer to the subject which had induced him to pay a visit to the baronet.

“I must wish you good morning, Sir Reginald,” he said, rising. “You will, I feel sure, not forget your promise regarding my son Dick, and if Captain Grummit cannot take him, I trust that you will find some other captain who does not insist on his midshipmen having so large an allowance.”

“Of course, my dear Mr Cheveley, of course,” said the baronet, rising; “although it did not strike me as anything unreasonable. Yet I am aware how you are situated with a numerous family and a comparatively small income; and, believe me, I will not lose an opportunity of forwarding the views of the young gentleman. Good morning, my dear Mr Cheveley, good morning,” and nodding to me, he bowed us out of the hall.

“I hope Sir Reginald will get me a berth on board some other ship,” I said to my father, as we walked homeward. “He seems wonderfully good-natured and condescending.”

“I don’t feel altogether satisfied as to that point,” answered my father, who knew the baronet better than I did.

Chapter Three.

The crusade against the smugglers—Sir Reginald’s measures—The “Saucy Bess”—My father’s sermon, and its effects in different quarters—Ned and I visit old Roger Riddle—Mr Reynell’s picnic and how we enjoyed it—Roger Riddle tells the story of his life—Born at sea—The pet of the ship—Stormy times—Parted from his mother—His first visit to land—Loses his parents.

Day after day went by and nothing was heard from Sir Reginald Knowsley about my appointment as a midshipman. Aunt Deb took care to remark that she had no doubt he had forgotten all about me. This I shrewdly suspected was the case. If he had forgotten me, however, he had not forgotten the smugglers, for he was taking energetic steps to put a stop to their proceedings, though it was whispered he was not always as successful as he supposed.

Whenever I went to the village I heard of what he was doing, yet from time to time it was known that cargoes had been run while only occasionally an insignificant capture was made, it being generally, as the saying is, a tub thrown to a whale.

The “Saucy Bess” appeared off the coast, but it was when she had a clean hold and no revenue officer could touch her. She would then come into Leighton bay, which was a little distance to the westward of the bar, and drop her anchor, looking as innocent as possible; and her hardy crew would sit with their arms folded, on her deck, smoking their pipes and spinning yarns to each other of their daring deeds, or would pace up and down performing the fisherman’s walk, three steps and overboard. On two or three occasions I caught sight of them from the top of a rocky cliff which formed one side of the little bay, and I acknowledge that I had a wonderful longing to go on board and become better acquainted with the sturdy looking outlaws, or rather, breakers of the law. As, however, I could find no boat in the bay to take me alongside, and as I did not like to hail and ask them to allow me to pay them a visit, I had to abandon my design.

My father was busy in his way in carrying out the wishes of the baronet. He spoke to a number of his parishioners, urging them to assist in putting a stop to the proceedings of the smugglers, and endeavouring to impress upon them the nefarious character of their occupation. More than once he got into the wrong box when addressing some old sea dog, who would curtly advise him to mind his own business, the man he was speaking to probably being in league with the smugglers. He said and did enough indeed to create a considerable amount of odium against himself. He went so far as one Sunday to preach a sermon in which he unmistakably alluded to smuggling as one of the sins certain to bring down condign punishment on those engaged in it.

Sir Reginald Knowsley, who had driven over, as he occasionally did, to attend the service, waited for my father in the porch, and complimented him on his sermon. “Excellent, Mr Cheveley, excellent,” he exclaimed, “I like to hear clergymen speak out bravely from the pulpit, and condemn the sins of the people. If the smugglers persist in carrying on their nefarious proceedings, they will now do it with their eyes open, and know that they are breaking the laws of God and man. I was delighted to hear you broach the subject. I expect some friends in a few days, and I hope that you will give me the pleasure of your company at dinner. I have some capital old port just suited to your taste, and I will take care to draw your attention to it. Good-bye, my dear Mr Cheveley, good-bye; with your aid I have no doubt smuggling will, in a short time, be a thing of the past;” and the squire walked with a dignified pace to his carriage and drove off, not regarding the frowning looks cast at him by some of his fellow-worshippers.

As I afterwards went through the churchyard I passed several knots of persons talking together, who were making remarks of a very different character to those I have spoken of on the sermon they had just heard. They were at no pains to lower their voices even as they saw me.

“I never seed smuggling in the Ten Commandments, an’ don’t see it now,” remarked a sturdy old fisherman, who was looked upon as a very respectable man in the village. “What has come over our parson to talk about it is more than I can tell.”

“The parson follows where the squire leads, I’ve a notion,” remarked another seafaring man, who was considered an oracle among his mates. “He never said a word about it before the squire took the matter up. Many’s the time we’ve had a score of kegs stowed away in his tool-house, and if one was left behind, if he didn’t get it I don’t know who did.”

On hearing this I felt very much inclined to stop and declare that my father had never received a keg of spirits, or a bribe of any sort, for I was very sure that he would not condescend to that, though I could not answer for the integrity of John Dixon, our old gardener, who had been, on more than one occasion, unable to work for a week together; and although his wife said that he was suffering from rheumatics, the doctor remarked, with a wink, that he had no doubt he would recover without having much physic to take.

Some of the men were even more severe in their remarks, and swore that if the parson was going to preach in that style, they would not show their noses inside the church. Others threatened to go off to the methodists’ house in the next village, where the minister never troubled the people with disagreeable remarks.

I did not tell my father all I had heard, as I knew it would annoy him. It did not occur to me at the moment that he had introduced the subject for the sake of currying favour with Sir Reginald, indeed I did not think such an idea had crossed his mind.

He was greatly surprised in the afternoon, when the service was generally better attended than in the morning, to find that only half his usual congregation was present. When he returned home, after making some visits in the parish, on the following Tuesday, he told us he suspected from the way he had been received that something was wrong, but it did not occur to him that his sermon was the cause of offence.

I, in the meantime, was spending my holidays in far from a satisfactory manner. My elder brothers amused themselves without taking pains to find me anything to do, while Ned was always at his books, and was only inclined to come out and take a constitutional walk with me now and then. My younger brothers were scarcely out of the nursery, and I was thus left very much to my own resources. I bethought me one day of paying the old sailor Roger Riddle a visit, and perhaps getting his son Mark to come and fish with me.

I told Ned where I was going, and was just setting off when he called out—

“Stop a minute, Dick, and I will go with you; I should like to make the acquaintance of the old sailor, who, from your account, must be something above the common.”

I did not like to refuse, at the same time I confess that I would rather have gone alone, as I knew that Ned did not care about fishing, and would probably want to stop and talk to Roger Riddle.

I was waiting for him outside in front of the house, when a carriage drove up full of boys, with a gentleman who asked me if my father was at home. I recognised him as a Mr Reynell, who lived at Springfield Grange, some five or six miles inland. Two of the boys were his sons, whom I knew; the others, he told me, were their cousins and two friends staying with them.

“We are going to have a picnic along the shore, and we want you and your brother to come and join us,” said Harry Reynell, the eldest of the two.

Ned came out directly afterwards, and said he should be very happy to go.

“Can’t you get any of your friends to go also? The more the merrier.”

There were two or three other boys whom I knew staying with an aunt in the village, and I offered to run down and ask them.

“By all means,” said Harry, “we have provisions enough, so that they need not stop to get anything; but I’m afraid we cannot stow them all away; if it’s not very far off we may go on foot.”

“It is no distance to the prettiest part of the coast,” I replied; “and I know a capital spot where we can pick up shells and collect curiosities of all sorts, if any of you have a fancy for that sort of thing.”

“That will do,” said Harry Reynell; “go and fetch your friends, and we will walk together.”

I accordingly ran down the village to Mrs Parker’s, whose nephews were at home. We formed a tolerably numerous party. As my father was unable to go, Mr Reynell was the only grown-up person among us. The spot I had fixed upon was not far from Roger Riddle’s cottage. As I had been thinking of him, I proposed asking the old sailor and Mark to join our party.

From the account I gave to Mr Reynell of Roger Riddle, he did not object to this. As Harry Reynell, his brother, and friends were good-natured merry fellows, we had a pleasant time as we walked or ran along, laughing and singing, and playing each other tricks. We soon left Mr Reynell behind, but he told us not to mind him, as he should soon catch us up. The carriage followed with the prog, but as the road was in many places heavy, it did not move as fast as we did. We at length reached the spot I had proposed, a small sandy bay, with cliffs on either side, out of which bubbled a stream of sparkling cold water, with rocks running out into the sea.

“This will do capitally,” said Harry. “See, the whole beach is covered with beautiful shells, and there may be sea anemones and echini, and star-fish, and all sorts of marine creatures.”

Having surveyed the place, we heard Mr Reynell shouting out to us to carry down the baskets of pies, tarts, cold ham, and chicken, plates, knives and forks. While the rest of the party were so engaged, I ran on to invite old Roger. I found him and Mark within.

“Much obliged to the young gentlemen, but I’ve had my dinner,” he answered; “however, I’ll come and have a talk with them, if you think they’ll like it. May be, I’ll spin them a yarn or two, which will do to pass the time while they are sniffing in the breezes, which they don’t get much of while they are away up the country.”

“You’ll come as soon as you can,” I answered, “for they will be disappointed if you don’t take a tart or two and a glass of wine.”

“Never fear, I’ll come before long,” said old Roger.

Mark, however, looked as if he would have no objection to taste some of the good things in our hampers, so he very readily agreed to accompany me. We found the cloth spread out on the smooth dry sand, and covered with pies and other dainties, and the plates and the knives and forks. Mr Reynell was engaged in making a huge salad in a wooden bowl. I introduced Mark in due form.

“Come and sit down,” said Harry to him in a kind way which soon made him feel quite at home. I don’t know whether he had much of a dinner before, but he did ample justice to the good things which our friends had brought. We had nearly finished before old Roger made his appearance.

“Your servant, gentlemen all,” he said, making a bow with his tarpaulin; “Master Dick here has asked me to come, saying it was what you wished, or I would not have intruded on you.”

“Very pleased to see you, Mr Riddle,” said Harry, who did the honours of the feast, “sit down, and have some of this cherry pie, you will find it very nice, and, for a wonder, the juice hasn’t run out.”

Harry chose the largest plate, and filled it with fully a third of the pie.

“Thank you, young gentleman; I may take a snack of that sort of thing;” and the old sailor set to work, his share of the pie rapidly disappearing, as he ladled up the cherries with his spoon.

“Take a glass of cider now, Mr Riddle,” said Harry, handing him a large tumbler, which the old sailor tossed off, and had no objection to two or three more.

Meantime the tide had been rising, and no sooner was dinner over, than we had to pack up and beat a rapid retreat. We soon washed the plates and dishes in the water as it rose, and Ned packed them up. The expectations of those of our party who hoped to pick up shells, and collect sea curiosities were thus disappointed.

“Never mind, lads,” said old Roger; “Master Dick here tells me that you would like to hear a yarn or two; the grass here, as much as there is of it, is dry enough,” and Mr Riddle seated himself on the bank, while we all gathered round him. Mr Reynell placed himself at a little distance, although within earshot, when he took out his sketchbook to make a drawing of the scene.

“None of you young gentlemen have ever been to sea, I suppose?” continued the old sailor. “I dare say you fancy it all sunshine and smooth sailing, and think you’d like to go and be sailors, and walk the deck in snowy-white trousers and kid gloves. I have known some who have taken that notion into their heads, and have been not a little disappointed when they got afloat, to find that they had to dip their fists into the tar-bucket, to black down the rigging, and swab up the decks, though some of them made not bad sailors after all. If any of you young gentlemen think of leading a seafaring life, you must be prepared for ups and downs of all sorts, heavy gales, and rough seas, shipwrecks and disasters. You’ll be asking how I came to go to sea, perhaps you may think I ran off, as some silly lads have done, but I didn’t do that. If I had run, it would have been ashore, seeing as how I was born at sea. It happened in this wise:—My father, Bob Riddle, was bo’sun’s mate of the old ‘Goliath,’ of eighty guns, and as in those days two or three women were allowed on board line-of-battle ships to attend to the sick, and to wash and mend clothes, provided the captains did not object; so my mother, Nancy Riddle, who loved her husband in a way which made her ready to go through fire and water for his sake, got leave to accompany him to sea. She made herself wonderfully useful on board, and won the hearts of all the men and officers too, who held her in great respect, while the midshipmen just simply adored her; indeed, I’ve heard say that she saved the lives of several who were sick of fever by the careful way in which she nursed them. She had had no children, and I’ve a notion that if she had known what was going to happen, like a wise woman she would have remained on shore, but as the ship was in the East India station, and she wanted her boy to be British born, for she guessed she was going to have a boy, she had no help for it but to remain on board and take her chance. The ‘Goliath’ had just been in action, and beaten off two of the enemy’s ships which wanted to take her but couldn’t, when she was caught in a regular hurricane, and had to run before it under bare poles. During that time I came into this world of troubles. I can’t say that I remember anything about it, but I’ve been in many a typhoon and hurricane since then, with the big foaming seas roaring, the wind whistling and howling in the rigging, the blocks rattling, the bulkheads creaking and groaning, and the ship rolling and pitching and tumbling about in a way which made it seem wonderful that wood and iron could hold together. It wasn’t exactly under such circumstances that the wife even of a boatswain’s mate would have chosen to bring a puling infant into the world. The doctor thought that mother would have died, and, as there was no cow on board, that I should have shared her fate, but she got through it and nursed me, and I throve amazingly, so that in six months I was as big as most children of a year or more old. Before the ship was ordered home, I could chew bacon and beef, and toddle about the decks. Of course I was made much of by officers and crew. Mother rigged me out in a regular cut seaman’s dress. The midshipmen taught me the cutlass exercise, and to ride a goat the captain bought as much for my use as his own. For’ard my education was equally well attended to, and I don’t remember when I couldn’t dance a hornpipe—double shuffle and all—or sing a dozen sea songs, some of them sounding rather strange, I’ve a notion, coming from juvenile lips. All went on smoothly till the ship was paid off, and my early friends were scattered to the four winds of heaven. My father, who felt like a fish out of water when ashore, soon obtained another berth, with the same rating on board the ‘Victorious,’ seventy-four, but he had great difficulty in getting leave for my mother to accompany him, and if another woman who was to have gone hadn’t fallen ill just in the nick of time, he would have had to sail without her. I was smuggled on board instead of a monkey shipped by the crew, which fell overboard and was drowned. It was some weeks before the captain found out that I wasn’t the monkey he had given the men leave to take. When the first lieutenant at length reported to him that I was a human being without a tail, he was very angry, and father was likely to have got into trouble. Still as he had done nothing against the articles of war, which don’t make mention of taking babies to sea, he couldn’t be flogged with his own cat. The captain then swore that he would put mother and me ashore at the first port we touched at; but the men, among whom I had many friends, begged hard that we might be allowed to remain, and when he saw me scuttling about the rigging in a hairy coat and a long tail, laughing heartily, he relented, and as he got a hint that the men would become very discontented if he carried his threat into execution, father was told that he would say nothing more about the matter. Soon afterwards the captain fell ill, and mother nursed him in a way no man could have done, so that he had reason to be thankful that he had allowed mother and me to remain on board. The ‘Victorious’ became one of the best disciplined and happiest ships in the service, all because she had a real live plaything on board. She fought several bloody actions. During one of them, when we were tackling a French eighty-gun ship, I got away from mother, who was with the other women in the cockpit attending to the wounded, and slipped up on deck, where before long I found father. ‘Here I am,’ I said, ‘come to see the fun. When are you going to finish off the mounseers?’ The round shot were flying quickly across the decks, and bullets were rattling on board like hail, for though the French were getting the worst of it, they were, as they always do, dying game. ‘Get below, boy, get below!’ shouted father, ‘what business have you here?’ As I didn’t go, he seized me by the arm, and dragged me to the hatchway, in spite of my struggles and cries. ‘I want to see the fight. I want to see the mounseers licked,’ I cried out. ‘Let me go, father; let me go!’ Just then there was a shout from the upper deck, ‘The enemy has struck—the enemy has struck!’ Father let me go, and up I ran and cheered, and waved my hat among the men with as hearty good will as any of them. When I saw the men shaking hands with each other, I ran about, and, putting out my tiny fist, shook their hands also, exclaiming, ‘We’ve licked the mounseers, haven’t we? I knew we would. Hoora! Hoora!’ This amused the men greatly, and they called me a plucky little chap, though I certainly could not boast of having contributed to gain the victory, as I was considerably too young to act the part even of a powder-monkey. We had lost a good many officers and men, some of whom I saw stretched on the deck, and wondered what had come over them, as they did not move or speak. As long as the ‘Victorious’ remained in commission, I continued with my father and mother aboard her; but when she was paid off, an order came out, prohibiting women from going to sea on board men-of-war, and mother, greatly to her grief, had to live on shore. It was now a question whether I should accompany my father or stay with my mother and get some book-learning, of which I was as yet utterly ignorant, as I did not even know my letters. I was scarcely old enough to be rated as a ship’s boy, though father would have liked to take me with him, but mother said she could not lose us both, and, fortunately for me, father consented to leave me with her. As the ‘Victorious’ was paid off at Plymouth, mother remained there, and father soon afterwards got his warrant as boatswain to the ‘Emerald’ sloop-of-war, ordered out on the West India station. This was the first time I had been on shore, except for a few days when the ‘Goliath’ was paid off, during the whole of my life, and I did not find it very easy to get accustomed to the ways of shore-going people. At first I did not at all like them. There was no order or regularity, and I missed more than anything the sound of the bell striking the hours and half-hours day and night. However, I got accustomed to things by degrees. I was sent to school, where I gained a good character for regularity and obedience, just because I had been trained to it, do ye see. I couldn’t bear not to be there at the exact time, and I never thought of disobeying the orders of these under whose authority I was placed. I also was diligent, and thus made good progress in my studies. I might have become a scholar had I remained at school, but after I had been there about two years, when I got home one day I found mother leaning back in her chair, in a fit, it seemed to me, and the parson of the parish, who had a letter in his hand, trying to rouse her up. As soon as I came in, he bade me run for the doctor, who lived not far off. He came at once with a woman, a neighbour of ours, and while they were attending to mother, the parson, sitting down, placed me between his knees, and looking kindly in my face, said that he had some bad news to tell me, which he had got in a letter from the West Indies. It was that my brave father was dead, carried off by the yellow fever which has killed so many fine fellows on that station. My mother was a strong and hearty woman, and any one would have supposed that it would have taken a great deal to kill her; but, notwithstanding her robust appearance, she had gentle and tender feelings, and though for my sake she wished to live, within a year she died of a broken heart for the loss of my father and I was left an orphan.”

Chapter Four.

Roger Riddle continues his story—Goes to sea as a man-o’-war’s-man—His voyages—The Mediterranean—Toulon—Chasing the enemy—Caught in a trap—A hard fight for it—Escape of the frigate—Corsica—Martello Bay—The tower and its gallant defenders—Its capture—Origin of its name—San Fiorenzo—Convention redoubt—What British tars can do—Capture of the “Minerve”—The taking of Bastia—Nelson loses an eye—“Jackass” frigates—Toulon again—More fighting—The advantage of being small—Prepare to repel boarders—The colours nailed to the mast—The chase—Never despise your enemy—Teneriffe—Attack on Santa Cruz—Nelson loses his arm—Abandonment of the enterprise—What people call glory—The Hellespont—The captain steers his own ship—The island of Cerigotto—Breakers ahead—The ship strikes—The value of discipline—Their condition on the rock—The ship goes to pieces—Their chances of escape—The gale—A brave captain—A false hope—The effects of drinking sea-water—Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink—Reduced to extremities—They lose their brave captain and first lieutenant—They construct a raft—Cowardice of the Greek fishermen—The rescue of the survivors—Fresh adventures—The Dardanelles—Fire!—An awful spectacle—Destruction of the ship—Reason to be thankful—A father’s love—How they took a Spanish sloop-o’-war—The ruse and how it succeeded—Between two fires—Good and bad captains—Roger quits the navy—Becomes mate of a merchantman and retires on his laurels—His marriage and settlement—Our picnic breaks up.

“Mother had a good many friends, old shipmates of hers and father’s, but most of them having families of their own were not able to do much for me. I was now, however, big enough to go to sea, and of course there was no question but that I should be a sailor. England had been at peace for some time, but she and France were once more at loggerheads, and ships were fitting out with all despatch at every port in the kingdom. There was no difficulty therefore in finding a ship for me, and an old messmate of father’s, Andrew Barton, having volunteered on board the ‘Juno’ frigate, of thirty-two guns, took me with him. He was rated as captain of the maintop and I as ship’s boy, having to do duty as powder-monkey. I quickly found myself at home, and those who didn’t know that I had been to sea before, wondered how well I knew my way everywhere about the decks and aloft. I soon took the lead among the other boys, many of them much bigger and older than myself. ‘Why, one would suppose that you had been born at sea,’ said Tom Noakes, a big hulking fellow, who never could tell which was the stem, and which the stern. ‘And so I was,’ I answered. I then told him how many storms and battles I had been in, and all that I remembered about my early life. This made my messmates treat me with wonderful respect, and they never thought of playing me the tricks they did each other.

“Our frigate was bound out to the Mediterranean to join the fleet under Lord Hood. She was, I should have said, commanded by Captain Samuel Hood, a relation of the Admiral’s. We knew that we should have plenty of work to do. When we sailed, it was understood that an English force had possession of Toulon, which was besieged by the republicans, who had collected a large army round the city, but it was supposed that they would be kept at bay by the English and royalists. We had been cruising off Toulon, when we were despatched to Malta to bring up supernumeraries for the fleet. We were detained, however, at the island for a considerable time, by foul winds. At length we sailed, and steered direct for Toulon. We arrived abreast of the harbour one evening, some time after dark. The captain, anxious to get in, as we had no pilot on board, nor any one acquainted with the dangers of the place, stood on, hoping by some means or other, to find his way. The officers with their night-glasses were on the look-out for our ships, but they were nowhere to be seen. Our captain, however, concluded that as a strong easterly wind had been blowing, they had run for shelter into the inner harbour. We accordingly shortened sail, and stood on, under our topsails. As at last several ships could be distinguished, it was supposed that we were close up to the British fleet. We soon afterwards made out a brig, and in order to weather her, the driver and topsail were set. As we were tacking under the brig’s stern, some one on board her hailed, but not being able to make out what was said, Captain Hood shouted, ‘This is His Britannic Majesty’s frigate “Juno.”’ ‘Viva,’ cried the voice from the brig, and after this we heard the people on board her jabbering away among themselves. At last one of them shouted out, ‘Luff, luff.’ The captain on this, ordered the helm to be put down, but before the frigate came head to wind, she grounded. The breeze, however, was light, and the water perfectly smooth, and the sails were clewed up and handed. While this was being done, we saw a boat pull away from the brig, towards the town. Before the men aloft had left the yards, a sudden flaw of wind drove the ship’s head off the bank, when her anchor was let go, and she swung head to wind. Her heel, however, was still on the shoal, and the rudder immovable. To get her off, the launch was hoisted out, and the kedge anchor with a hawser, was put into her. While we were engaged in hauling the frigate off the shoal, a boat appeared coming down the harbour, and being hailed some one in her answered ‘Ay, ay.’ She quickly came alongside, and the crew, among whom were two persons apparently officers, hurried on deck; one of the latter addressed our captain, and said he came to inform him that according to the regulations of the port, the frigate must go to the other part of the harbour, and perform ten days’ quarantine. The Frenchmen, who were supposed to be royalists, were jabbering away together, when one of our midshipmen, a sharp young fellow, cried out, ‘The chaps have national cockades in their hats.’ The moon which shone out brightly just then, threw a gleam of light on the Frenchmen’s hats, and the three colours were distinctly seen. They finding that they were discovered, coolly said in French, so I afterwards heard, ‘Make yourselves easy, the English are good people, we will treat you kindly. The English fleet sailed away some time ago.’

“‘We are prisoners, caught like rats in a trap!’ cried the men from all parts of the ship. The entrance to the harbour is guarded by heavy forts on either side, between which we had run some distance, and their guns pointed down on our decks might sink us before we could get outside again. The officers, on hearing the report, hurried aft, scarcely able to believe that it was true. They found, however, on seeing the Frenchmen, that there was no doubt about the matter. Just then a flaw of wind came down the harbour, when our third lieutenant, Mr Webbley, hurrying up to the captain, said, ‘I believe, sir, if we can get her under sail, we shall be able to fetch out.’ ‘We will try it at all events!’ cried the captain; ‘send the men to their stations, and hand those French gentlemen below.’ The mounseers, on finding that they were not yet masters of the ship, began to bluster and draw their sabres, but the marines quickly made them sound another note, and in spite of their ‘Sacrés!’ they were hurried off the deck under a guard. The men flew aloft, and in three minutes every sail was set, and the yards braced up for casting. The frigate was by this time completely afloat, the cable was cut; her head paid off, the sails filled, and away she stood from the shore. The wind freshening, she quickly gathered way. The launch and the French boat were cut adrift, and we had every hope of escape. Directly we began to loose sails, we saw lights appear in the batteries, and observed a stir aboard the brig. She soon afterwards opened fire on us, as did the fort on the starboard bow, and in a short time every fort which could bring a gun to bear on us, began to blaze away. We were now, however, going rapidly through the water, but there was a chance of our losing a topmast, as the shot came whistling through our sails, between our rigging. The wind shifting, made it seem impossible that we could get out without making a tack, but our captain was not a man to despair, and I am pretty sure that there was no one on board who would have given in, as long as the frigate was afloat. Fortunately the wind again shifted and blew in our favour. Blocks and ropes came falling from aloft, we could see the holes made in the canvas, by the shot passing through them. Several of the masts and spars were badly wounded, and two thirty-six pound shot came plump aboard, but no one was hurt. As soon as the hands came from aloft, they were ordered to their quarters, and we began firing away in return at the forts, as well as at the impudent little brig, which we at length silenced. As may be supposed, we gave a right hearty cheer when we saw the shot the Frenchmen were firing at us fall far astern, and we found that we were well clear of the harbour. We made sail for Corsica, where we found a squadron under Commodore Linzee, engaged in attempting to drive the French from that island. The first expedition in which we took part was to Martello Bay. It was guarded by a strong round tower, to which the same name had been given. The troops to the number of fourteen hundred, were landed the same evening, and while they took possession of a height, which overlooked the tower, we, and the ‘Fortitude’ frigate were ordered to attack it from the sea. The ‘Fortitude’ got the worst of it, for the French turned their fire chiefly on her, while for three hours we kept blazing away, without producing any visible effect. Some guns had been got up by the troops to the height, and by the use of hot shot they managed to set on fire some bass junk which lined the parapet. At last the gallant little garrison had to give in, when it was found, that they numbered only thirty-three men, and had but one six and two sixteen pounders; yet so well did they work their guns, and so strong was the tower, that they had held it for nearly two days against a large body of troops and our two frigates. During the time the ‘Fortitude’ had lost six killed, and fifty-six wounded. Three of her lower-deck guns had been dismounted, and she had been set on fire by the red-hot shot discharged at her, besides other damages. The tower, I believe, took its name from the myrtles growing on the shores of the bay. In consequence of the way this little tower had held out, the government had a number of similar towers built on the English coast, which were called after the original, ‘Martello’ towers. We next attacked a fortification called the Convention redoubt, which was considered the key to the town of San Fiorenzo. The redoubt was commanded by a rocky hill, rising to the height of seven hundred feet above the level of the sea. As it was nearly perpendicular at its summit, it was considered inaccessible, but British sailors had to show the Frenchmen that where goats could find a foothold they could climb.

“Looking up at the hill, it certainly did appear as if no human being could reach the summit. Not only, however, did our men get up there, but they carried several eighteen-pounders with them. On the right there was a descent of many hundred feet, down which a false step would have sent them headlong, and on the left were beetling rocks, while along the path they had to creep, only one man could pass at a time. The pointed rocks, however, served to make fast the tackle by which the guns were hoisted. To the astonishment of the Frenchmen, the eighteen-pounders at length began firing down upon their redoubt, which was then stormed by the troops, and quickly carried. Part of the garrison were made prisoners, but a good number managed to scamper off on the opposite side. We, however, took possession of a fine thirty-eight-gun frigate, called the ‘Minerve,’ which the Frenchmen had sunk, but which we soon raised and carried off with us. She was then added to the British navy, and called the ‘San Fiorenzo,’ and was the ship on board which King George the Third used often to sail when he was living down at Weymouth. She also fought one or more actions when commanded by Sir Harry Neale, one of the best officers in the service. However, young gentlemen, these things took place so long ago that I don’t suppose you will care much to hear about them.”

“Oh, yes, we do. Please go on!” cried out several voices from among us. “It is very interesting, we could sit here all day and listen to you.”

“If that is the case, I’ll go ahead to please you,” said old Riddle.

“In those days we didn’t let grass grow on our ship’s bottoms. Soon after we left San Fiorenzo we took Bastia, the seamen employed on shore being commanded by Captain Nelson, of the ‘Agamemnon.’ After we had besieged it for thirty-seven days the garrison capitulated, we having lost a good many officers and seamen killed and wounded.

“We next attacked Calvi, which we took with the loss of the gallant Captain Serocold and several seamen killed, and Captain Nelson and six seamen wounded. It was here Captain Nelson had his right eye put out. I saw a good deal of service while on board the ‘Juno.’ Whilst still on the station I was transferred with Andrew Barton and others, to the ‘Dido,’ twenty-eight-gun frigate, commanded by Captain Towry. These small craft used to be called ‘Jackass’ frigates, but the ‘Dido’ showed that she was not a ‘Jackass’ at all events. Soon after I joined her she and the ‘Lowestoff,’ thirty-two-gun frigate, were despatched by Admiral Hotham to reconnoitre the harbour of Toulon. We were on our way, when, one evening, we discovered standing towards us two large French frigates. We made the private signal, when, supposing that we were the leading frigates of the fleet, they both wore and stood away. We chased them all night, but in the morning, when they discovered that there were only two frigates, and both much smaller than themselves, they tacked and stood towards us. One of the Frenchmen was the ‘Minerve,’ of forty guns, and the other the ‘Artemise,’ of thirty-six guns. When the ‘Minerve’ was about a mile away from us, on the weather bow, and ahead of her consort, she wore, and then hauling up on the larboard tack, to windward, commenced firing at us. I was still, you will understand, only a powder-monkey. My business was to bring the powder up from the magazine in a tub, upon which I had to sit till it was wanted to load the guns. Still, I could see a good deal that was going forward through the ports; besides which I heard from the men what was taking place. My old messmate, Tom Noakes, had joined the ‘Dido.’ He was now seated on his tub next to me—the biggest powder-monkey I ever knew. Poor Tom was not at all happy. He said that we smaller fellows had only half the chance of being killed that he had, as a shot might pass over our heads which would take his off. I tried to console him by reminding him that there were a good many parts of the ship where no shots were likely to pass, and that he had less chance of being hit than the men who had to stand up to their guns all the time. We stood on till the ‘Minerve’ was on our weather beam, when we could see her squaring away her yards, and presently the breeze freshening, she bore down upon our little frigate with the evident intention of sinking us. So she might have done with the greatest ease, but having fired our broadside just as her flying jibboom was touching our mainyard, we bore up, and her bow struck our larboard quarter. So great was the shock, that for the moment many thought we were going down, but instead of that our frigate was thrown athwart the ‘Minerve’s’ hawse, her bowsprit becoming entangled in our mizen rigging. The Frenchmen immediately swarmed along their bowsprit, intending to board us. Our first lieutenant then shouted for ‘boarders to repel boarders,’ but as the French crew doubled ours, we should have found it a hard matter to do that. Fortunately the Frenchman’s bowsprit broke right off, carrying away our mizen-mast, and with it the greater number of our assailants, who failed to regain their own ship. With our mizen-mast of course went our colours, but that the Frenchmen might not suppose that we had given in, Harry Barling, one of our quarter-masters, getting hold of a Union Jack, nailed it to the stump of the mizen-mast. All this time, you must understand, we had been blazing away at each other as fast as we could bring our guns to bear. The ‘Minerve’ at last ranged ahead clear of us, but we continued firing, till the ‘Lowestoff,’ seeing how hard pressed we were, came up to our assistance, and tackled the Frenchman. In a few minutes, so actively did she work her guns, that she had knocked away the enemy’s foremast and remaining topmast. As the ‘Minerve’ could not now possibly escape, we threw out a signal to the ‘Lowestoff’ to chase the ‘Artemise,’ which instead of coming to the assistance of her consort was making off. She however had the heels of us, and we therefore, returning again, attacked the ‘Minerve,’ which, on her mizen-mast being shot away, hauled down her colours. We had our boatswain and five seamen killed, two officers and thirteen men wounded. The ‘Lowestoff’ had no one hurt, and so, although she certainly contributed to the capture of the prize, we gained the chief credit for the action, which, considering the difference in size between our frigate and the Frenchman, we certainly deserved. But in those days we didn’t count odds. We thought that we had only to see the enemy to thrash him. Even our best captains, however, sometimes made a mistake.

“I afterwards belonged to the ‘Terpsichore’ frigate, Captain Richard Bowen, which formed one of a squadron under Lord Nelson, who was then Sir Horatio, to attack Santa Cruz, in the Island of Teneriffe. The squadron consisted of three seventy-fours and one fifty-gun ship—which afterwards joined us—three frigates, and the ‘Fox’ cutter. It was some time before we could get up to the place. At last we managed to embark nearly seven hundred seamen and Marines in the boats of the squadron, nearly two hundred on board the ‘Fox’ and others, including a detachment of Royal Artillery, in some captured boats. Sir Horatio himself took the command. Shoving off from the ship some time after midnight, we pulled in for the town. The plan was to make a dash for the mole, and then to fight our way forward along it, we fully believing that the enemy would run as soon as we appeared. When the leading boats, under the command of Captains Freemantle and Bowen, had got within half gunshot of the mole head, the enemy took the alarm, and immediately opened fire on us from forty heavy guns. A hot fire it was, I assure you. The ‘Fox’ cutter, crowded with men, was sunk by the heavy shot which struck her, and nearly a hundred of those on board perished. I was in the ‘Terpsichore’s’ barge with my brave captain, when, just before she reached the mole, a shot struck her, and down she went, drowning seven of my shipmates; but the captain, with the rest of us, managed to get on shore. In spite of the hot fire with which we were met from the mole head, we succeeded in effecting a landing, and drove the enemy before us. Having spiked the guns which had done us so much mischief, we advanced along the mole, led by Captain Bowen, and our first lieutenant, Mr Thorpe. Here we encountered a tremendous fire of musketry from the Citadel and houses, so that the greater number of our party were either killed or wounded. Our brave leader, Captain Bowen, was among the first who fell, and soon afterwards Lieutenant Thorpe was killed. Nearly all the rest of the officers were killed or wounded. It being found at last that there was no chance of success, we were ordered to fall back.

“We had neither seen nor heard anything of Sir Horatio who would have been certain, had not something happened to him, to have been ahead. We now learned that just as he was landing and about to draw his sword, he had been struck by a shot on the elbow, and that he had been carried on board his ship by the few men who remained in the boat, the rest having landed. One of them, John Lovell, who I knew well, as soon as he saw the Admiral wounded, took the shirt from his own back, and tore it into strips, to bandage up his shattered arm. In the meanwhile we were waiting for the arrival of Captains Trowbridge and Waller with another squadron of boats. They however missed the mole head, but though some landed to the southward of it, in consequence of the heavy surf breaking on the shore, others put back. Captain Trowbridge, not finding the Admiral and the other officers he expected to meet there, sent a sergeant to summon the Citadel to surrender. The poor fellow did not return, having probably been shot. The scaling-ladders had also been lost in the surf. When morning broke we altogether mustered only 340 men. Every street in the place was defended by artillery, and we heard that a large force of 8000 men was advancing. The enterprise had therefore to be abandoned. Captain Trowbridge proposed to the Governor that we should re-embark with our arms, and he engaged that the squadron should not further molest any of the places in the Canary Islands. These terms were agreed to. We obtained also permission to purchase such provisions as we required. The affair was a disastrous one. We gained nothing, for besides 150 men killed or drowned, among whom were several brave officers, we had upwards of 100 wounded, and the Admiral lost his right arm.

“People call this sort of thing ‘Glory,’ but for my part I could not make out what advantage we expected to gain, or what business we had to go there at all.”

“I say, Mr Riddle, were you ever shipwrecked?” sang out one of the old sailor’s auditors, who was getting rather tired of the long yarn about his battles with which he had been indulging us.

“Bless you, young gentlemen, that I have, well-nigh a score of times I might say. Some time after this I belonged to the ‘Nautilus’ sloop of war, commanded by Captain Farmer. We belonged to the squadron of Admiral Lewis, then cruising in the Hellespont, when we were ordered to England with despatches of the utmost importance. We had a fresh breeze from the north-east as we threaded our way through the numerous islands of that sea. When at length we got off the island of Anti Milo, the Greek pilot we had with us declared he knew nothing of the coast to the westward. As, however, our captain was anxious to make a quick passage for the sake of the despatches, he determined to try and pilot her himself. Though the weather looked threatening, we sailed at sunset from Anti Milo, and shaped a course for Cerigotto. As the night grew on the wind increased to a heavy gale, torrents of rain fell, the thunder roared and rattled, the flashes of lightning were as vivid as I ever saw in my life. Sometimes it was almost brighter than day, then pitchy dark. The captain had just given orders to close reef the topsails, intending to bring the ship to till daylight, when a bright flash of lightning showed us the Island of Cerigotto right ahead, about the distance of a mile or so. Now, knowing his position, the captain resolved to run on, believing all danger past. The watch below was ordered to turn in. Those who remained on deck stowed themselves away under shelter of the hammock nettings.

“We of course kept a bright look-out, though it was not supposed that we had anything to fear. Except the officer of the watch, the rest had gone below—the captain and master probably to examine the chart—when the look-out on the forecastle shouted out ‘Breakers ahead!’ ‘Put the helm a lee!’ cried the officer of the watch. Almost before the order could be obeyed we felt a shock which lifted us off our feet, and sent those below out of their hammocks. We knew too well that the ship was ashore. In one instant the sea struck the ship, now lifting her up and then dashing her down upon the rocks with tremendous force. It seemed like a fearful dream. Almost in a moment the main-deck was burst in, and soon afterwards the lee bulwarks were carried away. The captain and officers did their best to maintain discipline. The first thing to be done was to lower the boats, but before they could be got into the water they were all either stove or washed away, and knocked to pieces on the rocks. Only a whale-boat of no great use was launched by the boatswain and nine other hands. As soon as they got clear of the rocks they lay on their oars, but it would have been madness in them to come back, as the boat already contained as many people as she could carry with safety. The captain accordingly ordered her to pull towards the Island of Pauri, in the hope that assistance might there be obtained for us. The ship continued to strike heavily. Every instant I expected that she would go to pieces, when one and all of us would have been lost. About twenty minutes after she struck the mainmast fell over the side towards a rock, which we could distinguish rising above the water, followed by the foremast and mizen-mast. Hoping that the rock would afford us more security than the ship herself, I, with others, made my way towards it, though at no little risk of being carried off by the seas. On reaching it we shouted to the rest to come on, as at any moment the ship might go to pieces. The whole crew followed our example. Many parts of the rock itself were scarcely above water. It seemed, as far as we could judge, to be about 400 yards long, and half as many wide. Here all hands collected, for as yet none had been washed away or lost, but many of the people had no clothing on, or only just their shirts, in which they had turned out of their hammocks. We had not a scrap of food, and we knew that it might be some hours before the whale-boat could bring us assistance. Scarcely had we reached the rock when we knew by the crashing, rending sounds, and the loud thundering noise, as the planks and timbers were dashed against it, that our stout little ship had gone to pieces. When day dawned we saw the foaming sea covered on all sides with fragments of the wreck, while several of our shipmates were discovered clinging to spars and planks, they having returned to the ship in the hopes of obtaining either food or clothing. It was known to the captain and officers that we were about twelve miles from the nearest island. There was but little chance of the boat getting back to us during the day. We secured a flag which had been washed up. This we hoisted to the end of a spar, and fixed it in the highest part of the rock. The day was bitterly cold, many of the men were almost perished for want of clothing. The officers made inquiries if any man had a flint. At last one was found. At the same time a small keg of powder which had been floating about was thrown up. The powder, though damp, served instead of tinder. We were able to get a fire alight. It gave us some occupation to collect fuel, though at the risk of being carried away by the seas, as they rolled up on the rock. We got also a quantity of canvas, and with this, and the help of some planks, we put up a tent, which afforded us some shelter. Though we had no food to cook, the fire warmed us, and enabled us to dry our clothes. We kept it burning all night in the hope that it would serve as a beacon. Another night passed away. In the morning we saw to our joy a boat pulling towards us. She was our own whale-boat, with the boatswain and four hands; but they brought no food nor water, as they found neither one nor the other on the Island of Pauri. The boatswain tried to persuade our captain to leave the rock, but he refused to desert us; so he ordered the boatswain to take ten men and make the best of his way to Cerigotto, and to return as soon as possible with assistance.

“We had been badly enough off before. Matters now grew worse, the wind again increasing to a heavy gale, which sent the seas washing nearly over the rock. We should have all of us been carried away, if we had not secured ropes round a point which rose higher than the rest. I don’t like, even now, to think of that night. The cries and groans of my poor shipmates still ring in my ears. Now one man sank down, now another. The cold was terrible, even to those who, having been on watch, were well clothed. In the morning, several of our number were missing, and others lay dead on the rock. We were looking out for the whale-boat, when a sail was seen standing directly down for us. In our eagerness to get off, we began to form rafts of the spars and planks we had collected. As the ship approached, she hove-to and lowered a boat, which came towards us till almost within pistol-shot, when her crew rested on their oars, and looked at us earnestly. Who they were we could not tell. The man at the helm waved his hat, and then, seeming suspicious of our character, steered back to the ship. In vain we waved and shouted, the fellows paid no attention to us. To our bitter disappointment, we saw the boat hoisted up, when the ship again made sail. We were now in despair. I’d before felt somewhat hungry and thirsty, but till now never knew what real thirst was. Some of the men drank salt water, but that only made them worse.

“Another day came to an end. Fortunately the weather had moderated, and we tried to keep ourselves warm by huddling close together. Death was now making rapid progress amongst us. Those who had drunk salt water went raving mad, and threw themselves into the sea; others died of exhaustion, among them our captain, and first lieutenant. I never expected to see another day, when, the voice of the boatswain hailed us. The cry was at once raised for ‘water! Water!’ but to our bitter disappointment, he told us he had brought none, as he could only get some earthen jars, in which it was impossible to bring it through the surf. He said, however, that a large vessel would arrive the next morning, with provisions and water. The thought of this kept up our spirits. When daylight returned, we eagerly looked out for the expected vessel, but she didn’t appear, and all that day we had to wait in vain. More of our people died. It seemed a wonder that any of us should have survived, suffering so terribly from hunger and thirst as we were. Some attempted to satisfy their hunger in a way too horrible to describe. All day long we were on the look-out, expecting the boats to appear which the boatswain said would come, but hour after hour passed. I can tell you they were the most dreadful hours I ever remember. To remain longer on the rock seemed impossible. It was agreed therefore next day to build a raft on which we might reach some shore or other. It would be better, we thought, to die afloat than on that horrible spot. As soon as daylight broke we set to work, lashing together all the larger spars we could find, but our strength was not equal to the task. Still we contrived to make a raft. At length we launched it, but scarcely was it in the water, when the sea knocked it to pieces. Many of our poor fellows rushed in to try and secure the spars, and several of them were swept away by the current. Unable to render help, we saw them perish before our eyes. In the afternoon the whale-boat again came to us, but the boatswain told us that he had been unable to get the Greek fishermen to put to sea while the gale continued. He brought us neither food nor water, though many of us thought he might have managed to bring off some of the goats and sheep from the island. Even if we had eaten them raw, they would have assisted to keep body and soul together. I had hitherto kept up, but at last I lay down, unable to move hands or feet, or to raise my head from the rock. During the night many more of my unhappy shipmates died. I was lying on the rock, just conscious enough to know that the day had returned, when, I heard some one sing out, ‘The boats are coming! The boats are coming!’ I raised my head and tried to get up on my knees. Looking out, I saw four fishing vessels with the whale-boat pulling towards us. I can’t tell you the joy we felt. Many of us who had before been unable to move, sat up, some few even were able to stand on their feet, while we made an attempt to cheer, as the boats drew near. They brought us water and food. Our second lieutenant, now commanding officer, would allow only a small portion to be given to each man at a time, and thus saved us from much suffering. When our strength was a little restored, we were carried on board the boats, which at once made sail for Cerigotto, where we were landed in the evening. Of our complement of one hundred and twenty-two people, only sixty-four remained. When I think of all we went through, it seems surprising that any of us should have lived to reach the shore. We were treated in the kindest way by the people of the island. After staying with them for eleven days, at the end of which time most of us had somewhat recovered our strength, we proceeded to Cerigo, and thence sailed for Malta. There have, I’ll allow, been more terrible shipwrecks. Few people, however, have suffered as much as we did during the six days we were on the rock, without food or water. As soon as I was recovered, I was drafted on board the ‘Ajax,’ seventy-four, commanded by Captain Sir Henry Blackwood. We lay off the mouth of the Dardanelles, forming one of the squadron of Vice-Admiral Sir John Duckworth. I’m fond of old England, as I hope all of you young gentlemen are, but I must own that the spot where we lay is a very beautiful one.

“It had just gone four bells in the first watch, and all hands except those on duty were asleep, when we were roused up by the cry of fire! Directly afterwards the drum beat to quarters, and the guns were fired, as signals of distress. A boat was also sent off with one of the lieutenants and a midshipman, to summon assistance from the other ships. We all stood ready to obey the orders we might receive. The captain and one of the officers at once went down to the cockpit, from which clouds of smoke were bursting out. They quickly had to beat a retreat. We then, forming a line, passed the buckets along full of water, to pour down upon the seat of the fire, as far as it could be discovered. So dense was the smoke, that several of the men who were closest and whose duty it was to heave the water, were nearly suffocated. It was soon evident that the flames had the mastery of the ship. The carpenter endeavoured to scuttle the after part, but had to abandon the attempt. In less than fifteen minutes after the alarm had been given, the flames raged with such fury, that it was impossible to hoist out the boats.

“The jolly-boat alone had been lowered by the captain’s orders, directly he came on deck. The fire was now bursting up through the main hatchway, dividing the fore from the after part of the ship. The captain accordingly ordered all hands forward. There we were nearly six hundred human beings huddled together on the forecastle, bowsprit, and sprit-sail yard, while the after part, from the mainmast to the taffrail, was one mass of fire. Smoke in thick columns was now rising from all parts of the ship, while the flames crackled and hissed, then they caught some of the poor fellows who had taken refuge in the tops. Some kept silent, but others shrieked aloud for mercy. Above the roar of the flames, and the cries of the men, the sound of the guns could be heard when they went off as the fire reached them. Captain Blackwood retained his composure and cheered us up by reminding us, that the boats of the squadron would soon arrive. They came at last. It was no easy matter to get on board. Many of the men jumped into the sea, in their eagerness to reach them. Others stood, shouting and shrieking to them to come nearer. I, at last seeing a boat which had not as yet taken many men aboard her, and thinking it was time to save myself, leapt overboard, and was soon picked up. Many who had imitated my example were of necessity left swimming or floating, and would have perished had not other boats arrived and saved them. The ship’s cable had some time before this been burnt through. All this while she was drifting towards the island of Tenedos—now her stern, now her broadside alternately presented to the wind. One of the men in the boat had been hurt. I took his oar. I found that the boat I was aboard of belonged to the ‘Saint George,’ and was under the command of Lieutenant Willoughby. As soon as we fell in with another boat, we put the rest of the people on board her, and rowed back again, to try and save some more. This we succeeded in doing. The third time we returned to our burning ship. Just then she rounded-to, and we saw several men hanging by ropes under her head. The brave Lieutenant resolved to rescue these poor fellows before she again fell off. Straining at our oars, we dashed up to her, and succeeded in taking all of them on board, but before we could get clear of the ship she again fell off, carrying us with her, and as she surged through the water nearly swamping us. At the same time flames reached the shank and stopper, when her remaining bower anchor fell over her sides, very nearly right down upon us. Just then, the cable caught our outer gunwale, over which it ran, apparently one sheet of fire. The flames were at the same time raging above our heads, and rushing out from her bow-ports. Our destruction seemed certain; we might have left the boat to try and save ourselves by swimming, but we were too much exhausted to try and reach any of the other boats; all we could do was to try and keep the flames from off our own. Just as we had given up all expectation of escape, the anchor took the ground, and though the cable was nearly burnt through, it had strength sufficient to check the ship’s head, which enabled us to clear ourselves; though we were somewhat scorched, no one was otherwise much hurt. In a short time the wreck drifted on shore on the north side of the island of Tenedos, where she blew up with a tremendous explosion, which must have been heard miles away. We who were saved had reason to be thankful, but of the ship’s company two hundred and fifty perished that night by fire or water, including several of the officers, together with the greater number of the midshipmen, who, being unable to swim, were drowned before they could reach the boats. There were three women on board, one of whom was saved by following her husband down a rope from the jibboom. The boatswain had two sons on board. When the alarm of fire was given, he had rushed down, and bringing up one of them, had thrown him into the sea, where he was picked up by the jolly-boat. He then descended for the other, but never returned, being, as several of the midshipmen probably were, suffocated by the dense smoke rising from that part of the ship. I could go on into the middle of next year, as the saying is, telling you of my shipwrecks and adventures, but I have a notion that you would get tired of listening before I had brought my yarn to an end.”

“Oh, no! No! Go on, Mr Riddle, go on, go on!” we shouted out.

“Well, then, young gentlemen, I’ll just tell you the way we once took a Spanish sloop-of-war.

“I belonged at the time to the ‘Niobe’ frigate out in the West Indies. We had been cruising for some weeks without taking a prize, when we captured a Spanish merchant schooner, after a long chase. From some of her crew our captain learnt that a Spanish corvette, of twenty guns, lay up a harbour in Cuba. He determined to cut her out. He had intended sending the boats away for that service, when our second lieutenant, as gallant an officer as ever stepped, proposed to take in our prize under Spanish colours, and running alongside the corvette, to capture her by boarding. Having shifted the prisoners to the frigate, the second lieutenant, with three midshipmen and thirty volunteers, I being one of them, went on board the schooner. There were batteries on either side, with heavy guns which would have opened fire upon us had it for a moment been suspected what we really were. The lieutenant and one of the midshipmen blackened their faces, and rigged themselves out in check shirts and handkerchiefs bound round their heads. The rest of the crew wanted to do the same, but the lieutenant would only allow me and another man to rig up as he had done, and regular blackamoors we made of ourselves. We laughed, I can tell you, as we looked at each other and talked the nigger lingo, so that even if a boat had come alongside they would not have discovered who we were. We had besides a real black and mulatto on board belonging to our crew. The rest of the people were sent below, with their cutlasses and pistols ready for the moment they were wanted. Everything was prepared by the time we got near the mouth of the harbour. The midshipman, a fine young fellow, taking the helm, the lieutenant sat on the companion-hatch smoking a cigarette, and Sutton, the other man, and I, with the mulatto and negro, lolled about the deck with our arms folded. On we stood close under the batteries, which, if we had been discovered, would have sunk us in pretty quick time, but as the schooner was very well-known in the harbour, her real character was not suspected. As soon as we got inside the harbour, we saw the corvette anchored right in the centre. The breeze headed us. That would be all in our favour, we knew, when we had to come out again. We made four or five tacks, taking care not to do things too smartly. The lieutenant turned his eye every now and again on the batteries. I think he expected, as I can tell you I did, that the Spaniards would before long smell a rat, and begin blazing away at us. They seemed, however, to have no suspicion, and we were allowed to beat up the harbour without being interfered with. We had got nearly up to the corvette, when we saw two or three boats coming off from the shore towards us. We well knew that if they got alongside they would soon find out that the schooner had changed hands. We could see only a few people on the deck of the corvette, and the rest of her crew we guessed were either below or gone ashore. In the latter case we hoped soon to master her. As the boats drew near us the breeze freshened, and the lieutenant ordering the helm to be put down, we luffed up alongside the corvette, before those on board suspected what we were about to do. No sooner did they discover what we were up to, than they began shouting and shrieking, some running to the guns, others to get hold of muskets and cutlasses, while numbers of the crew came swarming up from below. Several officers made their appearance. We didn’t give them much time, you may be sure, to defend themselves, before, led by our brave lieutenant, we threw ourselves upon their deck, and were soon slashing away with our cutlasses. But few of them stopped to meet us, so completely did we surprise them, but leaped below faster than they had come up. The officers for a few seconds held out, but they were quickly disarmed and placed under a couple of sentries in the after part of the poop. Three or four hands only had been left on board the schooner, and the lieutenant at once ordered her to lead the way down the harbour, while the corvette’s cable was cut and the topsails loosed. We had made such quick work of it, that the soldiers in the fort didn’t discover what had happened until the corvette was under way, with her topsails and courses set, following the schooner. They then began to open a hot fire on us and the schooner, but the breeze freshening, we made such good way, that they could not get a proper range; their shot, however, came pretty thickly on board, passing through the sails, cutting away a rope now and then, and several times hulling us, but not a man was hurt. As soon as we could get some powder and shot from below, we fired in return, though there was but little use in doing that, you may be sure. We gave three hearty cheers when we at last got clear of the harbour, and sailed away with our prize for Jamaica, accompanied by our frigate. Our lieutenant and all engaged gained great credit for the way the enterprise had been accomplished.

“Had I been a wise man, I should have stuck to the navy; but soon after this, I had the misfortune to belong to a ship commanded by a very different sort of officer to any I had before served under. If ever there was a hell afloat she was one. Well-nigh a quarter of the crew at a time were on the black list. Not a day passed that one or more were not flogged. At last, two other men and I, when off the coast of America, leaped into a boat alongside and made for the shore. If we had been caught, we should have been well-nigh flayed alive. So we took good care to keep in hiding till the ship had sailed. I afterwards shipped on board an American merchantman, but I would not join Uncle Sam’s navy on any account. I can’t say that I found myself in a perfect paradise, and I was not sorry, after two or three years, to get on board an English merchant vessel. I became mate of her, and in one way or another saved money enough to buy my cottage here, with a boat and nets, and to settle down with my wife and family. I mustn’t keep you any longer, young gentlemen, listening to what befell me in the meantime; but if you’ll pleasure me by coming here another day, I’ll go on with my yarn.”

“Thank you, my friend,” said Mr Reynell, getting up, “it’s time for all of us to be returning home, but I am very sure these young gentlemen will be very much obliged to you, if we can manage to make another excursion here, to listen to some more of your adventures.”

While some of us gathered round the old sailor, asking him questions, the rest were employed carrying the baskets of provisions to the carriage, which set off on its return, we soon afterwards following on foot. Although many of the party declared that they had no wish to go to sea, the accounts I had heard only strengthened my desire to become a sailor, and I determined more resolutely than ever to use every means to accomplish my object.

Chapter Five.

I form plans against the smugglers—Ned’s brotherly advice—I continue to visit old Riddle—He presents me with a cutter—My first lessons in sailing—Reception of my present at home—Aunt Deb again gives her opinion—A present in return—Sudden disappearance of Mark, which leads to a further expression of sentiments on the part of Aunt Deb—I visit Leighton Hall—My interview with the Squire—I obtain permission to visit Mark in prison—“Better than doing nothing”—I console Old Roger—“A prison’s a bad place for a boy”—Returning homewards, I unexpectedly gain some important information—The barn—The smuggler’s conference—Rather too near to be pleasant—I contrive to escape—Am pursued and captured by the smugglers, but finally released—Aunt Deb’s disapproval of my friendship for Mark Riddle.

I have taken up so much space in describing the adventures of old Riddle, that I must be as brief as I can with my own. Although I had been inclined to think smugglers very fine fellows, I had lately heard so much against them that I began to consider it would be a very meritorious act if I could gain information which might lead to the capture of some of them; besides which, I flattered myself Sir Reginald would be so highly pleased at my conduct that he would exert himself more than he at present seemed inclined to do, to obtain me an appointment as midshipman on board a man-of-war. I kept my ideas to myself; I didn’t venture to mention them even to the old sailor, as I suspected that if not actually in league with the smugglers, he was friendly to them. I thought it better also to say nothing about it to my father, for although I knew that he would be pleased should I succeed, he might very naturally dread the danger I should have to run in my undertaking. How to set about the matter was the difficulty. I had no intention of acting a treacherous part, or to try to become friendly with the smugglers, for the purpose of betraying them. My plan was to hunt about to try and find out their hiding-places, and where any cargoes were to be run; then to give information to the baronet. The only person to whom I confided my plan was Ned, under a promise of secrecy. He tried to dissuade me, pointing out that it was a very doubtful proceeding at the best, and that, should I succeed, the smugglers would be sure to take vengeance on me.

“They will either shoot you or carry you off to sea, and drown you, or put you on board some outward-bound ship going to the coast of Africa, or round Cape Horn; and it may be years before you get back, if you ever return at all,” said Ned.

Still his arguments didn’t prevail with me, and I only undertook to be cautious. Had he not given his promise to keep my intentions secret, he would, I suspect, have told our father or Aunt Deb, and effectual means would have been taken to prevent me from carrying out my plan. A considerable time passed by, and although I was on the watch, I could gain no information regarding the proceedings of the smugglers. During this period I paid several visits to old Riddle, who always seemed glad to see me. I was highly delighted one day when he presented me with a cutter, which he had carved out and rigged expressly for me. It was about two feet long and of a proportionable width, fitted with blocks, so that I could lower or hoist up the sails, and set such canvas as the wind would allow. The inside was of a dark salmon colour, the bottom was painted and burnished to look like copper, while the rest was of a jet black. Altogether I was highly delighted with the craft—the first I had ever possessed—and I only wished she was large enough to enable me to go aboard her, so that I might sail in her.

Near old Rogers’ house was a lagoon of considerable length and breadth, filled by the sea at high tide. It was open to all winds, and was thus a capital place for sailing a model. He and Mark at once accompanied me to it, and they having trimmed the sails, and placed the rudder in the proper position, the model vessel went as steadily as if the ship had had a crew on board. When she had finished her voyage across the lagoon, the old sailor, taking her out, showed me how to trim the sails. I then, carrying her back to the place whence she started, set her off myself. I had fancied that I could make her sail directly before the wind; but he explained the impossibility of doing this without a person on board to steer, as she would have a tendency to luff up to the wind. He evidently took a pleasure in teaching me, and I didn’t grow weary of learning, so that at the end of the first day I fancied I could manage my little craft to perfection. I called her “The Hope.” He promised to have the name painted on her stern by the next day I came. I went almost day after day for a week or more. At last old Roger declared I could sail “The Hope” as well as he could. Sometimes Mark came with me, but he didn’t take as much interest in the amusement as I did, he being more accustomed to practical sailing; besides which he had other employments into which he didn’t think fit to initiate me. As I before said, he frequently went fishing on the Squire’s ponds, and from a light fowling-piece which I saw in his room, together with several nets and other contrivances for catching game, I suspected that he also spent some of his time in the Squire’s preserves. I didn’t like to hint to him that I had any suspicion on the subject. When he saw my eyes directed towards a gun, he observed—

“I sometimes go out wild-duck shooting in the winter. My gun is not large enough for the purpose, so when I can contrive to get up close enough I now and then kill a bird or two.”

“I should think your gun was more suitable for killing partridges or hares or pheasants,” I remarked.

“Ah, yes, so it may be; but then pheasants and partridges and hares are game, and I should run the risk of being hauled up before the Squire if I were to bag any.”

He laughed in a peculiar way as he spoke. I tried to get information from him about the smugglers; but if he knew anything he held his tongue, evidently considering it wiser not to trust me. At last, as I wanted to show my cutter to Ned, my sister, and the rest, I told old Roger that I should like to carry it home. To this he raised no objection.

“You’ll find her rather a heavy load, Master Dick,” he said. “However, you can rest on your way. I advise you to stow the sails first, so that if you meet a breeze they will not press against you.”

I did as he advised me, lowered the mainsail and stowed it as he had shown me how to do, and lowered the foresail and jib. Mark had gone out that morning and had not returned, or he would have helped me, I had no doubt. Wishing old Roger, Mrs Roger, and Nancy good-bye, I set out.

Sometimes I carried the cutter on one shoulder, sometimes on the other, and then under my arm; but before I got half way I began to wish that there was a canal between old Roger’s cottage and the vicarage. My arms and shoulders ached with the load. After resting some time, I once again started and managed at last to get home. “The Hope” just as I had expected, met with general admiration from my brothers and sisters. They were much astonished to see me unfurl the sails, and all wished to come and see her sail. I promised to give them that pleasure, provided they would undertake to carry the cutter between them. Aunt Deb was the only person who turned up her nose at seeing my model.

“Mr Riddle might have thought of some other present to give the boy,” she observed; “there was no necessity indeed for his giving a present at all. Dick’s head is already too much turned towards sea matters, and this will only make him think of them more than ever. I shall advise your father to return the vessel to the old sailor, with the request that he will dispose of it to some one else. In my opinion, it was very wrong of him to make such a present without first asking leave.”

I thought it better to say nothing, and Aunt Deb didn’t carry out her intentions. My mother, who was always generously inclined, gave me leave to take a few pots of jam in return. A few days afterwards Ned and I, and two of my sisters, set out to carry our present. They had been interested in what I had told them about the old sailor and his pretty daughter, and wanted to see them. On our arrival they received us in a friendly way, and Mrs Riddle and Mary hurried to place chairs for my sisters. They thanked us much for the present we had brought. I observed that they all looked graver than usual. I inquired for Mark.

“He hasn’t come home since yesterday evening,” answered his father. “I don’t fancy that any harm has befallen him; but still I can’t help thinking all sorts of things. If he doesn’t come back soon, I must set out to look for him.”

I found that Mark had taken his gun, and said that he was going along the shore to get a shot at a gull, but it was not as yet the season for wild fowl to visit the coast. Still I could not help fancying that old Roger knew more about Mark’s intended proceedings than he thought fit to tell me. It struck me that perhaps the smugglers had something to do with the matter. Had I been alone I should have offered to have accompanied him; but he didn’t ask me, and indeed seemed to wish that we should take our departure. Telling my sisters, therefore, that it was time to go home, we wished the family good-bye, and set out on our return. At tea that evening my sisters mentioned the disappearance of Mark.

“Depend upon it that boy has got into mischief of some sort,” observed Aunt Deb; “though I never saw him that I know of, I am very sure from the remarks Dick has made that he is a wild monkey, and a very unfit companion for a young gentleman.”

I defended Mark, and asserted that it was just as likely that he had met with some accident.

“At all events, I intend to go over to-morrow morning, and inquire what has happened to him,” I said. “I don’t remember making any remarks which would lead you Aunt Deb, to suppose that he was otherwise than a well-conducted fellow. He seems much attached to his family, and they’re evidently very fond of him.”

“Perhaps his father spoils him as other parents are apt to do,” remarked Aunt Deb, glancing at the Vicar. “The sooner you break off your intimacy with him the better in my opinion—and now you are aware of my sentiments.”

The latter was a remark Aunt Deb usually made at the conclusion of an argument, by which she intended it to be understood that her opinion was not to be disputed.

Next morning, without waiting for breakfast, taking only a crust of bread and a cup of milk, I set off, anxious to learn what had happened to my friend Mark. On nearing the cottage I saw Mary at the door.

“Oh! Master Dick, I’m so glad you’re come,” she exclaimed. “Father and mother are in a great taking. Mark has got into trouble. When he went out yesterday evening he met Jack Quilter and Tom Bass, and they persuaded him to go shooting where he ought not to have gone, and all three were caught by Sir Reginald’s keepers. They had a fight for it, and Quilter and Bass knocked one of the keepers down, and would have treated him worse if Mark had not interfered. Three other keepers coming up, they were all carried off to the Hall, where they have been locked up ever since. Father only heard of it yesterday evening after you went. He at once set off to try and see Sir Reginald, and he only got back late last night, or rather this morning, so he has only just now got up. He said that the Squire was very savage with him, and threatened to send Mark off to sea. It was with great difficulty that father got leave to see Mark, who told him how he had saved the keeper’s life, but the Squire would not believe it, and said that he had been caught poaching, and must take the consequences.”

“I’m very sorry to hear this,” I said to Mary; “but don’t despair of your brother getting off. I’ll ask my father to plead for him; and if he won’t do that, I’ll go myself and tell the Squire what a capital fellow Mark is. It would be a shame to send him to sea against his will, although he might be ready enough to go of his own accord.”

After I had talked the matter over with Mary for some time, I went into the cottage, where I found Mrs Riddle looking very downcast, and soon afterwards old Roger made his appearance. He repeated what Mary had said, and added that he intended to engage the services of Lawyer Roe to defend Mark, though the expenses would be greater than he could well bear. I was afraid, however, that Lawyer Roe could do nothing for Mark, taken as he had been with a gun in his hands, in Sir Reginald’s preserves, should the baronet resolve to prosecute. I again offered to go off at once to see Sir Reginald. I however much doubted that my father would undertake the mission, especially as Aunt Deb would endeavour to persuade him to have nothing to do with the matter. Mrs Riddle and Mary pressed me to take some breakfast, which they had just prepared, and as by this time I was very hungry, I gladly accepted their invitation. As it was important to get early to the Hall, directly breakfast was over I started, resolved to employ every means I could to get Mark liberated. It didn’t occur to me that probably Sir Reginald would pay no attention to my request, or that he would consider my interference as a piece of impertinence. I made up my mind to speak boldly and forcibly, and felt very confident that I should gain my object. Old Roger accompanied me part of the way, but he thought it was better not to be seen near the Hall, lest it should be supposed I had been influenced by him. I was but a little fellow, it must be remembered, and without any experience of the world, or my hopes would not have risen so high.

“Never fear, Mr Riddle,” said I, as I parted from the old sailor. “I’ll manage, by hook or by crook, to get Mark set free, so tell Mrs Riddle and Mary to keep up their spirits.”

When I reached the Hall, I walked boldly up to the front porch, and gave a sturdy pull at the bell. A powdered footman opened the door. In a firm voice I asked to see Sir Reginald.

“He is at breakfast.”

“Then say Mr Richard Cheveley has called, and begs to see him on an important matter.”

The footman gave an equivocal smile down at me, and went into the breakfast-room at one side of the Hall.

I heard a lady’s voice say—

“Oh! Do let him come in.”

The servant reappearing, showed me into the breakfast-room, in which several ladies were at one end of a well-covered table. Lady Knowsley was seated, presiding at the tea-urn, with several young ladies on either side, and Sir Reginald at the foot.

I made my bow as I entered. Lady Knowsley held out her hand without rising, and Sir Reginald turned partly round in his chair and gave me a nod, then went on eating his breakfast, while the young ladies smiled. The footman placed a chair for me in a vacant place at the table.

“You have had a long walk, and must be ready for breakfast,” said Lady Knowles, in a kind tone.

“Thank you, I took some on my way,” I answered, not wishing to loose time by having to repeat an operation I felt that I could not perform in the presence of so many young ladies with my accustomed appetite.

“You must have got up another appetite by this time,” observed Sir Reginald. “Come youngster! Here is an egg and some ham. Julia, cut him a slice of bread, and Lady Knowles will supply you with tea. Fall to, now, and let me see what sort of a man you are.”

Thus pressed, I was compelled to eat what was set before me, which I did without any great difficulty. Sir Reginald was too polite to ask me the object of my visit till I had finished. He pressed me to take more, but I declined, and I then told him that I had heard that Mark Riddle had been taken poaching with some other lads who had led him astray.

“That is your opinion, Master Cheveley,” observed Sir Reginald, with a laugh; “why the fellow is the most arrant young poacher in the neighbourhood. My people have been aware of it for a long time, but have hitherto been unable to capture him.”

“I hope that they are mistaken, Sir Reginald,” I observed; “I have seen a good deal of Mark Riddle, and his father is a very fine old sailor.”

“He may be that, although I have reason to believe that he is, besides, as determined a smuggler as any on the coast, though he is too cunning to be caught,” answered the baronet. “No, no, Master Cheveley; young Mark must be sent to prison unless he is allowed as a favour to go to sea instead.”

I was determined not to be defeated, notwithstanding what the baronet had said. I still pleaded for Mark, and the ladies, who are generally ready to take the weaker side joined with me.

“Suppose he is guilty. He is very young. If he would promise not to poach again, will it not be kind to let him off?” said Lady Knowles.

“It would be kinder to give him a lesson which he will not forget,” said Sir Reginald; “notwithstanding all his promises, he would be certain to poach again. He might end by killing a keeper, and have to be sent to the gallows, as has been the fate of many. Poachers and smugglers must be put down at all costs.”

In spite of my intention to persevere, I found that I hadn’t the slightest chance of moving the feelings of the baronet. I, however, supported by the ladies, got leave to pay Mark a visit, and I learned from them that he and the other men were not to be sent off to prison until the following day, when the constables would come to carry them away. I stayed for some time, the young ladies chatting pleasantly with me, till at length thinking that I ought to take my departure, I asked to be allowed to go to Sir Reginald’s study, to obtain an order for me to visit Mark.

“I’ll get it for you,” said Miss Julia; “we all feel compassion for the poor lad, who has evidently been led astray by bad companions.” In a short time she returned, with an order to the constable in charge of the prisoners.

Thanking her very much, and wishing her and her sisters and Lady Knowles good-bye, I hastened round to the back of the house, where the lock-up room was situated.

The constable, on seeing the order, admitted me without hesitation.

“Well, Master Dick, this is kind of you to come and see me when I’m in trouble,” said Mark, immediately stretching out his hand. “From what I hear, it will go hard with me.”

I asked him if he could not prove that he had been misled by others, and would promise not to go poaching again.

“No; that I can’t, either one or the other,” he answered promptly. “I went of my own free will, and if I was let out, as long as I had a gun and powder and shot, I should go and make use of it. But I don’t want to go to prison; and if I’m sent to sea, I should like to choose how and when I am to go.”

“You must find it very dull work sitting here all day, having nothing to do,” I remarked. “Would you like to make some blocks? I have got some wood and a sharp knife, with a saw and file, in my pocket. It will be better than doing nothing.”

Mark gave a sharp look in my face, and said—

“Yes, that I should. I never like to have my hands idle. You shall have the blocks for your cutter when I have finished them.”

Thinking only of the amusement it would afford Mark, I handed him out the necessary tools, and promised to obtain some more wood for him to work on should he be sent to prison. The other two men were lying down, apparently asleep, while I paid my visit to Mark. They took no notice of me. After I left, instead of going directly home, I returned to old Roger, that I might report the ill-success of my visit to Sir Reginald.

“I feared it would be so from the first,” said Roger. “A prison is a bad place for a boy, and I’d rather he had been sent off to sea.”

“I’ll ask my father to try what he can do, though I’m afraid he’ll not be more successful than I have been.”

“Do, Master Dick,” said Mrs Riddle. “We should not let any stone remain unturned. I would not have our Mark sent to prison for anything. It would be the ruin of the boy.”

I of course promised to do my best. It was getting late in the day, for I had spent a considerable time at the Hall, and a further period had been occupied in getting to old Roger’s cottage. Mrs Riddle insisted on my stopping to take tea, and as I had had no dinner I was very glad to accept her invitation. I remained on afterwards for some time, talking to the old sailor, so that it was pretty late when I at length set out to return home. As I had told Ned where I was going I knew that they would not be anxious about me, and therefore did not hurry my steps. I had got about half way, when feeling tired I sat myself down to rest, with my back against the side of an old barn, at a spot whence I could obtain a good view of the sea. I sat for some time watching the vessels passing up and down channel, and observing a few boats putting out for their night’s fishing from Leighton Cove. The weather was warm, and I was sheltered from the light breeze which blew off the land. I had been on foot all day since early dawn, and very naturally became drowsy. Instead of at once jumping up I sat on, and in consequence fell fast asleep. When I awoke I found that the sun had set, and that the daylight was fast departing. I was just going to get up, when I heard voices proceeding from the inside of the barn. Though not intending to play the part of an eavesdropper, I could not help listening to what they said. The men spoke in low voices, so that I didn’t catch everything, but I heard enough to convince me that the speakers were smugglers arranging a spot where a cargo was to be run the first night when there would be no moon, and the wind blowing off shore. As far as I could make out, it was to be close to where I then was. Below me was a little sandy bay, where the boats could come ashore even should there be a heavy sea running outside.

One of the speakers, whom I knew to be Ned Burden, lived in a cottage hard by, and he was to show a light in his window should the coast be clear. At present the weather was far too favourable for their purpose, but they counted on a change in four or five days. At last I heard them fix on the following Wednesday. I was afraid of moving lest the smugglers should hear me, and I knew that if they discovered my whereabout they would look upon me as a spy, especially as everybody was aware of the way my father, had been speaking against smuggling. Still they went on talking, and I heard some more of their designs.

In order to draw off the Revenue-men from the spot, it was proposed to set one or two hayricks on fire at a large farm near Sandgate, when it was supposed that they would collect to try and extinguish the flames, so as to prevent the fire communicating with the other surrounding ricks. As this was sure to be no easy work, it was calculated that the smugglers would have time to run the cargo, and carry the goods away into the interior. It was an opportunity I had long been looking for. I could now, by giving the information I possessed, secure the favour of Sir Reginald, and thus induce him to further my object. I sat on, scarcely daring to breathe, lest I should be heard, and heartily wishing that the men would go away. They had evidently, however, met there for the purpose of discussing various subjects. Ned Burden probably didn’t wish to go far from home, and apparently was unwilling to receive his visitors in his own cottage. He had therefore fixed upon this spot. At last I began to think that they intended to spend the night there. I heard footsteps approaching, and I now feared that I should be discovered; but the new comers followed the path which led to the opposite side of the barn to that where I was sitting. I judged by the voices that there were three of them. They once more went over the matters that the others had before discussed, having apparently no fear of being overheard. They all spoke in their ordinary voices, only occasionally dropping them. “Now is the time,” I thought, “of making my escape; while they are talking they will not hear me, and I may creep away to a distance without being discovered.” I put my plan into execution. The men continued talking on; their voices sounded fainter and fainter as I got farther away from the barn. Fancying that I was safe, I at last rose to my feet, intending to run as fast as my legs could carry me. Scarcely, however, had I began to move forward, when I heard a shout, followed by the sound of footsteps. I fully expected, should the smugglers fancy that I had overheard them to get a knock on the head if I was overtaken. I had always been tolerably fleet of foot, and as I had no desire to be so treated, I set off running as hard as I could. I hadn’t got far, however, before I fancied I heard some one coming. In a short time I was nearly certain of it, but I didn’t stop to listen. In daylight I should have had no difficulty in keeping ahead of my pursuers, but the ground was rough, and I had to turn aside to avoid bushes and rocks. Still the impediments in my way would also assist to stop them, and I didn’t despair of escaping. I had to cross over a ridge, at the top of which I was exposed to view. I had just reached it, when I heard some one shout. “You may shout as loud as you like,” thought I, “but I’m not going to stop in consequence.” Down the hill I rushed, hoping soon to find shelter, so as to be able to turn off to one side or the other, and thus to evade my pursuers. I knew that a little way on was a lane which led directly to the village, and that if I could once get into it I might run on without much chance of being overtaken. I could see before me a thick hedge, through which I should have to get into the lane. I was making my way towards it, when down I came into a deep ditch or watercourse, the existence of which I had forgotten. It was perfectly dry, but I was severely hurt by the fall, and for some seconds I lay unable to move. I soon, however, recovered, and attempted to scramble out on the opposite side. But the bank was steep, and the top was above my reach. I fancied that it would be lower farther down, and ran or rather scrambled on in that direction. It didn’t occur to me at the time that it would be wiser to remain perfectly still, when my pursuers, if they were continuing the chase, would have passed me unobserved in the darkness. I at last reached a part where the bank was broken away, and began climbing up, when I heard footsteps close to me; and, as I gained the top, I saw a man coming along at full speed on the opposite side. I determined, however, not to be caught if I could help it; but to my dismay, when I began to run, I found that I had sprained my ankle. This, though it didn’t stop me altogether, prevented me from running as fast as before; but if I could get through the hedge I thought that I might keep ahead, or that the smugglers would not venture to follow me. To ascertain how far off they were I gave a glance over my shoulder. This was fatal to my success, for my foot caught in a low bush and down I came. In vain I endeavoured to regain my feet. Next instant I found myself in the grasp of two men.

“Hulloa! Youngster; what made you try to get away from us?” asked one of them, in an angry tone.

“I am on my way home, and wish to get there as soon as possible,” I answered.

“Who are you?” asked the man.

I told him without hesitation.

“And your father has joined Sir Reginald and the other squires about here in persecuting the smugglers.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with my being in a hurry to get home,” I replied.

“Maybe not; but we want to know where you were lying hid just before you took to running,” said the other man.

“I was not lying hid anywhere,” I answered. “I was going along from paying a visit to Roger Riddle, after seeing his son Mark, who was caught by the Squire’s keepers, and accused of poaching, when being tired I sat down to rest and fell asleep.”

“Whereabouts were you sleeping?” asked the smuggler.

“On the ground,” I answered.

“So I suppose,” said the man, with a laugh. “But whereabouts on the ground?”

“Not far from the old barn, to the best of my recollection; but it was too dark when I started to make out where I had been.”

This answer seemed to satisfy my interrogator. I was afraid that he would inquire every moment whether I had heard the conversation going on within the building.

“Well, my lad,” he said, “take care you don’t shove your nose into places where you’re not wanted. If you’re a friend of old Riddle’s, I don’t suppose you’ll have any ill-feeling against the smugglers. So now, good-night. You would have saved us a long run if you hadn’t been in such a hurry to get home.”

Thankful to escape so easily, I told the men I was sorry to have given them so much trouble. They accompanied me to a gate not far off, over which I climbed into the lane. I then, as fast as my sprained ankle would let me, made the best of my way home. I found that my family had been somewhat alarmed at my non-appearance. My father, who always took matters coolly, accepted my excuses, but Aunt Deb scolded me roundly for having played truant.

“What business had you to go to trouble Sir Reginald about that young scapegrace Riddle?” she asked, in her usual stern manner. “He’ll consider that you and your friend are alike. He’ll not be far wrong either. You have lost all chance, if you ever had one, of interesting Sir Reginald in your favour. You may as well give up all hope at once of being a midshipman. Now I suppose you want some supper, though you don’t deserve it. You’re always giving trouble to Betsy in coming home at irregular hours.”

“Thank you,” I said, “I’m not so very hungry. I’ll go into the kitchen and get some bread and cheese; that is all I want before I go to bed.”

So thus I made my escape. I had no opportunity that night of informing my father of what I had heard, but when we went to our room I gave Ned an account of my adventures.

“I would advise you, Dick, not to interfere in the matter,” said Ned. “It’s all very well for our father to preach against smuggling; the smugglers themselves don’t mind it a bit; but were he to take any active measures they would very likely burn the house down, or play us some other trick which would not be pleasant.”

Notwithstanding what Ned said, I determined to inform Sir Reginald of what I had heard, still hoping that by so doing I should gain his favour.

Chapter Six.

I revisit the baronet—My information and its worth—Am somewhat taken aback at my reception—Well out of it—Mark’s escape—Old Riddle’s gratitude—A night of adventure—The run—Night attack on Kidbrooke Farm—The fire—My curiosity overcomes my prudence—The struggle on the beach—The luck of the “Saucy Bess,” and ill-luck of Mark—I am again captured by the smugglers—Buried in a chest—My struggle for freedom, and its result—A vault in the old mill—My explorations in the vault.

The next morning I found my father in his study before breakfast. I told him of my having overheard the smugglers arranging the plans for running a cargo shortly, and asked him whether he wished me to let Sir Reginald know.

“You are in duty bound to do so,” he answered. “At the same time you must take care it is not known that you gave the information. He’ll certainly be pleased, and will be more inclined than before to assist you. You had better set off directly breakfast is over, and I will write a note for you to deliver, which will be an excuse for your appearance at the Hall. Do not say anything about the matter to any one else, as things that we fancy are known only to ourselves are apt to get abroad.”

I followed my father’s advice, and said nothing during breakfast. As soon as it was over I set out. Aunt Deb saw me, and shouted out, asking me where I was going; but pretending not to hear her, I ran on. I suspect I made her very irate. I noted the people I met on my way, and among others I encountered Ned Burden. He looked hard at me, but said nothing beyond returning my “Good morning, Mr Burden,” with “Good morning, Master Dick,” and I passed on. I looked back shortly afterwards for a moment, and saw that he had stopped, and was apparently watching me. As soon as I reached the Hall I gave my father’s note to a servant, saying that I was waiting to see Sir Reginald. In a short time the man came back and asked me to follow him into the study.

“Well, Master Richard Cheveley,” remarked the baronet, without inviting me to sit down, “I wonder you have the face to show yourself here after what has occurred.”

“What have I done, sir?” I asked with astonishment.

“Connived or assisted at the escape of the poachers I had shut up in my strong room yesterday evening, waiting the arrival of the constables to convey them to prison.”

“I beg your pardon, Sir Reginald. You must be under a mistake,” I exclaimed. “I have in no way assisted any poachers to escape. I merely yesterday, with your permission, visited the boy Mark Riddle. He had been captured with two persons much older than himself, and he was, I believe, led astray by them.”

“You, or somebody else, left them some tools—a file and a small saw—with which they managed to cut away a bar in the strong room and effect their escape. Here are the instruments, which they must have dropped as they were getting off. Do you recognise them?”

As Sir Reginald was speaking I recollected giving the knife and file and saw to Mark, that he might amuse himself by cutting out some blocks. When I saw them I at once acknowledged them as mine, telling the baronet my object in giving them to Mark.

“It was thoughtless, to say the least of it, and a very suspicious circumstance, young gentleman,” remarked Sir Reginald.

“Have they not been retaken?” I inquired, anxious to know what had become of my friend Mark.

“No, there is but little chance of that,” he answered, in a tone of vexation. “Now, let me know what you have come about. Your father gives no reason for your visit.”

Without claiming any merit, I at once gave a clear account of all I had heard on the previous evening. Sir Reginald appeared much interested, and his manner became more friendly than at first.

“I am ready to believe that you had no intention to assist young Riddle to escape,” he said at last, after taking notes of all I told him. “Now return home, and keep your own counsel.”

I confess that I was secretly very glad Mark had made his escape. I hoped that he would return to his father, and keep in hiding till the affair had blown over, and also give up poaching for the future. I wanted as soon as possible to go and see the old sailor, and learn what had become of Mark, but I knew that my father would be expecting me; and accordingly, after leaving the Hall, went directly home. My father complimented me more than I deserved on the way I had conducted the matter. I didn’t tell him just then of my having unintentionally assisted Mark and the other poachers to make their escape.

“If the smugglers and their cargo are taken, you will deservedly have the credit of the affair, and Sir Reginald will, I hope, feel bound to assist you as you desire,” he observed.

I had to wait till the next day to go over and see old Roger. I almost expected to find that Mark had returned home, and was concealed in the house; but none of his family knew anything about him, except that he had escaped from Sir Reginald’s strong room. They all thanked me warmly for the assistance I had given him, and of which they had heard by some means or other. They would not believe that I had had no intention, when I lent him my knife and other things, of helping him to get out. I took care to return home at an early hour, as I had no wish to encounter Ned Burden or the other men on the way. I waited somewhat impatiently for the result of the information I had given. I was very sure the baronet would take the necessary steps for capturing the smugglers. The weather, which had for a long time been fine, now completely changed. A strong westerly gale sprung up, the sky was clouded over, and as there was no moon the nights were very dark. The evening on which I had heard the smugglers propose to run the cargo arrived. I should have been wise to have gone to bed at the regular hour, as if I had had nothing to do in the matter. Instead of that, as soon as Ned was asleep I slipped on my clothes and went out by the back door, which I carefully closed behind me. As soon as I got clear of the village, and could see to a distance, I turned my eyes towards Kidbrooke Farm, which the smugglers had planned to attack in order to draw off the coastguard-men from the spot where the cargo was to be run. In a few minutes I observed a bright light burst forth from the surrounding darkness, and rapidly increase until it assumed the appearance of a huge bonfire. I then knew that the outlaws had carried out the first part of their plan, as I concluded they would the second. It seemed to me that the whole farm and all the stacks would speedily be in a blaze. Eager to see the fire, I ran towards the farm. On getting nearer, the hum of human voices showed me that a number of people had assembled, some of whom were engaged in throwing water over the stacks, others in pulling down the burning one. As I got up to them, I found that they were mostly labourers from Leighton, together with those belonging to the farm, with a few of the villagers from Sandgate. There were, I remarked, none of the revenue-men present, by which I concluded that they had not been drawn away from the coast, as the smugglers expected they would be. Precautions having been taken in time, and there being plenty of hands to extinguish the flames, the fire didn’t communicate to the other ricks; and, as far as I could see, even a portion of the first was saved.

It would have been better for me had I returned home and gone to bed again; but I was curious to know if the “Saucy Bess” had succeeded in running her cargo, or whether Sir Reginald had acted on the information I had given him, and had sent the coastguard-men to watch for the smugglers and capture them. Without stopping, therefore, in the neighbourhood of the burning rick, I hurried away towards the spot at which I had heard Ned Burden and his companions propose to run the cargo. I must have been running on for twenty minutes or so when I heard a pistol-shot fired; it was succeeded by two or three others. This made me more than ever eager to ascertain what was going forward. I doubled my speed. The path was tolerably good, and I knew the way. All the time I had not met a single person. After some time I heard more shouts, sounding much nearer, and cries mingled with the clashing of cutlasses, so it seemed to me. I had no doubt that the coastguard-men and the smugglers were having a desperate fight, the latter endeavouring to defend their property, and the former to capture it. Which would succeed in their object seemed doubtful. I pictured the whole scene, though as yet I could see nothing. This I was eager to do, forgetting that bullets flying about were no respecters of persons. At last I reached the top of a cliff overlooking the bay, whence I could see a lugger, which I guessed to be the “Saucy Bess,” with her sails loose, a short distance from the shore, and two or three boats near her; while on the sands were a number of men, who from their movements, and the babel of tongues arising from the spot, were evidently struggling. That the revenue-men had the best of it, I had no doubt. It appeared to me that they had captured part of the cargo, and some of the smugglers, and that others were endeavouring to rescue their comrades. That this was the case I had little doubt, when I saw the lugger’s head turned seawards, and presently she disappeared in the gloom of night I was now satisfied that Sir Reginald had acted on the information I had given him, and that he would find it had been correct. I was at last about to return home, when, just as I reached a lane leading from the cliffs, I heard footsteps close to me, and, turning round, saw three men approaching. Whoever they were I thought it better to keep out of their way, and began to run. But they must have seen me, and at once made chase. I could easily have kept ahead, but unfortunately stepping into a deep rut, I stumbled, and before I got under weigh again the men were upon me.

“Where are you bound for, youngster?” cried one of them, whom I recognised by the voice to be Ned Burden.

“I came to see what was going forward,” I answered.

“Not the first time you have done that, young gentleman,” said one, in an angry voice. “We know who you are. Somebody gave information about the run which was to be made to-night, and putting two or three things together no one will doubt that it was you. Shall we heave him over the cliffs, or what shall we do with him, mates?”

“Let us take him along with us, at all events,” said one of the other men. “If he has spoiled our plans to-night, he deserves to be knocked on the head.”

“Spoilt our plans indeed he has,” said Burden; and he presently detailed to his companions how he had caught me listening at the old barn, and how, not supposing that I had heard anything of importance, he had let me go.

I could not deny this, and I saw that it would be useless to attempt to defend myself. My captors, without more ado, proceeded to tie my arms behind my back, and to bind a handkerchief over my eyes.

“Remember, youngster,” said Burden, “if you shout out or utter a word we’ll send a bullet through your head.”

From the fierce way in which he spoke I thought he was very likely to do this. I did not tell him that I knew who he was, as I was sure that this would only make matters worse for me. I did not, however, believe that they really meant to kill me; but what they would do was more than I could guess. Two of them taking me one by each arm led me along the road, without wasting another word on me. They walked very fast indeed. Had they not supported me I should have fallen several times. Every moment I thought they would stop. I tried to ascertain in what direction they were leading me, but very soon lost all means of doing so. At length they made me sit down on what I supposed was a bank. I tried to judge from what quarter the wind was blowing, but the spot was sheltered, and sometimes it blew on one cheek and sometimes on the other. I could hear the roar of the waves, by which I knew that I could be at no great distance from the shore. While one of them held me tightly by the arm, the others withdrew to a distance to consult as to how they should proceed. After a time they came back, and we continued our march at the same rate as before. On and on we went. I was getting very tired, and would gladly have again sat down. When I complained, the men laughed at me.

“You’ll soon have time enough to rest yourself, youngster,” said one of them. “You may consider yourself fortunate that things are no worse with you.”

Finding that it would be useless to say anything more, I held my tongue. I must own that I now bitterly regretted having interfered against the smugglers. They were fully convinced that I had done so, and I could not defend myself. I had heard of the fearful punishment that they had at times inflicted on informers; and even should they spare my life, I thought it too probable that they would ship me off to some distant part of the world, or shut me up in a cavern or some other place from which I could not make my escape. It seemed to me that several hours had passed since I was captured, and that it must now be broad daylight; but the bandage was so tightly secured over my eyes that I could not move it with my eyebrows, nor could I, from my arms being fastened behind my back, get my hands free to do so. Again and again I begged my captors to listen to me and loosen my arms, as the ropes hurt me. When I declared that I could go no farther, one of the men answered fiercely:—

“We’ll soon see that, youngster.”

He gave me a prod with the point of a knife or cutlass, I could not tell which. It showed me that they were not likely to treat me very ceremoniously. “I must make the best of a bad matter, I suppose,” I thought, and did not attempt to stop. Suddenly the men brought up, and then turning sharp round told me to lift my feet, and I found that we were walking up some wooden steps. This I could judge of by the sound made by our feet. Then we went along a level floor. Presently, after passing through two or three doorways, as I supposed, we descended also by wooden steps, till I felt convinced, by the closeness of the atmosphere, that we had reached a vault.

“You may make yourself comfortable here, young gentleman, for the rest of your life,” said one of the men, with a hoarse laugh. “I’ve a notion that you’ll not again be inclined to go and inform against poor fellows who are carrying on their business without wishing to do you or any one else harm.”

“Stay; that jacket of his, and his waistcoat, are a great deal too good for him,” observed another man.

And forthwith, having released my arms, they took off the garments they spoke of.

My first impulse, on getting my hands free, was to try and get the bandage from my eyes, but one of the men caught hold of my hands and prevented me from accomplishing my object. I, however, clutched hold of my clothes with the other, unwilling to give them up; but they quickly mastered me, leaving me only my shirt and trousers. I now began to fear that they intended some serious violence. In vain I struggled; I felt myself lifted up by the shoulders and feet, and placed on a rough board. As I now had my hands free, I immediately tore off the bandage. A gleam of light, which came from one side, showed me that I was in what appeared to be a large chest, placed on its side; but before I could turn myself round the lid was shut down, and I heard the men securing it. I was thus imprisoned in, so far as I could tell, a living tomb. I shouted and shrieked, and tried to force open the lid. My captors were holding it on the outside, and it seemed to me were driving in screws. I could hear them talking outside, but what they said I could not make out. Could it be possible that they intended to leave me here to perish by hunger? The act would be too diabolical for the worst of wretches to think of, and yet what other reason could they have for shutting me up in such a place? Finding that I could not release myself, I thought I would try to move their feelings.

“I am very sorry if I have brought you or any others into trouble,” I said. “If you’ll ask Roger Riddle, he’ll tell you that I have no ill-feeling towards smugglers. I was the means of getting his son Mark out of prison. If you keep me here you’ll make my father and mother very miserable, for they won’t know what has become of me. You can’t be so cruel, surely.”

The men went talking on. I was sure they heard me, though they made no answer. It then occurred to me that perhaps they had shut me up in the chest for the purpose of carrying me on board a vessel, and that I should then be set free and enjoy the light of heaven and the warmth of the sun. Then I recollected having read how cruelly boys are treated on board ship, and that if I were sent under such circumstances I should have to lead a dog’s life at the best. Well, it was some consolation to have reason to hope that I was not to be murdered as I at first feared, or to be kept shut up in this horrible vault for an indefinite period, when I might be forgotten, and possibly be allowed to die of starvation.

These thoughts passed rapidly through my mind. As soon as I grew calm, I listened to ascertain what the men were about. As far as I could judge, in a short time they quitted the vault, and I was left alone. I listened and listened. No sound could I hear. A sufficient amount of air came through the chinks in the chest, and enabled me to breathe without difficulty. I had no notion of staying where I was without some endeavour to extricate myself. I knew that after a time I should grow weak from want of food. I was in total darkness, and the chest, for so I supposed it, was large enough to enable me to move about. It struck me, as I was feeling round the sides, that it was perhaps a bunk, such as is fitted on board ship for the men to sleep in. If my captors had not taken away my jacket I should have had my knife, and I might then, I thought, have cut my way out; but they left me without any means of effecting my purpose. The only way of freeing myself was to knock out by main strength either the top or one side of the bunk or chest. I feared that if I at once commenced doing this the noise I should have to make would attract the attention of my jailers. I therefore lay still for some time, listening attentively. Not a sound of any description reached my ears. I thought that it must now be day, though no light penetrated into the vault. If it had I should have seen it, I thought, through the chinks of the chest. It was very roughly put together, and this circumstance gave me better hope of being able to force it open. At length I determined to commence operations, and placing myself on my back, with one hand to defend my head, and one foot against the end, I struck out with the other on the part above me. A cracking sound encouraged me to go on. Each time I struck out the planks appeared to move slightly. I used so much force that every nerve in my body was jarred, and I was afraid of laming myself. Notwithstanding that, I persevered, stopping every now and then to listen, lest my captors should return; but as no one came I was satisfied that they had gone away, and now redoubled my efforts. Several loud cracks were the result; and at length, to my intense satisfaction, the planks above me fell off, shattered by my foot.

I was thankful for my success. At all events I should not have to die shut up in a chest. But I was very far from being free. Getting up on my feet I thrust my head through the hole I had made, and tore back the broken pieces of plank. Had I possessed a light I should have seen how next to proceed, but I was still in total darkness. I could not tell what I might find outside the chest. Moving carefully I climbed out, moving about with my feet to find the ground, which was lower I thus ascertained than the bottom of the chest, but how much lower I could not tell. I therefore held tight on with my hands while I let myself down, and I then discovered that it had been placed on another chest of about the same size; but I had to move very cautiously, as there might be still some lower depth beneath my feet, though I didn’t think that very likely. The ground was dry and hard, without either bricks or flagstones. This I found out by stopping down and touching it with my hand. I now began to move on very carefully, feeling my way from chest to chest. I discovered in my progress not only chests, but casks and bales. I had little doubt, therefore, that I had been conveyed to the smugglers’ store, but where it was situated I was totally unable to surmise. That it was some way inland I thought probable, as I could not hear the sound of the surf breaking on the sea shore, which I thought I should have done had I been near the coast. I tried to think if I recollected any building which it was at all probable would be thus used by the smugglers. There were, I at last remembered, two mills not far from the coast, but one was in the possession of too respectable a farmer to allow any lawless proceedings to be carried on in his premises. The other was an old windmill that had been abandoned the last two or three years; two of the arms had fallen down, and the whole building was in a very ruinous and tottering condition. The property I had heard was in Chancery, the exact meaning of which I didn’t understand, but knew no one was ever seen about the place, and that the villagers from the neighbouring hamlet were unwilling to approach it after dark, there being a report that it was haunted by a headless miller, who had been killed while in a fit of drunkenness by his own machinery. Could this be the place, I thought. The idea didn’t make me feel more comfortable, not that I had any strong belief in ghosts or other spirits walking the earth in bodily shape; but yet I didn’t feel perfectly certain that such beings did not exist, and I confess to having had an indefinite dread of seeing the headless miller appear out of the darkness surrounded by a blue light. I tried to banish the idea, and felt much more at my ease. I suddenly recollected that although I was in darkness it was daylight outside, and that the headless miller was possibly resting quietly in his grave in the churchyard a mile away.

One thing I had to do, and that was to get out of my prison as soon as possible. I felt round and round the vault. My great object was to discover the steps by which my captors and I had descended, but to my dismay I could not find them. Either they had been drawn up through a trap-door above, or we had come through a door in the side of the vault which had been closed by them when they went out. I searched and searched in vain for such a door, one side consisting of a blank wall partly of stone and partly of perpendicular timbers, which I concluded supported the superstructure. This made me more certain than before that I was in a vault beneath the old mill. I was in hopes by this time that the smugglers had gone away, and that I should thus be able to make my escape without interruption. How to do so was the question. I remembered that we had descended the building by steps to the bottom of the vault. I concluded, therefore, that the roof must be a considerable height above my head. There were numerous boxes, chests, and bales, as far as I could judge, in the vault, and if I had had light I should have found, I thought, little difficulty in piling one upon another, and thus reaching the top; but in the dark this was a difficult and hazardous undertaking. I could scarcely expect to place them with sufficient evenness to make a firm structure, and they might, after I had got up some distance, topple down again with me under them, and perhaps an arm or a leg broken. Still I could think of no other way of getting out. I again felt about, and tried to lift some chests and bales, but they were mostly too heavy for my strength; I might, however, discover some which I could tackle.

It must be remembered that all this time I was perfectly ignorant of my surroundings. I was, indeed, in the position of a blind man suddenly placed in a position which he had never before visited without any one to give him a description of the scenery. The only knowledge that I had obtained of the vault was from the sense of touch. I now determined to take a further survey, if so I could call it, of my prison, to start from a certain point to feel my way round, and reach as high as I could, to extend my arms, and to grope along the floor from one side to the other. One point I considered was to my advantage. My captors would suppose that I was shut up in the chest, and would therefore not have taken much trouble to secure the outlet to the vault. Probably, indeed, they had gone away, as they would certainly avoid being seen in the neighbourhood of the old mill during daylight. I didn’t suppose that they intended to murder me, and I therefore expected that they would come back again at night to bring me some food, or perhaps to carry me off and ship me on board some vessel, for such I was convinced was their intention. I must therefore effect my escape before nightfall. The necessity of obtaining food would alone induce me to do this, though as yet I did not feel very hungry.

Serious as the situation was, I did not give way to despair. I could not believe that I was doomed to die, but how my deliverance was to be effected was more than I could tell. Again starting from the chest in which I had been shut up, and which I could distinguish by the short fragments of the top, I continued groping my way round and round the vault. My first object was to try and find the door, which I was persuaded existed, as I thought I had previously missed it. Any one who has played at blind man’s buff may have a faint idea of my situation. Only the objects round me remained stationary, whereas in the game people run away from the blinded person, and he has to try and catch them as they run round him. I had the advantage over the blinded man in the game. I was sure that in time I should gain a knowledge of my locality. Time, however, was precious, and it would not do for me to delay my search.

I would have given anything for a tinder-box and flint and steel, so that I might light up the vault even for a few seconds; but as that was not to be had, I tried to make use of my other senses. Stretching out my arms and feet as I went along, touching one place with my left hand, while I felt about my head as far as I could reach straight out with my right; I then brought my left up to the spot my right had last touched, and so I went on. Occasionally my right foot struck against a bale or chest which extended beyond the others above it. Had there been an opening in the pile of goods I was sure that I could not have missed it. For the supposed door I searched in vain, and at length came to the conclusion that the only entrance to the vault was from the roof above. It did not occur to me that there might be one above my reach by which my captors might have made their exit with the assistance of a short ladder. Though I had moved slowly, what with the exercise I had taken during the night, and the efforts I had made to get out of the chest, I felt very tired; and, discovering a bale of convenient height, I sat down to rest myself, and to consider with such calmness as I could command, what I should next do.

Chapter Seven.

A prisoner in the vault—The headless miller—I continue my explorations—My perilous position—My further attempts at escape—The recess—An unexpected shower-bath—A glimpse of light—I escape from the vault, but not from prison—A lower chamber in Old Grime’s mill—The result of my further endeavours to escape—My signal of distress—The Revenue-men—My rescue—The search for the smugglers’ goods—My hunger relieved—On guard—Meeting with my father—The last of old Grime’s mill.

Strange as it may seem, I fell asleep. How long my eyes had been closed I could not tell. I fancied I heard the voices of people coming down through the roof. A door directly opposite to me opened, through which a pale light streamed, when what was my amazement to see “Old Grimes” the miller dressed in his short frock, his iron-grey hair streaming over his shoulders, and holding on his head with both hands, proving that it could not retain its position without such assistance. He glared at me with his saucer-eyes; his lips moved, but what he said I could not make out. Had he approached I thought I would have spoken to him and asked what he wanted, but he did not advance beyond the doorway. Presently he faded from my sight. The light grew dimmer and dimmer. I thought that I got up and tried to make a straight course for the door; but when I reached the wall opposite I could not find it, and so groped my way back to my seat.

It was not until fully a minute after I was awake that I became aware that I had been dreaming. I was soon convinced that the vision of Old Grimes was a mere dream, but I was not quite so well satisfied about the voices I had heard. I listened, expecting to hear them again, but all was silent as before. I now got up, resolving to try and make my way out. Though I had not previously experienced any inconvenience from the want of breakfast, I began to feel excessively hungry; and if I had come across a package of hams or tongues, or a cask of salted herrings, I should have eaten them raw with considerable satisfaction. The more hungry I felt the more desperate I became. I at last fixed on a place for commencing operations. There appeared to be more woodwork there than anywhere else, or else the chests were piled upon each other. At all events they would afford me a foothold. That I might have less chance of slipping I had kicked off my boots, supposing that I could easily find them again. I climbed up and up. Of course I had to move very cautiously, not leaving go with one hand until I had a firm grasp of some fixed object with the other. I got up a considerable distance, and pressing against a board, it gave way, and a tremendous crash followed, as if a number of boxes filled with bottles had fallen to the ground. Putting up my hand, I felt a beam above my head; could it be one of the rafters, or the roof? I was for some time afraid to move, lest I should fall headlong down. I passed my hand along the beam, but could not reach the floor it supported. I now tried to crawl cautiously along on the top of the woodwork or the pile of chests, for I could not determine which they were. Every now and then I stopped and stretched out my hand, but could feel nothing above me.

I must again beg my readers to try and picture to themselves my unpleasant position. The only wonder to myself is that I kept up my spirits. I did not forget that any moment something might give way below me, and that I might pitch down to the floor of the vault on my head. I had gone on some way, when, stretching out my hand, I discovered nothing beyond me. I was on the very edge of the erection. The only thing I could do was to go back the way I had come, or to descend to the floor. Fearing that I should be unable to pass the spot where I had thrown over the cases, I resolved to adopt the latter alternative.

I bethought me that if I had had a pole it would have assisted me greatly to discover the trap-door leading to the vault. It was easier to climb up than to climb down, as I could not feel with my feet as I could with my hands. The attempt, however, must be made. Having got to the edge of the plank and ascertained that it was secure, I gradually let myself down, when I found myself resting on another plank or the edge of a chest, I could not tell which. Let any one try in the dark to do what I was attempting to do, and it will be found no easy matter. Could I have stood securely, I might have crouched down till I could have got hold of the plank on which my foot rested, but there was scarcely room for that, and if I let go the plank above me I might tumble over on my back; yet there was no other way of descent, so holding on with my left hand I tried to find something which I might grasp with my right lower down.

My satisfaction was considerable when my hand came in contact with the rope-handle of a large chest. It appeared to be secure, and holding it I was able to stoop down and fix my other hand on the ledge on which my feet rested. One stage of my descent was thus accomplished. I now held the ledge tight with both hands, let my legs slip off, and felt about with my feet for another resting-place. For some seconds I was swinging about, holding on by my hands. There might be another ledge not half an inch below my feet. I stretched down my toes to the utmost. I could not discover it. Should I let go I might have a serious fall. I worked my way on, hoping to be more fortunate. At last my feet struck against the end of a chest, and after making a little further exertion I found that it was secure, and that I could venture to stand upon it.

I was still uncertain how far I was off the ground; all the difficulty I experienced arose from being in darkness. I could probably, I knew, have scrambled over the whole of the building with perfect ease had there been light. I might already be close to the ground, but at the same time I might be many feet above it, and I therefore could not venture to step down without going through the same process as before. Leaning on my elbows, I stretched my arms along the top of the chest. I slipped off, and unexpectedly found my feet touch the ground. I was too eager to escape to allow myself time to rest after my exertions. I once more began to search round the vault, hoping to find an oar, a boat’s mast or spar, or somewhat that might serve my purpose. I felt about in vain; indeed it was not likely that the smugglers should have placed such things in the vault.

I at last reached the part where the boxes or chests, as I supposed they were, rested, and I began to stumble among them. The region in which I had spent the last two or three hours was considerably disarranged. I fancied that I knew every part, and now I was completely thrown out in my calculations. One chest stood up on end on another. I feared, should I move it, that I might bring others down on my head. I should have liked to have put them all back in their places, but that was impossible. By great care I made my way among them; when I at last reached the walls, it was the part I had not before examined. How I could have passed it I could not account for, unless I had been prevented reaching it by the chests piled up in front, and which I had displaced. As I was extending my arms my hands touched what felt like a wooden latch. There was no doubt about it; it was the latch of a door. I lifted it up and pulled it towards me. The door opened, but all was dark within the recess. I felt sure that it must be the entrance to the vault. I was going to step forward when it occurred to me that it might lead to a lower vault and that I should be precipitated into an unknown depth should I move without feeling my way. I knelt down, extending my hands, when they touched the ground as far as I could reach. This satisfied me that my first conjecture was correct.

Cautiously feeling my way, I stepped forward and explored the recess as I had the larger vault. Contrary to my expectation, I could discover no ladder. I was thus no nearer to my deliverance than before. I felt round and round this smaller vault, without being able to decide as to its object. That it was the entrance to the vault I thought very likely. I wished that I could find out the height of the roof, and of what it was composed. It seemed probable that it was lower than that of the larger vault. I thought that I might drag in some of the smaller chests and place one on another against the wall and climb up. I made my way accordingly back to the large vault, in search of some which I could move.

In going along my foot struck an object on the ground. It was a long spar—the very thing I was in search of. I supposed it had fallen down with the boxes, having either been placed upon them or assisting to support them. It appeared, as far as I could judge, to be twelve or fourteen feet long, and was thick enough to enable me to swarm up it, and thus to serve the purpose of a ladder. I first tried to reach the roof of the large vault with it, but it was not long enough, though I lifted it as high as I could; and then carrying it in my hands went back to the recess, and, eager to ascertain the height, I struck upwards. It at once met with resistance, not as I supposed, from a beam or vaulted roof, but from some soft object. That soft object must be removed.

I poked and poked again and again, now in one part, now in another, when suddenly down came a shower of powder, which, before I could make my escape, covered me from head to foot. I was certain that it was, from the smell and feel, flour, though old and musty. The flour filled my nose, eyes, and mouth, nearly suffocating me. I, however, willingly endured this dry shower-bath, for as it fell a glimpse of light came through a hole which I had burst in the upper part of the sack, which had evidently been drawn across the trap leading to the vault for the purpose of concealing it. I worked away with my pole until I had pretty nearly emptied the sack of flour, and then, with a little more exertion, I brought the whole down, and had a clear view upwards. For a minute or so my eyes, long accustomed to darkness, were so dazzled with the light that I could not make out anything distinctly. They were, besides, so full of flour that it took me some time to clear them.

After this I did not delay in endeavouring to get out of the vault. Having placed the upper end of the pole against the corner of the trap, I tried to swarm up it. At first my exertions made the pole slip, and I ran the risk of having a disagreeable fall; but descending, I placed the half rotten sack with some of the flour round the foot, and then drew in several pieces of wood, with which I further secured it.

I now made another determined effort to climb up it by twining my arms and legs round it. With considerable effort I succeeded in catching hold of the edge or sill of the trap, and then getting up my knees I was out of the vault, but not out of prison. I was, however, far better off than before. Instead of darkness, I had light—instead of a close vault, an airy chamber, on the lower floor of which sacks of flour had evidently been kept. There were no regular windows, but only a few slits high up above my head to admit light and air. The door was securely closed. The room was in much better order than I should have supposed from the generally ruinous appearance of the building from the outside.

Of course, having thus far freed myself, I did not despair of getting out by some means or other. I was in a hurry to do so lest the smugglers should come back, and thrust me back into my prison, or treat me even worse. Looking round the room I observed an opening on one side opposite the windows. It struck me that if I could get to it I might make my way into the main part of the building. Once there, there could be no difficulty in escaping. In the last few minutes I had forgotten my hunger, but it again came upon me; and as I had no other food, I thought I would try some of the flour, which would stay my appetite, even though eaten raw. I believe that a person eating nothing else for several days would make himself ill, if he did not die. I made a hole in one of several sacks leaning against the wall, and which had been there probably since the occupant’s death. It was excessively musty, but hunger prevented me from being particular, and rolling it up into little balls I swallowed several in rapid succession. Having eaten on till I had sated my appetite, I hauled up the pole with which I had made my escape from the vault below.

I then placed it against the foot of the small door high up in the wall. It was sufficiently long. But then the thought occurred to me, will the door be closed so that I shall be unable to open it? That point must be settled by experiment; so having assured myself that the upper end would not slip, I began to ascend. It was not at all an easy task, and I did not feel satisfied that it would not give way. Up and up I went, remembering what my father often used to say, that “fortune favours the brave.” I gained the top, and holding on to the sill beneath the door, pressed against it. It moved, and, contrary to my expectation, opened. It was a difficult matter notwithstanding to get in; but I managed at last to get my knee on the sill, and then creeping forward I found myself in a gallery in the main part of the mill, in the centre of which was the shaft and the machinery for working the grindstones beneath. I ran round the gallery till I came to a ladder leading to the floor below, expecting that I should find the main door open. It was firmly closed and locked, so that I could not get out. This was a disappointment.

Having in vain tried to find any other outlet, I ran up the steps again to the gallery, looked out of one of several windows to ascertain if I could reach the ground by any of the woodwork; but the height was too great to allow me to drop out without danger of breaking my legs. I observed several people in the distance passing along by a path which led by the foot of a hill on which the mill was situated. My first thought was that they were smugglers; but then I recollected that such characters were not likely to be abroad in a body during daylight, and the glitter of the gold lace round the cap of one of them convinced me that they were the revenue-men. I shouted at the top of my voice. Hungry and faint as I was, it did not sound as loud as usual. They did not hear me. I was afraid they would go on. Again and again I shouted. One of the men turned his head. Having no handkerchief, in a moment I stripped off my shirt, and waved it wildly out of the window. The men saw it, and came hurrying up the hill.

“Who are you, youngster?” shouted one of the men as they came near.

“Master Cheveley, son of the Vicar of Sandgate,” I answered.

“Why, he looks more like the ghost of a miller,” said one of the men.

“How did you get up there?” inquired the first speaker a head boatman in charge of the party.

“I got up out of a vault where the smugglers put me,” I answered. “Make haste and come in, for I’m almost starved.”

“Here’s a door,” cried the head boatman; “but I say, mates, it’s locked. Is there no other way in?” he shouted.

“None that I know of,” I answered. “I have been trying to open the door, but could not.”

“We’ll see what we can do,” said the man.

And he with two others placing their shoulders to it quickly sent it flying inward shattered into fragments, the rotten wood giving way before their sturdy shoves.

I ran down to meet them. The head boatman, a strong seamanlike-looking man, at once began to question me as to what had happened. I told him as briefly as I could adding—

“But, I say, I’m desperately hungry, as I’ve only had some lumps of musty flour to eat for several hours, and thirsty too. I shall faint if I don’t have some food.”

“We’ll get you that, youngster; and then you must try and show us the way into the vault,” said the speaker. “We may get a better haul than we’ve had for many a day if it should prove one of the smugglers’ hiding-places.”

He then directed one of the men to run down to the next farmhouse and bring up some bread and cheese, or anything else he could obtain, and a jug of milk, or if that was not to be procured, some water.

I thanked him, begging the man to make haste, for now that the excitement was over I could scarcely stand.

“Do you know you are whitened all over?” he asked. “You look as if you had come out of a flour-bin!”

I had for the moment forgotten how I must have looked. The man good-naturedly began to brush the flour off my clothes and hair, and one of them lent me his handkerchief to wipe my face. They inquired what had become of my jacket and waistcoat. I told them how the smugglers had taken them from me.

“Perhaps the fellows may have hidden them somewhere about here. They wouldn’t like to have the things found on them. Jenkins and Brown, do you go and search all round. Maybe we’ll come upon another opening into the vault.”

The two men hurried off to obey the orders they had received, while the others examined the mill; and the chief boatman sat by me fanning my face, for he evidently thought me in a bad way. The time appeared very long since the man had started for the provisions, but I believe he was not absent many minutes. I was thankful when he returned, bringing a basket with some eggs, and ham, and cheese, and some delicious bread, and a bottle of milk. I fell to immediately like a hungry wolf, and felt very much better by the time I had finished.

“We’ll keep the remainder in case you want any more, my lad. And now we must get you to show us the way into the vault,” said the officer.

I was quite ready to do this, for I confess that I had a bitter feeling against the smugglers on account of the treatment I had received. We soon reached the trap which had been covered over by the sacks of flour. The men looked down, not quite liking to descend into the darkness. The spar by which I had got up was still in its place. I offered to go down first, but this the chief boatman would not allow, and he and another man at once lowered themselves to the bottom. It was, however, so dark beyond the smaller vault, that they declared they could see nothing, and they had to wait until a man was sent to the farm for a lantern. We then too descended, but as the lantern only dimly lighted up the vault, I could scarcely believe that it was the same place in which I had spent so many hours. I had fancied that it was of immense size and height, and crowded with piles of boxes, and bales, and casks. Instead of this there were only a few old packing-cases, in one of which I found I had been shut up. There were besides about a dozen bales, most of them apparently damaged, and what the revenue-men considered of more value, nearly half-a-hundred small casks of spirits, and some boxes of tobacco. These had been covered over with planks. I had not felt them on my exploring expeditions in the dark. The revenue-men were well satisfied with their haul, as they called it, though they had thought that it was possible they might find some articles of value.

As I was anxious to return home to relieve the anxiety of my father and mother, I begged the chief boatman to let me do so at once.

“We cannot let you go alone; some of these smugglers might meet you and give you a clout on the head for having shown us their hiding-place. Wait a bit until I can send one of the men with you. We must first get these casks up. We can’t spare a hand at present, as one of the men must go on to the station to give information of our find, and to procure some carts for carrying the things away.”

In hunting about the men had discovered a coil of rope and some blocks, which had evidently been used for lowering the casks into the vault. The seamen were not long in fitting up a tackle to hoist them out. While one of the men was sent off as proposed, the rest worked away with a will. In a short time the chief contents of the vault were hoisted up and rolled outside.

“Here’s a job for you, my lad,” said the chief boatman. “You stay by these things, and give us notice if you see any suspicious characters coming, while we get up the remainder.”

This task I gladly undertook, for I was heartily sick of the vault where I had spent so many unpleasant hours, and glad to breathe the fresh air outside. I sat down on the cask, nibbling away at some of the contents of the basket, for my appetite had returned. At last a drowsiness stole over me, and slipping off the cask, against which I placed my back, I fell fast asleep. I was awakened by hearing some one shouting, and looking up I saw a person running towards me. I sprang to my feet, when what was my surprise to see my father, who rushed forward, and at the joy of seeing him I leaped into his arms.

“Why, Dick, my boy,” he exclaimed, “we have been in fearful anxiety about you. How have you got into this plight? Where have you been? What has happened?”

I answered him as fast as I could.

“I won’t find fault with you now, though you had no business to steal out of the house at night. You have had a narrow escape. Though the ruffians who carried you off and put you into the vault might not have intended to leave you to starve, they most probably would have been unable to return. Several have been captured, and so hot is the hue and cry after the rest that they would have been afraid to come back to the spot to bring you food, or to carry you off, as you fancy they intended to do.”

The chief boatman now came out of the mill, and was evidently well pleased to hand me over to my father, who thanked him for the attention he had paid me.

Just as we were setting off the carts arrived with a party of revenue-men, armed to the teeth, to carry off the smugglers’ goods, for it was thought likely that a rescue might be attempted. We had got to no great distance, when on looking back I saw a cloud of smoke issuing from the old building. It increased in density, and presently flames burst out.

“Could they have set the place on fire?”

“Not intentionally,” said my father; “but it is very evident that the mill is burning, and from the nature of the materials of which it is composed there is not the slightest chance of its escaping destruction.”

Tired as I was, I persuaded him to go back to see what had happened. As we got nearer the building we saw that the whole of it was enveloped in flame. The revenue-men were busily engaged in loading the carts. They had soon found that any attempt to save the mill would be useless, and that they would only run the risk of losing their lives. We were at some short distance when a tremendous roar was heard, the ground shook beneath our feet, and the whole building came toppling down, a vast heap of burning ruins; while planks, and beams, and masses of earth, were thrown up into the air, showing that an explosion had taken place in the vault where I had been confined. No one suspected that any casks of powder had been deposited there, but that such was the case there was no doubt. I had now reason to be very thankful that I had not found a tinder-box, for I should certainly have tried to light a fire in the vault, and probably the sparks would have communicated to the powder. How the fire originated no one could tell, but I suspected that one of the men had lit his pipe, and that the ashes had fallen out upon some loose grains of powder. We, as well as the revenue-men, had a narrow escape from being crushed by the ruins which fell close to us.

Such was the end of Old Grime’s mill.

Chapter Eight.

My reception at home—Aunt Deb again gives her advice—My father and I pay another visit to Leighton Hall—Our guard—Interview with Sir Reginald—A score that was not settled to my satisfaction—My awkward position—My father receives a threatening letter—Aunt Deb decides on action—Preparations for my departure—The journey in the coach—Our fellow-travellers—A false alarm—My aunt’s character further comes out—Our arrival at Liverpool—Our reception—Mr Butterfield—I explore Liverpool—My first visit to the “Emu”—I gain some information—I lose my way—Aunt Deb’s anxiety on my account—A small difficulty well got out of—I pay another visit to the “Emu”—My ideas as to officers and seamanship receive a somewhat rude check—I make the acquaintance of Gregory Growles—I lose my cutter—“Thief! Thief!”—I speak to Mr Butterfield as to my going to sea—His opinions on the subject—He makes me a kind offer—Matters still unsettled—A reference to Aunt Deb.

My father supported me as we walked home; for, now that the excitement was over, I felt so exhausted that without his assistance I could not have got along. Before we had got far, however, we fortunately fell in with some of the people who had been sent by my father to look for me. They, taking me in their arms, saved me from the necessity of making further exertions. As we went on we met several seafaring men, boatmen and others, who I thought scowled at me as I passed.

The news of the capture of the goods having got abroad, it had been reported that I had given the information. My mother and sisters received me affectionately. To my satisfaction I found that Aunt Deb was out in the village. On her return, having heard some account of my adventures, looking at me sternly she said—

“Well, Master Richard; and so you have been continuing your foolish pranks, and throwing us all out of our wits. Depend upon it, nephew, you’ll come to a bad end if you don’t manage to act with more discretion during your future course in life.”

I felt too tired just then to reply to Aunt Deb’s remarks as I should have liked to do. I merely said—

“I could not help being carried off by the smugglers; and as I have been the means of getting a good many of them captured, and also of enabling the revenue-men to seize their stores, I hope that Sir Reginald will now feel anxious to reward me by obtaining for me the appointment I have so long wished for.”

“If it suits Sir Reginald’s convenience he may do so,” said my aunt. “We shall see; we shall see.”

I had to give an account of my adventures to every one in the house, and I was very thankful when I was able to go to bed, feeling no inclination to put myself in the way of going through any fresh adventures.

Next morning, after breakfast, I asked my father if he would accompany me to Leighton Park, that I might make another appeal to Sir Reginald.

“You’ll only get a flea in your ear, John,” remarked Aunt Deb. “Sir Reginald will just consider you troublesome. You are much more likely to succeed if you let him alone.”

My father, however, for a wonder, ventured to differ with Aunt Deb, and agreed to take me to see the baronet. He had become, I found, very anxious about my safety, being convinced that the smugglers would, if they had the opportunity, punish me severely for having interfered in their affairs. This made him more than ever anxious to get me away from home. Not satisfied that even during the walk to Leighton Park we might not be attacked, he directed old Thomas, the gardener, to arm himself with a blunderbuss and a brace of pistols, and to follow, keeping us always in sight. He didn’t think it would become him as a minister of the gospel to carry fire-arms through his own parish, and he was afraid to entrust them to me.

“Remember, Thomas, that if you see any smugglers come near, you are to march up and point your blunderbuss at their heads.”

“You may be sure, sir, as I’ll do that,” answered Thomas. “I have been a man of peace all my life, but I’m ready to fight in your cause, and I believe the Lord will forgive me if I kill any one.”

“I don’t think there is much chance of that,” said my father. “Your appearance with your blunderbuss loaded up to the muzzle will be sufficient to deter any of the ruffians from attacking us.”

We set out together. Thomas gradually dropped behind to the required distance. As we walked along I looked every now and then over my shoulder to be sure that he was following, for I had an uncomfortable feeling that the smugglers would be on the watch for me. We, however, reached the park without any adventure.

Sir Reginald kept us waiting longer than usual before we were admitted into his presence.

“Well, Mr Cheveley, we have succeeded at last in giving a blow to the smugglers which will put a stop to their proceedings for some time to come at all events. Though the ‘Saucy Bess’ got off, we captured some of her crew and several of the men assisting them.”

“I congratulate you, Sir Reginald,” said my father; “and I ventured to call on you to explain that my son Richard has rendered considerable service to the cause. It was through him that information of the intended run the other night was obtained, and he also discovered one of the smugglers’ hiding-places, ‘Grime’s Mill,’ and was the means of enabling the revenue-men to capture a considerable store of their contraband goods.”

Sir Reginald smiled.

“I’m glad to hear this,” he observed; “for to say the truth, I have had strong doubts as to your son’s connexion with the smugglers. He is intimate, I find, with an old sailor, Roger Riddle, who though too cunning to be caught is known to aid and abet them in their proceedings. By his means young Mark Riddle, who is both smuggler and poacher, made his escape from my lock-up room only last week. Had it not been for my respect for you, I could not have passed the matter over, and I am happy now to be able to set the services you say he has rendered against his former conduct. I am the more willing to do this as young Riddle was taken just as he landed from the ‘Saucy Bess,’ and we shall now get rid of him, as he will be either committed to prison for two years or sent off to sea to serve his Majesty for seven years.”

I was very sorry when I heard this, but of course did not express my feelings to Sir Reginald. My father looked rather uncomfortable; he was a nervous man, and Sir Reginald always awed him. He, however, mustered courage to proceed.

“I hope, Sir Reginald, that my son’s good conduct will induce you to interest yourself in his favour, and that you will forward his views by exerting yourself to obtain the appointment he so greatly desires. I am very anxious to get him away from the neighbourhood, as I am afraid the smugglers, who are aware that he has been instrumental in the capture of their friends and goods, will revenge themselves on his head. I dare not let him leave the house alone, and even coming here I was obliged to bring an armed attendant for his protection.”

“I have told you, Mr Cheveley, that I consider his late conduct is a set-off against his unpardonable proceeding. I will, however, remember his wish; and, should an opportunity occur, will forward his views. I must now wish you good morning, for my time is much occupied with my magisterial and parliamentary duties, and you must excuse me.”

The baronet prepared to bow us out of the room. He shook hands with my father, who took the hint and backed towards the door, and gave me only a formal nod, without allowing a smile to irradiate his features.

We found old Thomas waiting at the hall door with his blunderbuss on his shoulder. My father walked on with hurried steps some distance, not uttering a word. At last he said—

“To what did Sir Reginald allude when he talked of your connexion with young Riddle?”

I told him how Mark had been seized and locked up and how I had unintentionally assisted him to escape.

“I believe what you say, Richard; but you can’t be surprised at the baronet being annoyed, and I’m afraid from his tone that we must not expect much from him.”

We had got about two-thirds of the way home when we saw three men coming towards us, one of whom I recognised as Burden. I had not yet told my father that I believed him to be one of the men who had shut me up in the old mill. He started as he saw me, and then scanned me narrowly, as if uncertain whether it could really be myself.

Though I knew that old Thomas and his blunderbuss were close behind us, I felt very uncomfortable, as I could not tell how the men might be inclined to act. Mustering courage at last, I looked Burden in the face. My father nodded to him and the other men, as he was accustomed to do to his parishioners. They hesitated for a moment, and then passed on. I looked back and saw them watching old Thomas, but they didn’t speak to him, and he trudged sturdily after us without paying them any attention.

“I wonder what was the matter with Burden?” asked my father, as we got to some distance.

I then told him it was my belief that he was one of my captors.

“We can’t prove it, even if he were,” said my father. “He deserves punishment, but the law is expensive and uncertain, and I should prefer letting him alone.”

As far as I could tell the matter was likely to rest here. I lost a jacket and waistcoat, but was not otherwise the worse for my adventure. The next day, however, a letter came by the post addressed to my father, at the top of which was a death’s head and cross-bones, very rudely drawn, and beneath it the words:—

“Informers must look out for what informers deserve. The young master who got off t’other day must look out for squalls. He has been and dug his own grave, and in it he’ll lie before long; so he had better say his prayers. He won’t have long to say them. This comes from one who knows him. John Grimes.”

My father turned pale when he read the letter. Aunt Deb insisted on seeing it, and then my mother wished to read the contents. She almost fainted.

“This is terrible,” she exclaimed. “Yet, surely, the smugglers will not have the barbarity to injure a mere boy like Dick.”

“I’m not so certain of that,” said Aunt Deb. “Warnings ought not to be neglected. I have long been contemplating paying a visit to my second cousin, Godfrey Butterfield, who is now a flourishing merchant at Liverpool. I’ll write and say that I am coming, and bringing with me one of my nephews. I shall not wait for an answer, but will set off immediately; for I’m certain I shall be welcome.”

When Aunt Deb said this I saw a smile on the countenance of my elder sisters and brothers, who had not been so much affected by the threatening letter as the rest of the family.

“I’ll post the letter at once, and we will set off this evening. What do you say, John?”

My father at once agreed to Aunt Deb’s proposal.

“Thank you!” exclaimed my mother. “I shall be much more at my ease when Dick is out of the reach of these terrible men.”

Aunt Deb wrote and despatched her letter, and the rest of the morning was employed in making preparations for the journey. Ned had to give up one of his jackets and waistcoats, which exactly fitted me, and my other things were quickly packed in a small chest. I also unrigged and did up the cutter which Roger Riddle had given me, as I fancied I should have an opportunity of sailing it at Liverpool. I made Ned also promise to go and call on the old man, and to tell him how sorry I was to hear that Mark had been sent off to sea, and how much I regretted not being able to wish him good-bye before I went.

We had some distance to drive before we reached the town at which the coach stopped. My father at once sent off for a postchaise, and old Thomas went on the box, armed as before with a blunderbuss and a couple of horse-pistols. As we drove through the village Aunt Deb made me sit back, while she leant forward as if there was no one else inside. Whether or not this precaution was necessary I don’t know; but at all events we reached our destination without being stopped by highwaymen.

There were two places vacant in the coach, and although I should have preferred going outside, Aunt Deb insisted on my remaining with her. The other passengers were fat old women, who eat apples and drank gin-and-water for supper, and then snored, and sneezed, and groaned all night long. I know that I wished myself anywhere but where I was. The old ladies talked of highwaymen, coaches stopped, and passengers murdered, till they talked themselves into a state of nervous fear. One or the other was constantly poking her head out of the window, and declaring that she saw a man galloping after the coach with a blunderbuss over his shoulder. However, as the guard gave no signal, I was very sure that their imaginations had conjured up the robber.

“Pray, ladies, do sit quiet,” at length exclaimed Aunt Deb, who being a strong-minded woman was not influenced by similar fears. “It will be time enough to cry out if a highwayman does come to demand our purses, and we’ll hope that the guard will shoot him dead before he has had time to open the door.”

“Oh! How dreadful!” shrieked out one of the ladies. “I would sooner let him have everything he asked for than see a handsome highwayman shot.”

“Fiddle-de-dee about a handsome highwayman,” said Aunt Deb, in a scornful tone. “They’re ugly ruffians, and miserable arrant cowards to boot. If one does venture to stop the coach, I’ll not give him any of my property as long as I have hands to defend it.”

Notwithstanding Aunt Deb’s remarks, our fellow-travellers continued in the same state of alarm the greater part of the night, and to comfort themselves took further sips of gin; until, becoming perfectly fuddled, they dropped off to sleep.

I almost wished that a highwayman would appear, to see how Aunt Deb would behave; but morning at length dawned, and I fell asleep, nor did I wake till the coach stopped for breakfast. We travelled on all day with the same unpleasant companions, and I was glad to find that we were to go no farther that night. I remember that I dropped off to sleep before supper was over, and was very unwilling to get up the next morning when Aunt Deb called me. The fear of offending her, notwithstanding, made me jump out of bed and hurry on my clothes, and I was in time to take my seat in the coach, which came up soon after breakfast. She still refused to let me go outside, and I had to endure another day’s misery, shut up with her and a lady and a fat gentleman, who took snuff and snored, and nearly tumbled over me in his sleep, and a young woman with a baby, who at intervals kept up a chorus of squalls, which considerably aggravated my respected aunt; and I really thought that, if she had given way to her feelings, she would have tossed it out of the window.

As sublunary troubles always do, the journey came to an end, and the coach deposited us at the door of Mr Butterfield, Aunt Deb’s cousin. The worthy merchant—a bald-headed, rosy-faced gentleman, of large proportions, who wore brown cloth knee-breeches, large silver buckles, a flowered waistcoat of ample length, with a snowy neckcloth, and a frilled shirt, a coat of the same hue as his unmentionables—received us, as he descended the steps, with a cordiality I little expected.

“Glad to see you, Cousin Deb, though times have changed since you and I played hide-and-seek in our great-aunt’s garden. You have shot up in one direction and I have grown in the other considerably. And this is John Cheveley’s boy, is he? You are welcome to Liverpool, lad. We’ll see what we can make of you here. Plant you on a high stool, and set you quill-driving. Are you a good hand at figuring? We don’t value the Latin and Greek most lads have crammed into their heads to the exclusion of all other useful knowledge. Pounds, shillings, and pence are what we have to do with in our commercial city.”

Thus the old gentleman ran on without even waiting for me to answer. He then conducted us to our bedchambers; and as soon as we had washed our hands we descended to the supper-room, where the board was amply spread. He did not again allude to the high stool and quill-driving, but his remark had made a deep impression on my mind. There was nothing I hated so much as the thought of being shut up in a counting-house. He asked me if I was accustomed to go out alone, and satisfied on that score from what Aunt Deb and I said, he told me that I might amuse myself the next morning by exploring Liverpool, provided I took good note of the way home. This was just what I thought of doing, and to my relief Aunt Deb said she would be too tired to go out.

Accordingly the next morning, after breakfast, I got ready to sally forth. Mr Butterfield had gone to his office, and did not see me. I in reality cared very little for exploring the town, and accordingly inquired my way to the river. Instead of the stream I expected to find I saw a broad expanse of water, with vessels of all rigs and sizes in spacious docks, or moored alongside the quays. I was going along the quay when I saw a large ship taking in cargo. Making my way on till I got astern of her, I observed that she was called the “Emu.” I walked up and down admiring her amazingly.

“Now if I can’t go on board a man of war, and wear a cockade and a dirk by my side, I should like to take a voyage in a ship like that. What a magnificent craft! What proud fellows the captain and officers must be to belong to that ship. I wonder whether the captain would like me as a midshipman? The crew—I can fancy how they sit on the forecastle and sing ‘Rule Britannia,’ ‘Poor Tom Bowling,’ ‘One night it blew a hurricane.’ Happy chaps! I should like to belong to her. I think I’ll go on board and ask the captain to take me.

“Mr Butterfield evidently intends that I should go into his counting-house. Dreadful work to have to set on a high stool, to dot and carry one, and to scribble away all day. I could not stand it. It would kill me. It was bad enough to have to go to school, and then we had a good many play-hours; but in these stuffy, musty, dark offices, I have heard that they have only half-an-hour for dinner, and work away till ten o’clock at night. That sort of life would never suit me.

“Yes, I’ll go and see the captain, and I’ll tell him that I was intended for the navy, that I should have become an admiral some day, and that will make him treat me with consideration.”

Such were my cogitations as I stood, with my hands in my pockets, gazing at the “Emu.” When it came to the point I felt somewhat nervous about going to speak to the captain. Perhaps he would not treat me with the respect I should desire. He might not have a vacant berth, and I could scarcely expect a stranger to make a place for me. At last, after walking backwards and forwards very often, I ascended a plank which led me to the gangway in the after part of the ship, and stepped on board.

For some time, all the men being occupied in hoisting in cargo, no one took notice of me. I was thinking that I must go and speak to the captain if I were to speak to him at all, when one of the men coming aft asked me what I wanted.

“I wish to see the captain of this ship,” I said.

“He is not on board, and is not likely to be until she sails,” he replied. “Do you bring any message for him? If you do, you had better see the second mate.”

“No thank you,” I replied; “I want to see the captain,” in as important a tone as I could command.

“Well, then, you may find the captain at the ship-broker’s in Dale Street.”

This threw me out, for I knew that the second mate would not have power to receive me on board, and I did not like the thought of having to confront the captain in an office full of clerks. I therefore, losing courage, turned round and walked on shore again. Still I could not tear myself from the ship, but continued pacing backwards and forwards, now taking a look at her lofty masts and spars, now at her hull freshly painted, now at the men working at the cranes and tackles hoisting in cargo.

While I was thus engaged a sailor-like man, who I supposed was an officer, stopped near me.

“Please, sir,” I said, “could you tell me where that ship is going to?”

“Yes, my lad. She’s bound out by Cape Horn into the Pacific, and up the west coast of America, and perhaps to go across to Australia, and may be away for two or three years.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said. “She’s a very fine ship.”

“As to that there are many finer, but she’s a tidy craft in her way,” remarked the seaman, turning on his heel.

“Now that is just the sort of voyage I should like to make. To double great Cape Horn. What a grand idea! And visit the country of the Incas and Peruvians, and the wonderful coral islands of the Pacific. I am much inclined to ask Mr Butterfield if he can get me on board her. Perhaps she’s one of his ships, and I shall then very likely come back as a mate. I might have to remain a long time in the navy before I became a lieutenant, and after all perhaps one might enjoy a much more independent life in the merchant service.

“Yes, I’ll ask the old gentleman; but then I’m afraid Aunt Deb will interfere. She doesn’t want me to go to sea, and she’ll say all sorts of things to prevent him doing what I wish. There’s nothing like trying, however; and if he agrees, I must get him to obtain Aunt Deb’s consent to my going. I’m sure my father won’t make any objection.”

Having arrived at this conclusion, I was now eager to get back to have a talk with Mr Butterfield. I forgot that he was not likely to leave his office till much later in the day. I had become desperately hungry also, and as I had come out without any money in my pocket, I was unable to buy a bun or a roll to appease my appetite. I set off, fancying that I should have no difficulty in finding my way, but I wandered about for a couple of hours or more before I succeeded in getting back to Mr Butterfield’s house.

Aunt Deb received me with a frown.

“Now where have you been all this time?” she asked. “I’ve had luncheon an hour or so, or more. I suppose the servant has cleared the things away, and you can’t expect her to bring them up again for your pleasure.”

“Thank you, Aunt Deb,” I answered. “But I’ll just run and see.”

To my infinite satisfaction, on going into the parlour I found the table still covered with roast beef, and pies, tarts, and puddings; for Mr Butterfield liked the good things of this life, and wished his friends to enjoy them also. Didn’t I tuck in. I often afterwards thought of that luncheon; it presented itself to me in my dreams; I recollected it with longing affection during my waking hours. I helped myself to two or three glasses of wine to wash down the food. With a sigh of regret I felt that I could eat no more. I then stowed myself away in a comfortable arm-chair in the corner of the room, and very naturally fell fast asleep. I had a dim recollection of seeing Aunt Deb come into the room to look for me, but as I didn’t speak, she left the room supposing that I had gone out of the house to take another walk. When I awoke Martha was laying the things for dinner.

“Why, Master Cheveley, Miss Deborah has been asking for you for ever so long,” she said. “You had better go and see her, for she’s in a dreadful taking, I can assure you.”

I knew Aunt Deb too well to venture into her presence under the circumstances if I could avoid it, so I ran into my room, washed my hands, and brushed my hair, so as to present myself in a respectable state before Mr Butterfield. I watched for him till he went into the drawing-room, and then followed. Aunt Deb had not yet come down. I was thinking of asking him about my going to sea on board the “Emu.” He didn’t give me the opportunity, but he at once questioned me as to what I had seen in the city.

“You think Liverpool a very fine place?” he remarked.

“Yes, sir, a very fine place indeed,” I answered boldly.

But when he came to inquire where I had been, and what part I admired most, I was nonplussed, and had nothing to say about the matter. My thoughts had been entirely occupied with the docks and the shipping.

“Ah, yes, Liverpool has become an important port; superior to Bristol, or Hull; and some day we shall be equal to London, we flatter ourselves.”

I thought this would be a good opportunity of telling him how fond I was of the sea, and that I hoped he would let me go on board one of his ships, when just at that moment Aunt Deb entered. She began scolding me for having absented myself so long from her, but Mr Butterfield interfered.

“The lad naturally wishes to see a new place, where he may spend some time perhaps. So don’t be too hard on him, Cousin Deborah.”

We soon went down to dinner, and Aunt Deb said no more. I ate as many of the good things as I could, but after so large a luncheon I had less room than usual. Mr Butterfield placed my moderation to the score of my modesty.

“Come, come, lad, eat away,” he said. “These things were given to us for our benefit, and can’t fail to do us good.”

I at last had to give in, letting Martha take away my plate with a large portion of its contents untasted. I should have liked to have remained to talk to Mr Butterfield when Aunt Deb retired, but she insisted on my coming up, afraid that the old gentleman in his hospitality would be giving me more wine than would be good for me. I had thus no opportunity of talking to him alone. The following morning I begged leave to go out again. Mr Butterfield willingly consented, though Aunt Deb observed that I should be better employed at home summing and writing.

“He’ll have enough of that by-and-by. In the meantime he can learn his way about the city,” said the old gentleman.

I thanked him very much, and he went away to his office.

Going into my room, I bethought me that I would take my cutter down to the river and give her a sail. It took me some time, however, to step the mast and set up the rigging. As soon as this was done, not thinking it necessary to see Aunt Deb first, I started off, carrying the little vessel under my arm. The boys in the streets, I thought, admired her exceedingly. It made me feel that I was a nautical character amid the seafaring population. Though I didn’t exactly recollect the way, after making various turnings, I found myself at the quay where the “Emu” lay. “Now,” I thought to myself, “I’ll go on board, and if I can’t see the captain, I’ll have a talk with the crew. They’ll perceive by my cutter that I’m not a greenhorn, and I can offer to show them what I know by explaining how I sail her.” With more confidence than I had felt on the previous day, I walked up the plank. I could nowhere see the captain, nor any other officer, and therefore turned towards the spot where the men were at work taking in the cargo.

“Well, boy, what do you want?” inquired a rough, surly-looking old seaman, who was handling a large case?

“I have come to see the ship; and as I like her, I think of getting the captain to take me as an officer,” I answered, with as much confidence as I could assume.

“Officer!” the old sailor answered, with a hoarse laugh. “You an officer, jackanapes; why we should want a cow on board to give you milk.”

“What is your name?” I asked, determined not to be put down.

“Gregory Growles,” answered the seaman.

“Well, look, Gregory Growles, if that’s your name, I understand sailing this cutter as well as you do,” and I began to explain how I was wont to navigate her according to Riddle’s instructions. I then announced the names of the ropes and sails.

Gregory Growles, with his arms akimbo, and several of the other seamen, stood listening to me, evidently highly amused. When I had finished, they all laughed in chorus.

“You know the ABC, maybe, of seamanship; but, look here, just tell us the names of some of the ropes and spars of this ship.”

I looked about exceedingly puzzled, for I could not give the name of one of them.

“I thought so,” said Growles. “You had better go to school again, and learn a little more before you think of topping the officer over us.”

“I only want to become a midshipman,” I said; “I could soon learn when I got to sea.”

“We have no midshipmen on board the ‘Emu,’” said Growles.

“Come, youngster, clear out of this, for we have to go on working, and you’re in the way.”

Abashed, I retired to the after part of the deck, followed by the derisive laughter of the seamen, who went on, as before, hauling and hoisting in the cargo. I walked about, examining various things on the deck, and looking into the cabin, and thinking what a fine place it was, for it was handsomely furnished, and how I should like to be its occupant. No one took any further notice of me, and at last I unwillingly returned on shore. I looked out for a place to sail my vessel, but the landing-place was crowded with boats, and it struck me that if I let her go I should find it impossible to recover her. I had, therefore, to carry her about all day without any advantage, and my arms ached, though I held her sometimes under one arm and sometimes under another, and occasionally placed her on my shoulder. Several boys asked me what I would take for her, and one or two begged that I would let them examine her. At last one biggish fellow snatched her off my shoulder. I tried to recover her, but another tripped me up. Getting up, I made chase, but the thief, turning sharp round the corner, disappeared. I shouted in vain for him to come back. My cutter was gone. There was no one to whom I could appeal for help—no watchman, no constable. Some persons I met said it was a great shame, but they didn’t help me. Others only laughed, and observed that such things were very common. I waited about. A number of boys joined me and shouted “Thief! Thief!” but, as may be supposed, I could not find him, and had to return home very disconsolate at my loss. That evening, much to my satisfaction, Aunt Deb had a bad headache, and could not make her appearance at dinner. This gave me an opportunity of speaking to Mr Butterfield.

“I should be happy to further your views, my lad, but I have promised your Aunt Deborah to take you into my counting-house, and I have only been waiting a day or two until a boy has left, whose place I intend you to fill. You’ll begin low down, but by perseverance and industry you will, in the course of a few years, rise to a respectable position. Many lads fancy they would like to go to sea, and bitterly repent it afterwards. You will have a far more comfortable life on shore, and the position of an English merchant is as honourable a one as a man could desire to follow.”

These remarks didn’t at all suit my taste. I thanked Mr Butterfield, but told him that my heart had long been set on going to sea, and that I didn’t expect to be happy in any other calling.

“That’s what many lads say, but afterwards find out that they have made a very great mistake,” he remarked.

“But they don’t all do that, or we should have no sailors,” I argued. I then told him that I had been on board the “Emu,” which, I concluded, would sail in a few days, and that I should much like to go in her.

“She’s not my vessel,” he answered, “though I know something of the captain. He is a good sailor, though he is not the man under whom I should wish to place a lad. However, when your aunt is better, I’ll talk the matter over with her; and should she consent, then I’ll see what can be done.”

I fancied that I had made some way; and, in spite of the loss of my cutter, I went to bed more contented in my mind than I had been for some time.

Chapter Nine.

Mr Butterfield’s office—My future prospects—I again visit the “Emu”—Aunt Deb’s good advice—I rebel—All sailors are not beggars—My next visit to the “Emu”—Shall I stow myself away?—Conflicting ideas—Looking over the ship, I meet with an accident—Once more a prisoner—The hold of the “Emu”—Not a stowaway—My possible fate—No bones broken—“The blue above and the blue below”—Perseverance conquers all difficulties—On the high seas—Sea-sick—On the kelson—I give way to despair—“Help! Help!”—The yarn of Sam Switch’s ghost—I feel the pangs of hunger—I review my past life—Never say die—Water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink—My efforts meet with some success.

Aunt Deb made her appearance at the breakfast-table, but nothing was said about my plans for the future. As soon as I had finished, Mr Butterfield, looking at his watch, told me to run out for a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes, and said that when I came back he would take me down with him to his office.

“I shall not keep you there,” he remarked; “you will afterwards come back to your aunt, who will probably find something for you to do.”

I obeyed, and as soon as I got out of the house I ran off in the direction of the country. I wanted to see green fields and hedges and trees. I enjoyed the fresh air and exercise, and was longer away than I intended. On my return I found Mr Butterfield waiting for me at the door.

“Punctuality is the soul of business. Remember that,” he remarked. “You have kept me waiting for ten minutes. Come along.”

I begged pardon, saying that the time had passed faster than I had expected.

He walked along with sedate steps, for he was not given to rapid locomotion, his gold-headed cane heavily striking the ground as he went. He had not spoken since we left the house, and I felt that I was passing from the position of a guest to that of a junior clerk. Still, not being overwhelmed with bashfulness at any time, and as I was anxious to know what had passed between him and Aunt Deb regarding my future career, I looked up and asked him.

“Your aunt will communicate her wishes to you,” he answered. “You will see presently the sort of work you will be expected to perform in my office. Let me tell you that many lads would consider themselves fortunate if they had the opportunity I am ready to give you.”

He said no more. His manner, it struck me, was far less cordial than it had been, and I could not help thinking that I was indebted for this to Aunt Deb, who had probably given him an account of my adventures at home. Now I am bound to say that I consider Mr Butterfield was right; but I did not think so at the time.

We at length reached Water Street, and entered the office of Tallow, Candlemas, and Co. It was a dingy-looking place, consisting of a small outer room, the walls covered over with posters announcing the sailing of ships and other information. In it was an enclosed space, behind which sat on high stools two venerable-looking clerks, busily engaged in writing. Speaking a few words to them, Mr Butterfield passed on to an inner room, where, at a long desk running from one side to the other were arranged eight or ten persons of various ages, all scribbling away as fast as their pens could move. Their thin and pallid faces did not prepossess me in favour of the life they were leading. At the farther end, in a darker corner, was a vacant stool.

“That will be your place, Richard, when you come here to-morrow or next day,” said Mr Butterfield. “You will gradually rise, till one day I may hope to see you one of my head clerks.”

I looked askance at the dark corner, and I then scanned the faces of the occupants of the other seats. I could say nothing likely to please Mr Butterfield, and I therefore kept silence.

“You will begin work on Monday. Now go back to your aunt, who wishes to have you with her for the present.”

I longed to say, “I thought, sir, you were going to talk to my aunt about my going to sea;” but before I could speak, Mr Butterfield, turning round, walked into his private office and left me standing by myself and looking, I felt, very foolish. As I did not wish to undergo a long inspection from the younger clerks, who were peering at me from over the desks, I passed out, breathing more freely when I found myself in the open street.

Of course I ought to have returned home; but instead of that I made my way down to the docks to amuse myself as before, by looking at the vessels. I was not long in finding out the “Emu.” She was now considerably lower in the water, having apparently got most of her cargo on board, although there were still some bales and packages lying alongside ready to be shipped. I had a great longing to go on board and try to see the captain, and to ask him if he would take me. I could see no one, however, whom I could imagine to be the captain; and I therefore, after walking up and down the quay for some time, and looking at a number of other vessels, guessed by my hunger that it must be near luncheon-time, and took my way homewards. On entering the house I met Aunt Deb, who was coming down into the dining-room, by which I knew that I was not late.

“I am glad to find that you are more punctual than usual, Dick,” she said. “You will soon, I hope, become regular in your habits. Follow the example of so excellent a man as my cousin, Godfrey Butterfield. You are pleased with your excellent prospects in his office, I hope?”

To this remark I made no reply, but said, “I thought, Aunt Deb, that Mr Butterfield was going to speak to you about my wish to go to sea. He told me that he would do so, and that he would have no difficulty in getting me on board a ship.”

“Fiddle-de-dee about going to sea!” replied Aunt Deb. “My cousin did speak to me on the subject, and I told him at once that I would never consent to your doing so, and that I felt sure your father would not do so either. What! To throw away the brilliant prospects which through my means have been opened out to you? What! Desert your family and me, your affectionate aunt, and the kind friend who so generously consents to become your patron from the regard he has for me? What! Go and run all the risks of a turbulent ocean, and perhaps lose your life, and cause sorrow to those who have an affection for you, merely to gratify an insane fancy? No, Dick—no! I told my cousin Godfrey Butterfield, at once, that if he had any regard for me he would never encourage you in so mad a proceeding; and I begged him, as soon as possible, to give you employment in his office, so as to turn your mind away from the silly ideas you have entertained.”

“I’m not at all obliged to you, Aunt Deb, for what you have done,” I said, my choler rising. “It was no idle fancy in my mind, but my fixed resolution to become a sailor; and a sailor I’ll be, notwithstanding your opposition.”

“Hoity-toity!” exclaimed Aunt Deb, who was not accustomed to be set at defiance. “You will understand, Dick, that you were placed in my charge, and must obey my directions; and that I intend you to go into Mr Butterfield’s office, and to work hard there, so that you may do credit to my recommendation some day, and render support to your family. In case of your father’s death, what would become of you all? I, who have devoted my life to your family, should have the charge of their maintenance.”

“Sailors are not beggars, and I should very likely make as much money by going to sea as by any other means.”

“Fiddle-de-dee,” again exclaimed Aunt Deb; “eat your luncheon, and don’t talk nonsense.”

As I was very hungry, I obeyed her, but at first I felt as if the food I put in my mouth would choke me. Ultimately, however, I was able to get on as well as usual. Aunt Deb’s behaviour to me during the next few days did not contribute to reconcile me to my proposed lot. She kept me working at writing and adding up long columns of figures, not failing to scold me when I made mistakes. I pictured to myself my future dreary life—to have to sit in a dull office all day, and then to have to come home with no other society than that of Mr Butterfield and Aunt Deb as long as she remained at Liverpool. I knew nobody at Liverpool, and did not see how I was to form any acquaintances of my own. After luncheon, on Saturday, Aunt Deb, in consideration, she said, of my diligence, allowed me to go and take a walk by myself, as she felt indisposed to leave the house. I very naturally wandered down to the docks to have a look at the “Emu” before she sailed, and to inspect any other vessels that might take my fancy. I much missed my cutter yacht, as I found there existed places where I could have sailed her. I had spent some time in walking about, when I again got back to the quay where the “Emu” was moored. As I was pacing to and fro, I thought of the high stool in the dark corner of Mr Butterfield’s office; the dreary, dreary days I was doomed to sit there; the dull, dull evenings in the society of Aunt Deb and her cousin, and the not more lively Sundays, with attendances at three services, for Aunt Deb was very strict in this respect. Hapless fate, with nothing better to expect than a head clerkship. The business I knew I should detest. Then I thought of the free life on the ocean, the strange lands I should visit, the curious people I should see, and the liberty I fancied I should enjoy.

As I had had a fair education, and knew that I could master navigation, I expected without difficulty to work my way up till I became an officer, and then to have the command of such a fine ship myself, just such a one as the “Emu.” But how was I to get to sea? Mr Butterfield positively refused to obtain an appointment for me without the consent of Aunt Deb and that of my father, and I was confident such would not be given. Would the captain take me without further introduction, if I should offer myself? I had sense enough to know that that was very unlikely.

Suddenly the idea seized me, should I stow myself away on board, and not appear until the ship had sailed out to sea? I had a notion, notwithstanding, that this would not be a wise proceeding. I should certainly not be treated as an officer, and should very probably be sent forward to become a drudge to the crew. Still, what other chance had I to get to sea? I thought and thought.

Well, I’ll go on board at all events. The blue Peter was flying at the masthead, besides which there was a board announcing that she would sail with the morning’s tide. It was the custom, in those days especially, for merchantmen to sail on a Sunday. The stages leading on board had been removed, with the exception of a single plank to the gangway. My longing to go on board increasing, I indulged it. None of the crew were moving about aft. The officers, if any were on board, were, I supposed, in their cabins. I looked forward, where I saw a few of the crew, who were preparing for their supper. The cook just then made his appearance from the caboose with a large bowl containing a smoking mess of some sort. I had never been below on board ship. I thought I should like to look round and see what sort of place the hold was. The tackle which had been used for lowering the cargo was not yet unrove, and hung over the main hatchway, which had been left open for stowing some goods which, as it turned out, had not yet arrived. Seeing that no one was observing me, I seized the rope, and swung myself down till my head disappeared below the coamings of the hatchway.

Now at this place space had been left to permit of the lower hold being reached. The rope I grasped was not as long as I thought it was, and suddenly the end slipped through my fingers, and down I fell, hurting myself so much that I was unable to rise. Afraid of calling out for assistance, I lay there for some time, till the pain increased so much that I fainted away. When I came to my senses, what was my horror to find myself in total darkness, and on lifting up my hand as high as I could reach I discovered that some planks had been placed across the aperture through which I had fallen, and I was shut in. Though I had been doubtful about acting the stowaway, here I was, shut up against my will. Had I carried out the idea which occurred to me, I intended to have done it in a very different fashion, as I expected to find some comfortable place where I might obtain air, if not light and access to the store-room and water-casks. I had no notion of running the risk of starving myself, having had sufficient experience of the uncomfortable sensations accompanying inanition when I was shut up in the mill. I had thought myself very badly off then, but I was now in a much worse condition, and suffering great pain, and, as far as it appeared to me, with more than one limb broken. I tried to move, to ascertain whether this was the case. First I moved one arm, and then another. They were sound, though they hurt me. Then I tried my right leg, and then my left. They were certainly unfractured.

I was doubtful about one of my ankles. It pained me more than any other part of my body. I drew it up and felt it all over. It was tender to the touch, but none of the bones appeared to be out of their places. This examination occupied some time. I did not call out for fear of the consequences. The pain which had hitherto prevented me thinking about what would follow now decreased, and I began to consider the awkward position in which I was placed. I tried to persuade myself that I had not positively intended to act the part of a stowaway. I could not but know that I had thought about it, yet I had only gone below for the sake of seeing the hold of a ship. I could say that when I was discovered, with a tolerably clear conscience, so I fancied. Should I be discovered? That was the question. For what I could tell I might be entombed beneath the cargo and be unable to get out till I was starved to death. The thought was too dreadful for contemplation, and I tried to put it from me. I remembered how I had escaped from the old mill and the way I got out without any one to help me.

“Perseverance conquers all difficulties,” I said to myself as I said then. My situation in some respects was very similar, only on that occasion I had expected, on obtaining my freedom, to meet my friends, and now I should find myself confronted by a rough crew and an irate captain, who might send me on shore, and, for what I could tell, have me put into jail if there was time for doing so. I had, at first, no idea of the size of the place in which I was shut up. I only knew that I could touch the boards above my head by extending my hand when sitting upright. I thereby knew that there would not be room for me to stand. I now crawled about and ascertained that I was in a tolerably wide place, extending fore and aft and from side to side. I was, in fact, in the lower hold or bottom of the ship, far, far down beneath a mass of cargo. How long I had been there was also a mystery to me. I might have remained in a fainting state only for a few minutes, or hours might have passed. I knew that I began to feel hungry, though I had had an ample luncheon—for on Saturdays Mr Butterfield dined early—which showed that I could not be very much hurt, and that I must have been some considerable time on board. I had, however, as I intended to stay out till dark, put a couple of buns, which I had bought at a pastrycook’s, into my pocket. I refrained, as yet, from eating them, not knowing how long I might have to remain below. I thought that it must now be night, and as I supposed the crew would be asleep forwards and the captain and officers aft, they would not hear me, even if I shouted out at the top of my voice. I therefore concluded that it would be foolish to exhaust myself uselessly. “I’ll wait for daylight, when they’re moving about, and I shall have a better chance of making myself heard,” I thought.

The place where I lay was dry and clean, though it smelt horribly of tar and other odours from which the hold of a vessel is seldom free, and was besides disagreeably close. After a considerable period had elapsed, and when the pain had much gone off, a drowsiness stole over me, and having got into a comfortable position, I fell fast asleep. I think I must have awoke at intervals, for I remember hearing a curious rippling sound beneath me. It must have had a lulling effect, for I dropped off again.

The next time I woke I heard not only a rippling sound, but a dashing of water against the sides, and presently the ship began to pitch slowly and gently. The idea at once occurred to me that I must be at sea. If so, it was where I had long wished to be, though the circumstances accompanying my entrance into a naval life differed greatly from such as I had intended them to be. Could it then be daylight?—if so, I had been much longer below than I had calculated on. The ship, I remembered, was to sail with the morning tide. That might have meant one or two o’clock, for how the tides ran I didn’t know. There must have been time, at all events, for her to get away from the wharf, and to descend the Mersey. In that case the day must now be well advanced. Probably, I thought, the ship has had a fair wind, and with a favourable tide must have got rapidly along. I could not sing:—

“I’m on the sea, I’m on the sea,

I am where I would ever be;

With the blue above, and the blue below,

In silence wheresoe’er I go.”

Silence there certainly was, but instead of the blue above and the blue below, there was pitchy darkness. The long sleep and the perfect rest had taken away all the pain which I had at first felt, except an uncomfortable sensation in one of my ankles.

When I was fairly aroused I again began to feel very hungry, so I ate one of my buns. I could have bolted the other, but I was becoming wonderfully prudent, and I knew that if I did so I might have nothing else to eat. All this time I had remained perfectly silent, for the reasons I have before given. I had become accustomed to the atmosphere, and I suppose that some fresh air must have come through some unseen apertures which enabled me to breathe without difficulty. It was sufficiently close, however, to make me feel drowsy, and having eaten the bun, I again dropped off to sleep.

I awoke with a horrible nausea, such as I had never before experienced. The sensations I experienced in the old vault were nothing to it. The air there, as I mentioned, was perfectly pure, besides which I was then upon solid ground; now I felt an unpleasant movement, sometimes a sort of plunging forward, then a rise and fall, and then a rolling from side to side, though being close to the keel I didn’t experience this so much as if I had been on deck. It was quite sufficient, however, to make me feel terribly sick.

Oh how wretched I was! Didn’t I repent of having gone down into the hold. I would ten thousand times sooner have been perched on the highest stool in the darkest corner of Mr Butterfield’s counting-house than have been where I was. I was too miserable to cry out. I only wished that the ship would strike a rock and go down, and thus terminate my misery.

I need not describe what happened. For hours I was prostrate; but at length the feeling of sickness wore off, and I again became not only hungry but thirsty in the extreme. I would have given anything for a draught of water; but how was I to obtain it. One thing I felt was, that if I could not I should die. Though I was hungry I could not masticate the smallest portion of my bun, but I tried to arouse myself and began once more to move about. As I did so my hand came in contact with what appeared to be a large cask. I felt it all over. Yes, I was certain of it. It must be one of the ship’s water-casks stowed in the lower tier.

I thought I might possibly find some outlet through which I might make my way into the upper part of the ship, but none could I discover. I was, in reality, right down on the kelson, though I didn’t know what it was called at the time. It is just above the keel, the object of it being to strengthen the vessel lengthways, and to confine the floors in their proper position. It is placed above the cross-pieces and half-floors, and a bolt is driven right through all into the main keel. The half-floors, it must be understood, are not united in the centre, but longitudinally on either side.

Of course I was not aware of this at the time. All that I knew was, that I was down in the bottom of the ship in a horrible dark confined space, where I should be starved to death or suffocated could I not find some way out. Again and again I made the attempt, but in every direction met with obstructions. Stretching out my arms, I found I could touch each side of my prison.

Resolute as I had hitherto been, I at length gave way to despair, and shrieked and shouted for help. I bawled till my voice was hoarse and my strength exhausted; then I sat down in a state of apathy, resigned to my fate. But the love of life soon returned. I got up and crawled to the further end of my prison-house, where I met with some stout boarding which effectually prevented my further progress. After this I turned round and crawled to the other end along the kelson, but was stopped by a strong bulkhead.

Once more I stopped to listen, half expecting to hear the sailors making their way down to the hold to ascertain whence my shouts and cries proceeded, but no sound except the creaking of the bulkheads reached my ears. “I won’t give in yet,” I said to myself; “perhaps the crew are on deck or in the fore part of the ship, and the officers in their cabins, and my voice could not reach them; but somebody must, before long, be coming into the hold, and then, if I shout at the top of my voice, I cannot fail to be heard.”

The question, however, was, when would any one come down? I had no means of ascertaining, though the steward must be getting up provisions, or the boatswain or carpenter stores from their store-room, and yet no sound might reach me, or perhaps my voice might not penetrate as far as where they were at work. Still, there was nothing like trying. Placing my hands to my sides, I shouted out, “Help, help! I’m shut up below. I shall die if you don’t let me out. Oh, do come, sailors. Don’t you hear me? Help! Help! Help!”

Then I gave way to a loud roar of agony and despair. After this I stopped for a few minutes listening as before, then putting my hands to my mouth, as if by so doing I should increase the loudness of my voice, I shouted with all the strength of my lungs. Suddenly the idea occurred to me that the sailors would hear my voice, but not knowing whence it proceeded would fancy the ship was haunted and would be in a dreadful fright. Strange as it may seem the thought amused me, and I gave way to an hysterical laugh. “Now I’ll warrant not one of them will like to come below on account of the supposed ghost. They will be spinning all sorts of yarns to each other about hobgoblins appearing on board.” Old Riddle had spun several such yarns, and they came to my recollection. One was about a boy named Sam Smitch. Sam was the dirtiest fellow on board, and could never understand what cleanliness meant. He was constantly, therefore, being punished. That didn’t mend his ways, and he was a nuisance to all the crew, who, of course, gave him a frequent taste of the rope’s-end and bullied him in all sorts of ways. At last Sam declared that he would jump overboard and end his misery. The men laughed at him, and said that he hadn’t the courage to do it.

“Haven’t I?” said Sam, “you’ll see that I’ll do it, and my blood will be upon your heads.”

Still none would believe that Sam would do away with himself, till one morning his jacket and hat were found in the head, and when the ship’s company was mustered at divisions, Sam didn’t answer to his name. He was searched for everywhere, but could not be discovered, and at length it became very evident to all that Sam must have put his threat into execution and thrown himself overboard during the night. Whether any of the men recollected that it was their cruelty that had driven him to this act of desperation I can’t say, but probably it didn’t much trouble their consciences; they only considered he was a fool for his pains. Two or three days passed away, when Sam Smitch was well-nigh forgotten.

One night, however, one of the carpenter’s crew was going along the lower-deck, when he saw a figure in white gliding past him in the distance. The figure for a moment turned its head, when, as the light of the lantern fell on it, he recognised the face of Sam Smitch. It was more than his nerves could stand, and he bolted like a shot up the ladder. Night after night some one of the crew had a similar occurrence to relate, till one and all were convinced that the ship was haunted by Sam Smitch’s ghost. At last the men, gallant fellows as they were, were afraid to go below even when sent on duty. Many of them swore that even when in their hammocks they had seen Sam Smitch’s ghost gliding noiselessly about the deck. The whole crew were in a very nervous state, and many were actually placed on the sick list by the doctor. At last the circumstance reached the ear of the purser, who happened not to be a believer in ghosts.

“Whew!” he exclaimed, when he heard it; “that accounts for the mysterious disappearance of some of my stores.”

He informed the first lieutenant, who placed a watch in the neighbourhood where the ghost had appeared. The next night, in bodily form, the ghost of Sam Smitch was captured, dirtier than ever, but yet fat and sleek, though rather pallid. Not, however, till he was brought on deck, to be well scrubbed under the superintendence of the master at arms, were the crew convinced that the ghost was no ghost at all, but that dirty Sam, fool as he was, had been bamboozling them effectually, while he enjoyed his ease and plenty to eat below with nothing to do.

It is curious that this yarn should have occurred to me, but I suppose it did so from my case being somewhat similar to that of Sam Smitch, only he had voluntarily stowed himself away and had plenty to eat, while I was shut up against my will without a particle of food, except the buns I had in my pockets. It served also to draw me for a few minutes from the thoughts of my own misfortunes. The exertion of shouting increased the thirst I had already begun to feel. I was at the same time very hungry, but when I again tried to eat a piece of my remaining bun I could not get down the mouthful. I became rapidly more and more thirsty. The sea-sickness had worn off, but I felt more thoroughly uncomfortable in my inside than I had ever before done in my life. If any of my readers have at any time suffered from thirst, they will understand my sensations better than I can describe them. My mouth and throat felt like a dust-bin, and my tongue like the end of a burnt stick. I moved my mouth about in every possible way to try and produce some saliva, but so dry were my lips that they only cracked in the attempt.

I had scarcely hitherto believed that I should die, but now so terrible were my sensations that I didn’t expect to live many hours unless I should be released. I thought over my past life. The numberless wrong and foolish things I had done came back to my recollection, while not a single good deed of any sort occurred to me. I thought of how often I had vexed my father and mother, how impudent I had been to Aunt Deb, how frequently unkind and disagreeable to my brothers and sisters. I tried to be very sorry for everything, but all the time I was conscious that I was not as sorry as I ought to have been.

Exhausted by my efforts as well as by my hunger and thirst, I lay stretched upon the kelson till I had, I suppose, somewhat recovered. Once more I said to myself, “It will not do to give in; out of this I must get.” I managed again to get on my feet, feeling about in all directions. As I was doing so my hands touched what appeared to me like the side of a large cask. I was certain of it. I could make out the hoops which went round the cask, and the intervening spaces. Suddenly it occurred to me that it was one of the water-casks of the ship stowed in the lower tier. I put my ear to it, and as the ship rolled I could hear the water move about. I felt, however, very much like the fellow I had read about at school, who was placed when dying of thirst in the midst of water which remained up to his chin, but into which he could never get his mouth. Here was the water, but how I was to reach it was the question.

I felt about in the hope that some moisture might be coming through; even a few drops would help to cool my parched tongue, though I could have drunk a gallon without stopping, but the cask was strong and perfectly dry outside. I considered whether it would be possible to knock a hole in the cask, but I had no instrument for the purpose, and should not have had strength to use it even if I had found it. It was indeed tantalising to hear the water washing to and fro, and yet not be able to obtain a drop. By chance I happened to put my hands in my pockets, which always contained a knife, bits of string, and all sorts of things. Suddenly I recollected that I had been making a stand for my cutter before she was stolen, and that I had had a gimlet to bore holes in the wood. To my joy I found that I had fixed a cork on the end of it and had thrust it into my pocket. There it was. I might, by boring a hole in the cask, reach the water. How anxiously I clutched the gimlet. How fearful I was that in attempting to bore a hole I might break it. Feeling as far as I could judge for the centre of the cask, I began boring a hole, using the greatest care. At length the gimlet went right through. As I drew it forth I put it to my mouth. It was wet. How deliciously cool it felt. I then applied my mouth to the hole, but bitter was my disappointment when no water came out. I sucked and sucked at the hole, and then I blew into it, but with no satisfactory result.

I was again almost driven to despair. I tried the hole with the gimlet. It passed through it, and the iron was again wet. “What a fool!” I exclaimed, just then recollecting that to get liquor out of a cask two holes are necessary, the one to serve as a vent-hole to let in the air and the other to let out the liquid. I accordingly set to work and began boring a hole as high as I could reach above the former one. I soon accomplished my task, and as the air rushed in the water from the lower hole rushed out. I eagerly applied my mouth to it and sucked and sucked away until I was almost choked. Still I didn’t feel as if I had had enough.

How delicious was the sensation as it wetted my lips, moistened my mouth, and flowed down my parched throat. I felt very much like a pitcher being filled at a fountain. The hole was small, so that only a thin stream came out. It was fortunate for me that it was no larger, or I believe that I should have killed myself by over-drinking. Not until I had withdrawn my mouth did I recollect that I must find some means of stopping the flow of water. Feeling in my pocket, I found some pieces of wood, one of which I thought I could form into a plug. In doing so I nearly cut my fingers.

After a time I succeeded, and shutting up my knife, I knocked the plug I had made in with the handle. The vent-hole was not so important to stop, so I let it alone. I was now able to eat my remaining bun, though I recollected that it was the last article of food I possessed. I afterwards took another pull at the water-cask. I had no longer any fear of suffering from thirst, which was some comfort, but I had serious apprehensions about the means of obtaining food, should I fail to make my escape from my prison. I was, however, wonderfully hopeful. I remembered how I had fed myself on the musty flour in the old mill. I kept up my spirits, in the hopes of finding something to eat among the cargo. I was aware that few edibles were exported from England, our teeming population consuming the whole produce of the country, and as much more as they can get.

I could not tell all this time whether it was night or day, as I had no means of calculating how long I had been in the ship’s hold. Had I been told that a week or more had passed, I should not have been surprised, the time appeared to me so long. I now began to feel excessively sleepy, and creeping about until I discovered where the planks, if not soft, were less rough than in other parts, I lay down, and in a few seconds was fast asleep.

Chapter Ten.

Dreamland—A vision of home—Strange proceedings of my brother Ned—Roughish weather—I make a slight progress—A ray of light—The cargo—The wooden case—A disappointment—In darkness again—A welcome draught—My bed—My slumbers interrupted by ugly visitors—I determine to catch some rats—My further efforts at escape—My ill-success—My conscience troubles me, but I succeed in quieting it—My visions—Tantalising Aunt Deb and Mr Butterfield—The conference of the rats—Their opinion of mankind—Their grievances and proposed remedies—A sneeze and its effects.

My slumbers were far from tranquil. I think, indeed, that sometimes I must have been half awake, for I was convinced that creatures were running over me; but when I put my hand out they escaped. Then I began to dream, and I fancied I was at home again in my own room. How I got there I could not tell.

Suddenly my brother jumped out of bed, and began scrambling about the room, overturning the chairs and table, and then got behind the chest of drawers, and sent them down with a loud crash to the ground, laughing heartily as he did so. It was very unlike his mode of proceeding, as he was the quietest and best conducted member of the family. When he got tired of this sort of amusement he began pulling the bed about, and lifting it from side to side.

Naturally I expected to be tumbled out. I begged him to let me alone, as I had gone through a great deal of fatigue, and wished to be quiet. But he would not listen to me, and only shook the bed more violently than before. Losing patience, I was going to jump up and seize him, when I awoke.

I found that the movement was real, for the ship was rolling and pitching more heavily than she had before done, and I could hear the bulkheads creaking, and the timbers complaining, and the heels of the mast working, and the dull sound of the water dashing against the sides of the ship. There was still less chance than ever of being heard should I again shout out, so I refrained from exhausting my strength by the exercise of my voice. So much did the stout ship tumble about that I could not attempt to make another exploring expedition. I therefore lay still, waiting till the ship would again be quiet. I didn’t know then that a storm sometimes lasts for days, and that I might be starved to death before it was over. Though the bun and draught of cold water had somewhat satisfied my appetite, I again began to feel hungry, though not so hungry as I might have been without them. Having nothing to eat, I went off again to sleep.

When I once more roused up I began to think of the astonishment and alarm my disappearance would cause to Aunt Deb and Mr Butterfield. Would they have any suspicion of what had become of me? Perhaps they would fancy that I had fallen off the quay into the river; but then Aunt Deb would most likely insinuate that such was not to be my case. I confess that any anxiety she might feel didn’t trouble me, but I regretted the anxiety my disappearance would cause my parents, and brothers and sisters at home. However I could not help it, so I put the thought from me. Hunger at last induced me to make another attempt to escape, in spite of the way the ship was tumbling about. I fancied that one of the bulkheads against which I had come was not so stout and strong as the others. I thought I would try and force my way through, but with only my hands how was that to be done.

Whilst creeping about I shoved my legs or arms into any opening I came across. In doing so I kicked against some object which moved. I worked my foot on till I came to the end of it, and then contrived to draw from under one of the casks what proved to be a handspike, which had probably on some occasion dropped down into the hold. I can’t express the satisfaction the possession of this instrument gave me. I felt it all over, and tried its strength by a blow on the kelson, for at first I was afraid it might be rotten. It proved sound. Armed with it I returned to the bulkhead, against which I determined to make my attack. Standing as firmly as I could, I dealt blow after blow as high up as I was able to reach.

I suspected that had it not been for the noises which were constantly issuing from all parts of the ship the sound of my blows would have been heard. At last, to my joy, I felt something give way. This encouraged me to proceed. On feeling with my hands I found that I was working against a small upright door, which opened, I concluded, into another part of the hold. I redoubled my efforts, and getting in the handspike worked away till the door yielded still more. This further encouraged me to proceed, but the operation took me a long time. Occasionally no progress was made, but, like the dropping of water on a hard rock, ultimately prevailed.

Now one nail was drawn, now another, and I was sure that the door was giving way. A strong man would with one or two wrenches have forced it open. Weak as I was for want of food, it now seems surprising to me that my exertions should have produced any effect. I had begun at the top. By working the handspike lower and lower down I by degrees tore away the door, or as I may more properly say the panel, as there were no hinges that I could discover. I was exerting all my strength in another effort when it gave way, and down I fell with my head almost through the aperture I had made. A faint light which came down from an opening far-away revealed the sort of place I was in. Had I not been so long accustomed to darkness I don’t think that its strength would have been sufficient for me to discover the objects around. I made out several bales, cases, and packages, stowed tightly together; but still I failed to see any outlet.

After recovering from my fall, by which I was somewhat hurt, I crept out, endeavouring to move some of the huge packages; but I did so in vain. I tried one and then another, but they did not yield to the utmost efforts I could make. Though I could not move the packages, I determined to try if any of them contained something edible. I first felt the packages. I was convinced they were bales of canvas or loose cloth. At last I came upon a wooden case. This I hoped might prove to be full of biscuits or hams. I accordingly got out my knife, expecting by patience to make a hole sufficiently large to admit my hand. As I was completely in the dark I had to be very cautious not to cut myself or break my knife, an accident which I knew was very likely to occur, I cut out, therefore, only a small piece at a time. Then I felt with my left hand to ascertain how I had got on. The case was very thick, and it must have taken me a couple of hours or more before I could make a hole an inch square. Even then I was not through it. I cut and cut away, till to my satisfaction my knife went through. I now made fast progress, and before long, as I ran in the blade it struck against a hard substance. Still I went on, and at last found to my bitter regret that the case contained iron goods of some sort. In spite of all the care I had taken I had much blunted my knife, and I was afraid I might not be able to make a hole in any other case I might find. I was ready to cry with vexation, but it would be of no use to do that, so I shut up my knife until I could discover some promising package to attack. I felt about in vain for another case. By this time the faint light I had observed had faded away, and I thus knew that evening had come on. I had had only two buns all this time. Unless I could get some food I fancied that I must die. Though I had nothing to eat I had plenty to drink, and to refresh myself I returned to the part of the ship out of which I had clambered. I soon discovered the water-cask, to which, pulling out the plug, I eagerly applied my mouth. The huge draught of water I swallowed greatly refreshed me, and prevented me feeling the pangs of hunger. I now went back once more to that part of the hold to which I had just gained access.

Feeling about, I came upon a piece of canvas, and I thought to myself that it would somewhat add to my comfort could I make use of it to sleep on. I dragged it out, and found that it was of sufficient size for my purpose.

The exertions I had made had greatly exhausted my strength. I should have lain down on the packages, but when I felt about I found that they would not form an easy couch. There was no room to stretch myself, and they were secured by hard ropes. Besides this I thought it possible that from the working of the ship some of them might slip out of their places, and come down upon me. I therefore dragged the piece of canvas into the lower part of the hold, and, stretching it under one of the water-casks, lay down to rest, intending before long to be up again and at work.

I quickly dropped off to sleep, but was soon awakened by feeling some creatures crawling over me. That they were rats I could have no doubt, from their weight and the loud thud they made as they jumped off and on the kelson. I lay perfectly quiet. Now I felt a fellow running up my leg—now scrambling over my body. But the rogues did not venture near my hands, their instinct telling them that they would have their necks wrung if they did so. My object was to catch one or two of them, and, disgusting as the idea would have been at any other time, I determined if I could to get hold of one forthwith to eat him.

I had often grumbled at home of having on a Monday morning to consume the dry bread which had remained over from the previous week. This system had commenced on the arrival of Aunt Deb, who would not allow a scrap of food to be lost, and she therefore persuaded my mother to give up the hot rolls which we previously had for breakfast on that day. It was the first of the many reforms introduced by our respected aunt which didn’t endear her to us.

The rats continued their gambols. Now I felt a fellow perched on my leg—now he would run along my arm, and before I could lift up my hand he was off again. I kept my feet covered up in the canvas, for I had no wish to have them nibbling at my toes. Somehow or other none of them came near my face, or I should certainly have caught one.

At length I jumped up determined to make chase, but the moment I moved they were off in all directions. Perhaps they thought they had a hungry enemy to deal with. I felt about everywhere, thinking I might find one of them stowed away under a cask, or in some hole or corner, but they had gone off, like imps of darkness as they were, at sunrise.

I wished more than ever for light. I thought that I could then infinitely better have endured my confinement.

Fortunately for me, the ship must have been well cleaned out before the cargo was taken on board; and as she was as tight as a bottle, there was no bilge-water in her. Had there been, I could not have existed so long far down in the depths of her hold.

The chase after the rats had aroused me, and I felt less inclination than before to sleep, so I got up, resolved to have another search for food of some sort. I was not very particular. A pound of tallow candles would have been welcome as a meal. I did not stop to consider whether I could have digested them. They would at all events have allayed the gnawing of hunger. I remembered reading of people suffering from hunger when navigating the ocean in open boats, and how much a flying-fish, or a booby, or a lump of rancid grease, had contributed to keep body and soul together. But neither booby nor flying-fish could I possibly obtain. I tried to think of all the various articles with which the ship was likely to be freighted. During my numerous visits to the quay alongside which she had been moored, I had had the curiosity to try and ascertain the contents of the packages about being hoisted on board. I had in some places observed large packages of raisins, dried figs, and hams, and kegs of butter, and dried fish, but they were being landed. I had, however, seen no things of the same description alongside the “Emu.”

Still, unless I searched I was sure not to find; so, again crawling through the opening I had made, I once more began to feel my way about, and to try every package I could reach.

The cases I felt were all rough and strong. The packages were covered with a stout material, showing the nature of the goods within. Again I tried to move some of them so that I might make my way onwards, but I found as before that they were all firmly jammed in their proper positions. It was difficult to divine how the space I had got into had been left vacant.

I might have spent two or three hours in the search, for of course I was obliged to move slowly and with the greatest caution to avoid knocking my head against any object, or falling down again and injuring myself. I no longer felt any pain from my sprained ankle. The enforced rest I had given it had contributed to restore it to use.

How little those on deck supposed that a human being was creeping about so far down beneath their feet.

Before I gave in I tried another case, which seemed more promising than any of those I had hitherto discovered. I got out my knife. I carved and cut, feeling each little chip as I got it off; the case was of soft deal, so that I had no great difficulty in cutting it, but I did so without much hope of reaching food after all, and began to feel that I should have to fall back on raw rat for supper. That was if I could manage to catch the said rat. As before, I was disappointed. I got into the case, but could only feel a mass of hay serving to pack china or crockeryware of some sort. I had had hopes of success, and I could not help feeling much disappointed.

The desire of sleep, which I had for some time thrown off, returned, and I crept back to the spot which I had selected for my couch. I wrapt myself up in the canvas, taking care to guard my feet, and putting one hand over my nose, and the other under me, so that the rats should not be able to nibble any of my extremities, which I thought it likely they would try to do. I hoped, however, that if they made the attempt I should be more successful in catching one.

For some time hunger prevented me from going to sleep. Again I thought over my past life—my childhood’s days—the time I spent at school—my various companions—my chums and enemies—the tricks I had played—the canings and floggings I had received—for instruction at that period was imparted with a much larger proportion of the fortiter in re than of the suaviter in modo. I used then to wish heartily to get away from school, but now I would very gladly have found myself back there again, even with the floggings in prospect, provided I could be sure of an ample breakfast, even though that breakfast might have consisted of larded bread and sugarless tea. Though I had often had quarrels with my brothers and sisters, I would willingly have entered into a compact never to quarrel again. I would gladly have endured one of the longest lectures Aunt Deb had ever given me, repeated ten times over, always provided I was sure of obtaining a lump of bread and cheese after it. I would thankfully have listened to the driest of some of my father’s dry sermons, with the expectation of obtaining a cold dinner on my return home from church. But I knew that regrets were unavailing, and that as I had made my bed so I must lie in it.

I thought and thought till my thoughts became confused.

The sound of voices struck on my ear. People were talking in whispers all round me, but I could not distinguish what they said. Then even the consciousness of where I was faded from me, and I was fast asleep. Even when I was sleeping I still suffered the painful sensations of hunger. I was tantalised by seeing in my dreams tables spread out, sometimes for breakfast, and at others for dinner or supper. My brothers and sisters were seated round them, laughing and talking merrily, and eating the good things with excellent appetite. Once Mr Butterfield brought me a bowl of turtle-soup, and assuring me of its excellence, ladled it into his mouth before my eyes, and then disappeared with a hop, skip, and a jump.

In the same way Aunt Deb appeared with a plate of crumpets, her favourite dish, and swallowed them one after the other, making eyes at me all the time they vanished down her throat. This done, she went off waltzing round and round the room, till she popped up the chimney. I cannot now remember one-tenth of the sensations which presented themselves to my imagination, showing, as I opine, that the stomach is in intimate connexion with the brain. Among others, by-the-bye, I fancied I was wandering about the streets of Liverpool, looking into cookshops and eating-houses, where people were engaged devouring food, which they in the most provoking manner held up to me on the ends of their forks, and instead of allowing me to take it, put it down their own throats.

Again all was a blank. Silence reigned around; when suddenly a faint light streamed across the space before me, and I saw armies of rats tripping from all directions and assembling not five feet from my nose. Over the casks and bales and packages they streamed in countless numbers, whisking their tails, leaping and tumbling over each other; some making somersaults, others playing at leapfrog. Numbers climbed up from beneath the kelson; some came from the fore part of the ship, others from aft. “Why, she must be perfectly overrun with the brutes,” I thought. “I wonder how any human being can exist on board. It’s surprising that they should never molest me.” They were merry fellows. I could not help laughing at the curious antics they played.

Presently I heard a voice shout “Silence!” A buck rat had seated himself on the top of a plank, which I had not before observed. Much to my surprise he held a note-book in his hand, and opening it began to read. He was too keen-sighted, I suppose, to require spectacles, though how he managed to see in that light I could not tell.

“Silence!” he again cried; and he then shouted at the top of his voice, which was somewhat squeaky for an orator, “Friends, Romans, countrymen,—Lend me your ears.”

I thought this a very odd way for a rat to commence an oration. As he spoke, all the rats, cocking up their ears, sat on their tails—some on the tops of the casks, others round and below me.

“Thank you for the attention you seem inclined to pay me, brother rats,” he continued. “I wish to impress on your minds the serious fact that we, as a race, have been maligned, abused, hunted, and ill-treated in all varieties of ways. We have had traps set for us, and although we are not often caught in them, it serves to exhibit the malice of our enemies. Adding insult to injury, they have, as I have only lately discovered, designated us in one of their popular dictionaries as troublesome vermin of the mouse kind. Why should they not have described us as rodents of graceful form, endowed with wonderful sagacity and activity to which the smaller animal called the mouse is allied? These human beings have also the audacity to malign our character, to insinuate that we are fickle and undependable, besides being fierce and savage. Thus, when one of their own race changes sides, they say that the wretched biped has ‘ratted,’ Not content with abusing us, they make savage war against our race by every cruel mode they can devise. They chase us with cats and dogs. Not that we care much for the cats, who seldom venture into our haunts; but those horrid, keen-scented terriers, are, it must be confessed, justly to be dreaded. Still more so are those cunning little ferrets which insinuate themselves into our abodes. The hatred of our enemies is exhibited in their use. Nowhere are we safe from them. They make their way through the narrowest crevices, dive down to the lowest depths we can reach, disturb our domestic happiness, watch for us on our hunting expeditions, and rout us out of our securest strongholds. This fearful persecution is originated, aided, and abetted by our malignant persecutors, who, besides the traps I have already spoken of, even attempt our destruction by mixing poison in the food they leave in our way. We have only the melancholy satisfaction of creeping beneath the boardings of their rooms, there to die, and to allow our decaying bodies to fill the air with noxious odours. Friends, Romans, countrymen,” he went on, repeating his former curious style of address, “we have met to devise means to assert our rights among created beings, and to revenge ourselves for the injuries we have for so many centuries of the world’s history suffered. We are now decidedly in the majority on board this ship. We hold possession of her chief strongholds. Her captain, officers, and crew exist only on sufferance; so then, brother rats and sister rats, young and old, as it is our glorious privilege to belong to a free republic, express your opinions without fear. It is my business to note and record them.”

Directly the speaker ceased, even for a moment, the rats began frisking and whisking about, biting at one another’s tails and leaping over one another, till he again shouted “Silence!”

“Has no one any opinion to offer?” he asked.

On this a grave-looking rat from the top of a cask answered, “Yes, I have an idea, which I’ll propound as soon as those frolicsome young fellows at the bottom of the hold will keep quiet.”

On this the president again cried out, “Be quiet, you young rascals, or I’ll singe your whiskers. Now, Brother Snout, let us hear what your idea happens to be,” he said, turning to the rat on the top of the cask.

The last-mentioned rat accordingly spoke, curiously using the same expressions as the former one had done. “Friends, Romans, countrymen: we are resolved on revenge. Revenge is sweet. Is it not so?”

To which all the rats, in chorus, shouted out “Yes, yes.”

“But the mode in which we shall execute our vengeance is the question. Now I have an idea—a bright idea. I propose that we should sharpen our teeth, and having sharpened them, that we should begin to gnaw a hole in the bottom of this ship. We can make our way, as we know by experience, through the stoutest cases. Why should we not do so through whole planks? ‘Perseverance conquers all difficulties.’ It will undoubtedly take time, but if we all work together and with a will we may bore not only one hole, but a thousand holes, when to a certainty the water will rush in and carry the captain, officers, and crew, our cruel tyrants, to the bottom, and our vengeance will be complete. So, brother rats, is not mine a bright idea, a grand idea, a superb idea? Who will second me?”

There was silence. When a grey-headed rat from the further end of the platform, lifting himself up, rose in his eagerness not only on his legs but on his tail, and said—

“Brethren and sisters. Has it not occurred to you that when we have succeeded—should we be so foolish as to make the attempt—in cutting holes through the ship’s bottom, we ourselves should be involved in the same catastrophe as the captain, officers, and crew? When the water rushes in, what will become of us? Why, we should be whirled round and round, and to a certainty become the first victims, perhaps the only ones, for there are boats on deck by which the captain, officers, and crew may make their escape, if they don’t happen to be loaded up with all sorts of lumber so that they can’t be cleared in time.”

“Ah, but I have a resource for that. Let us first nibble holes in the boats; it will be good practice, and we should succeed in the course of the night in effecting our purpose,” exclaimed the previous speaker.

“Brother Snout, with all due deference to your opinion, you are talking nonsense,” said the grey-headed orator. “To my certain knowledge there are two dogs on board—one a Newfoundland, the other a terrier; I don’t much care for the big fellow, but the terrier would be at us, let the night be ever so dark, and a good many of our race would lose the number of their mess. Let me observe, in the politest way possible, that your plan is not worth the snuff of a candle.”

The orator on the top of the cask was thus effectually shut up.

“Has no one else an opinion to give?” asked the president.

“I have,” exclaimed a ferocious-looking rat with long whiskers, which he twirled vigorously as he sat upright. “I propose that we marshal our forces, one division to march aft to the captain and officers, and the other to the part where the crew are berthed. That at a given signal we set upon them and let the blood out of their jugulars. We shall thus gain the mastery of the ship, and be able to enjoy unlimited freedom.”

“General Whiskerandos, your remarks savour very much of war, but pardon me remarking, very little of wisdom,” remarked the aged orator. “You have omitted to mention several important matters. In the first place, let me observe that the crew of a ship never sleep all at one time. Supposing a complete victory were gained over those below, the rest would discover the cause of their death, and would wage ruthless war against us. And what about the terrier? He sleeps at the door of the captain’s cabin. He would not be idle, depend on that. He would be delighted to encounter our leading column. It would be rare fun to him, but a disastrous circumstance for us. Let me advise you, Brother Whiskerandos, that your idea is a foolish one. Suppose just for one moment that we should succeed, and that we should put to death every human being on board, what would become of the ship? She would float about unless dashed on the rocks by a hurricane till, her timbers and planks rotting, the water would rush in and she would go to the bottom.”

“That suggestion seems to be disposed of. Is it not?” asked the president.

“I have a proposal to make,” exclaimed an aldermanic old rat, sitting up on the top of a chest. “I suggest a course of proceeding which cannot fail of success, and will, at the same time, be pleasant and agreeable to ourselves. We will sally forth and eat up all the provisions in the ship, cut holes in the water-casks and let out all the water. We will commence at the bottom, working our way upwards, so that we shall not run the risk of having our proceedings discovered. What we can’t eat we will destroy, so that those wretched mortals triumphing in their strength and intelligence will be deprived of the means of sustaining life, and must succumb before long to inevitable death; and we whom they have despised and ill-treated will gain possession of the ship and be our own masters, and sail in whatever direction we may please. The kingdom will be our own. We shall be lords of all we survey, and there will be no one to interfere with our proceedings.”

“What about Nero and Pincher?” asked a small rat with a squeaky voice. “What will become of them, Brother Doublechops?”

“When provisions run short they will to a certainty be killed and eaten by the bipeds,” answered the stout orator. “I shall watch for the result with intense interest, and have made up my mind to have a nibble at their livers and other bits of their insides. It will afford me intense satisfaction to eat a portion of those who have destroyed if not devoured so many of our race.”

“Oh! Brother Doublechops, oh! Brother Doublechops you are talking nonsense,” said the aged orator, who was evidently one of the most influential rats of the assembly. “If, as I before observed, we were to kill the captain, officers, and crew, what’s to become of the ship without any one to navigate her? She can’t steer a course for harbour, and would remain tossed by the waves and blown about by the winds till she met the fate I before described, and went down to the bottom, carrying us with her.”

“Has no one a further proposal to make?” inquired the president.

Nobody answered; even the squeaky voice of the little rat, who looked as if he had no end of suggestions to offer, was silent. A murmur of rattish voices filled the air.

“Friends, Romans, citizens, again I ask you all to lend me your ears,” exclaimed the president, at which all the rats put on a look of profound attention. “You have heard the proposals offered as well as the answers made to them. To me, speaking with due deference to the opinion of others, the proposals appear to be the most insane, foolish, and impracticable that could have been devised by rattish brains. Here we are, cut off from all connexion with the dry land and the whole race of rats. It is very clear that we can’t navigate this ship into harbour by ourselves. If we sink her we ensure our own destruction. If we kill the captain, officers, and crew by any of the means hinted at, we are equally certain ultimately to suffer. Here we are, and here inexorable fate dooms us to remain till we once more get alongside the shore and a plank from the ship enables us during the dark hours of night to effect our escape. Let us, therefore, like wise rats, in the meantime, be content with our condition, and enjoy at our ease the provisions with which the ship is stored.”

“Granted, Mr President, that your remarks are correct,” exclaimed Whiskerandos, who had before spoken, “I have still an idea which has long been hatching in my brain. I suggest that we wait until the ship reaches port and is moored securely alongside, when we will attack her planks both tooth and nail, and by boring holes in her bottom let in the water and make our escape.”

Loud cheers followed this suggestion. No one waited to hear what the president said. It was sufficiently encouraging to suit the minds of the most fiercely disposed, while the more timid were pleased with it as it indefinitely put off the time of action.

I had been an interested listener to all that was said, and was very thankful that the rats had arrived at this conclusion. At first I was afraid that they might decide on attempting to sink the ship, and though I might have tried to prevent them, yet should they have attacked me with overwhelming numbers I might have found it impossible to contend with them. I cared little for their projects of sinking the ship in harbour. I hoped before then to have made my escape. They had hitherto curiously enough not discovered me, and I hoped that I should be able to remain concealed, as I dreaded a conflict with the savage creatures now surrounding me in countless numbers. I remained perfectly quiet, scarcely daring even to breathe. Suddenly I was seized with a fit of sneezing.

At the first sternutation the rats jumped up and looked about them, evidently considerably alarmed. Again I sneezed, when off they scampered, disappearing like greased lightning, as our American cousins say, through countless crevices and holes and other openings I had not before perceived.

The light which had during the time pervaded the hold, faded away, and I was left in total darkness. It was sometime before I could persuade myself that what I had seen and heard had been only conjured up by my imagination, though I had no doubt that real rats had been running about in the neighbourhood, and had given rise to my dream.

Chapter Eleven.

The hold of the “Emu”—Further attempts at escape—The storm ceases—A rat hunt—Slippery customers—Oh, for a trap!—My ingenuity exercised—Caught at last—My repugnance to rat’s flesh—Hunger needs no sauce—My subsequent impressions—Cannibal rats—My solitary life—The rats grow cautious—The crate—I make a welcome discovery—A fresh expedition—As black as a nigger—Things might be worse.

Day and night to me were the same. My dreams having been troubled—which was very natural considering the circumstances—I did not feel inclined to go to sleep, so I once more got up to try if I could find some food.

I first took a draught of water. Indeed, had it not been for that, I could not have existed so long. Carefully putting in the plug, for I dreaded exhausting my store, I groped my way back to the opening I had lately discovered. I knew my position by feeling for the holes I had made in the cases.

As no light reached me, I knew it was either night or that the hatch had been put on. I was puzzled to decide which was the case. I listened for the sound of human voices. None reached my ear.

My hunger had become ravenous. Food I must have, or I should perish. I felt conscious that I was much weaker. I again tried to make myself heard, shouting and shrieking as loud as I could, but my voice was faint though shrill, more like that of a puny infant than a stout boy. I was becoming desperate. I first crept in one direction, then in another, trying to force my way between the bales and other packages, but to no avail. Everywhere I was stopped by some impediment I could not remove.

The storm, I concluded, had ceased, as the ship was comparatively quiet, so that I was less afraid than before of being jammed up between the heavy packages and turned into a pancake.

I felt about in every crevice for the possibility of finding something to eat. I cared not what it was, provided I could get my teeth into it. I remembered that rats often dragged away bits of food into their holes to devour at leisure, and I would gladly have found such a store. The idea that I might do so encouraged me to proceed.

If I could get out of my confined space I knew that I should have a better chance of falling in with food, but how to get out was the question.

I crept back for the handspike, and tried to move some of the bales, but all my efforts were unavailing. I then, carrying the handspike with me, went to the bulkhead at the other end of my prison, and endeavoured by repeated blows to knock in a plank. They were all too stout to give way to my apparently feeble efforts.

I fancied that the blows must resound through the ship, and that the crew would come below to ascertain what produced the noise, but I waited and waited in vain.

At last I went back to my couch, and sat down to consider what was to be done. I knew that as I grew weaker both my strength and wits would decrease, and that I should be less capable of exerting myself.

After sitting quiet for some time, I heard the rats again running about. Frequently they passed close to me, but when I darted out my hands they slipped by them. Once I caught a fellow by the tail, but he wriggled it out of my fingers, and another whose nose I must have touched gave me a sharp nip and then bounded away.

At last I thought I would form a trap with my knife. Near me was a square case close to which I heard the rats frequently passing. I felt and discovered that there was a small opening between it and the large package. I had some string in my pocket, and my plan was to hang up my knife by the string, the lower end of which I hung close to the hole, while I passed the upper end over my finger. I thus hoped that when a rat should be running in or out of the hole it might be stopped long enough by the string to allow the knife to descend.

My first attempt was not successful. Down fell the knife, but when I felt about for the rat which I had expected to have been transfixed, it had gone. I tried again, but once more the rat escaped me.

I began to fear that the creatures would discover my device, and take some other route when they wished to emerge from their hiding-places. Still I knew that perseverance conquers all difficulties. I was convinced that my plan might succeed. Why it had before failed I could not tell. Perhaps I held the knife too high up, and the rat had got away before it had time to descend.

I now held the knife rather lower down. Several times I replaced the knife, but always found it exactly before the spot. Again it fell, when I heard a loud squeak, and sprang down on my hands and knees in a moment, and caught the handle of the knife, which was moving rapidly along the plank. The blade had entered the side of a fat rat. The creature made an attempt to bite me, but I squeezed it by the neck. It lay dead in my hands.

At first even my hunger could not overcome my disgust at the thought of eating the creature. I carried it by the tail to let the blood stream out of the body, and went to the butt, where I took a draught of water, hoping to put off the moment when I should find my teeth in its flesh.

But hunger called loudly; I could resist no longer, and having cut off its head, I skinned it as well as I could in the dark. Then stripping the flesh from the bones, I put a morsel of it in my mouth. It tasted infinitely better than I could have expected. There was no rankness, no disagreeable flavour. I wondered how I could have had so much objection to eating raw rat. I scraped the bones clean.

As there were undoubtedly plenty more in the hold, though not so many as I had seen in my dream, I hoped that I should have been able to supply myself amply with game.

I was now sorry that I had thrown away the head and the entrails, as they might have served me for bait to catch more. I therefore hunted about till I discovered the head, on the point, I suspect, of being seized by another rat, for I heard the creature scamper off as I put my hand upon my prize. The entrails must have been devoured, for I could not find them.

My success encouraged me to try and catch another rat in the same way as before. I, however, somewhat changed my mode of proceeding. I fastened the head to the end of the string, and hung up the knife directly over it, by a small splinter which I stuck lightly into the crevice of the case. My expectation was that, when the rat pulled at the head of its slaughtered fellow, the knife would fall and transfix it.

I had to wait for some time listening to the sound of the rats’ footsteps. At length down came the knife, but no squeak followed, and I found it lying where it had fallen. I began to fear that the first rat had been killed by chance, and that my clever device could not be depended on.

Though the keen edge of my appetite had worn off, I knew that I should very soon be again hungry, and I therefore wanted, before I went to sleep, to catch another rat. I was aware that I must be moderate in my banquets, as I guessed that rat’s flesh was not likely to prove very wholesome; but I no longer felt, as I had previously done, that I should be starved to death.

I am afraid that I could boast of very few good qualities, but I possessed at all events that of perseverance. Perhaps I had gained it during my experience as a fisherman, when I used to sit for hours by the side of a pond waiting for a bite, and seldom failed to get one at last. I therefore again hung up my knife. I can’t tell how often it fell, but at last I caught one rat much as I had done the first, though at the expense of a bite on the thumb. By this time I was again hungry, and very soon had the rat’s flesh between my teeth.

To those who have not suffered as I had, my proceeding must appear very disgusting, but I would only advise any fellow who thinks so to try what he would do after going without food for three or four days. I certainly, during that time, had had nothing but two buns and unlimited draught of cold water. The cold water and the long spells of sleep I had enjoyed. I believe in reality that I was much longer than four days after I had finished the last bun, but I will not be positive, lest people should doubt the fact. The greater part of the time, however, was spent in sleep. My rat-dream, as I call it, might have occupied several hours, for I have not put down half of what I heard said, nor described the curious antics I saw, as I supposed, of the rats’ play. I have since recollected that the words with which the president began his speech were those used by Mark Antony at the commencement of his oration over the dead body of Caesar, which I learnt at school.

After eating the second rat I felt greatly revived, and resolved to continue my explorations, but a drowsiness came over me before I made my way to the further end of the hold. I returned to my couch and lay down to sleep.

It would be a good opportunity of sounding the praises of sleep, and if I were a poet I might indulge my fancy and produce something wonderfully novel; but as I never wrote a line in my life worthy of being called poetry, I will not inflict anything of this sort on my friends.

I was becoming wonderfully accustomed to my solitary life. Having rolled myself in the old sail, I closed my eyes with as much sense of security as I should have done in my own bed at home. I had ceased to think of my friends there, or of Aunt Deb and Mr Butterfield. I could not go on for ever troubling myself with thoughts of the anxiety my disappearance must have caused them. An intensely selfish feeling—for such I knew that it was—possessed me. My only thought was how I could get out of my prison, and if I could not succeed, how I might provide myself with food. I had no longer any fear of the rats. I had become their master. I looked upon them as the owner of an estate does on his hares and rabbits. The hold was my preserve, and I considered that I had a right to as many as I could catch.

I must proceed faster in my narrative than I have hitherto been going, and must omit some of my wakings and sleepings and hunts for rats and searches for more palatable food. The rats, after I had killed four or five, had become cautious. They are at all times cunning fellows, and must have discovered my mode of trapping them. The ship all this time was gliding on with tolerable smoothness, and on some occasions, by putting my ear down to the planks, I could hear the rippling of the water. At other times, I guessed by the dashing of the sea against the sides, that there was a strong breeze. I knew also, by the steadiness of the movement, that the ocean was tolerably calm. I should have liked to have known where we had got to. I could only guess that we were bound for South America, and that we were holding a southerly course.

I had made several exploring expeditions in search of food, when I discovered close to the bulkhead what seemed to me like a strong crate. By some chance or other I had not before put my hands upon it. I now moved them all over it, and at one place came to a space into which I could thrust my fingers. The board seemed loose. I tugged and tugged away till off it came with a crackling sound, and down I came. I picked myself up, happily not the worse for my tumble, and eagerly inserted my hand into the crate. There appeared to be several articles within, but what they were I could not make out. I had to take off another board before I could get hold of them. This I did, fixing my foot firmly so as not to fall back again, and after exerting myself for some time, the board gave way.

The first thing I laid hold of was a small keg. It seemed too heavy to contain biscuits, but I was nearly sure that there was something eatable within. I tried to open it with my knife, but nearly broke the blade in the attempt. That would have been an irreparable misfortune. My hands next came in contact with a thick glass bottle with a large mouth to it. I was too eager to ascertain the contents of the keg and bottle to continue my search. I therefore carried them down to my sleeping-place, where I had left the handspike, and there soon broke in the head of the cask. It contained some small, round, hard and greasy fruit, I eagerly tasted one. They were olives. I knew this because Mr Butterfield a few days before gave me some at dessert. I then thought them very bitter and nasty, but as I saw him eating them I nibbled at two or three. In the end I liked them rather better than at first, or rather, I didn’t dislike them so much.

Having eaten half-a-dozen, I was very glad that I had found them. They were at all events a change from rat’s flesh. I next took the bottle in hand, and with my knife scraped away the sealing-wax with which it was covered. Instead of trying to force out the cork I cut into it until I had made a hole big enough to insert my fingers, when I pulled it out. The bottle contained pickles. These, though they would not satisfy hunger would render the food I was doomed to live upon more palatable and wholesome. Having put them away in the most secure place I could think of, I returned to the crate.

By tearing off another plank I found that I could creep inside. It contained all sorts of things, apparently thrown in before the vessel began to be loaded to be out of the way, and afterwards forgotten. I came across two or three old brooms or scrubbing-brushes, a kettle with the spout broken, several large empty bottles, and other things I cannot enumerate. At last, when I thought I had turned everything over, my hand came against another cask, considerably larger than the first. I dragged it out. It was not so heavy as I should have supposed it would be from its size. It was too big to carry, so I rolled it along before me. From the first I fancied it must contain biscuits, but I was almost afraid to too soon congratulate myself on my good fortune. A few blows with the handspike shattered the top, and eagerly plunging in my hand, to my intense satisfaction I drew forth a captain’s biscuit. I ate it at once and thought it deliciously sweet, though it was in reality musty and mouldy. I had now a store of food to last me for days, and even weeks, should I not obtain my liberation, provided I used the strictest economy. All I wanted was fresh air. To obtain that, supposing I could not work my way out or make myself heard, was now my chief object.

Before setting out on another expedition, I placed my provisions where I hoped the rats would not be able to get at them, after carefully corking down the bottles of pickles and the jar of olives, and closing the keg of biscuits. I thought it very likely that the rats would try to make their way through the latter, but I intended to examine it frequently to ascertain whether they had commenced operations. I had been turning in my mind a better means of catching the rats than the one I had before adopted. I thought and thought over the matter, but could not arrive at any conclusion. Being no longer pressed by hunger, I was less in a hurry than I should have been had I only rats’ flesh to depend on. I pined for fresh air, but at the same time I was most inconvenienced for want of light. I was, however, already able to find my way about in a wonderful manner.

I had pictured in my mind’s eye all the objects around, and had the whole of my prison mapped out clearly in my brain, as I supposed it to exist. Perhaps it was not exactly according to reality. There were the kelson and the stout ribs of the ship, the planking over them, the water-butts on either side, the stout bulkheads. At one end my bed-place; the opening which I had formed at the other end, the bales, the packing-cases, the casks, and last of all the crate. Into this last I intended soon again to return, in the faint hope that I might force my way through it into some upper region. It was, I judged from the ease with which I had torn off the planks, old and rotten, and I could not therefore suppose that any heavy weight had been placed above it. I should have observed that I had reason to congratulate myself the ship was new and well caulked, and that not a leak existed throughout her length, for had any bilge-water been in her the stench would have been insufferable, and would soon either have deprived me of life or produced a serious sickness. As it was, considering what ships’ holds generally are, the air was comparatively pure, and I did not suffer much from the confinement. The fact I have mentioned would account for the number of rats in the hold, for being sagacious animals they are said always to desert a ship likely to go down. Probably, being inconvenienced by the water in the regions to which they are quickly driven when discovered, they take their departure on the earliest opportunity. I have known ships to founder with rats on board, so that they cannot be said to be a preventative to such a disaster.

I now set out on another expedition. As I got through the hole in the bulkhead a brighter light than I had before enjoyed came down into the open space, not directly, however, but through the various crevices among the numerous casks and cases piled up in the hold, so that I was able to distinguish the objects around me more clearly than I had hitherto done. I could not have read a book, but I could see my hands as I held them up before me, and they were as black as those of a negro. Probably my face was much in the same condition. I knew that my feet and my clothes also were begrimed with dirt. Strange as it may seem, I was so busy in taking a survey of the locality, that I forgot to shout out, for as the light came down my voice would certainly have been heard, as without doubt one of the hatches had been opened. My impulse was to take the opportunity of working my way upwards. I saw the crate close against the bulkhead and the place where I had torn off the plank. I eagerly scrambled in that direction, but could see no way over it. I must get inside, as I first intended. I thought then, if I could force off the top, I might make my way through it to an upper stratum of the cargo. I did as I proposed. In vain I tried with my back and hands to force up the top. I had forgotten to bring the handspike. It occurred to me that with that as a lever I should succeed. I returned for it.

The atmosphere I fancied had already become fresher, or at all events the foul air had escaped, and its place had been supplied by purer air through unseen openings. The light, dim as it was, which my eyes had enjoyed for a short period, made the darkness of the hold still darker. My senses were for a few moments confused, and for some time I searched in vain for the handspike. I was sure, however, that I remembered where I had left it. At last my hand touched the instrument, and I dragged it back to the scene of my intended operations. As I reached the spot, what what was my dismay to find all in darkness. The hatch, had been replaced, and I had lost the opportunity of making myself heard. Only then did it occur to me that I ought, immediately on seeing the light, to have shouted out. My wits, generally keen enough, were, I suspect, becoming somewhat confused.

I had so long been accustomed to do things with the greatest deliberation, that I had lost the impulse to prompt action which was otherwise natural to me. I now shouted, but it was too late, no one heard me. The seamen had gone to their usual occupations at a distance from the hatchway. For some minutes I sat down, vexed with my stupidity and dilatoriness.

On recovering myself I resolved never again to lose a similar opportunity. I had for so long worked in the dark, that I was not to be deterred from carrying out my intention. Armed with the handspike, I entered the crate. I first felt in each corner, to try and find an opening in which I could insert the end of my implement.

Not one was to be found. I next drove it against the ends of the planks; they were too firmly nailed down to yield. I next knocked away in the centre, hoping that one of the planks might prove rotten, and that I should be able to force it upwards. Again I was disappointed, and at last, tired with the exertions I had made, I was obliged to abandon the attempt; but I did not give it up altogether. I resolved, as soon as I had regained my strength and stretched my limbs, which had become cramped from being so long in a confined position, to set to work once more. I had been employed, I fancy, three or four hours; it may have been longer. At all events, I had become very hungry, and with a store of food near at hand I could not resist the temptation of eating. I accordingly retired to my berth and sat down. I had not contrived to catch a rat, so I had to content myself with a musty biscuit and a dozen olives for dinner, washed down by a copious draught of water. I was thankful for the food, though it could not be called a luxurious banquet.

Chapter Twelve.

Still in the hold—Conscience again troubles me—My new food and its effect on my health—I picture to myself the crew on deck—Rather warm—Another storm—My sufferings and despair—A cold bath—I lose my stock of provisions—The rats desert me—The storm subsides—My fancy gives itself rein.

Days, possibly weeks, may have passed by; I had no means of calculating the time. The ordinary sounds from the deck did not reach my ear, or I might have heard the bells strike, or the voice of the boatswain summoning the watch below on deck. I scarcely like to describe this part of my adventures, for fear that they should not be believed. I have since read of similar accounts of young stowaways being shut down in the hold of ships, but whether they were true or not I cannot say. Perhaps they were written with the purpose of deterring boys running off to sea. If so, they had a good object in view, for from my own experience I can say that a more mad or foolish act a silly youth cannot commit. A sailor’s life is not without its attractions; but to enjoy it he must have a good conscience, and be able to feel that he went to sea with his parents’ or friends’ consent; and then when disaster occurs, he has not bitterly to repent having acted contrary to their wishes. For my own part I tried to persuade myself that I was an unwilling stowaway, that I had only gone on board to take a look into the hold; but conscience whispered to me over and over again, “You know you thought of hiding yourself, and thus getting away to sea in spite of your Aunt Deb, and the kind old gentleman who was ready to do what he considered best for your advancement in life.”

I tried to silence conscience by replying, “I didn’t intend it, I should never have actually concealed myself in the hold if I could have helped it. I am simply an unfortunate individual, who is undergoing all this suffering through no fault of his own. Though I had no wish to become a merchant, I would, with all the contentment I could muster, have taken my seat in Mr Butterfield’s office, and done my duty to the best of my ability.”

Though I said this to myself over and over again, I found it more convenient to satisfy conscience and to think only of the present. I had plenty to do, much of my time being spent in endeavouring to catch rats. I seldom killed more than one in a day, though occasionally I was more successful. I ate them without the slightest disgust, taking some of the pickles at the same time with a piece of biscuit, my dessert consisting of three or four olives. I was afraid of exhausting my supply, or I could have swallowed many more. The rats’ flesh was tolerably tender. I suspect that I generally caught the young ones, for at length I caught one which must have been the father, or grandfather for that matter, of the tribe, as he was so tough that it was only with considerable difficulty I could masticate him. This food, however unattractive according to the usual ideas, must be wholesome, for I kept my health in an extraordinary manner. I was much indebted for this, I believe, to the olives, which prevented my being attacked by that horrible disease, scurvy. I was not aware at the time of its existence, but I have since witnessed its horrible ravages among crews insufficiently supplied with antiscorbutics, or who have neglected the ordinary precautions against it.

I every day made excursions to try and effect my liberation. The crate must have had something weighty on the top of it, I thought, or I should have been able to force it open. It had hitherto resisted all my efforts, though I frequently spent an hour within it.

The ship all this time was gliding on smoothly, and I supposed was making a prosperous passage. I occasionally pictured to myself what was going on over my head, canvas spread below and aloft, the ship under her courses, topsails, topgallant sails and royals with studdingsails rigged out on either side. The sea glittering in the rays of the sun, the sky bright, the captain and officers walking the deck or reading in their cabins. The crew lolling about with folded arms, smoking their pipes or spinning yarns. I forgot that some of them would be employed in spinning very different sorts of yarns to what I fancied, and that chief mates are not apt to allow man to spend their time with their arms folded, doing nothing. On and on sailed the ship. The atmosphere was becoming sensibly warmer. I supposed that we should soon get into a tropical climate, and that then I might find it disagreeably hot even down below. But I didn’t allow myself to think of the future, as I was beginning to abandon all hope of working my way out.

My desire now was that the ship might reach a port in safety, and begin to discharge her cargo; when I should have the chance of liberating myself. I did not, however, abandon altogether my efforts, and the exercise I thus took every day contributed to keep me in health. During the time I was sitting down and not sleeping, I employed myself in repeating all the English poetry and Latin speeches I had learnt, and sometimes I even attempted to sing the sea songs of which I had been so fond—“Cease, rude Boreas,” “One night it blew a hurricane,” “Come, all ye jolly sailors bold,” “Here a sheer hulk lies poor Tom Bowling,” and many others; but my voice was evidently not in singing trim, and I failed to do what Orpheus might have accomplished, to charm the rats from their hiding-places.

The sea continued calm for some time; at all events I felt no movement to indicate that it was otherwise; but whether the ship was moving fast or slowly I could not tell. I expected that she would continue her steady progress to the end of the voyage. I had gone to sleep, and I now generally slept on for eight or ten hours at a stretch, so I could not say whether it was night or day. All was the same to me. Suddenly I was awakened by a fearful uproar, and I found myself jerked off my sleeping-place on to the hard boards. From the noises I heard I fancied the ship must be going to pieces, or that the masts were falling. She heeled over so much on one side it seemed impossible that the water-butts could keep their positions, and I thought every instant I should be crushed to death by the one on the weather side falling upon me. A fearful storm was raging. My ears were deafened by the dashing of the fierce waves, and the howling and whistling of the wind, which reached me even down where I was; and by the incessant creaking of the bulkheads. Crash succeeded crash; the whole cargo seemed to be tossed about, now to one side now to the other. I could feel the ship rise to the summit of a sea, and then plunge down again to the depths below. I had hitherto retained my composure, but I now almost gave way to despair. It seemed that the ship, stout as she was, would not be able to survive the fierce contest in which she was engaged with the raging elements. Not for a moment was she quiet; now she appeared to be rolling as if she would roll the masts out of her, had they not already gone; now she surged forward and went with a plunge into the sea, which made her quiver from stem to stern. I thought that ribs and planks could not possibly hold together. I expected every moment to be my last. It would have been bad enough to have had to endure this on deck, surrounded by my fellow-creatures—down in the dark hold it was terrible.

I now wonder that my senses did not desert me, but matters had not yet come to their worst. I dared not move, for fear of being dashed against the casks. There I lay helpless and almost hopeless, while the violence of the movements increased. I did not feel sick, as before. Terror banished all other sensations. Suddenly I heard a loud crash close to me, and I found myself nearly overwhelmed by a strong rush of water. The instinct to live made me spring to my feet, for I should have been drowned had I remained where I was. I fully believed that the side of the ship had been forced in, and that before many seconds had passed I and all on board would be carried down to the bottom of the sea. Still I endeavoured to escape from the water, which in large masses came rushing against me, though my efforts would have been utterly useless had what I had supposed occurred. I made frantic efforts to escape out of the way of the torrent, and endeavoured to reach the only opening I was aware of by which I might escape if I could find egress to the upper deck. In my hurry, not using the caution I had generally exercised, I ran my head against a cask with so much force that I fell back senseless on the kelson. There I lay unable to rise, and believing that the water would soon cover me up and terminate my sufferings.

I was not altogether senseless; I should have been saved much wretchedness and suffering had I been so. I continued to feel the violent motion of the ship; to hear the uproar, the crashing of the cargo, the casks and chests being hurled against each other. I expected that the bulkhead near me, which had hitherto served as my protection, would give way, and that some of the huge cases would be hurled down upon me; but I had no strength to shriek out, and lay silent and motionless. Suddenly the rush of water ceased, and I heard only a little washing about beneath me. This surprised me greatly. I began to recollect that it must have been impossible that the side of the ship should have been smashed in, or the water would have continued entering with as much force as at first. This idea made me fancy that matters might not be so bad as I had at first supposed. By slow degrees I recovered my courage. “The ship is not going to sink, I may yet survive,” I thought, and I got up to try and ascertain the cause of the rush of water. I was not long in doing this. In groping my way about I came upon one of the huge butts, which, from the large fracture I felt in its side, had evidently burst and let out the whole of its contents.

It was fortunately not the water-cask from which I drew my supplies of the necessary element, but I guessed that it would prove ultimately of serious consequence to the crew, who would probably be depending on it when their stock in the other part of the ship had been exhausted. Still that at the time did not give me much concern. I was wet through, bruised, and exceedingly uncomfortable. I feared, too, that as one butt had given way, the others might before long follow its example, and that I should then have no water on which to support my life. Having made this discovery, I crept back to my sleeping-place.

As I had no other means of drying my clothes, I took them off and wrung them out, then wrapped myself in the sail, which being in a higher position had only been slightly wetted by the splash of the water. Unpleasant as my life was, this altogether was the most miserable period of my existence in the hold of the “Emu.” I thought that the storm would never end. Hour after hour the ship went plunging and rolling on, every timber shaking and quaking, my heart beating I must confess in sympathy. Regrets were useless. My only consolation now was that should the ship in the meantime not founder or be driven on the rocks, this state of things must come to an end.

I tried to forget where I was and what was happening and to bring my senses into a state of stupor. I would willingly have gone to sleep, but that seemed impossible. I was mistaken, however. After some time, in spite of the violent movements and the terrific uproar, I began to doze off, and an oblivion of all things, past and present, came over me. It was sent in mercy, for I do not think I could otherwise have endured my sufferings. When I awoke to the present matters had not improved, so I endeavoured, and successfully, to go to sleep again. This occurred several times. At last, in spite of my painful feelings, I found that I had become very hungry, and to my surprise my clothes, which I had hung up against the bulkhead on some nails stuck in the upper part, were very nearly dry. I put them on, unwilling to be without garments should I be discovered. I had no rats in store, so intended to make my meal off biscuits and olives. I put my hand down to where I had stowed them, when what was my dismay not to be able to find either the cask of biscuits or the jars of olives and pickles. I felt about in all directions, hoping that I had made a mistake as to their position. I was at length convinced that they had gone.

I then recollected that the chief volume of water out of the butt must have washed them away. Still they could not be far off. I lay down on the kelson and felt about with my hand on every side. My search for a moment was in vain. At last I picked up an olive, and then another. My fear was that the jar was broken. What if the pickles and biscuits had shared the same fate? That this was the case was too probable, and if so my stock of provisions, would be spoiled, if not lost altogether.

After further search I came upon the jar broken in two. It was especially strong, so that the bottle of pickles would have had no chance of escaping. I had fortunately my handkerchief, and I managed to pick up several olives, which I put into it. Creeping along I came at last upon the pickle-bottle, and nearly cut my hand in feeling for it. A few pickles were near it. I drew them out of the water which had escaped from the butt. Their flavour I guessed would be gone and all the vinegar which was so cooling and refreshing; but almost spoiled as they were, I was glad to recover them. I found, however, scarcely a fourth of the olives and pickles. The loss of the biscuits was the most serious. They, if long in the water, would be mashed up into a pulp, and perhaps dispersed throughout the bottom of the ship. The sooner I could recover whatever remained the better. I ate three or four olives and a piece of pickle to stay the gnawings of hunger, and went on with my search.

The ship, it must be remembered, was all this time rolling to and fro. I searched and searched, my hopes of recovering the biscuits in a form fit to be eaten growing fainter and fainter; still I knew that the keg, either entire or broken, must be somewhere within my prison-house, for so I must call it. I stopped at last to consider in what direction it could have been thrown. Perhaps being lighter and of larger bulk than the other things, it might have been jerked farther off, and rolling away got jammed in the casks or cases. My search proved to me that it could not be close beneath the kelson; I therefore felt backwards and forwards everywhere I could get my hand. I tried to recollect whether I had, when last taking a biscuit out, fixed on the head tightly or not. Having smashed it in, in order to broach the cask, it was not very easy to do so, and I had an unpleasant feeling that I had put on the top only sufficient to prevent the rats jumping down into the inside. If so, the chance of the biscuits having escaped was small indeed.

At length I touched the cask, which had been thrown from one end of the hold to the other. It was on its side. With trembling eagerness I put in my hand. Alas! Only a few whole biscuits and a few broken ones remained. These I transferred to my pocket-handkerchief with the olives and pickles, for fear of losing them. The remainder must be somewhere on the way. I tried back in a direct line, but could not find even a mashed biscuit. I then recollected that the cask had probably been jerked from side to side before it had found its last resting-place. It was a wonder that any of its contents remained in it.

Without loss of time, I enlarged the field of my search, and picked up several large pulpy masses which had once been biscuit. They were too precious to be thrown away. I put them into the bottom of the cask. I got back also several bits, which, though wet, had not lost their consistency. I was grateful for them; for though they would not keep, they would assist me to prolong existence for some few days. I ate some of the pulp, and a couple of olives to enable me to digest it. The other pieces of biscuit and the olives and pickles had been, I suppose, washed away out of my reach, for I felt about in every direction, but could lay my hands on nothing more. It may be supposed that the exertions I had made were not very fatiguing, but it must be remembered that the ship was tossing about all this time, and that I had to hold on with one hand while I felt with the other, to prevent myself from being jerked about and battered and bruised. As it was, I slipped and tumbled several times, and hurt myself not a little. I therefore crawled back to my couch, and rolled myself up in the sail, to go to sleep. I had not for some time been annoyed by the rats, who I suspect sat quaking and trembling in their nests as much alarmed as I was, and possibly more so, and I was amused at thinking that they must have heartily regretted having come to sea, and wished themselves safe back on shore in the houses or barns from which they had emigrated. I hoped, however, that when the storm was over they would come forth again, and give me the opportunity of catching them. I expected that it would quickly cease, but in this I was disappointed. There came a lull, and the ship did not toss about as much as before. I was contemplating getting up and making an excursion among the cargo, supposing that I might do so without much risk, when I was again thrown off my couch by a sudden lurch; and from the sounds I heard, and the violent pitching and rolling, I had good reason to suppose that the hurricane was once more raging with redoubled force. With the greatest difficulty I crawled back to my couch, and drawing the canvas round me, tried to retain my position. Every minute I imagined that one or the other water-butts would give way, and that I should be either crushed by its falling on me, or half-drowned by its contents. Then I thought what would be my fate should the fearful buffeting the ship was receiving cause her to start a plank. The water would rush in, and before I could possibly make my escape to a higher level I should be drowned, even should the ship herself keep above water, and that I thought was not very likely.

I had read enough about shipwrecks and disasters at sea to be aware that such a circumstance sometimes occurs. The end of a plank called a butt occasionally starts away from the timber to which it has been secured, and the water pressing its way in, opens the plank more and more, till the sea comes in like a mill-sluice; and unless the damage is at once discovered, and a thrummed sail is got over the spot, there is little chance of a ship escaping from foundering. When a butt starts from the fore end, and she is going rapidly through the water, her destruction is almost certain, as a plank is rapidly ripped off, and no means the crew possess can prevent it. Though I had heard crashing noises which had made me fear that the masts had been carried overboard, yet I judged from the movement of the ship that they were standing. She was seldom on an even keel, but when she heeled over it was always on one side. As yet all the strain to which she had been subjected had produced no leaks, as far as I could judge from the small quantity of water in the hold, and that was chiefly what had come out of the butt. Had I not put the remnants of the olives and biscuits in my pockets I should have starved. When hunger pressed, I took a small portion, sufficient to stop its gnawings. I suffered chiefly from thirst, as I was afraid of getting up to go to the water-butt, lest I should be thrown over to the opposite side after I had drawn out the spile, before I could catch any water as it spouted out, and that much of it would be lost. I felt the necessity of economising my store, for I so mainly depended on it for existence, as it enabled me to subsist on a much smaller quantity of food than I could have done without it. At length I could bear my tortures no longer, but getting up, cautiously crawled towards the butt, stopping to hold on directly I felt the ship beginning to give a lurch.

I must again observe, that close down to the keel as I was, I felt this much less severely than I should have done at a higher level. I went on, until I believed that I was close to the butt, then waiting for another lurch. Directly it had taken place, I drew myself carefully up, and searched about for the spile. I found it, and drew it out, and let the water spout out into my mouth. How I enjoyed the draught. It restored my strength and sadly flagging spirits. I stopped to breathe, and then again applied my mouth to the hole. I should have been wiser had I refrained, for before I could drive in the spile I was hove right away to the opposite side of the hold, almost into the opening of the water-butt which had burst. I could hear the water rushing out, and it was some time before I could recover myself sufficiently to crawl back to try and stop it. I was almost wet through before I could accomplish this, though I had to mourn the loss of no small quantity of the precious fluid. My purpose accomplished, I made my way back to my couch. Hours passed by. Sometimes I would fancy that the storm was never to end. In my disordered imagination, I pictured to myself the ship, officers, and crew under some dreadful doom, destined to be tossed about on the wide Atlantic for months and years, then perhaps to be dismasted and lie floating motionless in the middle of the Sargasso Sea, of which I had read, where the weeds collect, driven by the current thrown off by the gulf-stream, till they attain sufficient thickness for aquatic birds to walk over them.

I remembered the description that Mr Butterfield had given me of the captain of the “Emu.” I thought, perhaps, that he had committed some dreadful crime, and was being thus punished for it. The only one of the crew whom I remembered, Gregory Growles, was certainly a bad specimen of humanity. Perhaps, though pretending to be honest traders, they were pirates; and even when I had obtained my liberty they would not scruple to make me walk the plank, should my presence be inconvenient. I cannot, however, describe the hundred-and-one gloomy ideas which I conjured up. How far they were from the truth time only was to show. The ship continued her eccentric proceedings with more or less violence. The tempest roared above my head. Crashing sounds still rose from the cargo which had shifted, and which it appeared to me must ere long be smashed to atoms. The worst of the matter was, that I had no one to blame but myself. Had I been seized and shut up in the hold by a savage captain, I should have felt myself like a martyr, and been able to lay my sufferings on others. When I was able to reflect more calmly on my situation, I remembered that the storm must inevitably some day or other come to an end. I had read of storms lasting a week, or even a fortnight, and sometimes longer, but if I could hold out to its termination, as by means of the biscuits and olives I might do, I hoped that I should at last effect my liberation. I must not, however, take up more time by further describing the incidents of this memorable portion of my existence.

Chapter Thirteen.

Still in the hold—Dreamland again—Chicken-pie—Return of the rats—I improve my plans for catching them—Two rats at one meal—My state of mind—“Mercy! Mercy!”—While there’s life there’s hope—I recommence my exertions to get out of the hold with some success—Purer air—My weakness returns—I recover my strength—Still no outlet—I perform my ablutions—My desire to live at all hazards returns—“Where ignorance is bliss ’tis folly to be wise”—The yarn of Toney Lawson—The evil effects of getting drunk—The “Viper”—Toney obliged to give in—Toney’s thoughts of escape—The fate of the “Viper” determines the question—Toney’s wonderful escape.

Perhaps one of the most painful circumstances connected with my imprisonment was the impossibility of calculating how the time went by.

I remember that I suddenly awoke after dreaming that I was at a jolly picnic with old friends near Roger Riddle’s cottage. That the cloth was spread with pies and tarts, a cold sirloin of beef, a dish of fowls, and a tempting ham, and that we were eating and drinking, and laughing and singing, in the merriest way possible. I had just had the breast and wing of a chicken and a slice of ham placed on my plate, and was running over to get the mustard-pot, when to my surprise it became covered with feathers, and off it flew. I was jumping up to catch hold of it, not wishing thus to lose my dinner, but instead found myself in total darkness, and gradually came to the disagreeable consciousness that I was in the hold of the “Emu,” and that I had only a few small biscuits and three olives remaining of my stock of provisions, independent of the pickles in the corner of my handkerchief.

The ship, however, was perfectly quiet. The gale must have ceased some time before, to allow the sea to go down. By putting my ears to the planks I could catch the sound of a gentle ripple as she glided along, but no other noise was to be heard. The bulkheads had ceased to creak, the masts to complain, the cargo to crash, and all was perfectly quiet overhead.

My hunger showed me that I must have been a long time asleep, and I could not resist the temptation of eating the remainder of my biscuits and olives. I had thus only the pickles to exist on, unless I could catch some rats with which to eat them. I took a draught of water, and then sat down to consider the plans I had before thought of to trap my game.

One occurred to me as the most feasible. Though I could not see I could feel, and my idea was to form a bag with a piece of the canvas, and give it a small mouth so contrived that I could close it suddenly with a string. Among the articles in my pocket was a stock of string of various thicknesses; I found on measuring it that I had not only sufficient to make the bag, but enough to gather in the mouth with an additional piece to hold in my hand. My gimlet would serve as an awl or sailmaker’s needle, though not an efficient substitute. I had been so long accustomed to the darkness that I fancied I could pass the string through the holes I had made without difficulty. My hunger was an incentive to perseverance.

With my knife I first of all cut a piece off my canvas of sufficient size for my purpose. I am sure that I could not have done it so well at any time before, had I attempted to perform the operation in the dark. I then turned in the edges, and passing the string through the holes I had made, united the two sides. Sometimes I could not get the string through without another boring, at others I succeeded at the first attempt, tying the string at each stitch. It was a slow operation, but the result was beyond my most sanguine expectations.

I had a long, thickish piece of hard twine, which I devoted to the mouth of the bag. I had to make the holes for these with great regularity, so as not to leave an opening large enough for a rat to jump out at. I worked on without stopping till my task was accomplished, as I was anxious to ascertain whether it would answer the object I had in view.

While I was working I heard the rats running about, and two or three knocked their noses against my feet, showing that they had again come out of their holes, and were either hunting for food or gambolling for their pleasure.

I had, however, retained a small piece of biscuit in my pocket, which, although I longed to eat it up, I had sufficient resolution to devote as a bait to the rats.

Placing myself near the shattered butt, which seemed to be the spot most numerously frequented by them, I put down the bag with my foot at one end of it, holding the string in my hands, and leaving only a very small opening, which I could close of a sudden.

I waited eagerly. Rats ran about near my feet, leapt over the bag, and skipped and frolicked, uttering squeaks of delight. Still none came actually into the bag. At last one more curious than his fellows poked his nose into the opening. I felt him running along inside, having discovered a biscuit within. With a sudden jerk I quickly closed the mouth of the bag. I felt about with my fingers, and soon came upon Master Rat inside. As I didn’t wish to give him the opportunity of biting me, I grasped him tightly by the neck, and squeezed out his life.

After drawing him out, I again put down the bag to tempt some more of his kindred, while I held him up by the tail. In a few minutes I felt others approaching, curious to explore the interior of the bag. I again gave a sudden jerk, and found that I had caught no less than three, who, as they felt themselves drawn up, began fighting and biting at each other, and would, I believe, had I not speedily put them out of existence, have been like the Kilkenny cats, and left only their tails behind them.

I had now ample food, though not of the character most people would have desired, and had also a bag to keep it in. I soon disposed of the first rat, with which I ate some small pieces of pickle as a relish, and I must confess that I enjoyed my meal amazingly. To me it appeared of a peculiarly delicate character. I could have eaten another rat with perfect satisfaction, but I considered it prudent to wait, so as not to give myself a surfeit.

Before long, however, I was again hungry, and on this occasion I ate two rats with some small pieces of pickle and drank a pint or more of water.

I now felt sufficiently strong to recommence my attempt at escape. I was prepared for difficulties of all sorts, as I knew that the cargo had been much displaced during the storm. I have so often described my journeys to and fro, that I am afraid of becoming wearisome, but I must mention what now took place.

As I made my way along I tumbled over several things which had not been there before, and had evidently been thrown out of their places by a violent jerk of the ship. At last I got to the bulkhead through which with such infinite pains I had previously made my way. What was my dismay to find it stopped! Human hands could certainly not have put the obstacles there that I found. As I was feeling about I discovered a huge case of some sort which had been thrown down from above, and stopped up the way. It was not likely that my strength would be able to remove it.

After feeling about to ascertain if there was any opening at the side or top through which I might squeeze myself, and finding none, I returned for my handspike, thinking that I would at all events try to force the case on one side or the other. It was so large, however, that when making the attempt I could not move it in the slightest degree, and after trying in all ways, I had to abandon the enterprise.

I had been sensible of the greater closeness of the atmosphere, and I had now no doubt that the case prevented the air which descended from above from circulating through the hold as it before had done. The temperature also, I had no doubt, was increasing as the ship got into more southern latitudes, and I had some fears of being stewed alive. I was already streaming with perspiration from my efforts.

I was, indeed, in a weak state, which was but natural, so that I was unable to undergo any exertion without feeling far more exhausted than I had previously done. Sick and weary, I returned to my resting-place. I was seriously afraid of falling really ill. If I did so, what hope could I have of escaping? The olives and pickles and biscuits, which had hitherto preserved me in health were exhausted. Rats’ flesh might serve to keep me alive for a few days, but alone would certainly be very unwholesome. I was already beginning to feel a repugnance to eating it. Perhaps this was in consequence of my having devoured two rats at one meal.

My chief refreshment was cold water, and that I found a great luxury. I must have swallowed prodigious quantities of it, still the butt held out; though, if my imprisonment lasted much longer, that also must come to an end. I had never heard of hydropathy, but I was heartily willing to sing its praises, and I have ever since been a resolute water-drinker.

I lay down to rest after my exertions, but my cogitations were not of an agreeable character. I was in different moods. Sometimes I thought that I would abandon all further attempts at escaping, and yield to my fate; then I would shout out as loudly as my weak voice would allow: “Help! Help! I am dying! Help! Help! Will any one come to take me out of this place? Mercy! Mercy!” Finally a more courageous spirit animated me. “I’ll not yield while I have life!” I exclaimed. “I’ll cut my way with my knife through case after case, and draw out the contents so that I may make a passage through them.”

I got up, feeling resolute and bold, taking my knife and my handspike with me. I had no means of sharpening the blade of my knife except on a hard piece of oak, and that was not very effectual.

On reaching the place where the opening had been, I felt all over the side of the chest. It didn’t feel to be as even and regular as I had expected to find it. I began at once to use my knife, so as to cut a hole into the centre. As I pressed against it, the plank yielded slightly. The operation must inevitably be a long one, so instead of cutting on I took the handspike, and dealt several blows as hard as I could strike. The first blow I struck produced a creaking sound. I renewed my efforts. The plank began to give way. I struck again and again. The side flew inwards. I then struck about so as to knock off the splinters. I crept through the opening thus made, and from the articles I then found I was convinced that it was the old crate through which I had before made my way, and which had fallen down in front of the opening. I was sure of this when I found that I could creep out through the smaller fracture on the opposite side.

Still I was not free. No light permeated between the bales and packages. I felt about, but could not recognise any of the things with which I was before acquainted. Many of the packages appeared so placed that I might, without great care, bring them down on myself. Still, being thus far free, I determined to persevere. I thought that if I could once more get near the hatchway, I might be able to shout and make myself heard. I tried in all directions to find an opening. At last I thought that I discovered one at the spot from which the crate had fallen. I clambered up one huge bale, then got on another, and I was then on a higher level than I had been since I first fell into the hold. I was rejoiced at the prospect of liberating myself, when a faintness came over me, and I sank down on the top of the bale.

As I thus lay I pictured to myself the crew above me going through their usual avocations. I fancied that I could even hear their footsteps on the deck, as they walked about or hauled at the ropes. I was sensible of a gentle movement of the ship, which instead of tumbling furiously about, was gliding on, rising and falling slowly to the sea. The air was purer than that in the part from which I had made my way, and I could breathe more freely. Had my strength been sufficient I should have again shouted, as I felt sure I must have been heard, but when I attempted to raise my voice it failed me altogether. I could scarcely utter an articulate sound. I tried again and again, but in vain. I was conscious that I was becoming weaker and weaker.

One thing I was determined on, and that was not to return to the dreadful hold. I looked back at it with horror, and I shuddered to think of the amount of rats’ flesh I had eaten. Yet in many respects I was not better off than before. I had not found any food. My position might be perilous in the extreme, for I could not tell what was around me. I might, should a sudden breeze come on, be thrown back again to the bottom of the hold. For some time I could not move, or exert my mental or physical powers. I again thought that I was going to die; but I was not really so weak as I supposed, for at length, a desire to live returning, I raised myself and tried once more to work my outward way. I could find no outlet, and as my voice had failed me, I was unable to shout, but I could manage to move about. I was very thirsty, and notwithstanding my previous resolution not to return to the lower part of the hold, I thought the wisest thing I could do was to go down and get a draught of water. I believed that I could easily find my way. I let myself down off one bale and then another, till I came to the crate. I crept through it, and curiously enough I felt as if I had returned home. I walked up to the water-cask as if it had been an old friend, with delight, and took a draught of water. It was cool and refreshing, and revived me greatly. I felt hungry; I had hoped never again to eat another rat, but the keenness of my appetite overcame my scruples, and I took one out of the bag. I even thought of placing the bag ready to catch some more. I, however, only ate one of the creatures, though not without difficulty, in spite of my hunger. I then bathed my face and washed my hands, to look a little more respectable should I ere long make my appearance among the crew. For this purpose I withdrew the spile, and allowed the fresh water to trickle first over my hands, and then over my face. This still further refreshed me, and I wished that I had performed a similar operation oftener. Had I not suspected that the water at the bottom of the hold must have been by this time very foul, I should have taken off my clothes and had a bath.

I refrained, however, from doing this, and contented myself with the pleasant sensation of feeling cleaner than I had been for a long time. I suspect that had I had a looking-glass placed before me, I should not have known myself. On feeling my arms and legs, they seemed like those of a skeleton; my cheeks were hollow, and my hair long and tangled. The rat which I had last eaten had dulled the sense of hunger. I felt a peculiar sensation afterwards, which convinced me more than ever that I could not long exist on rats’ flesh. I fancy that I might have been wrong.

It was night when I made my last attempt to get upwards, so I thought that I would take a sleep and renew my efforts in the daytime, when I should have a better chance of attracting notice should I get near the hatchway. I accordingly lay down to rest, hoping that it would be the last time I should have to sleep in the hold. I took only short snatches of sleep.

When I awoke I lay for some time without moving, and could not help thinking over and over again of the events which had occurred since I left the quay at Liverpool. I knew that the end of my confinement must be approaching in some form or other; I should either die, or be restored to the open air. In spite of the wretched condition to which I had been reduced, I had a strong wish to live. I especially wanted to go back to assure Aunt Deb that I had not intentionally run away, and also to relieve the minds of my father and mother, and brothers and sisters, of the anxiety I believed they must have felt on my account. Suddenly also I remembered with painful distinctness the remarks Mr Butterfield had made respecting Captain Longfleet, the commander of the “Emu,” and his ruffianly crew. Certainly their appearance was not in their favour; and old Growles, who had received me so surlily, was not a good specimen of British seamen. What if the ship should prove to be a pirate, instead of an honest trader? I had heard of the crews of vessels, fitted out at Liverpool, assisting slavers on the coast of Africa in carrying out their nefarious trade, some committing all sorts of atrocities.

Should the “Emu” prove to be one of these, even if I were not hove overboard, I might be sold as a slave in the Spanish possessions, perhaps to labour in the mines among the hapless Indians, who are thus employed by their cruel taskmasters. “Where ignorance is bliss, ’tis folly to be wise,” and I should have been much less anxious had I not heard so much about such things. I remembered especially a yarn old Riddle told me one day about a messmate of his, Toney Lawson. I may as well try to give the yarn in his own words, though that may be a hard matter, and I can scarcely hope to do full justice to his narrative.

“Toney, d’ye see, was once on a time knocking about Plymouth, after he had been paid off from the ship he last sailed in, when who should he meet but Joe Gubbins, who had served with him for many years gone by. Joe had always been a wild slip of a fellow when he was a youngster.

“Said Joe to Toney, ‘What are you doing in these ’ere parts, old Ship?’

“Toney told him how he had been paid off and had pretty well emptied his pockets of shiners, and was thinking that before long he must join another craft.

“‘That’s just what I was a thinking of too, so just step in here, mate, and we’ll have a talk about the matter over a glass or two,’ and he pointed to the door of a public-house which stood temptingly open to entice passers-by.

“Toney was not one of those chaps to get drunk on every occasion, but he had no objection to good liquor when it came in his way. So, intending to pay for what he had, he went in with Joe. Joe boasted of a craft he had served aboard—a privateer, he called her. She had taken no end of prizes, and had made every one on board her as rich as Jews, only somehow or other they didn’t keep their money as well as Jews did, ‘and that’s the reason why my pockets ain’t lined as well as they were a few weeks ago,’ observed Joe. Toney, who was a steady sort of a man, didn’t quite like the account Joe gave of the ‘Viper’s’ cruise Joe was talking about.

“‘Why, to my mind, she’s no better than a bloodthirsty pirate,’ he said.

“Joe laughed. ‘You’re too particular, mate,’ said he. ‘’Tain’t no worse than many another crew afloat.’

“However, he didn’t press the point any longer, but emptying his glass, called upon Toney to drink up his, and ordered more and more liquor in, when Toney said he would not take another drop. At last Toney didn’t know what happened except that he found himself slipping off from his seat on to the sandy floor, and could not, for the life of him, get up again. He thought it would be better to go to sleep where he was, so he coiled himself away to have a snooze. When he woke he tried to recollect what had happened.

“He remembered that he had been sitting with Joe Gubbins, and that he somehow or other got down on the floor, so he felt about, thinking he was there still. But all was dark; and instead of a sandy floor and the legs of the tables and chairs, his hand touched only some hard pitchy planks. He stretched out his arm as high as he could, and found that there was a deck close above him. He crawled along, and came right against a bulkhead. He knew then that he must be on board a craft of some sort. He was not a man to make a fuss about nothing; and as he was still only half awake, he thought he might as well turn round and go to sleep again.

“When he roused up a second time, he felt the vessel moving to the heave of the sea. He had been too long afloat not to know that she was making good way through the water with a fresh breeze. As he was getting somewhat hungry, he didn’t want to be any longer down in the hold. He thought it was time to sing out and let those on board know where he was. Having a good pair of lungs of his own, he shouted pretty lustily, but no one came near him, nor hailed him.

“‘This seems a curious job,’ he said to himself; ‘have they taken me for a bale of goods and hove me down here to stay till they discharge cargo?’

“Presently he heard the sound of a gun fired overhead; right aft, he judged, for he knew well enough by the movements of the vessel which way she was going. Then another, and another followed; then came a cheer, though he heard it but faintly down where he was. The guns again went off. He guessed that the craft he was on board of was being chased, and that the cheer was given because the crew had knocked away some of the enemy’s spars. He could hear two or three shots strike the hull of the vessel, so he knew that they were not having the game all to themselves. Being fond of fighting, he wished that he was on deck to take his share in it. There was no use wishing without trying to get out, but whichever way he moved he found a strong bulkhead.

“Though he kicked with all his might he could not start a plank. He tried again and again, till every muscle in his body ached. At last he had to give it up. His temper was not growing very sweet, as may be supposed. He began to think whether it was Joe Gubbins that had brought him aboard, for he didn’t come of his own accord, of that he was certain. He vowed that he would pay Joe off whenever he fell in with him. At last the firing ceased. He felt, by the quiver running through every plank and timber that the craft was carrying as much sail as she could bear. There was no more cheering, and he could not tell whether she had got away altogether, or was still trying to escape from a big enemy. He tried to fancy why he was kept down there all this time. He supposed that he had been forgotten by whoever brought him aboard. He could not tell whether the vessel was a king’s ship or a privateer, but that she was not a merchantman he was pretty sure. Perhaps, if she was a man-of-war, or a privateer, she was being chased by a Frenchman, but if she was a pirate she was more likely to be running from an English frigate than any other. Still it was not likely that a pirate would venture into Plymouth Sound.

“In either case Toney didn’t relish the thoughts of being captured. In one there would be a French prison in store for him, and in the other a man-of-war captain would not believe that he had been brought aboard against his will, and would declare that he had stowed himself away to escape. At last he got so hungry that he began to fear he should be starved to death. He tried another shout. His voice didn’t reach those on deck. He knew by this time that it must be night. Having nothing better to do, he was going off to sleep when he heard a bolt withdrawn from the outside, and a light streamed in to where he lay.

“‘Who are you?’ he asked, springing up and knocking his head against the deck above him with a force which sent him backwards.

“‘I’m coming to see how you’re getting on, mate,’ answered his visitor.

“‘Badly enough,’ said Toney, ‘I’m as hungry as a shark, and don’t like being shut up down here. Who are you?’

“‘I’ve been sent down here to ask if you’ll, like a wise man, join this craft. She wants hands, and as you’re well-known to be a good seaman, you’ll get a good berth aboard.’

“‘I never join a craft unless I know what sort of a captain and messmates I’m a-going to have,’ said Toney.

“‘There are times when a man mustn’t be over particular,’ said his visitor. ‘You’re a fool if you don’t say yes, so just come on deck and sign articles. You’ll learn all about this craft afterwards.’

“‘No, no,’ said Toney; ‘I never buy a pig in a poke. Tell me what? Want to know, then I’ll tell you whether I’ll join or not.’

“‘You’ll join, whether you like it or not,’ said his visitor with a growl. ‘You’ve chosen to come aboard, and we don’t allow idlers.’

“‘I didn’t choose to come aboard,’ said Toney. ‘Somebody brought me aboard when I was obfuscated, I suppose, and I’ll have a reckoning with that somebody before long.’

“‘If that’s your notion you’ll stay where you are,’ said his visitor, and he slammed the door and bolted it.

“Toney was a determined fellow, but there was one thing he couldn’t stand, and that was hunger. He got worse and worse. He could not sleep, and he could not shout out. By the time his visitor came again he was as meek as a lamb.

“‘Are you going to join or are you not?’ was the question.

“‘I give in,’ said Toney.

“‘Come along then,’ said his visitor.

“Toney crawled out and up the ladder of the main hatchway. He found that he was on board a brigantine, a rakish-looking craft, with several officers standing aft by the captain, and a numerous crew, among whom he saw Joe Gubbins. He couldn’t help lifting his fist and shaking it at Joe, who stood with a brazen face looking as if the threat could not be intended for him.

“‘Are you hungry, my man?’ asked an officer, whom he supposed to be the captain.

“‘Can’t say but what I am,’ said Toney.

“‘Then there’ll be plenty of grub for you when you’ve signed these articles.’

“‘Should like to know what they are, sir,’ said Toney.

“‘There’s the book; you may read them,’ said the captain. ‘Put your name down at the bottom of the page.’

“Now Toney was no great hand at reading or writing. He could just manage to scrawl his name. He tried to make out what the articles were about, but it was more than he could do.

“‘Come, my man, are you ready for your grub?’ asked the captain.

“Toney felt as if he should drop if he didn’t get something to eat, and just then a whiff from the galley came across his nose. He took the pen and managed to write his name, in a fashion.

“‘That’ll do, my man,’ says the captain. ‘You’re now one of the crew, and under my orders. We’ve pretty strict discipline aboard here. There’s the yard-arm, and there’s the sea alongside.’

“Toney was now allowed to go forward and enjoy a good blow out, which he much needed. He felt more like himself afterwards. He soon showed that there was not a better seaman aboard.

“Nothing particular occurred to show the character of the vessel. Joe kept out of his way until he got into a better temper, and they became very good friends again. They ran to the southward till they were in the latitude of the Guinea Coast, when they fell in with a craft, into which they discharged part of their cargo in exchange for some bags of gold. They now carried on in a strange way, chasing several vessels, capturing some and taking their cargoes out of them, in spite of what their crews could say, afterwards putting them on board a Spanish or a Portuguese craft and getting doubloons in exchange. Their guns and their numerous crew made resistance impossible. They were wonderfully successful in their proceedings, until one day they fell in with a British frigate and had to up stick and run for it. The African coast had become too hot for them, so they stood away for the Caribbean Sea and Spanish Main. Here they carried on worse than before. The crews of all vessels which resisted were made to walk the plank, and the vessels, after everything had been taken out worth having, were sent to the bottom.

“Toney, being an honest man, could not stand this; but he knew that, being tarred with the same brush, if taken he would share the fate of the rest. He determined to cut and run on the first opportunity. A strict watch was kept on him; and Joe, who knew his thoughts, hinted that the yard-arm would be his fate if he made the attempt and failed. Still he was resolved to try and get off, but the matter was settled for him in a way he little expected. The brigantine, during a heavy gale one night, was struck by lightning and blew up, Toney and two others only finding themselves floating among the wreck. Joe Gubbins was one of these. Toney managed to get hold of the mainmast and clambered into the top, where he got his legs out of the water and was trying to help Joe Gubbins, when Joe, with a shriek, disappeared. The other man shared the same fate. Toney expected to die, but the next day he was picked up by an English sloop-of-war; and as he took care not to give a very clear account of the craft he had been aboard of, he was allowed to enter as one of her crew. Here he met Roger Riddle, to whom he gave the account of his adventure.”

I thought to myself perhaps the “Emu” is employed in the same sort of trade as the “Viper,” and if so, I shall be as badly off as Toney Lawson.

Chapter Fourteen.

The hold—My provisions become exhausted—A fresh attempt at escape—Pressed by hunger, I persevere—The spar-deck—Not out yet—A ray of light—My prostrate condition—My mind gives way—A curious trio—The main hatchway—Fresh difficulties arise—A last effort—I am rescued—Ghost of a ghost—I make a new friend and meet with an old one—The crew of the ship—My new quarters—I receive a piece of advice from my new friend—Mark’s adventures, and how he came aboard the “Emu”—Poor Jack Drage—Mark gets into trouble.

The recollection of Toney Lawson’s adventure didn’t tend to make me feel any more comfortable than before. I could scarcely hope to be as well off as he was, or to have so fortunate an escape. My provisions being exhausted, I was aware that I must soon get out of the hold or perish, yet I didn’t anticipate much satisfaction from obtaining my liberty. No time was, however, to be lost, and I therefore nerved myself up for a fresh struggle. Feeling that I had my knife about me, and having put on my shoes, I prepared to make a desperate attempt to effect my escape. I crawled on through the crate, and once more attempted to climb up over the packages into the main hold.

I tried to do this in several directions, but I found no opening so promising as the one which I had before explored. My weakness prevented me from making the exertions that were required to force my way between the bales. I was in momentary fear of falling down a crevice, and being jammed to death. My situation in some respects was infinitely worse than that of Toney Lawson, who was bolted in, but then people knew where he was. No one on deck was aware of my deplorable condition. Still I crawled on, resolved to succeed. While feeling about, I discovered a space between three or four bales. I crept in very much as a rat does into his hole, only he knows where he is going. I could not tell whether I should get through or have to force my way out again legs first. Still the cravings of hunger induced me to venture. On I crept, when on putting up my hand I found that there was nothing above me which I could touch, so that I was able to stand upright, though there might be some depth in front down which I might fall.

I moved with the greatest caution. It turned out, however, that they were only bales piled one upon another, and that I was standing in a sort of well. Still there were stepping-places, and with the ropes which bound the bales I was able to work my way upwards. Higher and higher I got. I could now distinctly hear the footsteps of the men on the deck, which I guessed, therefore, could be no great distance above me. The ship must have been moving calmly along, and I was thus preserved from being jerked off from the place to which I was clinging. I still moved on till I reached a part of the hold filled chiefly, it appeared to me, with large packing-cases and casks. I was almost on a level floor. It might have been the spar-deck. Wearied with the fatigue I had undergone, I sat down on a box to rest. I could now distinctly hear not only the tread of the men’s feet, but their voices. They were the first human voices which had reached my ears for days, or rather weeks. I tried to shout to attract their attention, but my voice had completely failed me. Not a sound could I utter. I felt that I had not strength to move an inch further.

Twice I made the attempt, and had to sink back again on my seat. I was gazing upward, the only direction from which help could come, when a ray of light streamed right upon me. Forgetting my weakness, I started up. It must come, I knew, from the partly open hatchway, or from a fracture in the hatch itself. This I afterwards found to have been the case, the fracture being covered up with a tarpaulin, which had at that instant been removed. Again I endeavoured to shout out, but my voice was not under the control of my will. No sounds issued from my mouth. I stretched out my hands in an imploring attitude, fancying that I should be seen. I attempted to make my way directly under the opening, but ere I could reach it I sank down utterly exhausted.

I had never before been so completely prostrated. I didn’t lose my senses, but all physical power had deserted me. I could scarcely move my hands or feet; still I thought that the hatch must be again opened before long, and that I could not fail to be discovered. I earnestly prayed that help might be sent me. How it was to come I could not tell. Notwithstanding what was before me, I still desired to be set free. Although I was not sleeping, strange fancies filled my brain. I saw people flit about in the darkness, suddenly coming into the light, and then disappearing. Some were people I knew, and others were strangers. Aunt Deb and Mr Butterfield came by, tripping it lightly, holding each other’s hands, he in a bob wig with a sword by his side, she in high-heeled red shoes and a cap decked with flowers and ribbons. She smiled and ogled, as if about to dance a minuet. I almost laughed as I saw them, they appeared so vivid and real. Then Captain Longfleet came upon the scene as I fancied him, dressed in a cocked-hat and feathers, a long sword buckled to his side, high boots, a red coat, and a waistcoat braided with gold.

I fancy that I must have seen some picture of the sort of a pirate captain to cause him thus to be presented to my imagination. He walked about flourishing his sword till he met Aunt Deb, to whom, instead of cutting her head off, as I thought he was about to do, he made a profound bow, and then vanished. Many other figures quite as bizarre and unnatural appeared before me. I mention these trivial circumstances to show the state of my mind. I had been so long by myself that I must be pardoned if I appear egotistical. Again all was quiet. I lay for some time, if not unconscious, with very little power of thought. I was afraid that another night would come on, and that I should have to endure my sufferings for some hours longer, if death did not put an end to them. I could still hear the tread of the men’s feet, and even the voices of the officers, shouting their orders. How I wished that I could shout also, for then I knew I should be heard. I tried once more to move, and managed to drag myself on till I got directly under the hatchway. Although I could not shout, to my surprise I heard myself groaning.

There being light sufficient to enable me to observe objects, my eye fell upon a loose piece of wood. I grasped it with all my remaining strength, and began beating away on the top of a cask, which proved to be empty from the sound which emanated from it. I beat on and on, but no notice appeared to be taken of the noise I was making. I was too ill and weak to reason on the subject, but I remembered hearing a loud voice shouting out some orders. Presently there came a tramp of feet overhead, backwards and forwards and from side to side they seemed to run. The crew were evidently engaged in shortening or making sail, which it was I was unable to tell. I had sense enough remaining to know that whilst this was going forward on deck it was not likely that notice would be taken of my feeble knocking, for feeble it was, though it sounded loud to me.

Presently I felt a greater movement than I had experienced for some time, and the ship heeled over on one side. My fear was that the cases on which I lay might be again shifted, and that I might be thrown down to some lower depth of the hold, with bales and casks above me. Of course I am describing what I fancied might happen, not what was likely to occur. I now guessed that a number of the crew must have gone aloft to shorten sail, and that even if they had heard the noise they would not have had time to ascertain what had caused it. I now more than ever feared that, before I could be liberated, I should become utterly exhausted, and should fall into a swoon from which I might never recover.

I was too weak to pray, or any longer exert myself. Still my senses did not altogether desert me. I lay on my back, looking up towards the hatchway. The ship heeled over more and more. To me, who had been accustomed to live so long down near the keel, it appeared at a frightful angle, and I though, she would go over altogether. Again I heard voices shouting out orders, and the crew, I supposed, went aloft to take in more sail. I was afraid that another storm was coming on. Fearful would be the consequences to me if such should be the case. Presently I heard something dragged over the hatchway. The ray of light which had hitherto tended to keep up my waning spirits was obscured.

A tarpaulin had been placed over the hatchway. Perhaps the crew were about to batten down the hatches. In vain I tried, while this was going forward, to strike the cask. I had not sufficient strength to do it. A fearful faintness was coming over me. Perhaps the movement of the ship contributed to this. I think I must have fainted, for I cannot recollect what happened. I had no strength to hold on or to grasp the stick, and might have been thrown helplessly about like a shuttlecock till life was extinct.

I fancy that some time must have passed. When I recovered my senses, my first impulse was to feel for the stick. It was close to me. I had power to grasp it. The top of the chest on which I lay was perfectly level, but I expected to find it heeling over as before. Instead of that, no movement took place. The ship was apparently gliding forward on an even keel. The storm had ceased, or probably the ship had only been struck by a sudden squall, which had passed over.

My first impulse was again to try and strike the cask and to shout out, but I could only utter a few low groans. I managed, however, to give some blows on the cask, which resounded through the hold. The noise was loud enough, I fancy, to be heard on deck, or indeed in every part of the ship. I beat on and on. Presently the tarpaulin was drawn off, and I heard some feet moving directly above me. A voice said distinctly, “Below! What’s that?”

Almost immediately the hatch was removed, and as I looked up a flood of light burst down upon me. For some seconds I could see nothing. Gradually I made out a number of human faces peering down through the hatchway.

“Why, what can that be?” exclaimed one of the men.

“Ghost of a ghost,” cried another.

“It can’t be a live thing,” said a third.

“Why, Jack, I do believe it’s a boy,” exclaimed a fourth; “we must get him up whatever he is, but how could he have come there?”

Presently a ladder was let down. None of the men seemed inclined to descend, evidently having some doubts as to my character, till the last speaker, calling the others cowards, came down. Instead of at first reviving me, the effect of the fresh air was to make me faint away. When I recovered I found myself lying on the deck, surrounded by a number of strange faces. A seaman—the one who, I suppose, had brought me up—was supporting me and applying a wet cloth to my head and shoulders, while another, kneeling down, was examining my countenance.

“Why, youngster, how did you come aboard here? Where have you been ever since we sailed from the Mersey?” he asked.

Too weak to answer, I could only stretch out my hand and then point to my lips, to show that I wanted food and water.

“If you’ve been down in the hold all these weeks, no wonder that you want something to eat,” he remarked.

Still he didn’t move, or propose to obtain any refreshment for me. As my lack-lustre eyes looked up at him, I recognised Gregory Growles, the old seaman to whom I had at first spoken with my cutter under my arm. No wonder that he didn’t recollect me in my present forlorn and dirt-begrimed condition. At last the seaman against whom I leant told one of his messmates to get me some water. With indifference, if not unwillingness, the man did as requested, and going to the water-butt on deck brought me a mugful, which I greedily drank.

“By the feel of his ribs he wants something more substantial than water,” observed my friend. “We must get the poor young chap into a berth, and feed him up, or he’ll be slipping his cable. There doesn’t seem to be much life in him now.”

“That will be seen.”

“What business had he to stow himself away, and make us all fancy that a ghost was haunting the ship?” cried Growles, in a surly way. “We shall hear what the captain has to say to him. To my notion, as he’s made his bed, so he’ll have to lie on it.”

“Come, come, mate, it would be hard lines for the poor young chap if he were left to die, without any of us trying to bring him through. I, for one, can’t stand by doing nothing, so just one of you lend a hand here, and we’ll put him into my berth, and get the cook to make some broth for him,” said the kind-hearted seaman.

While he was speaking, a person, who was evidently one of the officers, came forward and expressed his surprise at seeing me, and inquired why he hadn’t been informed of my having been discovered?

The men replied, that I had only just been found and brought on deck, and that they thought I was dying.

“It would have saved trouble to have hove him overboard before he came to himself,” said the mate, with a careless laugh. “The captain doesn’t allow of stowaways, and we don’t want any aboard here.”

He said this, I suppose, to frighten me, indifferent to the consequences.

“He’s very bad, sir,” said my friend, touching his hat, “and, maybe, it won’t much matter what is done with him; but if you’ll give me leave, I’ll take him below to my berth, after we’ve washed off the dirt that sticks to him. He wants food more than anything else to bring him round, and when he’s himself we can make some use of him at all events. We want a boy forward very badly, and he’ll be worth his salt, I’ve a notion.”

“You may do what you like with him, Tom Trivett,” answered the officer, “only don’t let us be bothered with him. We’ve trouble enough with young Riddle, the mutinous young rascal. He’ll have to look out for himself, if he don’t mind.”

The officer was the third mate of the ship, who happened just then to have charge of the deck. He made further inquiries about how I had been found, and asked the men whether they had before known of my being on board?

Trivett replied that they were entirely ignorant as to how I had come into the ship, but that hearing peculiar noises, they lifted the hatch, and that he had gone down and discovered me.

“We shall hear by-and-by what he has to say for himself. In the meantime, Trivett, take care of him, and I’ll let the captain know he’s been found. He’s the ghost you fellows have been frightened about,” said the mate.

“We were no more frightened than he was,” I heard some of the men utter, “but who could tell where all those strange noises we heard came from when any of us went down into the hold. He’s precious ready to call us cowards, but he was more frightened than we were. Why, he would never go down unless he had a couple of hands with him.” While this was going on, Tom Trivett continued swabbing my head and neck. When the mate walked aft he called to the cook to bring him a bucket of warm water from the caboose, as well as a lump of soap, a scrubbing-brush, and a piece of canvas.

The sun was shining brightly, and the air was warm, so that I did not feel the exposure so much as it might have been felt. Tom forthwith set about to scrape me clean, taking his own pocket-comb to disentangle my matted hair after he had washed it. The operation, though somewhat hazardous, greatly refreshed me. Before it was concluded, Julius Caesar, the black cook, who had some tender spot in his heart, brought out a basin of soup, from which Trivett fed me as tenderly as a nurse would a young child. This still further revived me.

“You shall have some more, boy, when I have done a-cleaning you,” said Tom.

The rest of the crew sat round making remarks, but not even offering to assist their shipmate, evidently perfectly indifferent as to what happened to me, though perhaps curious to see whether I should revive under the treatment to which I was being subjected. Judging by the colour of the water after I had been washed in it, I must have been as black as a coal. I rather think Julius Caesar must have fancied that I was one of his own race, and must have been greatly astonished at seeing a blackamoor washed white. When the operation was concluded, Growles again came and had a look at me.

“Why, I do believe it’s none other than the young chap who came aboard us at Liverpool,” he exclaimed. “I thought as when I saw him so often that he was up to something, but never fancied that he was going to stow himself away, or I should have been on the watch for him. Well, he’ll have to pay pretty smartly for the trick he has played us.”

My friend Tom took no notice of this and similar remarks made by others of the crew; but after having again fed me, he called to a stout-looking lad who was coming forward from the companion-hatchway to assist in carrying me to his berth under the topgallant forecastle. The lad, without hesitation, did as he was directed, and took up my legs, while Tom lifted me by the arms. As I was being carried along, my eyes turned towards the lad who was stepping backwards, when I at once recognised him as Mark Riddle, though he looked very different to the smart young chap he was when I last saw him, and he evidently did not know me.

“Can’t you find a shirt and a pair of trousers for the poor fellow?” cried Tom; “his own want washing terribly.”

Mark ran aft, and in a short time returned with the garments, in which Tom clothed me.

Notwithstanding the food which had been given me, I was still too weak to speak. He and Tom lifted me into an upper bunk on the starboard side. As he did so, I stretched out my hand and seized his, which I pressed between my bony fingers. I could just say, “Thank you, Mark.” He looked at me very hard, but still did not seem to have a suspicion who I was. This was not surprising, as he did not even know that I had gone to Liverpool. I was so altered, that even my mother would scarcely have recognised me. He, however, asked Tom Trivett who I was. Tom replied that I was a young stowaway, but that he knew no more about me than did the man in the moon.

“Go and fetch the remainder of the broth,” I heard Tom say. “A little more will do him good, and then if he gets a sound sleep he’ll come round, I have a notion.”

“If he does, it will only be to lead a dog’s life,” murmured Mark, as he left to get the broth.

Tom stood by me arranging the blankets, and trying to make me comfortable till Mark returned with some soup, with some biscuits and rice floating in it. Though I could drink the liquid, it was with difficulty that I could masticate the latter, but I managed to get down a few pieces.

“He has eaten enough now,” said Tom; “but, I say, Mark,” he whispered, “you keep an eye on him whenever you can, so that none of the fellows play him any tricks. They’d do so, though they knew he was dying, out of devilry.”

“Aye, aye,” answered Mark. “They shan’t hurt the poor young chap if I can help it, though I’ve enough to do to keep clear of them myself.”

“Well, we shall be three now, and shall be better able to stand up against them,” said Tom.

I heard no more; for after taking the food a drowsiness crept over me, and I fell into a sound sleep. When I awoke I was in the dark, and felt very much more comfortable than I had for a long time. At first I fancied that I was down in the hold, but the loud snoring and groaning of the men in the neighbouring bunks made me remember what had happened. I felt about, and was soon convinced that I was in Tom Trivett’s bunk, in a clean shirt and trousers, and a blanket over me. I heard the watch below turn out, the others shortly afterwards came in, but no one took any notice of me.

When the latter were fast asleep I heard some one come into the berth and stop near my bunk.

“Who’s that?” I asked.

“Glad to see you can speak again, my lad,” said the person whom by his voice I knew to be Tom Trivett. “Do you feel better?”

“Yes, thank you,” I answered. “You’ve saved my life, and I’m very grateful to you.”

“Don’t talk o’ that, lad,” he said, “it’s not much good I can do in the world, but I couldn’t bear to see you allowed to die from neglect, though I’m afraid there are hard times coming for you. You’re among as rough a lot as ever sailed on the salt ocean, and that’s saying a good deal. I want to give you a piece of advice; I mayn’t have another chance of giving it. Don’t be in a great hurry to get well, for though the fellows, bad as they are, won’t have the cruelty to ill-treat you while you’re sick, as soon as you come round they’ll be down upon you, and you’ll find that they’ll give you more kicks than ha’pence. However, you must not mind them. Don’t attempt to retaliate, for they’re too many for you. Above all things don’t grow sulky as poor Mark did, and has ever since well-nigh had his life knocked out of him. Now I must go on deck as it’s my watch, but remember what I have said.”

I again thanked Tom, and just as he was going I asked him if he could get me any more food.

“I’ll try and get you something as soon as the cook turns out; but he’s asleep in his bunk, and at this hour it would be a difficult job to find any. I’ll tell Mark, however, to ask him when he wakes, though I’d advise you to go off to sleep again.”

Saying this, Tom left the berth, and I once more closed my eyes. I was awakened by the men turning out.

The light streamed in at the door, showing me that it was morning. In consequence of the advice I received from Tom, I kept quiet and pretended to be asleep. Soon afterwards I saw Mark Riddle standing by my side.

“Tom told me you’re hungry, boy,” he said; “so I managed to get something for you from the pantry. I hope it won’t be discovered, or the third mate will be giving me a rope’s-ending.”

He had brought me a captain’s biscuit and a slice of ham, with a tin mug of water.

“I’ll bring you a cup of hot coffee,” he said, handing me the food.

Hungry as I was I could not help exclaiming, “What, don’t you know me, Mark?”

He looked at me very hard, still not remembering me.

“No, I don’t think I ever saw you before,” he answered; “but how do you happen to know my name?”

“I didn’t think I was so changed,” I said. “I’m Dick Cheveley.”

“Dick Cheveley!” he cried out, looking at me still harder; “Dick Cheveley on board this ship! And yet it must be; and are you really Dick Cheveley?”

“I don’t believe I’m anybody else, though I have sometimes fancied I must be.”

“Yes, yes, I see you’re Master Cheveley,” cried Mark, “though I can’t say I feel much happier to see you for your own sake, though I’m right glad for mine to have you with me,” taking my hand and grasping it. “Oh, Master Cheveley, what did bring you aboard?”

I briefly told him while I was discussing the food he brought me.

“It’s a bad business for you, Master Dick,” he said; “but the only thing now to be done is to make the best of it. They’re a precious bad lot, and the captain and officers are no better. I’ve made up my mind to run as soon as I can, and I’d advise you to do the same.”

“That I certainly will when I have somewhere to run to, but at present it seems we should have to run overboard,” I answered.

“We must wait until we get into harbour. We shall have to touch at a good many places, and if we keep our wits about us we shall manage it one way or another.”

“We’ll talk about that by-and-by, but tell me how you happened to be here. I heard that you had been sent on board a man-of-war,” I said.

“So I was, and I wish I had remained aboard her, too; but as I had been sent against my will, I cut and run on the first chance I got. She was the ‘Beagle’ sloop of war. We were ordered to cruise on the Irish coast. We were not far off the town of Belfast, when a boat’s crew to which I belonged pulled ashore under charge of a mid-shipmite. While he went into a house to deliver a message, I ran off as fast as my legs could carry me. I at last reached a cottage in which there was a whiteheaded old fellow, a girl, and two young men. I told them that I had been pressed and ill-treated, and was trying to make my escape from the cruelty of the English. The young men said at once that they would protect me, and would answer that I should not be retaken. The old man warned them that they were playing a dangerous game, and said that he would have nothing to do with the business, advising them to take me back to the boat. The girl, however, pleaded for me, and observed that now I had run, my punishment would be ten times greater, and that it would be cruel and inhospitable to refuse me shelter. She prevailed on her old grandfather. That evening the young men took me down aboard a little ‘hooker,’ which they said was just going to sail for Liverpool, and that if I liked I could go in her. Her cargo, they said, was timber and fruit, but turned out to be faggots and potatoes. I knew that at Liverpool there was no chance of being discovered, and I at once agreed. We reached the Mersey in a couple of days. As ill-luck would have it, I landed close to where the ‘Emu’ was getting ready for sea. Knowing that I could not venture to return home, I went on board and asked if a boy was wanted. The first mate at once said yes, as one of the apprentices had cut and run and could not be found. I thought I was in good luck, but we hadn’t been to sea many days before I found that I had fallen out of the frying-pan into the fire. The other apprentice, poor Jack Drage, told me that he had been kicked and cuffed from the first moment that he had stepped on board, and that if he had had any friends on shore, he’d have taken French leave as the other had done. Things had grown worse instead of better, and he was already weary of his life. I advised him not to give in; that in time things must mend; but he was a poor-hearted fellow and only wrung his hands and cried, declaring that he was utterly miserable. I did my best to keep up his spirits, but it was all of no use. One night during a gale we had soon after sailing, he disappeared. Whether he had thrown himself overboard into the sea, or been knocked overboard no one could tell. Of course it was entered in the log that he had been knocked overboard. In my opinion he sacrificed his life rather than endure his miseries. I told the first mate so, and he knocked me down. The next time he called me a sulky rascal, but I answered that I was not going to do away with myself like Jack Drage, and that I would make a complaint of him to the British Consul whenever we touched at a port. On this he knocked me down again. I know that I was taken with the sulks, and for days afterwards didn’t speak to him or any one else; but as I had no wish to be killed, I did what I was ordered to do, and got on somewhat better. Ever since that not a day passes that I don’t get a kick or have a marline-spike hove at my head by either the officers or men forward. They’re all very much alike for that matter, except Tom Trivett, and he’s as good a fellow as ever lived. He has a hard life of it, for the men are always playing him tricks; and the officers spite him, and are constantly making him do dirty jobs which no able seaman should be called on to perform. But, I say, I mustn’t stand talking here any longer, or I shall be suspected of being your friend. Don’t let any one find out that we know each other, and we shall get on all the better. I’ll tell Tom Trivett, and he’ll bring you the coffee if I can’t manage it; meanwhile you stay quiet in the bunk, even if you feel well enough to get up.”

“There is no chance of my being able to do that for some days,” I answered, “for I don’t think I could stand if I were to try.”

Mark now left me, and I fell back nearly exhausted from having talked so long to him.

After some time Tom appeared with a basin of hot black coffee, with some biscuit floating in it.

“Can’t I have a little milk?” I asked.

“We’ve not any cows on board here,” he answered with a laugh; “and there are no dairies in the Atlantic, unless Daddy Neptune happens to keep sea-cows.”

“You must have thought me very silly to ask for milk,” I said, as I ate up the sopped biscuit, and drank the hot coffee, which was well sweetened with sugar.

“It shows you are something of a greenhorn, lad,” he answered, laughing, “but no wonder your wits aren’t of the brightest after having been shut up in the dark so long; you shall have something else by-and-by. Remember what I told you; don’t be getting well too soon, that’s all.”

Chapter Fifteen.

My convalescence—Julius Caesar befriends me—We pass the Cape de Verde Islands—Our hopes of a change of diet disappear—My turn at last—A severe discipline—Captain Longfleet—“Please, sir, I couldn’t help it”—“There goes the baby and his nurse”—Caesar’s sympathy—How I owed my life to Tom Trivett—Bad food—“It makes me sick to cook it”—The deputation to the captain—The discontent increases among the crew—Crossing the line—“What ship is that?”—We receive a visit from Daddy Neptune and his court—Rough play, and what it might have come to.

I intended to take the advice of my friend and not get well too soon, but in reality there was no malingering in the case, for I remained too low and weak to get out of my bed.

Tom Trivett all the time, having given up his berth to me, slept in a far more uncomfortable bunk right forward, but never uttered a word of complaint, or tried to induce me to turn out. His was true Samaritan charity, and I was grateful to him. He even, I knew, tried to influence the rest of the crew for good, but did not succeed. They let him alone, which was all he could expect of them. The third mate, who knew I was there, never came near me to inquire how I was getting on.

Mark paid me a visit whenever he could venture to do so, and brought me my food when Tom was on duty.

The only other man who was kind to me was Julius Caesar, the black cook, and he frequently sent me wholesome messes which he had concocted for my special benefit; but he had to charge Mark and Tom not to let the other men see them, lest they should be gobbled up on their way. Mark told me this, for Julius Caesar himself never came to have a look at me.

“If I come, den dey say I friend of his—it worse for him.”

Both Mark and Caesar slept in the larboard berth, so that they had no business in the one I occupied.

I should explain that the space under the topgallant forecastle was divided by a bulkhead running fore and aft into parts forming separate cabins, one called the starboard, and the other the larboard berths, with bunks built up on both sides, one above another, or rather, in two stories, to explain myself better.

In moderate weather they were tolerably comfortable, but with the sun beating down on the deck they were fearfully hot. In a gale of wind, as the seas dashed against the bows or she pitched into them, the noise and movement were tremendous. However, to that I in time got accustomed.

Sometimes the decks and upper works leaked, and the water coming in wetted the clothes and bedding. However, in other respects they were better than the forepeak in a flush-decked ship, which is generally close and hot, full of horrible odours, and totally destitute of ventilation, and often wet into the bargain, from unseen leaks which are not of sufficient consequence to trouble the officers, as they do not affect the safety of the ship.

At length, one day Tom told me that we were within sight of the Cape de Verde Islands, at which he believed the captain intended to call. He was very glad, he said, of this, as he hoped to be able to get me a supply of oranges and limes, which he thought would do me more good than anything else.

The very name of fruit made my mouth water, and I thought I would give a great deal just to have one good suck at an orange. Great was my disappointment, therefore, when shortly afterwards Mark came in, and said that a strong north-easterly wind had sprung up, and that we were standing away from the islands, but that the captain, he believed, intended to put into Rio de Janeiro.

“I must wait patiently till we get there,” I said. “I hope it won’t take us long.”

“We have to pass through the horse latitudes, and to cross the line first, and Rio is some way to the south of that, so I’m afraid you must suck your fingers instead of oranges,” he answered.

I was now rapidly getting better, and I began to pine for fresh air and exercise.

“You’ll be wiser to stay where you are, Master Dick,” said Mark. “No one believes that you’re a gentleman’s son, and if they did I’m very sure it would make very little difference. I should, perhaps, benefit by your getting about, as you would have all the dirty work to do which now falls to my lot. It’s only surprising that the captain has allowed you to remain so long in the berth, for he knows that you’re aboard, though he takes no notice of you. Still I’d advise you, as long as you can, to stay where you are.”

I had not long the opportunity. Two days afterwards the third mate came into the berth with a short, knotted rope in his hand.

“Come, youngster, you have been long enough malingering here,” he exclaimed; “I find the cook has been serving out no end of good grub to you, and you’ve done nothing for it. We don’t want idlers aboard the ‘Emu;’ show a leg there pretty smartly.”

I attempted to rise. Tom had washed and dried my clothes. I got hold of my trousers, and slipt my legs into them. When I attempted to stand upright, my knees gave way and down I sank. At the same moment the mate’s colt descended on my back. I was taken so completely by surprise that I shrieked out with pain. I tried to lift myself up by the supports of the bunk, and succeeded in getting on my feet.

“I thought I’d cure you. Do you want another dose of this rope?”

“Oh! No, sir! No, sir! Don’t! I’ll dress as fast as I can,” I called out.

The moment I let go I felt that I must slip down again. Still the fear of another lash made me exert myself in a way I could not otherwise have done, and I tried very hard to put on my waistcoat and jacket, and to tie my handkerchief, by sitting down on a lower bunk.

“Now, come along!” said the mate; “the captain wants to speak to you.”

I attempted to walk, but as I tottered on my knees again failed me, and I should have fallen had not the mate caught me by the shoulders and dragged me along the deck.

It was a severe discipline, but it was effective, for the air and the necessity of moving quickly brought back strength to my limbs, and by the time I reached the quarterdeck I was able to keep my feet, though I should have fallen had not the mate still held me.

We there found the captain pacing to and fro. On turning he stopped when he saw me.

“Is this the young stowaway, Mr Huggins?” he asked, eyeing me very sternly. “What business had you to come aboard, boy, without leave?”

“Please, sir, I couldn’t help it,” I said, and I told him that when merely intending to look round the ship I had fallen into the hold.

“A likely story, youngster, which I don’t intend to believe. You came on board to please yourself, and now you’ll learn to please me, and do the work you’re set to do.”

“I’ll do my best, sir,” I answered, for I saw he was not a man to be trifled with; “but I am not fit for much at present.”

“You contrived to live down in the hold in an extraordinary manner—how did you manage it?”

I told him in a few words.

“Another likely story,” he remarked. “In other words, you stole the ship’s provisions as long as you could get at them, or you had an accomplice who kept you fed—he’ll be made to smart for it.”

On hearing this, I began to tremble for the consequences to Mark. Though the captain didn’t mention his name, I guessed that he pointed at him. I was much inclined to say who I was, and to speak of Mr Butterfield, but shame prevented me, and the captain made no inquiries on the subject.

“Now go forward,” he said; “look out sharp, get back your strength, and make yourself useful.”

He turned on his heel, not deigning to hold any further conversation with so insignificant a person as he considered me.

The mate let me go. I tried to walk, but staggered like a drunken man, and could only just manage to reach the side, and catch hold of a belaying-pin. I remained there until the captain turned round, when, afraid of his looks, I once more set off to make my way along the deck, the mate taking no trouble to help me, while the crew jeered and laughed at me; till Tom Trivett, who had been at work on the other side, crossing over, took my arm and led me along to the forehatch, where he bade me sit down.

“There goes the baby and his nurse,” said one of the men.

“Tom will be getting him some pap presently,” said another—at which they laughed in chorus.

The third mate, seeing Tom standing over me, ordered him back to his work. Mark made an attempt to join me, but was sent to perform some task or other, and I was left alone and forlorn to endure the gibes of my hardhearted shipmates.

Caesar, however, came out of his caboose, and whispered as he passed—

“Neber you mind, Dick, as long dey only use der tongue.”

He grinned and pointed with his finger, so that the rest fancied that he was only mocking me as they were.

Notwithstanding this, the fresh air and the necessity of exerting myself did me good, and after I had taken some food that Caesar brought me when the men went into their berth to dinner, I felt quite another creature.

At nightfall I was allowed to slink into my bunk, of which Tom still refused to deprive me.

“I’m very well where I am. I’m accustomed to it, and you are not, Dick,” he said, when I begged him to let me change places.

The next day I was still better, and after this I rapidly recovered my strength, notwithstanding the cuffs and kicks and rope’s-endings I frequently received, and the hard work I had to perform.

My clothes were soon again as dirty as they were when I came out of the hold, and torn and tattered besides.

“Never mind, Dick,” said Tom; “I’ll rig you out in a suit of mine, which I’ll cut down to suit you when we get into colder latitudes. It doesn’t much matter about having old clothes now the weather is so hot.”

Mark regretted that he could not help me, as he had only the clothes he stood up in, which would have been almost as bad as my own had they not been of stronger material, and thus held out better.

Though the rest of the crew ill-treated Mark and me, and Tom also when they had the chance, the captain and officers tyrannised over them in the most brutal fashion. It was no unusual occurrence for the first mate to heave a handspike at one of the men when he did not go about his work in a way to please him, and both captain and mates swore at the men on all occasions in the most fearful way.

At first I was horrified, but in time I got as much accustomed to it as they were, and was only thankful that the oaths were not accompanied by a rope’s-ending.

All this time the discipline was really very slack, and the men behaved to each other as they pleased, and never failed to neglect their duty whenever the mates’ eyes were off them. Still they resented, notwithstanding, the treatment they received, growling fiercely, if not loudly, when the quality of their provisions had begun to fall off. At first the food had been pretty good, but it now became worse and worse, and the men swore that they would stand it no longer. At last, when some rancid pork had been served out with musty peas and weevilly biscuits, the men went aft in a body, headed by the boatswain, Sass Jowler, and Growles, who were deputed to be spokesmen, to the quarterdeck, where the captain was walking.

“I axes you, Captain Longfleet, whether you think this ere stuff is fit food for British seamen?” said the boatswain, holding up a piece of the pork at the end of a two-pronged fork.

“It makes um sick to cook it,” said Caesar, who was standing behind the rest.

“And I wants to know, in the name of the crew, whether this ’ere biscuit as is all alive with maggots, is the stuff we poor fellows forward should be made to put into our mouths?” cried Growles.

“What’s that you’re talking about, you mutinous rascals?” cried the captain; “stop a bit, and I’ll answer you.”

Saying this, he sprang back into the cabin, and while the men stood staring at the door without advancing, he reappeared with a pistol in the one hand and a cutlass in the other. I observed that he had a second pistol in his belt.

“You know I never miss my aim, you scoundrels. The first man that utters a word on the subject I’ll shoot through the head. The food’s good enough for better men than you, so be off forward, and let this be the last time I hear any complaint. If not, look out for squalls.”

The men stood irresolute, and no one liked to run the chance of having a pistol-bullet sent through his head.

“Are you going, you villains?” thundered the captain, pointing his pistol at the boatswain.

He used a good many other stronger expletives, which need not be repeated.

The boatswain was a bold fellow, but his courage gave way, and he stepped back. The others, overawed by the determined manner of the captain, imitated the example of their leader, knowing that the pistol might be turned towards any one who stood his ground, and together they retreated forward, tumbling over each other in their endeavour to put as wide a distance as possible between themselves and their now furious commander.

For my part, I felt a greater amount of respect for him than I had ever done before. His eye did not for a moment quail, his arm appeared as firm as iron. Had he shown the slightest hesitation, the men, in the temper they were in, would have been upon him, and he would have lost his authority.

Mark and I remained at one side of the deck, where we happened to be at the time. Tom Trivett had not come aft, having refused to take any part in the affair, whereby he gained still greater ill-will than before from his shipmates.

The discontent which had thus shown itself, though kept down for a time, was by no means quelled. We had to eat the food, bad as it was, though perhaps not altogether as bad as the samples exhibited to the captain.

The third mate came forward much oftener than before, and tried hard to win back the men into something like good-humour, but his efforts were unavailing.

“You see, Mr Simmons, as how we poor fellows have got to work hard, and except we gets good grub we can’t do it,” I heard the boatswain remark in an insinuating tone; “it’s very hard lines for us to have to eat rancid pork and weevilly bread, when we knows well enough that the captain and mates has good grub in the cabin. Share and share alike, and we sha’n’t complain. But we must abide by it till the ship gets into harbour, and then we suppose that the captain will be getting good stores aboard and will serve out fresh meat and vegetables.”

“Oh! Of course he’ll do that,” said Mr Simmons, pleased, as he thought, at having brought the men to reason. “You know Captain Longfleet is a just man, though he’s a determined one, and won’t stand nonsense. Everything will go well, I hope, by-and-by.”

I should have observed that our boatswain held a very different position among the crew to that occupied by a warrant officer on board a man-of-war. He was merely one of the men, and was so called from certain duties he had to perform, and was a sort of link between the officers and the crew.

We were now in the tropics. When there was a breeze the heat was supportable enough, but when it fell calm we could scarcely bear our clothes on, and went about in shirts and trousers, with bare feet, and were glad to have the opportunity of getting into the shade. The pitch boiled up out of the seams, and old Growles declared that he could cook a beefsteak on the capstan-head, if he only had a beefsteak to cook.

The heat did not improve the temper of the men, and the ship became to Mark and me a regular hell afloat. Matters were almost as bad with Tom Trivett, but he could hold his own better than we could.

One day Mark came to me.

“I say, Dick,” he exclaimed—a common fate had made us equal, and he had long ago dropped the master—“I’ve been hearing that to-morrow we’re to cross the line. I wonder what sort of place we shall get into on t’other side; as far as I can make out, it’s a kind of bar, and those who go over it for the first time have to pay toll to old Daddy Neptune, who is coming aboard to collect his dues.”

I was surprised that Mark had never heard of the line, and so I tried to explain to him what it was. As to Neptune coming on board, I knew that that was all nonsense, and so I told him.

During that evening and the next morning some of the men were busily engaged in their berth, into which they allowed no one but themselves to enter.

Soon after noon the captain, having taken his observations, gave notice that we were about to cross the line. Mark and I had been sent aft, when we heard a voice hail as if from under the bows.

“What ship is that?”

“The ‘Emu,’” answered the captain, who with the officers was standing on the poop.

“Where did you come from, and for what port are you bound?” asked the voice.

“From Liverpool, and we’re bound to Rio and round Cape Horn,” answered the captain.

“All right, Captain Longfleet; with your leave my wife and I will pay you a visit and bring some of our children and attendants, and if you have any youngsters who have not crossed the line before, we shall have a word to say to them.”

“You’re welcome, Father Neptune, for I suppose no one else would be desirous of giving me a call out in these seas.”

It was amusing to observe Mark’s look of astonishment when immediately afterwards a party of grotesque figures appeared clambering over the bows. The first was an old fellow with a long white beard, a gold paper crown on his head, and a sceptre in his hand, and dressed in a flowing robe painted all over with curious devices. With him came a huge woman, also wearing a crown and garments of many colours, a necklace of huge beads and a couple of clasp-knives hanging down from either side of her face to serve as ear-rings; another figure followed them equally curiously dressed, with a basin under one arm, a pair of sailmaker’s shears hanging round his neck, and a piece of rusty hoop shaped like a razor in his hand. A fourth person, tall and gaunt, was seen in a cocked-hat, a thick cane in one hand, and a box of pills of large proportions in the other. Following them came a party of monsters in green dresses with long tails, and heads covered by oakum wigs.

The captain, wishing to humour the men, shouted out—

“Glad to see your majesty on board my ship. You’re welcome to come aft and look out for any of those whose acquaintance you have not before made.”

On this the whole gang came tramping aft. Mark and I saw that their eyes were fixed upon us. We had no place to fly to but up the mizen rigging. We made the attempt, but were quickly caught by some of the monsters, who managed to climb up in spite of their tails.

The barber had in the meantime placed a huge tub on the deck, and a couple of small casks. On these we were compelled to sit down, when he immediately with a paint-brush began to daub our faces over with the contents of a bucket of grease. He then drew out his razor, and scraped us in the most cruel fashion, taking off the skin at every stroke.

The doctor in the meanwhile, with mock solemnity, felt our pulses, and then observing that we were terribly sick, crammed one of the boluses out of his box into our mouths, and forced it down with his tarry finger.

“A bath would do them good,” he growled out.

We were seized, and soused head over heels in a tub till we were well-nigh drowned. In vain we struggled and shrieked. Every time we opened our mouths the barber shoved his brush into them, and the monsters then ducked our heads under water to wash them out, as they said.

More dead than alive we were at last allowed to go, but had scarcely strength left to crawl away.

Tom Trivett was next dragged aft, though he declared that he had often crossed the line. Daddy Neptune refused, however, to believe him, protesting that he had never seen his face in those parts before. Though he fought bravely he was overpowered, and was even worse treated than we had been, the monsters, aided by the doctor and barber and Mrs Neptune, holding his arms and legs.

The captain and officers all the time in no way interfered, but seemed to enjoy the cruel sport. They wished, indeed, to allow the sailors to take their full fling according to their barbarous fancies.

Mark and I, seeing how our friend was treated, attempted to go to his rescue, but we had better have remained quiet, both for his sake and our own, for we were cuffed and kicked even worse than before, and with difficulty again made our escape.

A double allowance of grog was served out, which made the men even more savage than before; and when they were tired of ill-treating us they took to rough play among themselves. Daddy Neptune’s crown was torn off, his sceptre broken in two, his wife was despoiled of her finery; the doctor’s hat and spectacles shared the same fate; he was made to swallow his own pills, and the barber had his brush nearly shoved down his throat.

They would have come to serious blows had not the captain ordered them to knock off and return to their duty. The mates, with boats’ stretchers in their hands, had to rush in among them before they could be induced to desist. Not until a breeze sprang up, and they were ordered aloft to make sail, were they brought into anything like order.

For days afterwards Mark and I limped about the deck, with aching heads and sore faces, and Tom Trivett could with difficulty get through his duty.

This relaxation of discipline had no good effect on the men. They still grumbled and growled as much as ever at every meal over the food served out to them.

Chapter Sixteen.

Land ho!—Cape Frio—The Sugar-loaf Mountain—The Castle of Santa Cruz—The harbour of Rio de Janeiro—A taste of fruit—We receive some passengers—A gale springs up—Man overboard—Poor Tom Trivett—Captain Longfleet’s inhumanity—Mark and I are treated worse—I overhear a conversation—A proposed mutiny—The plot—Differences will arise—Who’s to be captain?—I determine to reveal the plot—I consult with Mark—Our determination—Southern latitudes—The Southern Cross—The Falkland Islands—Mark escapes, but I am retaken—Highland blood—Mark’s probable fate—A battle with an albatross.

“Land ho!” was shouted from the masthead. In a short time we came off Cape Frio, a high, barren, almost insular, promontory, which runs into the Atlantic to the eastward of Rio de Janeiro. We stood on, the land appearing to be of a great height behind the beach, till we came in sight of the Sugar-loaf Mountain; the light land wind preventing us from entering the harbour, we had to stand off and on during the night.

“Well, I’ve made up my mind to get a precious good tuck out,” I heard old Growles say to the boatswain; “I suppose the skipper will order a good store of provisions aboard after the talk we had with him the other day.”

“Not so sure of that, old ship,” said the boatswain; “but if he doesn’t, he’d better look out for squalls, as he said to us.”

The other men were rejoicing in the expectation of a hearty meal and wholesome food, and so indeed were Mark and I; for we were not better off than the rest, except that Mark occasionally got some pickings at the captain’s table, and now and then, when he could manage it, brought me some.

Next morning a sea-breeze setting in, we stood towards the harbour, and as the fog lifted, several small islands near its mouth came into sight, and the Sugar-loaf Mountain loomed up high on the left, while on the right we saw the battlements of the Castle of Santa Cruz, which stands at the foot of the mountain. As we passed under the guns of the fortress, we were hailed by a stentorian voice, which came out from among the stone-built walls, but the speaker was not seen.

“What ship is that? Where do you come from? How many days out?”

The captain answered the questions through his speaking-trumpet as we glided by. We at length came to an anchor about a mile from the city of Rio de Janeiro, in one of the most beautiful and picturesque harbours in the world. I can’t stop to describe it, or the fine-looking city, or the curiously-shaped boats filled with black, brown, and white people, though the whites were decidedly in the minority; indeed some of them could be only so called by courtesy. To our disappointment no one was allowed to go on shore. The captain and second mate almost immediately took a country boat and pulled for the landing-place.

“I suppose they intend to send us off some grub,” said old Growles, in a voice loud enough for them to hear; but they took no notice, and pulled on. We waited in anxious expectation for the arrival of the provisions, but no boats appeared. It looked very much as if the captain had forgotten our necessities. At last a small one came alongside with fruit and vegetables, which those who had money eagerly purchased. I had a few shillings remaining in my pocket, but Mark had nothing, and I insisted on buying enough for him and myself. Mark declined taking them from me, saying he could do very well without them; but I pressed him, and we discussed a couple of dozen oranges between us. How delicious they tasted! We both felt like different creatures. Those of the crew who had money were put into much better humour, but the rest were more sulky than ever.

In the evening the boats brought off some fresh water, but no provisions. When the captain came on board at night we learnt that he had refused to purchase any, on account of their high price. Whether this was the case or not I don’t know, but it made the men very angry. Next day he went on shore again, returning in the afternoon with four gentlemen, whom we heard were going as passengers round to Columbia River, in North America.

We soon found, from hearing them speak, that they were Scotch, and of this I had no doubt when I learned their names, which were McTavish, McDonald, McKay, and Fraser. Their vessel had been wrecked off Cape Frio, and notwithstanding the character borne by Captain Longfleet, they were glad to have an opportunity of continuing their voyage in the “Emu.” Just before daybreak a small boat came alongside with fruit and vegetables; but they were all for the cabin, and the crew were none the better for them.

Next morning we sailed at daybreak with a land wind, followed by three or four other vessels, some bound round Cape Horn, others to cross the Atlantic. They were still in sight when it came on to blow very hard. In a short time a sea got up which made the ship tumble about in a way I had not experienced since I had been down in the hold. The captain stood on, wanting to keep ahead of the other vessels. The topmasts bent like willow wands, and every moment looked as if they would go over the sides. We carried on, however, until it was nearly dark, when he ordered the hands aloft to reef sails. I had not as yet been ordered to perform this duty, but Mark was as active as any one. He and Tom were on the lee fore-topsail yard-arm. Two reefs had already been taken in when the sail had to be closely reefed. It was now quite dark. The operation was being performed, when there was a cry from forward of “A man overboard!” To round the ship to might have been hazardous; but the second mate, who was the best of the officers, at once shouted out for volunteers to lower the boat.

“Hold hard,” says the captain; “I’ll not have the hands thrown away for a careless, useless lubber who can’t hold fast.”

I had run aft when I heard some one say that the man who had gone was Tom Trivett. Without waiting for orders I hove overboard an oar and a hen-coop, with half-a-dozen cackling hens in it, which not having been properly secured, had fetched away. In my excitement I was proceeding to throw some spars and other articles into the sea, when the captain, catching sight of me, ordered me to desist.

“Let the fellow drown,” he exclaimed; “it’s his own fault, and it’ll be a lesson to the rest of you.”

Though the men had no love for Tom Trivett, bad as they were these remarks greatly enraged them.

“He cares no more for our lives than he does for that of a dog. It would have been just the same if any of us had gone,” exclaimed several of them.

The passengers were very indignant at the captain’s barbarity. Two of them had been ready to go in the boat, and they all declared that the seaman might have been saved if proper efforts had immediately been made. I heard the captain in a peremptory tone tell them to hold their tongues, as they knew nothing about the matter. He was captain of the ship, and would act as he thought fit, and not endanger her safety for the sake of a single man who was not worth his salt. I deeply grieved for Tom since I discovered that he had been my firm friend, and I truly believed that I owed my life to him. Had it been daylight we might have watched to see whether he had got hold of any of the things thrown overboard, but almost immediately after he fell he was lost to view. The gale lasted only a short time. We made sail again as soon as we could, and quickly lost sight of the other vessels.

Now that Tom Trivett had gone, my position became harder than ever, as I had no friend to stand up for me. I had often been protected by him when the others were inclined to bully me, and thus escaped many a cuff and kick. Julius Caesar was the only person who befriended me, and he didn’t dare to do so openly. He often, indeed, appeared to be bullying me worse than the rest. I had been ordered to assist in cleaning his pots and pans, and sweeping out the caboose. Whenever the rigging had to be blacked down I was sent to do it, and was called to perform all the dirty jobs. The men, knowing I was a gentleman’s son, took pleasure in seeing me thus employed. Mark would willingly have helped me, but he was always sent aft to some other work when seen near me.

I would gladly have changed places with him, but he told me that he was as badly off as I was forward, for he got as much kicked about by the captain and officers as I was by the men.

I had no one to talk to, for I could seldom get the opportunity of saying much to him. I felt that I had not a friend aboard. The men, when they had exhausted a few fresh provisions which they themselves had purchased, again began to grumble at the bad quality of their food. They took care, however, to say nothing when the third mate was forward, but they went about their duty in a manner which it seemed surprising he did not observe.

One evening, being my watch below, still feeling the effect of the rough handling I had endured, I had crept into my berth to be out of the way of my persecutors. Mark, as usual, was attending to his duties in the cabin.

I had fallen asleep, when I was awakened by hearing some men speaking close to me, though it was too dark to see who they were, and even if they had looked into my berth they would not have discovered me; but I recognised the voices of old Growles and the boatswain, and two other men, who were the worst of the crew and the leading spirits for bad on board. I was not much alarmed, though I scarcely dared to breathe for fear of attracting their notice. I cannot repeat all they said, for they frequently made allusions which they knew that each other understood; but I heard enough to convince me that they were hatching a plot to overpower the officers and passengers, and to take the vessel into Buenos Aires, or some other place on the banks of the River Plate. One of the men proposed killing them and throwing them overboard. Old Growles suggested that they should be put into a boat and allowed to shift for themselves, just as their officers were treated by the mutineers of the “Bounty.” The boatswain said that he thought the best way of treating them would be to put them on shore on some desert island far-away to the southward, seldom visited by ships, so that they could not make their escape.

“But they’ll die of hunger, if you do that,” remarked another man.

“They’ll die, at all events, so it matters little,” answered the boatswain. “Our business is to get rid of them, and either to go cruising on our own account, or to sell the ship at a Spanish port to the westward, and enjoy ourselves on what we get for her.”

“Dead men tell no tales,” muttered the first speaker.

“Heave them overboard at once, and we shall be done with them.”

“I’m not for that sort of thing,” said old Growles. “I shouldn’t like to see their white faces as they dropped astern; they’d be haunting us, depend on that.”

The boatswain and the others laughed.

“Who’s to take the ship round Cape Horn, if we do away with the officers?” asked one of the men.

“I know enough navigation for that,” said the boatswain, “it won’t be a long job.”

“Then I suppose you intend to turn captain. Is that it?” said another man.

“We don’t want no captain aboard.”

“If the ship was caught in a squall, you’d soon be calling out for some one to command you. Call me what you will, there’s no man, except myself, knows how to navigate the ship when the officers are gone.”

“I sees what you are after, boatswain,” said old Growles. “We should be just getting rid of one captain, and having another like him in his place. We must all be free and equal aboard, or it’ll never do. I propose that one is captain one day, and one another; and that you, if you can, or any one else, shall navigate the ship. Otherwise one man’s as good as another, to my mind, and knows as well as you how to make or shorten sail.”

“Well, I don’t see how that can tell one way or the other,” said the boatswain, who evidently didn’t like the turn the conversation was taking.

To me it seemed that the villains were ready for any mischief, but had not wit enough to carry it out. I lay as quiet as a mouse, scarcely venturing to breathe, for I knew that they would not scruple to put an end to me should they discover me, and fancy that I was awake and had overheard them. I determined, should I be found out, to pretend to be fast asleep. They talked on for some time longer, till all hands were summoned on deck to shorten sail. I was considering, as well as I could, what I had better do. The captain and officers had ill-treated me, but that was no reason I should allow them to be murdered, if I could in any way warn them of the danger, while the guiltless passengers must be saved at all costs. I thought that if I told Captain Longfleet, he would treat my statement as a cock-and-bull story, and declare I had been dreaming. Probably I should be sent off with a kick and a cuff, and the crew would hear that I had informed against them. I thought, however, that I would tell the second mate, who was better disposed, and far more sensible than the rest of the officers. Then it occurred to me that I had better consult Mark first, and hear what he thought. Perhaps he would consider it wiser to speak to one of the passengers, three of whom were determined-looking men. The fourth, Mr Alexander Fraser, was much younger, and I liked his appearance. He had given me a kind nod sometimes when I went aft. Their presence prevented the captain and officers from ill-treating Mark and me as much as usual. We were therefore inclined to regard them with a friendly spirit. I finally came to the conclusion to tell Mr Fraser what I had heard, if I could get the opportunity of speaking to him out of hearing of the rest of the crew, though that might be difficult. I knew that, after all, I must be guided by circumstances. The would-be mutineers talked on, and might have talked on for a whole watch, had not all hands been summoned on deck to shorten sail. I waited till they had gone up the rigging, and then crept out. The ship had been struck by a squall. Sheets were flying, blocks rattling, officers shouting, and a number of the men on deck pulling and hauling, made a hubbub so that I escaped aft unperceived, and was able to join Mark at one of the ropes it was his duty to attend to. As there was no one near, I was able to tell him by snatches what I had heard.

“I’m not surprised,” he answered. “The villains would murder their own mothers or grandmothers if they could gain anything by it; but I only doubt whether they will venture to attack the captain.”

“Still, we must let one of the officers know, or else their blood will be upon our heads. I propose warning Mr Fraser, or one of the other gentlemen,” I observed.

“That will do,” said Mark. “Either you or I may find a chance to speak to one of them; but there’s no time to be lost, for we can’t say at what moment these ruffians may take it into their heads to carry out their villainous designs. We must be careful, however, that they don’t suspect us of giving the information, or they might heave us overboard some dark night without ceremony.”

Some time was occupied in taking in the canvas, but in the course of an hour the squall passed off, and we had again to make sail.

While this was being done, Mark and I had time to discuss the matter.

That night, while it was my watch, I managed to get aft, where I found a person walking the deck, occasionally stopping and gazing at the bright stars overhead, the southern cross and others so different from those of the northern hemisphere. I waited till he had gone right aft out of earshot of the man at the wheel. I knew by his figure that it was Mr Fraser, so I went boldly up to him.

“I have got something to say to you,” I whispered. “It’s of great consequence. I mustn’t speak loud.”

I then briefly told him that I had heard the men propose to get rid of the officers and passengers in some way or other.

“I’ve already heard something of this from your young messmate, but I’m very incredulous about it,” he answered.

“Pray don’t be that, sir,” I said. “Your life, and the lives of many others besides, depends on your believing the truth of what I say and taking measures to protect yourselves;” and I then told him more circumstantially what I had heard. He now seemed to listen attentively, and evidently considered that there was something in what I had said.

“I’m very much obliged to you for the information you have given, and I’ll consult my friends on the subject,” he answered. “The captain seems to be a man who will know well how to deal with the villains, if what you say is true. We’ll tell him what has come to our ears.”

“Indeed what I say is true,” I exclaimed with energy. “They may be upon you at any moment, while you are unprepared.”

“Well, laddie, I’ll lose no time,” said Mr Fraser; and, afraid that if we remained much longer we might be observed by some of the men, I crept forward under the shadow of the bulwarks.

I waited anxiously during the remainder of the watch to see what would occur; but as the men turned in, I was thankful to find that they had no intention of carrying out their project that night, and it was not likely that they would do anything in the daytime, when their movements would be observed by the officers. My only fear was that they might have seen Mark and me talking to Mr Fraser, and might have their suspicions aroused. If so, Mark and I would run, I knew, great risk of being knocked on the head as soon as darkness again came on. I therefore kept a sharp look out whilst I was on deck during the night, though I had an uncomfortable feeling that I might possibly be smothered in my sleep, or that Mark might be treated in the same way. Daylight, however, returned without anything having occurred.

On meeting Mark, I expressed my fears to him.

“Do you know, Dick, I was thinking of the same thing, and I have made up my mind to cut and run on the first opportunity, and I advise you to do the same thing. Indeed, I should not be happy if I left you behind; in truth, I would not run unless you promise to desert also.”

“That I will, with all my heart, though I don’t think that Mr Fraser and the other gentlemen are likely to allow themselves to be taken by surprise, or to neglect putting the officers on their guard.”

“They can’t protect us; and the men, if they find themselves even suspected, will certainly think that we informed on them.”

Whenever we had the opportunity, Mark and I discussed our plans for escaping. As far as we could judge, the officers and passengers were at their ease, and didn’t act as if they thought any mutiny would occur. As the weather was now getting cold, the passengers had an excuse for coming on deck in their cloaks; and one day, when Mr Fraser’s blew aside, I observed that he had a brace of pistols in his belt. They also brought their rifles on deck, and amused themselves by firing at passing birds, sometimes at porpoises, sharks, and other monsters of the deep who showed their backs above water. I guessed at last, by the looks of the men, that they saw that the passengers were on their guard. Even the third mate didn’t come forward as he had been accustomed to do; and at night, what was very unusual, there were two officers on deck at a time. We had now contrary winds and thick weather, which greatly delayed us for several days. No observations were taken.

One morning land was discovered on the weather bow, which, the captain said, was the coast of South America, and he carefully kept along shore in order to pass between the Falkland Islands and the main land; but at noon, when a meridian observation had been obtained, he found that what he had at first supposed to be the main land was in reality the Falkland Islands. We had for many days been sailing entirely by dead reckoning, while the current had set us out of our course. As we had not taken a full supply of water on board at Rio, and, owing to the bursting of the butt, which had frightened me so much, we had less on board than usual, the captain steered for one of the islands, where he knew that it could be obtained.

We came to an anchor about half a mile from the shore just at sunset. As it would take the crew the whole day to get water, which had to be rolled down in small casks to the beach and brought on board, the passengers expressed their intention of making a shooting excursion on shore to kill some wild cattle—of which there are numbers in the island—or any other animals or birds they might fall in with. As the captain had no objection to having a supply of beef without cost to himself, he agreed to let them have a boat the next morning to take them on shore. They asked for one or two of the men to carry the meat. The captain said that they could not be spared, but finally told them that they could take Mark and me, as we were of little use on board.

“Now,” whispered Mark, “is our opportunity. If there are cattle, we shall have some meat to live on; and I propose that we hide ourselves away, so that when the gentlemen return on board we shall be missing.”

The captain, we were sure, would not take the trouble to look for us. I agreed, provided that from the appearance of the island we should have the chance of obtaining food and shelter; if not, we might die of starvation, and it would be better to endure our miseries, and the danger we ran of our lives, for a short time longer than to do that.

“Well, as to that we must see about it,” answered Mark.

Soon after, our watch being over, we turned into our respective bunks. I didn’t feel altogether comfortable, not knowing what the men might do to us. For some time I lay awake, for I wanted to be on the watch, lest any trick should be attempted, but at length dropped off to sleep. As we were in harbour, only an anchor watch was kept, and I was allowed to have my night’s rest out, from which I rose fresh and ready for anything some time before daybreak. Mark, who had gone aft to call the gentlemen, returned with an order for me to get ready to go in the boat. Sufficient provisions for the party were put into the boat; and the gentlemen, taking their rifles and pistols with them, and with their swords at their sides, we shoved off, the boat being partly laden with empty water-casks. As there was not room for Mark and me forward, we sat aft with the gentlemen, when Mr Fraser talked in a friendly way to Mark and me. I saw the men eyeing us savagely at this; and I thought to myself at the moment, “Those villains suspect that we have had something to do in putting the gentlemen on their guard.” I answered Mr Fraser, however, and he went on talking to me. We landed not far from where the casks were to be filled with water. The gentlemen then, taking their guns, divided the provisions between themselves and us, and we set off towards the interior of the island, where we hoped to meet with the wild cattle. There was nothing attractive in its appearance. Here and there were low scrubby woods, and the country generally was covered with thick patches of tussack grass, which, at a distance, gave it the appearance of being green and fertile. Between the patches, the soil was dry and sandy, so that it cost us much fatigue to make our way over it.

We had seen plenty of wild cattle, but the gentlemen had not yet succeeded in killing any. They winded us on all occasions on our approach, and scampered off beyond the limit of rifle range. At last the gentlemen agreed to separate by going in small parties, and thus hoped to get nearer to the creatures. Mr Fraser invited Mark to go with him, and Mr McTavish took me; the other two gentlemen went together. Before starting they deposited their provisions inside of a hollow in a high bank, which, from its position, was easily to be found, and they agreed to return to dinner. If any one of the party killed an animal, he was to summon the rest to carry the meat. The object of the gentlemen was to kill as many animals as they could; for, as the weather was cool, it was hoped that the meat would last until we were well round Cape Horn. The island was of good size, but still there did not appear to be much risk of our losing our way. Mr Fraser, who was the most active of the party, said that he should go to the further end of the island and work his way back; that he was determined to kill some birds, if he couldn’t knock over a cow.

“Remember,” whispered Mark to me, “that I shall slip away; and you do the same, and come and join me.”

To this I agreed. Mr McTavish and I went away to the right. We had been looking out for cattle for some time when we heard two shots, and from the top of a hill we saw the two other gentlemen, standing by a couple of cattle they had shot.

“Come, Dick,” said Mr McTavish; “though we cannot boast of killing a beast ourselves, we must go and help them.”

I thought that this would be a good opportunity to escape, and while he went down one side of the hill I proposed running down the other. I was just going when he caught sight of me.

“Hillo, youngster, where are you going to?” he cried out; and he came after me evidently with no intention of letting me escape. On getting up with me, he inquired, “What made you try to run off? Come, tell me as we go along.” He spoke very kindly.

At last I confessed that I had determined to run away from the ship in consequence of the ill-treatment I had received.

“You would have been starved to death in the midst of plenty,” he said in a kind tone. “Had the island been fertile, and you could have supported yourself, I, for one, would never have hindered you, for I have observed the way the officers and men behave to you. But for the future I think we can prevent that. I have a notion that we owe our lives to you and your messmate, and we’re grateful to you for it; so come along, and don’t again attempt to run away.”

He spoke so kindly that at last I promised to follow his advice, hoping that Mr Fraser would also have prevented Mark from hiding himself, and would induce him to come back likewise. The gentlemen fired several shots to attract Mr Fraser’s attention, but none were heard in return. They, in the meantime, cut up the animals and loaded themselves with as much as they could stagger under. The rest they covered up closely with the hides so as to keep the flies off, proposing to send some of the men for it. With our loads we returned to the place where we had left our dinner. As we were all very hungry we didn’t wait for Mr Fraser, but set to at once, expecting that he and Mark would appear before we had finished. We waited, however, for some time, the gentlemen lighting their pipes to enjoy a smoke.

“I’m afraid that young companion of yours has bolted, and that Fraser is delayed by looking for him,” observed Mr McTavish. “We can’t delay much longer if we’re to save the flesh,” said Mr McDonald. “Fraser knows what he’s about; he will easily make his way down to the beach by the landing-place in the morning, and we must send a boat on shore for him.” As the day was advancing the others agreed to this proposal; and, leaving the remainder of our provisions for Mr Fraser and Mark, we set off. It was almost dark as we approached the harbour, and I began to fear that the crew would have taken the opportunity of attacking the officers—perhaps would have got the ship under weigh, and left us to our fate. I didn’t, however, mention my fears to any one. I was greatly relieved when I made out through the gloom the ship at anchor, and soon after, the boat close to the beach.

Old Growles answered Mr McDonald’s hail. I observed that my companions had examined their pistols and reloaded their rifles, so that they would be on their guard should any treachery be attempted.

On arriving on board, the captain received the gentlemen in a somewhat surly way, and inquired why Mr Fraser had not returned.

Mr McDonald replied, that we had waited for him, and that he had not appeared; but they expected that he would turn up on the beach on the following morning; if not, they proposed going in search of him.

“There won’t be time for that,” said Captain Longfleet. “We have got all the water we require on board to-night. If passengers choose to go on shore and not return at the time they are told to do, they must take the consequences.”

Mr McDonald’s Highland blood was up in a moment. “You have made a great mistake if you suppose that we will allow our friend to be deserted. We intend to go on shore to-morrow, and must beg to take two or three of your men with us, to ascertain what has become of Fraser and his young companion,” he exclaimed.

“We shall see who commands this ship,” cried the captain, turning on his heel and entering the cabin, outside of which this scene took place.

This was nuts to the crew, who must have perceived that if there was division aft they had a good chance of succeeding in their project.

Next morning, at daybreak, the hands were turned up to get the ship under weigh. Directly after, Mr McDonald and the other gentlemen came on deck. “We protest against this proceeding, Captain Longfleet,” he exclaimed.

“I told you that if Mr Fraser chooses to absent himself at the time I was prepared to sail, he must take the consequences. It may delay us a whole day if we send to search for him,” answered the captain.

“If it delays us a week we must look for him till he’s found,” exclaimed Mr McDonald, drawing a pistol. “Get the ship under weigh at your peril.”

Bold as Captain Longfleet was, he quailed under the eye of the determined fur trader.

“Hurrah! There’s our friend,” cried Mr McTavish. “We must send a boat for him, and that will settle this dispute, I hope.”

“A boat shall not leave the ship,” cried Captain Longfleet. “I can’t spare the men.”

“I say again, get the ship under weigh at your peril,” said Mr McDonald, stepping a pace towards the captain.

None of the officers or crew attempted to interfere. Those of the latter who were near only stood observing the scene and grinning their satisfaction.

“Are you going to send a boat?” again asked Mr McDonald.

Just then another shot was fired.

“I’ll do as you wish,” replied the captain; “but I tell you it’s more than your friend deserves.”

“I will go in her,” said Mr McDonald.

“No, you can’t do that. I will send my own men; for what I know, you may delay the boat,” answered the captain.

“It matters not, provided Fraser and the lad return,” said Mr McTavish, who was inclined to conciliatory measures.

The captain now directed three of the hands to go in the smallest boat which was large enough for the purpose, while the rest were ordered to loose sails and heave up the anchor. While these precautions were going forward I observed the gentlemen watching the boat through their telescopes. She reached the shore, and after a short delay was seen returning.

I looked out anxiously for Mark, hoping that after the account I had received of the island that Mr Fraser would have brought him back. Great was my grief and disappointment when I did not see him in the boat. Still I hoped that the passengers would induce the captain to send a party on shore to look for him. I intended to ask Mr McTavish to obtain leave for me to go, for I knew that if Mark heard my voice shouting for him he would come out of his hiding-place.

No sooner had Mr Fraser stepped on board than the boat was hoisted up. On this I ran off to ask Mr McTavish to insist on the ship being delayed to allow of a search for Mark.

“We’ll do what we can, my laddie,” he answered; “though the captain doesn’t appear to be in the humour to grant any requests.”

As Mr Fraser greeted his friends, I heard him say that he had missed Mark, and supposed, after searching for him for some time, that he had joined one of our parties; and that at length he had made his way to the beach, having satisfied his hunger with some of the provisions we had left behind. It was night when he had come near the harbour; and as he knew the boat would have returned, he formed himself a nest under a bank with some tussack grass and slept soundly till daylight.

When he found that Mark had not returned, he was as eager as Mr McDonald to go in search of him, but all they could say would not move Captain Longfleet.

“He is one of my crew, and you have no business to interfere with him,” he answered.

Mr McDonald replied, that he could not but say that this was the case, but that the lad had accompanied them, and they felt themselves answerable for his safe return.

The captain, however, would not listen, but continued shouting out his orders to the men, who obeyed them with more alacrity than usual.

I could not help thinking that they rejoiced at having thus easily got rid of Mark. For my own part I regretted not having run away also, and shared his fate, whatever that might have been. Had the distance not been so great, I should, even now, have jumped overboard and tried to join him. But the attempt would have been equivalent to suicide, and I dared not make it.

Away stood the ship out of the harbour, leaving my old friend all alone on the desert island. I pictured to myself his horror and disappointment at not seeing me; the miseries and hardships he might endure for want of food and companionship, and his too probable early death. I went about my duty in a disconsolate mood. I had now no friend to talk to. Not one of the men appeared to pity me. Even Julius Caesar uttered no word of comfort. We soon lost sight of the Falkland Islands and shaped a course to round Cape Horn. The ship was now surrounded by albatrosses, penguins, and pintado birds. Several were shot, and others taken with a hook and bait. An enormous albatross was thus hauled in, and being brought on deck fought bravely for some time before it could be killed.

Chapter Seventeen.

South Sea whaler—I write a letter home, and how far it got on its way there—The Earl of Lollipop—Mr McTavish saves me from a flogging—My prospects somewhat improve—Another storm—We lose another man—A struggle for life—Tierra del Fuego—Cape Horn—In the Pacific—The coast of Patagonia, and how we nearly got wrecked—Juan Fernandez—Robinson Crusoe’s Island—I again determine to run away, but am prevented by an offer I receive—“Shark! Shark!”—A narrow escape—Valparaiso—Callao—Paita—The Sandwich Islands—The king and his court—Royal guests—Some queer dishes—Pooah—Am again prevented from deserting—Columbia River at last—A glimpse of freedom—A farewell dinner—An untoward incident—Once more a prisoner—My captors’ fears my only safety—My friends give up the search—At sea again—My release—“Dis curious ship.”

We had left the island for some days, when we fell in with a homeward-bound South Sea whaler. As the ocean was calm, and the wind light, her captain came on board and politely offered to convey any message or letters home. “Now,” I thought, “will be an excellent opportunity of returning home. I’m sick of this life, and shall be glad to go back to Mr Butterfield’s office and the high stool, and listen to Aunt Deb’s lectures.” How to accomplish my purpose was the difficulty. I went up to the captain of the whaler.

“I’m a gentleman’s son,” I said; “I came off to sea unintentionally, and I want to go home again.”

He gave a loud “Whew!” as I said this.

“I can’t take you, my lad, without your captain’s leave,” he answered. “If he gives it, I shall be happy to do so.”

Captain Longfleet just then came out of the cabin.

“I don’t know how he came on board, but here he is and here he’ll remain,” he said, as the captain of the whaler spoke to him. “Go forward,” he said to me, “and think yourself fortunate to escape a flogging for your impudence.”

However, I persevered, and turning to Mr McTavish, asked him kindly to say a word for me. Captain Longfleet in reply told him that he had no business to interfere.

“I’ve lost one boy through you gentlemen, and I’m not going to lose another,” he answered.

In vain Mr McDonald and the other gentlemen spoke to him; he replied in his usual rough way.

“I’m sorry, my lad, that I can’t take you out of the ship without your captain’s permission,” said the whaling captain; “but if you’ll get a letter scribbled off, I’ll undertake to post it.”

I had neither paper, pens, nor ink, but Mr McTavish, hearing what was said, instantly brought me some, and I ran off into the berth to write it, hoping that I should be there undisturbed. I had great difficulty in penning the letter; and while I was kneeling down at the chest, old Growles came in and mocked at me, and another fellow asked me whether I was sending a love-letter to my dearie, and a third gave me a knock on the elbow, which spattered the ink over the paper and nearly upset the ink-bottle. Still I wrote on.

“Ship ‘Emu,’ somewhere off Cape Horn.

“My dear Father,—I didn’t intend to run away, but tumbled down into the hold and was carried off. When I came to myself I found that I was at sea, and could not get out of my prison. I lived there for I don’t know how many days, till, when almost dead, I was released. I have been treated worse than a dog ever since by the captain, officers, and men. He’s a terrible tyrant and brute, and if it had not been for Mark Riddle—whom, wonderful to say, I found on board the ship—he and his mates would have been knocked on the head and hove overboard.

“I would much rather be seated on the high stool in Mr Butterfield’s office than where I am. I wanted to return home, but the captain wouldn’t let me. I intend, however, to run on the first opportunity, and to get back if I can. I tried to get away in the Falkland Islands, but was prevented. Mark succeeded, and was left behind. Whether he’ll manage to live there I don’t know, but I hope he will, and get back to Sandgate one of these days, I have no time to write more; so with love to mother, and my brothers and sisters, and even to Aunt Deb—

“I remain your affectionate son—

“Richard Cheveley.”

“PS—Please tell old Riddle all about his son.”

I hurriedly folded this letter, and addressed it to the Reverend John Cheveley, Sandgate, England; and having no wax, I sealed it with a piece of pitch which I hooked out of a seam in the deck. I rushed out, intending to give it into the hands of the captain of the whaler; but what was my dismay to see his boat pulling away from the ship. I shouted and waved my letter, thinking that he would return; but at that moment the third mate snatched the letter out of my hand, and waved to the men in the boat to pull on. I turned round, endeavouring to recover the letter, but instead got a box on the ear. I made another snatch at it.

“What’s this about, you young rascal?” shouted the captain; “give me the letter, Simmons. You’ll try next to take it out of my hands, I suppose.”

In spite of all my efforts to regain it, the mate handed the letter to the captain, who, looking at the superscription, at once tore it open. He glanced at the commencement and end.

“So you pretend to be a gentleman’s son, you young scapegrace,” he exclaimed. “You’ll not get me to believe such a tale. Why, bless my heart, the last voyage I had a fellow who was always writing to the Earl of Lollipop, and signing himself his son. The men called him My Lord. He was made to black down the rigging, notwithstanding, and polish up the pots and pans. He was found at last to be a chimney-sweeper’s son.”

I was convinced that the captain said this to be heard by the passengers, and to try and throw discredit on me, as they were already inclined to treat me kindly, through seeing that I was at all events a boy of education; and from the service I had already rendered them in giving them warning of the crew’s design. I was in hopes that the captain would let me have my letter back, but to my dismay he again looked at it and read it. I saw a thunder-cloud gathering on his brow; his lips quivered with rage; I cannot repeat the terms he applied to me.

“And so, you young anatomy, you dare to call me a tyrant and a brute,” he shouted out in a hoarse voice; “to write all sorts of lies of me to your friends at home. You see that yard-arm. Many a fellow has been run up for a less offence. Look out for yourself. If the crew don’t finish you off before the voyage is over, I’ll make you wish you had never set foot on the deck of the ‘Emu.’”

“I wish I never had,” I exclaimed.

“What! You dare speak to me,” roared the captain. “Here, Mr Simmons, take this mutinous young rascal and give him three dozen. We’ll keel-haul him next, if that doesn’t bring him into order.”

Here the passengers interfered. Mr McTavish declared that he would not stand by and let me be unjustly punished.

“If it were not for young Cheveley, where should we be by this time, Captain Longfleet?” he asked. “You know as well as we do what was intended. If your mate attempts to touch him, he must take the consequences.”

The captain was silent for some minutes. Perhaps some sense of what was right overcame his ill-feeling.

“Let him go, Simmons,” he said, turning to the mate. “It’s lucky for you, boy, that this letter was not sent,” he said, looking at me. He tore it up and threw the fragments overboard. “Remember that the next time you write home, I intend to have a look at your letter. You may let your friends know where you are, but you can’t accuse me of carrying you away from home.”

As the captain turned from me, I thought that the best thing I could do was to go forward. I saw two of the men, who had been within earshot while the captain was speaking, eyeing me with no friendly glances. I looked as innocent as I could; but weary though I was, when it was my watch below I was almost afraid lest I should never awake again in this world. When I was forward the men treated me as badly as ever, but I found the conduct of the captain and officers towards me greatly improved, owing to the influence of the passengers. I had frequently to go into the cabin to assist the steward, who, though he often gave me a slight cuff, never did so in the presence of my friends. Knowing that I had those on board interested in me, I bore my sufferings and annoyances with more equanimity than before. I one day, unknown to Captain Longfleet, had the opportunity of giving my father’s address to Mr McTavish. He promised to write home from the first place at which we touched. It would be useless for me to attempt writing, as my letter would, I knew, be seen and taken from me. This was some comfort. I can but briefly relate the incidents of the voyage.

While still to the southward of Cape Horn, the appearances of another heavy storm came on. The lighter canvas was instantly handed. Almost in an instant a heavy sea got up, into which the ship violently pitched as she forced her way ahead. The flying jib having been carelessly secured, the gaskets, or small ropes which bound it to the jibboom, gave way. Two hands were immediately sent out to make it fast. While they were thus employed, a tremendous sea struck the bows. One of the men, old Growles, scrambled on to the bowsprit, to which he held on like grim death, but before the other man could follow his example, the jibboom was carried away and he with it. I saw the poor fellow struggling amid the foaming seas. The captain did not on this occasion refuse to try to save him. The ship was hove-to, and pieces of timber, an empty cask, and a hen-coop, were hove overboard to give him the chance of escaping. He failed to reach any of them. Mr McTavish and two of the men and I were on the point of jumping into the jolly-boat to go to his rescue, but the captain shouted out in no gentle terms, ordering us to desist, and asked us if we wished to lose our lives also. This, if we had made the attempt, we should certainly have done. The boat could not have lived many moments in such a sea. For fully ten minutes the poor fellow was observed buffeting with the waves, but he at length disappeared. The ship was kept away, and we stood on our course. We soon afterwards perceived the snow-capped mountains of Tierra del Fuego rearing their majestic heads, and looking down on the raging waters below them.

The weather soon after moderated, and as we sighted Cape Horn the captain ordered the topgallant and royal masts to be got up, and the lighter sails to be set. With a gentle breeze from the eastward we rounded the dreaded Cape, and found ourselves in the Pacific. I heard some of the men say that they had never passed Cape Horn in such fine weather. Whales, and porpoises in countless numbers, were playing round us, and if we had had harpoons and gear on board we might have captured many of the former and filled up our ship with oil. We were not destined, however, to enjoy the fine weather long. Another gale came on and nearly drove us on the western coast of Patagonia, carrying away our bulwarks, and doing much other damage. When within about five or six miles of the coast the wind shifted, and we once more stood off the land. We sighted the far-famed island of Juan Fernandez, the scene of Robinson Crusoe’s adventures, or rather those of the real Alexander Selkirk. The ship was hove-to when we were about two miles off shore, and the pinnace and jolly-boat were sent to obtain wood and water. The passengers taking the opportunity of going also, I slipped into the boat with Mr McTavish, without being perceived by the captain. The second mate, who had charge of the boat, did not inquire whether I had leave. I was not aware till the moment before that the boat was going.

There was no time for consideration; but the hope seized me that I might manage to make my escape and remain on the island. If Robinson Crusoe lived there, so might I. A solitary life would be infinitely better, I thought, than the existence I was doomed to live on board. I said nothing to Mr McTavish, for fear he should try to prevent me. We found when approaching the shore that a heavy sea was breaking over it, and that it would be impossible to land. We soon, however, discovered that we had entered the wrong bay, and pulling out again, we got into another, where the landing was less difficult, though not free from danger. While some of the party remained on the beach to fill the water-casks and to draw a seine which had been brought to catch fish, I accompanied Mr McTavish and the other gentlemen into the interior. The island appeared to be one vast rock split into various portions. We pushed on up a deep valley. At the bottom ran a stream of fine water, from which the water-casks were filled. The valley, scarcely a hundred yards wide at the entrance, gradually widened. We climbed up the wild rocks, ascending higher and higher, startling a number of goats, which scrambled off leaping from crag to crag; some of them fine-built old fellows with long beards, who looked as if they must have been well acquainted with Robinson Crusoe himself. We frequently had to turn aside to avoid cascades, which came rushing down the mountain’s side. Sometimes we were involved in the thickest gloom, and then again we emerged into bright sunlight as we gained a higher elevation. The appearance of the country was picturesque in the extreme, though it didn’t tempt me to make it my residence for the remainder of my life; and then again, I considered that there must be other parts of a more gentle character where Robinson Crusoe must have resided. I had been often looking about, considering how I might accomplish my object, when Mr McTavish said, “I know what you are thinking about, Cheveley, but for your own sake I do not intend you to succeed; and even if it were otherwise, I am bound to see you safe on board the boat. So come along. You mustn’t play me any trick.”

“Well, I did think that I should like to stop here and live as Robinson Crusoe did. Perhaps I might give an account of my adventures when I got home,” I answered.

“The chances are that you would be starved, or break your neck, or die of some disease, and never get home; so I intend to keep an eye on you, my laddie,” said my friend, in a good-natured tone. “Besides this, my friends and I propose to induce Captain Longfleet to set you at liberty when we reach the Columbia River, and you can either wait at the fort till you can hear from your father, making yourself useful there as a clerk, or you can turn fur-hunter, and lead a life which I believe would be to your taste.”

“I’m very much obliged to you, sir,” I said, “and accept your offer, and will not attempt to run away.”

After a tiring excursion we got back to the boats just as they were about to shove off. We after this touched at Massafuero, an island mountain rising abruptly from the sea, surrounded by a narrow slip of beach. Here we obtained a vast quantity of fish and a few goats. The abundance of food contributed much to tranquillise the minds of the crew, and also, I suspect, to prevent them from carrying their plans into execution. One day when we were becalmed, several of the crew who could swim jumped overboard to take a bathe, and as I was a good swimmer I did the same, and got farther than the rest from the ship. While I was sporting about, I heard the dreadful cry of “Shark, shark!” The rest of the men quickly making for the side, clambered on board. I was swimming towards the ship, when I saw a dark fin rising between her and me. I knew what it indicated, for I had seen several sharks before. To gain the ship without encountering the monster seemed impossible. I therefore, instead of swimming on, stopped and trod water, beating the surface with my hands, and shouting out. I saw some of the men leaning over the sides with ropes. Presently there was a shout. One of the men had lowered a rope with a bowling knot into the water, when the shark in its course round the ship ran its head and upper fin between it. At this moment it was secured to the cathead, and before the brute could get free it was hoisted on deck. I now darted forward, and seizing a rope which hung over the side hauled myself up. As I saw the monster floundering on deck, I was thankful that he had not caught me in his jaws.

“You have had a narrow escape, my laddie,” observed Mr McTavish. “It will be a lesson to you not to swim about in these latitudes.”

Not many other incidents worth relating occurred for some time.

We touched at Valparaiso, where we discharged some of our cargo, and afterwards at Callao, where we got rid of a still larger quantity. We also put into Paita farther north. As goods brought in English vessels were subject to a very high duty, or were altogether prohibited, they were smuggled on shore. Had I been so disposed I might on two or three occasions have made good my escape, but I was relying on the promise of Mr McTavish. From the coast of Peru we steered to the Sandwich Islands, of which I should like to give a description. We there took on board three of the natives, to supply the place of the men who had been lost. The king and a brace of queens, besides several chiefs and a number of white men, visited the ship. The king and his brown consorts came in a large double canoe, formed by lashing two canoes together separated by bars. Each canoe was paddled by twenty or thirty men. On the bars was raised a kind of seat, on which the ladies reposed.

Raised considerably higher than his consorts was a sort of throne placed on the top of a large arm-chest full of muskets, and on this his Sandwich Island Majesty was seated in regal state. In front of him stood a dark-skinned native, carrying a handsome silver hanger in imitation of the sword-bearers of European monarchs; behind the king sat a boy holding a basin of dark-brown wood, in which his Majesty ever and anon spat abundantly. Instead of a crown the king’s head was covered by an old beaver hat. His coat was of coarse woven cloth of ancient cut, with large metal buttons. His waistcoat was of brown velvet, which had once been black, while a pair of short, tight, and well-worn velveteen pantaloons, worsted stockings, and thick-soled shoes covered his lower extremities. His shirt and cravat had been once probably white, but had attained the hue of his own swarthy skin.

On coming on deck he shook hands with every one he met between the gangway and cabin, assuring them of his affection. I had to attend at the dinner, to which the royal party were invited. The ladies, however, had to sit aside, the king taking his place at the table at the right hand of the captain, while the minister, who carried his saliva bowl, squatted behind him. He ate voraciously, and washed down the solids with numerous glasses of Madeira. He drank the health of each person present, finishing well-nigh three decanters of his favourite wine. As soon as the king, the captain, passengers, and first mate had risen, the ladies were allowed to approach their dinner, which had been cooked on shore, and was now placed on the table. It consisted of a couple of roast dogs, several dishes of small fish, and a white mixture called pooah, of the consistency of flummery.

The steward and I could scarcely keep our countenances as we saw them dipping the two forefingers of the right hand into the pooah, and after turning them round in the mixture until they were covered with three or four coats, by a dexterous twist rapidly transfer the food to their open mouths, when, with one smack of their lips, their fingers were cleared.

Their dress consisted of a cloth worn over the shoulders—a long piece of cloth wrapped in several folds—round the waist and reaching to their knees.

The king spent a part of the afternoon in going over the ship, and measuring her from stem to stern, while the ladies played draughts and beat their antagonists hollow. There were a number of English and other white men settled on the island. Two acted as the king’s chief counsellors, and took an active part in all the affairs of the country, many of them having become very rich.

I may here remark, that the daughter and granddaughter of one of these gentlemen afterwards became Queen of the Sandwich Islands. The country, as far as I could see, appeared to be highly cultivated. The people in their habits and customs presented a curious mixture of savagery and civilisation.

As I gazed on the shore on which I was not permitted to set foot, I considered whether I could not manage to get away and offer my services to the king, as I was better educated than most of those about him. I thought that I should probably rise to the highest dignities of the State; perhaps become his prime minister, his commander-in-chief, or admiral of his fleet, but I found that I was too strictly watched by old Growles and the boatswain to accomplish my object. Had Mark been with me, I had little doubt but that we should have managed to escape. I at last asked Mr McTavish if he would take me on shore.

“No, no, my laddie, I know what is running in your mind,” he said. “The natives would be too ready to assist, and I might find it difficult to prevent your being carried off and stowed away till the ship sails. You may fancy that your life would be a very pleasant one, but I know what it is to live among savages. You would, in course of time, have a brown wife given to you, and, unwilling to leave her, you would become a banished man from home and country. Follow the plan I at first proposed. If you will remain with us you will in the course of a few years make your fortune, and be able to return home and enjoy it.”

I felt that the advice given was sound, and I promised Mr McTavish not to try and run away while we remained at the Sandwich Islands. He said that the next day he would take me on shore if the captain would give me leave. Shortly after, however, we went out of harbour. We had a quick passage to the entrance of the Columbia River. A dangerous bar runs across the mouth of it, so that the captain was unwilling to enter until we had a fair wind and a favourable tide. Boats were sent ahead to sound. While thus engaged a canoe, followed by a barge, were seen coming off. The canoe, which was paddled by six naked savages, and steered by an old Indian chief, was soon alongside, but as they could not understand a word we said we could gain no information till the barge arrived, when our passengers greeted a number of their friends who had come off in her. The ship now entered the river, and came to an anchor off a fort which had been erected by the fur-traders. I never felt more happy in my life, believing that my sufferings were over, and that I should regain my liberty. I hoped that Mr McTavish and his friends would at once go on shore and take me with them; but as it was late in the day, and they heard that the accommodation in the fort was limited, they accepted the captain’s pressing invitation to remain with their friends on board till next morning. A more sumptuous repast than I had yet seen was prepared. The captain produced his best wine in abundance. The steward and I had to wait at table. The captain, when giving me my orders, spoke in a far more conciliatory tone than he had ever done before. “I suppose he wishes to make amends to me for his past conduct, and to show my friends that he has no ill-will towards me,” I thought. The wine flowed freely, and hilarity and good-humour prevailed for some time, till a remark was made by one of the officers of the ship which offended a gentleman from the shore. His Highland blood being up he hove a glass of wine in the face of the mate, telling him that the bottle should follow if he didn’t apologise. This the mate did, in a somewhat humble fashion, at the request of the captain, and order was restored. The wine continued to flow freely; songs were sung and speeches made, and every one appeared to be talking at once at the top of their voices. The captain at last ordered me to go on deck with a message to the second mate, who was the officer of the watch, and to come back and let him know how the ship was riding. He said this in a loud voice so that every one might hear.

I could not find the mate aft, so, supposing that he had gone forward to examine the cable, I was making my way in that direction when suddenly I found myself seized. A cloth was shoved into my mouth, and another bound over my eyes, so that I was unable to see or cry out, and I was carried down the main hatchway in the strong arms of a man whose voice I had been unable to recognise, though I fancied that he was either Growles or the boatswain. In vain I struggled to get free. On reaching, as I supposed, the spar-deck, another man bound my arms and my legs, and I was then carried still farther down into the hold, when I was shoved into some place or other, a door was shut and locked on me, and I found myself alone. I was very nearly suffocated with the cloth in my mouth, but I managed after much exertion to work it out. Having done this, I was inclined to shout; but I feared that if I did so old Growles would return and put it back, and perhaps ill-treat me into the bargain. I therefore thought it wiser to remain silent, and to try and get the handkerchief off my eyes. I lay quiet for some time to recover my breath. Though I could not move to feel about, I was convinced, by the closeness of the atmosphere, that I was in a small place—probably in a compartment of the boatswain’s store-room. My next object was to get the handkerchief off my eyes, to ascertain if any light penetrated my place of confinement. It was a difficult matter to do this without hurting myself, but I tried, by turning over and rubbing the knot at the back of my head against the boards on which I lay, to work it upwards, though at the expense of making a sore place, so tightly was it secured. At last I succeeded in getting it off. All was dark, as I had expected. The next task I undertook was to free my arms. This was a far more difficult undertaking. I made up my mind to bite through the ropes if I could get my teeth into them; but that, after many attempts, I found to be impossible. I avoided, as much as I could, drawing them tighter round my wrists. I endeavoured, by making one of my hands as small as I could, to draw it out of the knot, but again and again I was obliged to desist. Still I recollected how I had before escaped from the hold, as well as from the mill, and I repeated to myself, “Fortune favours the persevering.”

I had been on foot for a number of hours; and, wearied by the exertions I had lately made, I at last began to feel very sleepy, and shortly dropped off into an uncomfortable slumber. I was awakened by a gruff voice, which I recognised as that of the boatswain.

“Gregory, I do believe the young rascal is dead,” he said.

“It may save a world of trouble if he is,” answered old Growles; “for those passengers are making a precious fuss about him. If he was to get ashore, he’d be telling tales. We can say he died in his sleep, and let them have his body, which will show how it happened.”

“Not if he’s black in the face. Here, hand the lantern, and let’s have a look.”

All this time I was afraid to open my eyes, or even to breathe; and I thought that, if I could sham being dead, they would carry me on deck, and I would then soon show them the contrary. I guessed that I must have rolled over with my face away from the door, so that they couldn’t see it. Presently I felt a hand placed on my shoulder to draw me round. I let them move me as they liked, and I knew, from the light which I saw through my eyelids, that the rays of a lantern were cast on me. I flattered myself that I was succeeding very well, till I heard the boatswain remark—

“People don’t die with their eyes shut.”

Then a hand was placed on my face, and old Growles observed—

“The young chap’s as alive as I am; he’s quite warm. Rouse up, Dick, you rascal! But take care you don’t sing out, or it’ll be the worse for you.”

Still I endeavoured to make them believe I was really dead. It was a satisfaction to find that they were casting off the lashings from my arms and legs; but when one of them lifted up my arm I let it fall down again, like that of a dead person. This seemed to puzzle them, and old Growles gave me a cruel pinch on the arm. Though I didn’t cry out, I had the greatest difficulty not to flinch. He then bent back one of my fingers. It was a wonder he didn’t break it. Not able to endure the pain, I cried out.

“I thought so,” he said, with a low laugh. “You can’t play your tricks off on us, youngster,” said the boatswain, “and you’ll gain nothing by it.”

I said nothing, but looked up at him as if I had just awakened out of a sleep or a trance.

“Now mind you,” he continued, “if you shout out or make any noise, we’ll gag you and leave you to starve; but if you keep quiet you shall have some food, and you won’t be worse off than when you were shut up before in the hold.”

“What are you going to do with me?” I asked.

“That’s not for you to know,” answered the boatswain. “We’re not going to kill you, for fear you should haunt the ship, not for any love to you. We could have made away with you long ago, if we had thought fit. We’re not going to let you go ashore, and let you give a bad name to the ship and us. We know who ’peached to the captain, and you may think yourself fortunate that you were not dropped overboard next night. Will you promise to keep quiet?”

I knew that I was in the hands of unscrupulous ruffians, whose fears alone prevented them from doing away with me; so there was no use holding out. I therefore said that I would make no noise if they would unlash my arms and legs and bring me some food. I found that I was in the place I had supposed—a big locker which had been cleaned out to make room for me. It smelt horribly of tar and rancid grease, and coils of small rope and balls of twine, mats, cans, pots, and brushes, up in the corners, showed me what was usually stowed in it.

“Shall we trust the young rascal?” asked the boatswain of his companion.

“He daren’t break his word,” answered Growles; “he knows what he’ll get if he does.”

Thereupon they unlashed my arms and legs. I considered for a moment whether I could spring past them and gain the deck. Perhaps they thought I might make the attempt; and before I had time to do more than think of it, they had shut the door and locked me in. I knew, from the quietness of the ship, that she was still at anchor, and I hoped that my friends might make inquiries about me that might lead to my discovery; and this idea kept me up. As I lay perfectly still I could hear the crew hoisting the remainder of the cargo out of the hold. The noise they made would have drowned my voice, even had I ventured to cry out. I guessed, also, that most of them knew of my imprisonment, and would not assist me. My only solace was the thought that Mr McTavish, who had been so friendly to me, would insist on searching the ship, and then I thought it probable a story would be told of my having fallen overboard. They would very likely say that I had got drunk with their wine, and been seen rolling along the deck, or something of that sort.

I did not, indeed, altogether despair of making my escape. As I lay in the ill-odorous locker I thought and thought of all sorts of plans. In spite of the smells I was getting hungry, and I wished that the boatswain or Growles would return with the food they had promised. If only one came I made up my mind to seize him by the throat, put my fingers into his eyes, spring up past him, and try to gain the deck. It would be hazardous in the extreme; for, if he caught me, he would not let me go, and in the struggle I should certainly be overcome, when he would not fail to punish me severely—perhaps to deprive me of life. Still, anything was better than to have again to endure the sufferings I had gone through in the hold. I nerved myself up for the undertaking I proposed. All was again silent in the hold. The crew had, I concluded, knocked off work; whether to go to dinner or for the day I could not calculate. After some time I heard the sound as of some one moving near me, the door opened, and the light of a lantern fell on my face. There were two heads instead of one. It would be madness to attempt to spring past them, so I lay quiet.

“Here’s the food I promised you,” said the voice of old Growles. “Eat it and be thankful; it’s more than you deserve.”

It consisted of biscuit and meat, and a cooked root of some sort. He placed also a can of water by my side.

“Don’t capsize it; for you’ll get no more,” he said, drawing my attention to it.

Wishing to soothe him and throw him off his guard, I answered and thanked him. Before I could finish the sentence he had shut to the door and left me to discuss my meal in the dark. I heard him and his companion go away. The air which had come in had revived my appetite, and I eagerly ate up the provisions and drank the water, supposing that I should have more in due time. As soon as I had finished my meal I tried to see if I could force open the door, but I could discover no tool of any description. I made up my mind therefore to wait patiently till the opportunity offered of getting out. Perhaps the next time old Growles or the boatswain would come alone, or they might send some one else; or, should my friends be searching the ship, I might make them hear me. While these thoughts were passing through my mind I again fell asleep.

It might be found wearisome were I to describe my thoughts and sensations, my hopes and fears, while I was awake, or to say how often I slept. Day after day passed. Old Growles and the boatswain invariably came together; they seemed to divine that should only one come I might in my desperation attempt to pass him.

As far as I could judge the crew were now taking cargo on board, as I could hear the bales descending into the hold. They consisted, I afterwards found, of skins and peltries. How much longer the ship would remain in harbour I could not tell, nor could I conjecture when I was to be set free. They would scarcely keep me a prisoner during the remainder of the voyage, as, shut up, I could do nothing, but if I were at liberty I could make myself useful. Drearily the time passed away. Fear still prevented me from shouting out; for, from the position I was in, I could certainly have made myself heard by the crew, although my voice would not have reached to the cabin. From the remarks that I had heard from the passengers, when we were approaching the Columbia River, I guessed that, having loaded with furs, we should cross the Pacific to China, where they would fetch a high price, and thence, as I knew beforehand, with the produce of that country, we should proceed to Australia, where we should load with wood for home. If I were kept a prisoner for the whole period I should lose my health, if not my life. How many days or nights I had been kept in confinement I could not calculate, when I heard the sounds of heaving up the anchor; a trampling of feet, as if sail was being made. Some time afterwards I was sensible of a movement in the ship, and presently she plunged into a heavy sea, and I could hear much rushing of water against her sides. Again she made a more furious plunge, and I guessed that we were crossing the bar. I knew that I was right, as shortly afterwards the ship glided on with a comparatively slight movement. All hope of being rescued by my friends was gone. I knew that we must have crossed the bar while it was light, but I was allowed to remain in prison for another night. At last the door was opened, and old Growles and the boatswain appeared.

“You may go on deck now, youngster,” said old Growles; “but remember, as you value your life, that you don’t tell the captain or any one else who put you down here. You played the stowaway once, and you must say you did so again, ’cos you didn’t want to go ashore and live among the injins. If he believes you or not, it doesn’t much matter; only you stick to it, and, mind yer, you’ll come to a bad end if you don’t.”

I made no answer, for although I wished to get out of the locker and enjoy the fresh air once more, I could not make up my mind to tell a falsehood, notwithstanding the threats of the old ruffian. Neither he nor the boatswain seemed to expect an answer. Perhaps they thought it mattered very little whether or not I promised to do as they ordered me, not believing that I would keep my word if it suited my convenience to break it; for, without saying another word, they bound my eyes, and one of them dragged me along among bales and other articles of cargo, which I could feel as I passed by.

“Stay here,” said the boatswain, “till it strikes four bells. You may then find your way on deck as you best can, and spin any yarn you like to account for yourself being there, only mind you don’t ’peach on us, or, as I said afore it’ll be the worse for you.”

As he spoke he took the bandage off my eyes, and I heard the men retiring. I was still in total darkness, but I had been so often accustomed to find my way about under such circumstances that I was not very anxious on that account. I thought it prudent, however, to remain seated until I heard four bells strike, when on feeling about I was almost convinced that I was on the spar-deck. I could distinguish the tramp of feet overhead as if sail was being made, and shortly afterwards, the hatchway being lifted up, daylight streamed down upon me. Pining for fresh air, and desperately hungry, I lost no time in making my way on deck.

There stood the captain and two mates. The ship was under all sail, gliding rapidly before a strong breeze over the ocean, while the blue outline of the land could dimly be seen astern. I stood irresolute whether to go at once up to the captain and get the worst over, or to run forward and ask the cook to give me something to eat. I was about to follow the latter course, when I heard the captain’s voice shouting, “Halloa, youngster, where on earth do you come from?”

“That’s more than I can exactly say, sir,” I answered.

“Why, we thought you had gone overboard and been drowned, or had slipped ashore and been carried off by the Indians,” he continued; “Mr McTavish and the other gentlemen were making a great ado about you. You have been playing your old trick again. For my part, I should have supposed you would have been glad enough to get out of the ship, as I understood they wished to take you with them.”

“Please sir, I hope you’ll pardon me for what has happened,” I said, an idea at that moment striking me. “I want to become a sailor, and I’ll promise to try and do my duty, and learn to be one if you’ll allow me.”

The captain, from what I said, at once took it for granted that I had again acted the stowaway, and I flattered myself that I had not spoken an untruth, while I had avoided saying anything which would offend him. I observed that old Growles had come aft, and was then within earshot. The captain seemed rather pleased than otherwise that I had not wished to leave the ship.

“Go forward,” he said, “and let me see that you do your duty.”

He was evidently in better humour than usual, having got a rich freight which he had not expected. Touching my cap, I hurried to the caboose. Caesar rolled his eyes and opened his mouth with astonishment when he saw me.

“Where you been all dis time, Dick?” he asked.

“That’s more than I can tell you, Caesar. Do in mercy give me some grub, for I’m well-nigh starved,” I answered.

He gave me part of a mess he had been cooking for himself.

“Dis curious ship,” he said, as he remarked the ravenous way in which I devoured the food. “I no ask questions, you no tell lies, dat is it. Oh you wise boy.”

I suspected from this that Caesar had observed the visits of old Growles and the boatswain to the hold, and shrewdly guessed that I had been a prisoner. I could not understand, however, how the captain didn’t make some fuss about it, unless he also was cognisant of the fact; but of that I was left in uncertainty. I had expected from the way he had first treated me that some change for the better would take place in my condition, but in this I was mistaken. I was at the beck and call of every one, having to do all the dirty work in the cabin, and being knocked about and bullied by the men just as much as before.

Chapter Eighteen.

My position does not improve—Another attempt at escape frustrated—Becalmed off Japan—Macao—A fresh cargo—Extension of the voyage—Not dead yet—I gain some important information as to the future fate awaiting me, and I determine to quit the ship—A carouse—My escape, and how I accomplished it—Alone on the ocean—I sight land—The rock and my landing-place—My search for food—I meet with an accident—I lose my boat.

I must pass rapidly over the voyage across the Pacific. Whatever better feelings the captain had at one time displayed towards me completely disappeared. I was treated by him and the officers and men as badly as ever. My spirit was not broken, and perhaps I may at times have shown too refractory a disposition to please them. I was compelled, however, to submit to and obey their orders, annoying and vexatious as they often were. I did not show my feelings so much by what I said as by my looks, and I often stopped to consider whether or no I would do as I was told.

We fell in with a few ships—most of them whalers—the captains of which sometimes came on board, and I had hoped that I might be able to get off in one of them. I fancied that it would be impossible to change for the worse, but I in vain watched for an opportunity.

One evening we were becalmed to the southward of Japan, not far off a South Sea whaler. The commander, who was an old acquaintance of Captain Longfleet, came aboard, and spent the evening with him in the cabin. I waited eagerly till it had become dark. The lights of the other ship could be seen in the distance, and I expected every instant that the captain would come on deck ready to take his departure. The boat’s crew had come aboard, and were being entertained by our men. I thought if I could manage to slip down I might stow myself away under the foremost thwart, and should not be discovered till I had reached the other ship. I would then tell my story to the commander, who if he would not have compassion on me would probably not think it worth while to send me back that night, and before the morning a breeze might spring up and the ships be separated.

I waited concealed under the long-boat stowed amidships till I fancied that there was no one near the side where the whale-boat lay. I then crept out and got into the main chains. I was just about to lower myself down when a huge hand was placed on my shoulder, and I heard a voice which I knew to be that of old Growles.

“Come inboard, you young rascal!” he said; “you’re not going to get off as easily as you fancy. It’s lucky for you that you didn’t get into the boat, for you would have been found to a certainty, and handed over to our skipper, who would have knocked the life out of you.”

“What’s all this about? How did you know I wanted to get into the boat?” I asked, in a tone of assumed astonishment.

“’Cos I’ve seen you watching ever since she came alongside,” answered Growles; “so take that—and that,”—and hauling me inboard, he bestowed several blows with the end of a rope on my back.

I ran forward to escape from him, and stowed myself away in my bunk, as it was my watch below.

We at last reached Macao, where our cargo of furs was discharged, and for which I believe a very high price was obtained. I had no wish, from what I had heard of the Chinese, to go and live among them, and I therefore did not attempt to get on shore, although I had reason to believe that I was all the time narrowly watched by old Growles and the boatswain.

Instead of the furs and skins we shipped a cargo of tea in chests, and other Chinese produce. Part of this was to be landed at Sydney, New South Wales, and the rest, if no market could be found there for it, was to be carried on to America. This would greatly prolong the voyage, and consequently my miseries. I had hitherto been supported by the expectation of soon reaching home and being emancipated from my bondage.

I had no dislike to the sea; and had I been well treated even in my subordinate position I should have been contented to remain where I was, and to try and learn as much as I could; but to be kicked and beaten and knocked down every day of my life—to have the dirtiest of work and the worst of food—to be sworn at and abused at all hours—made me well-nigh weary of my life.

I was one night standing just before the windlass, when I said something which offended Sam Dixon, one of the men. In return he struck me a blow on the head. I must have fallen immediately, and rolled down directly under the windlass. Perhaps fancying that he had killed me, Dixon walked away, without uttering anything to anybody as to what he had done.

I probably lay there for some time in a state of unconsciousness—how long I could not tell. When I came to myself I heard some of my shipmates talking near me. I was about to crawl out when my own name caught my ears.

“We have had enough of that youngster at present,” said one; “he has ’peached once, and will ferret out what we’re about, and ’peach again if he has the chance. I only wish we had dropped him overboard with a shot round his feet long ago.”

It was the boatswain who spoke.

“I didn’t think of the shot, as I suppose that would stop him from coming up again, and haunting the ship,” remarked old Growles; “that’s what I was afeered of.”

“Why, Gregory, you’re always thinking of ghosts and spirits—they wouldn’t do harm to you or any of us,” remarked another fellow who was looked upon as the chief sceptic of the crew, though it is difficult to say what they did or did not believe, for considering their lives it might be supposed that they were all infidels together.

They continued talking in low voices. Though I could not make out all they said, I gathered enough to be convinced that they had some plot or other which they intended soon to put into execution, and fearing lest I should get an inkling of it and inform the captain, they intended to do away with me. It was some satisfaction to discover that they had no immediate intention of executing their plans. I might have time to warn the officers or to make my escape.

I for some time had had an idea in my head. We carried a small boat astern, generally called a dinghy. She could hold two or three people, and was useful for sending away to the shore, or for lowering at sea in calm weather when anything had to be picked up. If I could lower her into the water during the night when off the coast of some island, I might manage to escape to the shore before I was discovered.

What I had heard made me resolve not to delay a moment longer than could be helped. That night nothing could be done, even should I find that the blow had not incapacitated me from exertion. I dare not move from my present uncomfortable position, for should I be discovered the men would not scruple to do away with me. I was thankful that the men at last got up and began to walk about the deck. I was fearful, however, that they might come by the windlass, when I must have been discovered.

At last I heard the second mate, who was the officer of the watch, give the order to shorten sail, and they had to run to their stations; and as they did so, I crawled out and succeeded in reaching my bunk, into which I tumbled unperceived. I was far from comfortable, however, fearing that that very night they might smother me—the mode I fancied they would take to put me out of existence.

I was not missed, I suppose, as no one called me, and when my watch on deck came round I turned out with the rest. My head ached, and I had a big lump on my forehead. In the morning, when the third mate saw me, he asked how I got that. I replied that it was the way I had got many another, that it was only what I expected, and had made up my mind to bear it.

“You’re a rum chap, and a bold one—more than I’d do,” answered the mate, not troubling himself more about the matter.

When I went aft to the cabin at breakfast, I heard one of the mates observe that we should make the coast of Australia that day. Then I thought to myself, “If I can get off I will.” I had no intention of going without provisions. I knew that a good store was kept in the pantry, to which I had access. My intention was to tumble everything I could find into a cloth, to tie it up, and to carry it off, if I could, unperceived to the dinghy.

How to lower that without being heard or seen by the watch on deck was the difficulty. The falls were so fitted that a single person might lower her, but then she would make a splash in the water.

We made the land about four o’clock in the afternoon, but after standing on for some time till it was nearly dark, the captain ordered the ship’s head to be put about, as he was not well acquainted with the coast, and there were dangerous reefs which ran off for a considerable distance.

Night came on, and a very dark night it was, but the darkness would favour my design. Instead of being allowed to turn in when it was my watch below, I was sent aft by the cook with a dish of devilled biscuits to the cabin, where the captain and the first and second mates were taking supper, while the third mate had the watch on deck. I intended it to be the last time I would turn into my bunk. I had not been long in the cabin before I observed that the captain and mates had been drinking, and seemed disposed to continue their debauch. The devilled biscuits which I had placed before them still farther incited their thirst, and the captain ordered another bottle of rum. I noticed that the steward, when I told him, got out two bottles, one of which he kept in the pantry while he took the other into the cabin.

“You’ll do to attend on the officers, Dick,” he said to me; “I’m going to enjoy myself.”

I stood ready to obey any orders I should receive. The conversation I heard was far from edifying, but I was too much engaged in thinking of my own project to attend to it.

As I was standing at the far end of the cabin I heard a crash. One of the mates had knocked over a couple of tumblers, and I was sent into the pantry to obtain others. I found the steward fast verging into a state of unconsciousness. He had been pulling away at the rum-bottle at a great rate, for fear he should not have time to finish it.

As I got the tumblers I cast my eyes round the pantry to see what articles of food I could most readily carry off. I saw the best part of a cold ham, an ample supply of biscuits and some pots of Chinese preserves, with several other things of less consequence.

Returning to the cabin I placed the tumblers on the table, and retired beyond the reach of the officers, having been taught by experience that they might at any moment think fit to give me a box on the ear or to knock me down. I watched them with intense interest, lest they should knock off before they were completely drunk. The third mate came into the cabin apparently to report something to the captain, but, seeing the state his commander was in, uttering a loud whew! He turned on his heel, and went out again, seeing the importance of keeping sober himself. I confess that I wished he had sat down with the others, and left the ship to take care of herself.

Soon afterwards, as I knew I should not be missed, I stole out of the cabin, and went into the pantry, where I quickly did up the provisions I intended to take with me. There was a jar of water, evidently quite full, which the steward kept ready for use.

I now went on deck to ascertain what chance I had of carrying out my design. I could discover no one excepting the man at the helm, and the third mate had, I concluded, to take a look-out. I hurried back to get the jar and provisions, and unperceived placed them in the dinghy. I felt about in her, and found two oars and a boat-hook.

The falls were, as I have said, so fitted that one person could lower the boat, but to do so without capsizing her when the ship was moving through the water was almost an impossible undertaking.

The wind had previously been very light, and the vessel had scarcely any steerage way on her. To my intense satisfaction I noticed that it was now almost a stark calm.

Now or never I must carry out my project. I thought not of the dangers to be encountered; the chances of being chased and overtaken; the savages on shore; the risk of starvation; the want of water; the current that might sweep me along; or the chances of a storm arising before I could gain the land. I had not a moment to lose. The mate remained forward; the man at the helm stood motionless, and, I hoped, was asleep. I slipped into the boat, and passing the slack of the falls under two thwarts, gently lowered myself down. I had, the day before, unobserved, thoroughly greased the blocks.

My chief fear now was, that the splash the boat would make on reaching the water would be heard. I therefore eased away with the greatest care, and stood ready in a moment to cast off the aft-most fall. I cleared it in the nick of time, and the boat was towed slowly ahead. I quickly cleared the foremost fall, and was now adrift. I was conscious that a light splash had been made, but I hoped that if the mate heard it he would fancy that it was caused by some monster of the deep rising above the surface. Without waiting to ascertain whether this was the case or not, I seized the oars and pulled rapidly away from the stern of the vessel, the light from the cabin window assisting me to keep the course I desired to make towards the land. I congratulated myself at having accomplished my object before it was too late, for I felt a breeze fanning my ears as I pulled on.

As I looked up at the tall masts, it seemed to me that the sails bulged out, and that the ship was rapidly increasing her distance from me. I was already a considerable way astern when I heard a loud hail. I recognised the voice of the mate, who had probably just discovered that the boat was gone. My fear was, that another would be lowered and sent in chase of me. This made me pull all the harder. My only idea was, to reach shore and escape from my persecutors. I dared not lose time by stopping even for a moment to listen for the sounds of a boat being lowered. I heard several other voices hail, but the ship stood on and gradually faded away in the gloom of night. I knew that being low in the water I could not be seen.

Presently I saw the flash of a musket; then another and another; but no shots came near me, and from this I was convinced that the third mate, or some one else, was firing at random. Had the captain or the other mates been in their right senses the ship would probably have been hove-to and two boats, at least, have been sent in chase of me. The third mate was, I suspect, afraid of heaving to on account of the reefs. He kept the ship, therefore, before the wind. Whatever the cause, I was thankful I was not pursued, and I trusted that the breeze would blow stronger and carry the ship farther and farther away from me.

Although, through there being no moon, the night was dark, and there was a mist which hung over the waters, yet I could observe overhead several stars, and as the lights from the cabin receded, I marked their position, and was thus able, with tolerable confidence, to continue my way towards the land. I fancied that I should be able to reach it early in the morning or during the next day. I at length began to grow weary, but as long as I could move my arms I determined to row on. The wind being off the land, the sea was perfectly calm. Scarcely a ripple disturbed the surface. I was too anxious to feel hunger or thirst. At the same time, the joy at having escaped kept up my spirits.

Under other circumstances I do not think I could have accomplished what I did. I fancied that I was pulling at the rate of four miles an hour, and that I was nearing the shore. At length, however, my fatigue overcame me, and I felt that I could row no more. The moment I stopped I felt very sleepy, but had sense sufficient to take in my oars and place them by my side. I then lay down in the bottom of the boat, intending to rest for a few minutes, after which, I expected again to be able to pull on.

As may be supposed, I was soon again fast asleep. My slumbers were peaceful and pleasant, rendered so, I presume, by the consciousness that I had escaped from the fate intended for me. I was awakened by a bright light flashing in my eyes. Opening them, I sprang up and found that the sun had just risen above the horizon. I looked eagerly around, dreading lest I should see the ship near me, but to my infinite relief she was not visible, nor was the land I had expected to see and so soon to reach. My little boat was the only object on the waste of waters.

The coast, I knew, was to the westward, and as the rising sun would guide me, I took out my oars and began to row away in that direction. I had not rowed long before I began to feel very hungry. I therefore again laid in my oars and took a hearty meal off the provisions I had brought, washing it down with an ample draught of water. Then I once more turned to, but the heat soon became excessive, and I was streaming at every pore. Still, as long as my strength lasted I determined not to give in. I occasionally stopped to take a pull at my water-bottle. With very little rest beside, I continued to paddle on till it was again dark. This showed me what had not occurred to me before, that I might have been rowing part of the time along the coast, instead of towards it, and I supposed that the ship had been much farther off than I had previously imagined. I had been in a dreamy state all day, and unable to think much. This was produced by the heat which beat down on my head. I felt somewhat revived as the sun set, but after a time excessive drowsiness came over me, and once more taking in my oars, I lay down to sleep.

I must have slept the whole night, for when I again woke, it was already dawn. I stood up and looked about me, when to my surprise I observed some rocks between myself in the boat and the bright light which heralded the rising sun. I must have been carried by a current inside them. I was about to row away to the westward, when as the light increased I saw what I at first thought was the mast of a small vessel or boat near them. Seizing my oars, I eagerly pulled towards the object. Again looking round I soon discovered it; it was not a mast, but a pole stuck in the rock with a cask or basket fixed on the top of it.

This was a sign that some civilised inhabitants must be on the neighbouring shore, and that they had placed that beacon to warn mariners of the dangers of the rock.

A number of sea-fowl circled over the rock, occasionally dipping their wings in the clear water.

As the sun rose, I made out the land running in a long line to a far distance, as I concluded north and south. It was now time for breakfast.

I had no intention of landing on the rock, for this would only cause delay. I took my ham out from the stern sheets, but as I did so, the horrible odour which saluted my nostrils made me certain that it would be impossible to eat it, and, except the dry biscuits, I had no other food. I managed with the aid of some water to masticate a fair quantity, but it might be a long time even now before I could gain the shore, and even then I might be disappointed in obtaining food. It then occurred to me that perhaps the sea-fowl made their nests on the rock, and that I might get some of their eggs, which would give me an ample supply of provisions for some time to come.

As I had once upon a time lived upon raw rats, I was not very particular; and even should I not obtain any eggs, I might find some young birds, which, though perhaps fishy in taste, would enable me to support existence. I therefore rowed towards the rock which I saw was of considerable extent, although one part only on which the beacon was placed rose a few feet above the surface.

The clearness of the atmosphere had deceived me as to the distance. I rowed on for some time before I reached it. Possibly also, there was a current against me, although that such was the case did not occur to me at the time.

The sea-fowl shrieked loudly and wildly as I approached, as if to warn me off from their domain. Some sat on the rock, others darted off and circled round and round the boat, but I was not to be deterred from landing by their threatening cries and movements. At last I got close to the rock, and found an indentation or little bay, into which I ran my boat.

Though several birds appeared, I found that they were merely resting on the rock, and that the water was too shallow to allow me to get close enough to step on shore.

In many places the seaweed grew so thickly, and was so slimy, that I was afraid to venture on it, lest it offering a treacherous foothold I should slip back into the water. At last I saw a point some distance from the beacon where I thought I could land, and secure the boat’s painter round a rough part of the coral rock. I succeeded in stepping on to it and making the rope fast; and confident that she would be secure, made my way along the rock with the assistance of the boat-hook. I found neither eggs nor young birds; indeed, on examining the rock, I knew that it must be covered occasionally, if not at every tide, by the water. Still I thought that I should find them at the higher part, near the beacon.

I accordingly scrambled on as well as I could, but here and there I came to a lower part of the rock over which the water washed, and I saw that to reach the beacon I must wade through it. I had to proceed very cautiously, for it was full of hollows and slippery in the extreme, and a fall might involve serious consequences.

The shriek of the birds, though it sounded rather pleasant at a distance, became almost deafening as I got nearer to them.

After going some way, I had to stop and rest, supporting myself on the boat-hook. I now saw, on looking round, that the sky which at sunrise had been bright and clear, was becoming fast covered with clouds. The wind, too, blew with much greater force than before. Still, as it came off the land, I hoped that it might not cause such a sea as would prevent me from continuing my voyage. I was too eager, also, to obtain some eggs or young birds to allow the subject to trouble me. I therefore continued scrambling along over the rocks, hoping to find what I was in search of nearer the beacon. I was by this time nearly wet through up to the middle, but that did not matter, as the hot sun soon dried my clothes. Having got on some distance without an accident, I perhaps became more careless; for when leaping from one rock to another, my foot slipped and I came down with a force which I thought must have broken my arm. I lay clutching the rock with the other hand, unable to move from the pain, while my boat-hook slipped from my grasp, and gliding into the water was borne away from the rock. I now saw that a rapid current was passing the rock, the influence of which I must have felt when approaching it in the boat. Without the boat-hook I should find it still more difficult to get along; but I knew that I must not stay where I was for ever, and as soon therefore as the pain allowed me, I rose to my feet and endeavoured to continue my scramble over the rocks.

I forgot that my return journey would be quite as difficult if not more so, as I should have no boat-hook, and at the same time should be loaded, I hoped, with eggs and birds. I went on and on, of course making very slow progress. At length I got close to the beacon, and great was my disappointment to find neither eggs nor young birds.

I searched round and round the rock in all directions, and I at last came to the conclusion that if the birds lay their eggs there at all the hatching season must have passed, and the young birds grown strong on the wing, and have flown away.

It was a great disappointment. As it was, I had had my difficult and tiring scramble for nothing, and had bruised my arm, though happily I had not broken it. I had also lost my boat-hook. I climbed to the higher part of the rock, and had a look at the land, which I judged was ten or twelve miles off at least. Still I hoped to accomplish that distance long before dark, and to find a harbour, as I supposed there was one, or it was not likely that the beacon could have been placed on the rock. I therefore, without further delay, began my return journey. As I went along, I found that some places where I had crossed had become much deeper. At length it occurred to me that the tide was rising. I had regained sight of my boat, which at a distance could not be distinguished from the black rocks, when it suddenly appeared to me that she was moving. I rushed on at the risk of breaking my legs. What was my dismay at seeing that she was already at a considerable distance from the rock where I had left her, and there seemed every probability that I should lose her altogether. In my terror I shouted and shrieked to her to stop. I was on the point of rushing into the water to try and overtake her when I saw a black fin glide by, followed by another, and the wicked eye of a shark glanced up at me, daring me to venture on the undertaking. My despair overcoming me, I sank down on the rock.

Chapter Nineteen.

My adventures on the rock—My search for food, and what I found—The storm—Despite my perilous position, I marvel at the grandeur of the scene—The storm subsides—My search for clams, and further explorations on the rock—The darkest night must come to an end—A welcome wetting—My only refuge—Return of stormy weather—Perilous moments—I climb the beacon-post.

I had gone through a few misadventures, but this was the most trying of all. After lying on the rock for a few minutes or more, I recovered sufficiently to recollect that the tide was rising, and that unless I could select a higher spot I should be swept off, and become a prey to the monsters I dreaded. I therefore got up, and trying to pull myself together again, endeavoured to reach the beacon, which would at all events afford me temporary shelter. When taking out the biscuits in the morning I had shoved several into my pocket, which would enable me to sustain existence until I could make signals to some passing boat or vessel. Having lost my boat-hook I made slower progress than before, and often with the greatest difficulty avoided falling. Two or three times I had to wade up to my middle, and I dreaded lest one of the sharks should have shoved his nose through the opening, and might snap me up. Still I went on. My anxiety made me forget the pain in my arm. Fortunately I was not indeed deprived of its use, and by degrees the pain went off.

I was so much engaged, that I did not for some time observe how completely the weather had changed. The beacon on the rock was reached, and I sat down below it to rest myself after my exertions. I now saw that the sea, which had hitherto been so calm, had begun to heave. Sudden gusts blew across it, covering its surface with wavelets, which every moment increased in size. Dark clouds chased each other across the sky, and gathered in thick masses overhead. To my dismay I saw that a storm was rising. It rapidly came on, while the sea getting up with the same speed, completely swept over the lower part of the rock along which I had made my way.

The lightning flashed, the thunder roared, and the seas began to beat with violence against the rock. Some of them came sweeping up to where I sat. I sprang to my feet, and stood gazing with awe and terror at the strife of the elements which raged around me. What hope, I thought, could I have of escaping. My boat gone; so far off from land that it was impossible I could be observed, while I could see no boats or vessels sailing over the whole expanse of ocean. Indeed had there been any coming from the shore, they would have put back into harbour when they saw the storm coming on. Still I was unharmed; I had biscuits enough in my pockets to keep soul and body together for a day or two longer, if I economised them as I intended to do. I might also find some shellfish; they would serve me for food for a much longer time, I therefore did not despair, but I was aware that at any moment the sea might sweep up and carry me off.

With more calmness than I had given myself credit for possessing, I continued to survey the scene. I looked out again for my boat, thinking it possible that the current might drive her back to the rock, but she had been carried far beyond my ken. This made my heart sick. Knowing, however, that my life depended very much on my keeping up my courage, I endeavoured to muster all I possessed. I thought if I could climb up to the top of the rock and make a signal, it might be observed, should any boat when the storm was over come out from the shore, or should any vessel be passing. I could see no other rocks to the eastward; I supposed, therefore that this was the highest part of the reef, and that vessels acquainted with the coast might pass by within sight of it.

I spent several hours, I can scarcely describe how. When my hunger became too ravenous to bear longer, I munched a small quantity of biscuit. At length, as I watched the seas, I observed that they did not approach so close to me, and I was convinced that the tide was again going down. I calculated, indeed, from the time I had been on the rock, that this must be the case, as it was already rising when I first landed, and I now hoped that I should be able to obtain some shellfish by going down to the lee-side, and cutting them off with my knife.

The idea having once occurred to me, I lost no time in carrying it out. I had to be excessively cautious, for by a false step I might have slipped into the sea, and not have been able to regain my hold on the rock. After searching about for some time, I caught sight of a few clams, but they were not to be obtained without risk, as the sea surged up and recovered them. I fixed my eye on one, then rushing down, I cut it off and threw it up out of the reach of the water. I obtained two more in the same way; and in attempting to secure a fourth, the waves swept round the rock, almost covering me, and I had to cling on for my life, losing my clam and very nearly my life. This taught me to be more cautious than ever; but I managed notwithstanding to obtain three or four more, and as I could see none others above water, I had to content myself with those I had collected. Gathering those I had obtained together, I returned to the higher part of the rock, close under the beacon, where I was sheltered from the wind. I had no means of lighting a fire. There was no fuel on the rock to make one, and so I was compelled to eat the clams raw, with a little biscuit to make them more palatable. The whole day had passed away, and another night was coming on. I dreaded it, for I knew not what might happen during the hours of darkness.

The storm had in no way abated, and I feared that when the tide again rose the sea might get still more over the rock. I had little idea, however, how fiercely it was about to do so. I have often spoken of my sleeping and waking, but thus our lives are spent. In spite of the storm raging around me, the seas thundering on the rock, and the wind whistling through the beacon, a drowsiness overpowered me, and I found myself dropping off to sleep. I was still conscious in some degree how I was situated. I felt all the time an overpowering sense of danger. Sometimes I was in my little boat, gliding calmly over the ocean; now I was suddenly chased by big waves, which threatened every instant to engulf me. Then I found myself cast upon the rock, my boat floating away, and tumbling and tossing till she disappeared. Now I was seated all alone, gazing out over the ocean, which rose and fell, and tossed before my eyes just as I had seen it in the daytime, only rising to a far greater height, and descending in a more furious fashion. This sort of confused dream continued while I was asleep. Now and then I awoke, only to hear the noises I have before described. The rock itself seemed quaking, as the seas with a thundering roar dashed against it. I could hear, too, the screams of the sea-birds as they swept round and round, disturbed from their usual resting-place, though many of them flew off, I suppose, to the far-away shores, or to other rocks perhaps higher out of the water.

The night I had escaped from the “Emu” was very dark; but this was unfortunately darker, except when a flash of lightning darted from the sky and illumined the white foam which, lashed by the wind into spray, flew in sheets over the rock. I was soon wet to the skin. I felt chilly in the extreme. Even the most terrible night must come to an end.

Morning broke, but cheerless as could well be. The sky was of one leaden hue, broken here and there by the clouds which hung lower down in the strata. The waves, when not covered by foam, were of the same tint. To sit where I was I found was impossible. I got up and walked about and stretched my legs. To my dismay I found that the rocks, which at the same hour the previous day were high out of the water, were now almost covered by the furious seas which rolled over them. I trembled to think what would be the case at high water. I should have liked to have got some more clams for breakfast, but I could see none, even after searching for them, and there was a great risk of being swept away, so I contented myself with taking one of those I had saved from the previous day, with a biscuit, for breakfast. I was already very thirsty, having had nothing to drink since I had left the boat, and would have welcomed a heavy shower from the dark clouds overhead. I continued to walk, or rather to climb about the rock, as there was but a very small level place on which I could walk.

Then I sat down again, and with melancholy gaze watched the foaming seas, which I began to dread, as I saw them more and more frequently covering the rock, would prove my grave. At length I had to seek a higher and more exposed level, and as water occasionally surged up to the place where I had spent the night, and might at any moment sweep me off, I tried to nerve myself up to my fate.

With difficulty I could restrain myself from drinking the sea-water. I was well aware of the danger of doing so, and resisted the temptation. At last, as I was looking up, I felt a drop fall on my face. It was not the spray of the sea. Another and another followed, and down came a copious shower. I opened my mouth, at the same time holding out my cap to the rain, hoping to get a little in it. I got but little, so I placed it on the rock and spread it open. I then took off my jacket, and held it out that it might be well wetted.

I hoped also to find some hollow in the rock that might be rilled with fresh water. The rain came down, as it does in the tropics, in a perfect deluge. My jacket was wet through in a minute, and I was able to wring out of it a sufficient amount of fresh water to quench my burning thirst. After this I was able to eat some biscuits. It should be remembered that the tide reaches its height nearly three-quarters of an hour later every day. I watched with intense anxiety its rising this afternoon. Now it entirely covered the rocks where I had landed, then those over which I had made my way were concealed from view, and now it reached the base of the beacon-rock itself, against which the seas began to break with a fury surpassing that of the previous day.

The spot on which I had been standing one minute was the next covered by the seething waters, when I retired to a higher level. Again and again a wave broke over the rock, and striking one of the almost perpendicular sides flew high into the air above my head. Every moment my hope of escape was becoming less and less. I cried to heaven for mercy. As I saw death drawing near, the desire to live increased. It seemed so terrible to have to die all alone away from friends and country.

At last I was driven to the very foot of the beacon, and I clutched it as if it alone could afford me protection. I knew that I could not for a single moment stand upon the rock with the sea breaking over it, but the beacon itself withstood the furious waves. I had not as yet thought of climbing to it to see how it was fixed, but I now did so with intense anxiety. I found that the staff was of hard oak, and that it had been imbedded in a deep hole formed by art in the rock, and further secured by iron bars driven into it, and fastened round by iron hoops. This gave me some hopes that it would stand the fury of the seas should they rise high enough to strike it. That they would do this seemed every moment more probable.

On every side around me they tossed and foamed and roared, as if eager to seize me. I frantically clutched the pole, which, from its size, I could with difficulty embrace. Even now, though my chance of escape seemed small indeed, I did not abandon all hope. A small line hung down through the bottom of the cask. I tried its strength. It would enable me, I found, to mount upwards, but I was unwilling to make the attempt, as I could not tell whether the cask was fixed securely enough to bear my weight. There I stood, my arms round the pole, clutching the rope with my hands, and awaiting my fate. That that ere long would come I was fully convinced.

Though sea after sea broke on the rock, none actually touched me, though my feet occasionally were washed by the foam. To my surprise, and contrary to all my expectations, though the seas raged round me as fiercely as ever, the water sank, and as the sea rolled up it struck a lower level of the rock, and I began to hope once more that I should escape. Then I recollected that if the tides had not yet reached their extreme height, or the spring tides had not come on, the next day might prove fatal. Though the water had receded, I dare not leave the beacon-post, and kept clinging to it as my only comfort and friend. At length weary I sank down to rest, still grasping it in my arms. Thus hours passed away, even now too painful to think of. I ate the remainder of the biscuit, and then fell into a heavy slumber, which must have lasted many hours. I awoke to find that it was night, and that the tide was once more rising, as I knew by hearing the seas breaking on the rocks close to me. Already I was covered by the spray, which flew in showers over me. Had I slept on much longer I must have been swept away, and awakened only to find myself in the cruel grasp of the relentless waves. I might, however, now never see another sunrise. I prayed as I had never prayed before, and resolved to struggle to the last for life.

Few have been placed in a more perilous position and escaped. I had the stout beacon to cling to. It had probably stood many a storm, but would it stand fast now? To that I held fast as before, but I feared that my strength would fail me, and that I might be torn away from it. I looked up at the cask above my head, wondering whether that would afford me an asylum I was unwilling, however, to exhaust my strength by attempting to climb the post. With increasing force the waves beat on the rock. Again and again it trembled from their blows, though I fancied, and almost expected, to find it washed away beneath my feet. I was wet through, and blinded by the spray. As I cleared my eyes, I could discern through the darkness the seas dancing up level with the rock on which I stood. Some appeared, as they rolled on meeting with no impediment, to be much higher. Then I saw one coming roaring and hissing along towards me. It broke with fearful force, and rushed over the rock higher than my knees.

Had I not been firmly grasping the beacon-post, I should have been carried off my legs and washed helplessly away. I shrieked with terror as I saw another coming higher than the last. My cries were echoed by those of the wild sea-birds passing above. The foaming sea broke, and as I drew myself up the post, I found my legs floating behind me. A moment later, and my doom would have been sealed. I got up higher and higher. Now, as I looked down, I saw that I was surrounded by a tumultuous ocean, without a particle of rock on which to place the soles of my feet. I knew that all depended on my strength holding out. The beacon might stand fast, but I might be torn away. Had it been daylight I might better have endured the horrible position in which I was placed, but at night to be thus all alone, with the hungry waves leaping up and striving to snatch me from my holdfast, was truly dreadful.

I wonder my senses did not give way. Sometimes I thought that it was only a dream, but I then knew it to be a fearful reality. With arms and legs clinging round the post, and my hands clutching the rope as I had never clutched rope before, I hung on. I was almost afraid to climb higher, lest my muscles failing me for a moment I should lose my grasp, and yet the cask was only a few feet above me. Suddenly I recollected that on board whalers casks are placed in the same manner as that was at the masthead, in order that the officers, protected in some degree, may in that position obtain a wide extended view in search of whales, and that they enter by a trap-door in the bottom. Should this beacon possess such a trap, I might get through it and obtain shelter and rest. But again a doubt crossed my mind whether I could climb up even thus far, without the risk of sliding down again into the sea.

I looked down to see if the tide was once more receding, but the waves seemed still to be rising higher and higher. Some of their foam even sometimes now touched my feet as they swept over the rock. They might even cover the beacon itself; and if so, no human power could save me. After remaining quiet for some time, I felt as if I possessed sufficient strength, and resolved to make the attempt. With legs and arms and hands I worked my way up. I would have clung with my teeth to the rope could I have seized it. I was within a foot of the bottom of the cask, when I felt so exhausted that I thought I could get no higher. I looked down on the raging sea and then up at the only place which could afford me shelter. In the darkness I could not see whether or not there was a trap, and if there were one perhaps I might not be able to force it open, and, exhausted by the effort, might drop into the water. I dreaded the risk, but it must be run.

Nerving myself up to the undertaking, I slowly and carefully began to work my way higher up. My head struck the cask. I put up my hand, the bottom yielded, and now exerting all my remaining strength I seized the edges and drew myself up, holding well on with my hands and feet until I had got my head and shoulders into the interior. Throwing myself on my chest, I felt round and discovered some beckets, evidently intended for the purpose of enabling a person situated as I was to draw himself up. I then, grasping the rope which hung from the top of the pole which passed through the cask, dragged myself up and placed my feet at the bottom. I pressed down the trap. I felt more secure than I had been for many hours. Had I not still had a post to cling to after the strain my muscles had so long endured, I could not have stood upright.

Several cross-pieces secured the top of the cask to the post. I shoved my head through them, and could now look down on the wild and raging waters with which I was surrounded. Still I dare not quit my hold of the post, fancying that if I pressed on one side of the cask or the other, it might give way. Not that there was the slightest chance of that in reality. I did not long contemplate the fearful scene, but overcome by what I had gone through, I sank down to the bottom of the cask, and, wet and cold as I was, fell into a troubled slumber.

Chapter Twenty.

In the beacon—The storm continues—The tide turns—I again seek for food—I meet with another accident—Brighter weather—A sail in sight—My hopes and fears—My signal—My rescue—A voice from the deep—Three old friends meet again—On board the “Falcon”—The good captain—Sydney harbour, and why I did not go ashore there—The homeward voyage—Mark and I learn navigation—My reception at Liverpool—Sad, sad news—My journey to Sandgate—I enter Mr Butterfield’s office, and have had no cause to regret doing so.

I awoke to find the storm still raging around me; but as I opened my eyes I was sensible that a faint light came in from the top of the cask. I was cramped with the uncomfortable position in which I had been sleeping. When I looked out over the edge of the cask, though the seas were tossing as wildly as before, I perceived that the rock below me was once more uncovered, owing, as I knew, to the tide having ebbed. At first I thought of descending; then I recollected that the waters might again rise to their former level, and I feared that I might not have strength to regain my sheltering-place. I therefore remained where I was. I shortly began to feel the pangs of hunger and thirst. I eagerly felt in my pocket for some biscuit, forgetting that I had consumed the last the night before. I found a few crumbs, and with difficulty got them down, having no water to moisten my dry mouth. Still, the wet state of my clothes prevented me from suffering so much from thirst as I should otherwise have done.

The storm, I knew, would not last for ever. Should it continue much longer, however, I might succumb before I could possibly be relieved; but having been hitherto so mercifully preserved, I did not despair. Feeling weary of standing, I again crouched down at the bottom of the cask. I had reason to bless the persons who had placed it there. As I thus sat, half asleep and half awake, it seemed to me that the wind blew with less violence than it had done before. I got up to ascertain if this was the case. On looking round I felt confident that it was so. It appeared to me, also, that the seas were tumbling about with less violence than they had done on the previous day. If so, they might not again cover the rock. I was well accustomed to notice the tides on our own shore, and I remembered that, after the highest of the spring tides, they were said by the fishermen to “take off”—that is, to rise to a less elevation every subsequent day. Thus, even should the storm continue, the rock might not again be covered. This idea brought considerable relief to me.

My hunger made me resolve to descend to search for clams. Perhaps I should find a fish thrown on the rock. The thought of obtaining some food made me get down at once. I opened the trap, and, grasping the rope, slid down with perfect ease. Already the rocks over which I had clambered from the boat were bare, for the tide had fallen rapidly. I knew that it would fall in proportion as it had risen. I went as close to the edge as I could venture without running the risk of being carried off. The rocks, which were washed by the fierce seas, were slippery in the extreme, and I feared that any clams clinging to them must have been washed away. Still, hunger urged me on. I made my way along the top of the coral reef. I observed several small pools ahead. There must be creatures of some sort within, which would enable me to satisfy the cravings of hunger. I had gone some little distance, when I slipped, and came down on the rock. In my weak state I felt unable again to rise for some minutes, though I was not seriously hurt.

The clouds, some time before this, began to break, and suddenly the sun shone forth, his warm rays cheering me up. As I cast my eyes round, something glittered brightly just for a moment in one of the pools. Rising with renewed strength, I scrambled, faster than I had moved before, towards it, and great was my delight to see a good-sized fish floundering in the pool. It attempted to escape me, but I pounced down upon it as a sea-bird would have done, and, giving it a blow on the head, quickly despatched it. I was too hungry to wait even to partially prepare it by hanging it up in the sun, and, taking out my knife, quickly cut some slices from the thickest part of the body. I did not stop to consider whether it was wholesome, but ate it raw as it was. I looked about in the hope of finding another, and was successful; it was of the same species as the first. I could exist now without the clams; and, therefore, thinking it prudent not to run any risk in trying to obtain them, I returned to the beacon.

By this time the wind had fallen to a moderate breeze, though the seas still continued rolling on with foaming crests, but far less wildly than before, and were evidently decreasing in height. The atmosphere having cleared, I was able to distinguish the distant shore, which had the appearance of a blue irregular line to the westward. Again and again I turned my eyes seaward, in hopes of seeing a passing ship, which might stand near enough to observe me. I was disappointed; not a sail came in sight, and another night approached. The waters covered some of the rocks, but only for a short time, when the tide again ran out. Still I was unwilling to sleep upon the cold rock, and, taking my second fish, having consumed the first to the bones, I climbed up again into the tub. Having coiled myself away round the bottom, I was soon fast asleep. My slumbers were peaceful and quiet. The gentle wind produced no sound round the cask; the roar of the surf on the rocks had ceased. I slept the whole night through, and not till the sun had risen out of the ocean did I wake. I at once stood up and looked round me. A light breeze from the northward sent the wavelets rippling against the rock. The sea was otherwise perfectly calm, and glowed in the rays of the bright orb of day.

I looked landwards, in the expectation of seeing some vessels come out of the harbour, which, I thought, could not be far off, but none appeared. Then I gazed anxiously to the northward, and round the horizon in all directions. Presently I saw a spot appear of snowy whiteness, glittering in the rays of the sun. It rapidly increased in size. “A sail! A sail!” I shouted, though there was no one to hear me. I soon perceived that she was a large ship. First her topgallant sails, then her topsails, rose out of the water. I was so intently watching her that I forgot for a time to take my meal. As may be supposed, I turned many a look towards the ship. She was standing towards me, running before the wind along the coast. At last her courses, and then her hull, appeared, and I fancied that I could almost see the people moving on her deck. I was congratulating myself that I should have a speedy deliverance, when the thought came to me that she might be the “Emu.”

If I were discovered I should be worse treated than before. I had not so often seen the ship on which I had spent so many dreary months, to be certain about her appearance at a distance. I trembled lest I should be right, though she had been steering in a different direction. As the stranger approached, I became more and more convinced that she was not the “Emu.” Still I felt a feeling of uncertainty on the subject. Should I make a signal, and try to attract the attention of those on board? The beacon would certainly be observed; perhaps they were looking out for it. Had I possessed a supply of water, I might have hesitated longer; but my perilous position determined me at all risks to make a signal. I watched till the ship came nearly abreast of the beacon, when, stripping off my shirt, I climbed as high as I could, until I reached the cask. I waved the shirt frantically. In my eagerness I shouted also, though I might have known that my puny voice could not be heard. For some time it appeared to me that I was waving in vain; and then, what was my dismay to see the ship’s head turned away from the shore. I was deserted.

Presently the sheets were let fly, the main-topsail was backed against the mast. She hove-to. I almost fell from my post with joy as I saw a boat lowered, which came rapidly pulling towards the rock. Putting on my shirt—it was now perfectly dry—I descended from my perch to the rock, and there stood eagerly watching the boat. Again a thought occurred to me, that she might, after all, be the “Emu,” and in another few minutes I might be in the clutches of old Growles and the boatswain, and my other persecutors. But as I strained my eyes to discern their countenances. I became aware that none of the “Emu’s” crew were there. As far as I could make out, they were all perfect strangers. The boat steered for the lee-side of the rock. I hurried down to meet them.

“Why, my lad, who are you, and how came you here?” exclaimed one of the strangers. “Has your ship gone to the bottom?”

“That’s more than I can say,” I answered; “I came in a boat. The boat floated away, and I have been left here.”

“What ship do you belong to?” asked the stranger.

“The ‘Emu,’” I answered, thinking it was as well to acknowledge this much.

“The ‘Emu!’” he exclaimed. “Why, who are you? Let me let me look at you. Don’t you know me, Dick?” and he grasped my hand. I looked at him hard.

“Why, if I didn’t think you were at the bottom of the sea, I should have declared that you were Tom Trivett.”

“And so I am,” he said, “though I’m not at the bottom of the sea, and right glad I am to find you, Dick, out of that dreadful ship. Come along, we mustn’t stand talking here; we were sent to bring you off, and, judging by your looks, the sooner you’re on board the better.”

“Yes, indeed,” I answered, “for I find it a hard matter to speak from the dryness in my throat; I haven’t tasted water for a couple of days, and if you had not come I don’t suppose I should have held out much longer, with the hot sun shining down on my head.”

“Well, I am glad,” cried Tom, as he, with the aid of another hand, who was the third mate of the ship, helped me into the boat. She immediately shoved off, and pulled towards the ship.

“Who would have thought of finding you, Dick, all alone by yourself out on yonder rock?” said Tom, who was pulling stroke oar. “However, wonders never end. There’s another old shipmate of yours on board, whom you’ll be glad to see, I have a notion; and not a little surprised either, if you thought that he was left to perish on the Falkland Islands.”

“What! Do you mean Mark Riddle?” I asked.

“Yes, Mark himself,” he said. “He didn’t die, or he wouldn’t be on board the ‘Falcon.’ We found him about ten days after. He had been pretty well worn out, but still with life enough in him to crawl down to the beach when we put in for water.”

“I am glad, I am glad!” I said, though I could say little more, and was unable to ask Tom how he had escaped.

The mate put questions to me which I was unable to answer; indeed I was almost fainting before I was lifted up the side of the “Falcon.” One of the first persons I set eyes on was Mark Riddle. He was much grown and bronzed. Had I not been aware that he was on board, I should not at first have known him; nor did he guess who I was till Tom told him, when he sprang to my side, and warmly grasped my hand. He forbore asking questions, as he saw that I was not in a state to reply. The first thing Tom did was to bring me a mug of water, which I eagerly drank. After that the captain ordered that I should be carried to a spare berth in the cabin.

“We must have him there, that he may be properly looked after. He’ll be better off than in the forepeak,” he said.

From this I guessed that he was a kind-hearted man, very different to Captain Longfleet. In a short time some broth and a fresh roll baked on board were brought to me, and I was not so far gone that I was prevented from thankfully swallowing the food. It revived me greatly, and when Captain Mason looked in on me shortly afterwards, I was able to answer all the questions he put to me. I confessed who I was, and how I had come to sea. When he heard that I was the son of a clergyman, and related to Mr Butterfield, he was even kinder than before; though he did not, I suspect, quite believe my account.

“Truth should be adhered to, my lad, under all circumstances,” he observed. “Are you quite sure that you did not run away?”

“I thought of doing so, sir; but I was carried off exactly as I have told you, and I was very sorry for it afterwards.”

“You have been severely punished for it, and I am afraid have caused great anxiety and grief to your friends. You might have lost your life, though you have been preserved in God’s good providence, and when you get home I hope you will make amends for your fault. It is all you can do,” he observed.

The state of the ship contrasted greatly with that of the “Emu.” After a sound sleep, I was able the next day to get about, though I still remained somewhat sick and weak. Tom told me that the “Falcon” was the happiest ship he had ever been aboard. The crew were generally orderly and well behaved. Mark corroborated what Tom said.

As soon as I was strong enough, I begged that I might be allowed to do duty on board, so that I might not pass my time idly. To this Captain Mason willingly agreed. I was separated more than I liked from Mark, but he told me that he was not jealous.

“But I say, Dick,” he said, “if you could teach me, when it’s my watch below, some of the navigation and other things you’re learning, I should be very much obliged.”

I willingly promised to do this; and, as he came down to the spar-deck, we at once set to work, and every day I imparted to him the knowledge I had obtained. One day the first mate, who was a very kind man, found us thus engaged. He said nothing at the time, but afterwards asked me if Riddle was very anxious to learn navigation. I told him that he was. He reported this to the captain, who told Mark that he could come into the cabin and study with the rest of us.

Our studies were interrupted when the ship entered Sydney harbour. We lay there for some days, discharging our cargo, and taking on board bales of wool, which was now being produced in considerable quantities in that magnificent country, though the shipments of a whole year were not equal to what was afterwards exported in a month.

As I knew that the “Emu” was bound for Sydney, I anxiously inquired whether she was there. She had not come in; but, as I thought she might possibly make her appearance, I was afraid to go on shore, lest I should encounter Captain Longfleet or the mates or the men. I felt sure, should they see me, that I should be captured, carried on board, and punished tremendously for stealing the boat. On returning on board, however, one day, Tom Trivett told me that he had heard a report that the “Emu” had been lost in a gale which had occurred some time before, as part of her stern had been picked up with her name upon it. This account having been confirmed, left no doubt on my mind as to her having been wrecked, and, as none of those on board ever appeared, that all had perished. I had thus still greater reason than ever to be thankful that I had made my escape from her when I did. But Captain Mason blamed me for the way in which I had done so.

“You’ve done many things that were wrong, my lad,” he said, “there’s no doubt about that; but all I can urge you is to be heartily sorry for them.”

I confess I found it very difficult to be sorry that I had run away with the boat, since I had saved my life by so doing. Then I might afterwards have lost it on the rock; and the matter has been a very puzzling one to me ever since.

We sailed with a fair wind, which carried us down the coast of Australia. The wind then shifted to the eastward, and we passed through Bass’s Straits, between the mighty continent and Van Diemen’s Land, as it was at that time called, the captain intending to go home by the Cape of Good Hope instead of across the Pacific and round Cape Horn, as ships of the present day generally do.

I have few incidents to describe during our homeward voyage. I was far happier than I had been on board the “Emu.” Somehow or other I had no longer that affection for a sea life which I fancied I possessed. I dreaded, however, the reception I should meet with, on my return home, from Aunt Deb and Mr Butterfield, and from my father and brothers and sisters. The only person who I knew would receive me affectionately was my mother. I was very certain of it. I was half inclined, from fear of the upbraiding that I should get from the rest of my family, to beg Captain Mason to let me remain on board, and to make another voyage with him, expecting that I should regain my love for the ocean. I at last mentioned the subject.

“I would willingly do so, my lad, if your father and friends think it best you should become a sailor, but I cannot consent to act contrary to their wishes. You must at once, on landing, present yourself to Mr Butterfield; and as I am acquainted with him, I will accompany you and state how I have had the satisfaction of rescuing you from the perilous position in which you were placed.”

I thanked the captain very much for his offer, as I felt that I should have much more confidence in his presence than if I had gone alone. Still, as we ran up the Irish Channel and sighted the Welsh coast, I felt very nervous, and could scarcely attend to my duties. At length we entered the Mersey and dropped anchor off Liverpool. As soon as the ship had been taken into dock, and the captain was at liberty, he sent for me, and we walked together to Mr Butterfield’s office, where we were at once shown into his private room. The old gentleman did not recognise me, I was so grown and altered. When Captain Mason said who I was, he started, and, eyeing me keenly, at last took my hand.

“I’m thankful to see you again, my boy,” he said; “but you have caused your aunt and me much anxiety, and trouble and sorrow to others of your family; but I won’t say just now what has happened. Your aunt will tell you that, by-and-by. I am unwilling to grieve your heart on first landing on your native shore.”

I did not then understand what he meant; but as his manner was kind, I congratulated myself on escaping the upbraiding I expected from him, at all events. Captain Mason having much business to get through, rose to take his leave, when Mr Butterfield expressed his desire to repay him for the trouble and expense he had been put to on my account.

“Pray don’t speak of it, my kind sir,” answered the worthy captain; “I am amply repaid by the satisfaction I feel at restoring the lad to his friends;” and shaking me warmly by the hand, he left the office.

As it was late in the day, Mr Butterfield having signed a few letters, said he was ready to go home, and desired me to accompany him. As we walked along together, he questioned me about my adventures, seeming rather incredulous when I assured him that I had not intentionally run away to sea.

“Well, well, Dick, we’ll let by-gones be by-gones. I shall be glad to see you act rightly in future.”

I inquired if Aunt Deb was still with him.

“She returned to your father soon after you disappeared, and has only lately come back to pay me another visit,” he answered.

I confess I wished she had stayed at home. However, I had to face her, though I felt very nervous about the interview.

“I don’t think she will recognise you, and I won’t tell her who you are,” he said, as I entered the house.

We went into the drawing-room, where we found Aunt Deb seated in a high-backed chair.

“Here’s a young gentleman come from the sea. He’s come to dine with us,” said Mr Butterfield.

Aunt Deb rose from her seat, gave me a stiff bow, and sank down again on her seat. “I have no affection for the sea, or generally for those whose profession it is to sail upon it,” she said, looking hard at me. “There are exceptions to every rule, and I hope that this young gentleman will show that he doesn’t possess the objectionable manners and customs of sailors.”

“I trust you will not be mistaken in the favourable opinion you form of me, Madam,” I said, as stiffly as I could. “But I venture to think that you are prejudiced against seafaring men. Let me assure you, however, that there are many estimable persons among them, though there are some as bad as any to be found on shore. You once had a nephew who went away to sea. I hope that you don’t class him among the bad ones.”

“I class him among the very worst,” she exclaimed. “He ran off without leave, without wishing me, his kind aunt, farewell, or letting us know where he had gone, or what had become of him. He made us all very miserable, and broke his poor mother’s heart.”

“My mother dead!” I exclaimed. “Oh, don’t say that, don’t say that! And I killed her.”

“Who are you?” cried Aunt Deb, starting up and looking me in the face.

“Yes; I do believe that you are that graceless young monkey, Dick!”

“I am indeed your nephew, Dick. I am indeed heartily sorry for all I have done, and shall never forgive myself if my conduct was the cause of my mother’s death. Did I not mistake what you said? Oh, Aunt Deb, do tell me is she really dead?” and I grasped her hands and burst into tears.

She was moved as I spoke more than I could have expected; and instead of further upbraiding me, tried to soothe the anguish I felt. I was indeed severely punished for my thoughtless conduct, to say the best of it.

Mr Butterfield spoke to me more kindly than I expected or deserved, and when he again offered me a seat in his counting-house, and assured me that he would endeavour to further my interests and raise me according to my deserts, I thankfully accepted his proposal.

Before, however, commencing my career as a merchant, he allowed me to go home and see my father, who, I need not say, received me according to the dictates of his affectionate heart, without uttering a word of blame. My brothers and sisters were never tired of hearing of my adventures while I remained with them. On my mother’s grave I promised to do my duty to the best of my power in the new situation of life I was about to occupy.

After my arrival at home I paid a visit to old Roger Riddle, and had the satisfaction of telling him that Mark had become a steady fellow, and as Captain Mason had promised to take him the next voyage in the “Falcon,” and to continue his instructions in navigation, he had every prospect of becoming an officer. Tom Trivett entered the navy, and having lost a leg, became an out-pensioner of Greenwich Hospital. He used frequently to come and see me in after years, and nothing pleased him so much as to talk over the adventures of our early days, and to spin long yarns to my children about those he subsequently went through. After a week’s stay at Sandgate, I returned to Liverpool, where I at once set to work in Mr Butterfield’s office, and have every reason to be thankful that I was enabled to take my place on one of the high stools which I had formerly looked upon with such intense disgust. By diligence and perseverance, and strict attention to my duties, I gained my principal’s good opinion, and ultimately, on his death, I became the head of the firm.

The End.

W.H.G. Kingston

"The Circassian Chief"

Volume One—Chapter One.

Between the ancient and modern capitals of Russia, a fine broad road now affords an easy communication, although, but a few years ago, the traveller who would journey from one city to the other, was compelled to proceed at a slow pace, along a wild track, over rough stony ground, through swamps, under dark forests, and across bleak and unsheltered plains.

The sun had already begun his downward course towards the more happy, and free lands of the far West, shedding forth his summer rays on the heads of two horsemen, who pursued their way in a southerly direction, along the yet unimproved part of the road, to which we have alluded. Their pace, as the nature of the ground over which they travelled required, was slow—their attention being chiefly occupied in guiding their steeds between the many deep ruts and cavities, which lay in their path.

The tone of their voices, their noble bearing, and general appearance, bespoke them at a glance, to belong to a station far above the common rank of life. They were dressed alike, in a half military uniform; their arms consisting solely of pistols, and heavy riding whips the latter even no despicable weapon when wielded by a strong arm.

The travellers might have been taken for brothers, but that the dark flashing eye, black hair, clear olive-complexion, and regular Grecian features of the one, offered too great a contrast to the laughing blue eye, light complexion and hair of the other, whose features, though inferior to those of his companion, were not deficient in manly beauty. There appeared to be scarcely any difference in their ages, both having emerged from boyhood, into that joyous time of life, when the man has completely shaken off what he then considers the irksome trammels of his childish days; happily, unconscious how soon in their stead, advancing years may too probably bring around him the many cares, and disappointments that flesh is doomed to bear, from manhood to the grave.

The last mentioned of the two wayfarers, was in reality, however, the elder; although the light laugh he occasionally indulged in, and his debonair manner, gave him a younger look, than his more serious companion. They were followed at a short distance by a most primitive looking, low, square vehicle, containing their baggage; drawn by a shaggy little pony, and driven by a man almost as rough looking and unpolished as the animal itself. A low crowned, broad-brimmed hat of felt, covered a head of sandy hair, while a huge long beard of the same hue hung down upon his breast: the twinkle of his light grey eye, and a smile on his lips, giving a good humoured expression to his flat, and otherwise unmeaning features.

His dress consisted of a long coat of coarse cloth, buckled round the waist by a leathern belt, and boots of the latter material, untanned, reaching just above his ankles. He urged on his little animal, as fast as it could travel, over the rugged road, whistling, as he lashed his whip, and whirled it round his head—his thoughts evidently not extending beyond his immediate occupation.

The scenery through which the road led, was probably as dreary and uninteresting as any to be found in Russia; a country, which can boast of but few natural beauties, throughout its widely extended territory. It ranged over a landscape, as far as the eye could reach, consisting of a dry uncultivated plain, with here and there, a few clumps of stunted trees struggling into existence upon the arid and ungrateful soil—fit emblems of the miserable, and enslaved peasantry of the country.

The travellers had continued on their course through scenery equally unpicturesque for some distance, when gradually it began to improve, exhibiting a greater number of trees, and a brighter verdure. A proposal was then made by one of them, to which the other readily assented; this was to urge forward the driver of their baggage-cart, with his charge to Tver, a town they purposed resting at for the night, while they followed at their leisure, through the forest they were approaching. The servant was summoned by the name of Karl, and ordered to proceed with as much speed as his weary beast was capable of, in order to secure a lodging and to prepare supper, the materials for which he carried, together with their bedding for the night—a necessary precaution, the inns at the small towns in Russia, affording very miserable accommodation.

Karl signified his comprehension of the order and willingness to obey it, by a few guttural sounds, and several low bends of the neck; when flourishing his long whip, he bestowed a few additional lashes on the flanks of the pony, who reluctantly started into a trot, dragging the rude little vehicle over ruts and stones after a most uncomfortable fashion.

The cavaliers then followed quietly on, at the slow pace which the heat of a warm spring day made most agreeable, each occupied with his own thoughts; those of the younger of the two appearing to be rather of a sombre hue, as occasionally a shade of melancholy would pass across his expressive features; while, at other times, his bright eye would kindle with animation, and his lip would curl, as if some strong feelings were working within his bosom. His friend, however, endeavoured to amuse himself, and to enliven the journey with snatches of gay French songs, which he carolled forth in a rich, clear, and cheerful voice; and he now and then broke into a merry laugh. At length, weary apparently of his own thoughts, he exclaimed—

“Thank Heaven, Ivan, my friend, that we are for ever free from dull and laborious studies, and those odious college drills. Bah! I have so worn out my eyes and the small portion of brains I was ever endowed with, by reading, I will not look into a book for a year to come. We shall have no more of those sham fights, but henceforth may expect every day to be called upon to engage in the honour and glory of real warfare. What say you, Ivan, does not your pulse beat with quicker throbs in anticipation of the glorious scenes of battle and conquest, which we may soon find ourselves engaged in? What say you, shall we flesh our maiden swords in the carcases of the turbaned infidels of Turkey? They are said to be no despicable enemies to contend with; or if perchance our regiment should be out of favour at head-quarters, we may be sent to try our mettle against the mountain barbarians of the Caucasus. I hear that there is enough of hard fighting with them; more perhaps than is at all times agreeable. It is said, indeed, that the Emperor considers a campaign in the Caucasus an excellent field for the display of the military talents of those, whose ideas of that phantom called ‘Liberty’ do not exactly coincide with his own. If such be the case, I shall not be much surprised if we some day receive an intimation that our valuable services are required to strengthen his armies in that distant and savage part of the globe. What say you, Ivan, to this notion? Do you not eagerly long to be wielding your sword against the savage hordes of those unchristianised barbarians of Circassia?”

The brow of Ivan had contracted during these observations, which were uttered in a light, careless tone, and he had several times attempted to interrupt his friend; now, that the latter had concluded, he indignantly exclaimed:

“I thought you knew me better, Thaddeus, than to make a proposition of that nature to me. Never will I unsheathe my sword to aid the cause of tyranny and injustice—such vile work I leave to slaves and hirelings. Should Russia herself be assailed, most willingly would I shed my blood for her defence, as in such a glorious struggle as that when she so gallantly beat back the aspiring conqueror of Europe from her territories; but never will I lend my arm to assist in subjugating a free and independent people, over whom she has not even the shadow of a right to claim command. Rather would I break my weapon into fragments, and forswear all hope of advancement in the world.”

A smile was rising on the lips of Thaddeus at this sudden declaration of principles, so unusual in Russia; but it was quickly checked on his perceiving the stern expression of his friend’s countenance.

“Can you yourself, Thaddeus, not feel for the oppressed?” Ivan went on to say; “you, whose native land has so grievously suffered from the power of Russia; you, who have such deep cause to rue the tyranny of her iron sway! Then, as you love me, never again give utterance to the subject you have so thoughtlessly touched upon, for it is one on which I cannot trust my feelings.”

“I spoke but in jest,” answered the other, “and most sincerely do I applaud your sentiments; but alas! I fear the principles you profess, when put in practice, will answer but badly in this country, and are such as it is more prudent to suppress. For my own part, I confess that, though I have a high respect for the liberty of all men—especially for my own, I have such an innate love of fighting, that, provided an opportunity offer of exercising my propensity, I care little in what cause I draw my sword.”

“For shame, Thaddeus!” cried Ivan, indignantly. “I blush to hear one, whom I call my friend, and who I trusted was formed for nobler purposes, confess himself ready to become the willing tool of a despot; for to this does your declaration amount.”

Thaddeus laughed, and gave a shrug of his shoulders, as he replied—

“Your emancipation from college, my dear Ivan, has, in truth, wonderfully expanded the liberality of your sentiments; and it is indeed fortunate that the idea had not there occurred to you of giving lectures on the rights and independence of man; they would have wonderfully edified your hearers among the cadets, and made most admirable subjects and soldiers of them for the Emperor; but your exertions in the cause of liberty would not have gained you much credit in higher quarters.”

“Your foolish bantering,” answered the excited Ivan, “is but a poor apology for your want of liberal principles. Nor am I the madman you wish to make me appear. You well know how much I detested the thraldom in which we were kept at college, and that I pursued my studies with redoubled efforts and perseverance, in order to emancipate myself as soon as possible from that irksome and hated state. To you, as a tried and only friend, I have now opened my mind, trusting to have had a hearer who would cordially agree in my sentiments; but it appears that I have been grievously mistaken, and I have learned a bitter lesson—to trust in no living soul!”

The tones of the speaker’s voice shewed that his anger had risen to such a degree, that a reply in the former bantering strain would probably have caused a breach in the friendship of the two young men. Thaddeus, therefore, wisely endeavoured to calm his friend’s anger by acknowledging the justness of his sentiments, and by promising to adopt them himself if possible, when suddenly their attention was roused by a sound, which seemed like a human voice shrieking for help, as from a distance the breeze conveyed it faintly to their ears. They had now entered an extensive tract of open forest, the trees generally scattered over the ground at some distance from each other, yet in many places clustering together, surrounded by dense masses of thick and tangled underwood.

The young men seemed mutually to have banished the feelings raised by their late warm discussion, and instantly urged their horses at full speed in the direction whence they fancied the sound had proceeded, when a second faint cry, though appearing to come from a greater distance, assured them that they were following the right course.

Their horses were greatly impeded by the rough and uncertain nature of the ground, and often they were obliged to make them leap over the furze and straggling underwood, at the risk of descending into some unseen cavity, or of plunging into a morass. Notwithstanding the numerous obstacles, they hurried on at increased speed, eager to render their assistance; for they were confident that the piercing cry they had heard must have been uttered by a woman in distress. They were just emerging from a clump of trees among which they had been entangled, when again the cry was heard, loud and distinct, and at that instant they caught sight of two horsemen galloping among the trees, one of whom bore a female in his arms; these were followed by two men on foot running at full speed. It was the work of some few minutes before they could disengage themselves from the thickets and brushwood, a delay which afforded the party ahead of them an opportunity of increasing their distance; but, urging their horses with whip and spur over every obstacle, and gaining the more clear around, they ere long overtook the men on foot, who, seeing their rapid approach, shouted loudly to their companions to return to their support. The latter, however, in lieu of turning to render assistance, redoubled their speed, intent upon escape, and regardless of the loud cries of their overtaken followers. These, finding escape impossible, rushed forward to seize the bridles of their pursuers’ horses, but were so effectually attacked by the heavy whips of the two cavaliers, that they were fain, not only to loose their hold, but were completely disabled from following.

Having thus got rid of these antagonists, the two friends set off in pursuit of the mounted ruffians, who were forcibly carrying away the female; her continued cries for assistance, indicating the track they had taken.

The scene had become highly exciting. Before them lay an open forest glade, and it was now a trial of speed. The noble animals urged to their utmost, dashed onwards, appearing to partake of the feelings which animated their riders.

The ravishers, on the near approach of their pursuers, turned on their saddles, each levelling a pistol at his selected man; these, fearful of wounding the female, would not venture to use their arms. The unencumbered horseman discharged his pistol at Thaddeus, as the latter approached; but, at the speed they rode, the aim was uncertain, and the ball flew wide of its mark; before the villain had time to use a second, the young Pole struck him on the head with the butt-end of his whip, with so powerful and well directed a blow, as to force him from the saddle, from which he fell heavily to the earth.

At the same moment, his companion, on Ivan’s attempting to seize his horse’s bridle, aimed a pistol at his breast; but that movement leaving his victim free, she quickly disengaged her arm from the folds of the cloak which shrouded her, and struck aside the barrel of the weapon levelled at her rescuer; the impulse, though feeble, was sufficient to divert its deadly aim; the ball nevertheless grazed Ivan’s side. The latter succeeded, notwithstanding, in grasping the bridle of his antagonist’s horse, and the same delicate hand which had but a moment previously, in all probability saved his life, promptly snatched the pistol yet remaining in the ruffian’s belt, and cast it to the ground.

The man who had fired at Ivan, was now obliged to defend himself, and was accordingly compelled to relax his hold of the girl, who, when falling from the saddle, was fortunately caught by Thaddeus. The latter had thrown himself from his horse to prevent her sustaining any serious injury, which, closely engaged as Ivan was with his adversary, he had no power to avert.

Giddy from the pain of his wound, and loss of blood, Ivan loosened his grasp of the rein he had seized; this being perceived by his antagonist, he plunged his spurs into his horse’s flanks, and dashed off at headlong speed into the depths of the forest, where pursuit was entirely useless.

The young men, left victors of the field, now turned their attention to the fair creature whom their gallantry had so opportunely rescued; and well did the extreme beauty of her form and features merit the looks of surprise and admiration with which they regarded her.

Her appearance was indeed unusual, and though they saw at once, that she was not one of the exalted and proud ones of the land, they internally confessed, that she was well worthy of that distinction. The agitation of the scene had caused the rich blood to mantle on her brow and beautifully oval cheeks, the complexion of which was of a clear, though slightly tinted olive, while her large sparkling black eyes, moist with tears, were now beaming with a look of gratitude, as bending on her knees, she attempted to kiss the hands of her deliverers, who prevented her from paying them this homage. Her glossy black locks, bound by a silver fillet on her high and polished brow, were uncovered, and hung down in long ringlets on her neck, nearly reaching to her slender waist. A light blue cloak thrown over her shoulders, and a vest and petticoat of red cloth trimmed with silver, completed her fantastic, but elegant and rich attire.

The character of her strange costume, and her dark expressive features, proclaimed her to be of that extraordinary race now wandering over the greater part of the old world, who profess to trace their origin from the aboriginal inhabitants of Egypt; retaining the same language and customs from age to age, and ever keeping distinct from the people in whose territories they pass their migratory lives.

The scene we have described, passed in the course of a few moments, during which time the young men had become entire masters of the field; one villain, who by his dress and manners, appeared to be of a rank far above his companions, had fled; the other still remained senseless on the earth, from the stunning blow Thaddeus had dealt him; while the two men, whom they had first attacked, lay in a similar plight at a considerable distance.

Astonishment kept her deliverers silent, as they gazed with admiration on the Gipsy girl, for her delicate features and slight airy figure shewed her extreme youth; she was accordingly the first to speak, when she found herself prevented by them from expressing her feelings of gratitude in the way she wished.

“Though you may deem, gentle Sirs, that the thanks of a humble Gipsy girl can be but of little worth,” she said, “oh! believe me, that from the depth of my heart, I am grateful to you, for having saved me from worse than death, for well do I know the vile nature of the man from whom you have rescued me. But let me entreat you, haste from hence, or the ruffian noble who has escaped, will return with a band of his followers trained to evil, and will thus not only render your generous and timely aid unavailing, by again getting me into his power, but his return may bring destruction on yourselves.”

“Fear not for us;” cried Thaddeus, “for your sake, lovely maiden, we would face a hundred foes; and think not that such an arrant coward, as yonder villain has shewn himself to be, can make us hurry our departure. If he be even one of the most powerful of the land, we fear him not.”

“He is wicked and powerful enough to commit his crimes with impunity,” answered the Gipsy girl; “let me pray you earnestly, therefore, to complete the benefit you have rendered me, and to follow my advice by hastening from hence; for I feel confident, that he will endeavour to revenge himself on you, for your interference in my favour, and will return shortly with a greater number of men than you could possibly resist.”

“You speak truly, I believe,” said Ivan, “and we shall do well to follow your advice.”

“You are always in the right, Ivan,” answered Thaddeus, “so I suppose we may beat a retreat after our victory, without dishonour, when an overpowering force threatens us.”

“Oh! yes!—yes!” exclaimed the liberated girl, “hasten from hence; and believe me, there is not a moment to be lost. Yet, grant me but the one favour more, of allowing my kindred and friends to return you those thanks which my words cannot fully convey.”

“We will, at all events, see you in safety,” answered Ivan, “and, at your desire, we will avoid the chance of meeting your enemies, however little we have reason to fear them.”

They accordingly prepared to quit the scene of their encounter, and Ivan was about to offer to raise the fairy-like form of the Gipsy girl on his horse, when the slight exertion he made, caused the blood to flow more freely from his side, and she caught sight of the red stream trickling down, which he himself had not observed, for the pain was but slight, and the excitement of action had diverted his attention from it. The colour for an instant deserted her cheek, as taking a light scarf from under her cloak, she petitioned him to allow her to bind his wound. “You are hurt, Sir,” she exclaimed, “and I am the unhappy cause of the injury. My tribe have some skill in surgery: even I myself have received instruction in the art from an aged woman learned in simples, and thus think me not bold in making the offer, but as the slightest mark of my gratitude, let me be allowed to heal the wound I have been the cause of your receiving.”

Ivan thankfully accepted her aid, as with gentleness she quickly bound his side with the scarf, for the pain had now considerably increased. While thus engaged, they perceived the two villains whom they had left senseless on the earth, cautiously endeavouring to steal upon them, crouching as they advanced among the low thickets; and at the same time the man who had been felled from his horse, shewed signs of returning animation. Thaddeus humanely placed the body of the latter reclining against a tree, having wrested from him his weapons, which he cast, together with such as lay on the ground, to a distance, amongst the underwood. The Gipsy girl had just completed her task, when the horse belonging to their prostrate enemy, after ranging the glade in a wide circle, without however going out of sight, now approached the spot he had first left, as if in search of his master: with the rapidity of thought she sprung forward, and catching the animal’s bridle, lightly vaulted on his back without any apparent effort, merely touching the saddle to steady herself in her perilous feat.

“Now, for the love of the God you worship,” she exclaimed, “ride on, noble Sirs, nor care for me. We children of the Desert are early accustomed to far more difficult feats than this, and without danger, I can retain my seat on a more spirited steed than the one which now bears me.”

The young men, following her example, had mounted their horses, and on her pointing out with her hand the road they were to take, the party set off at full speed, though the former were compelled to apply their spurs closely in order to keep pace with the less fatigued steed of their beautiful and extraordinary guide. She, avoiding the thick tangled part of the forest, which had before impeded them, conducted them by a more circuitous way, but over smooth open ground, and at a much greater speed than they had been able to attain when hurrying to her rescue, until they regained the high road, which they crossed, and plunged into the adjoining forest. Suddenly checking her horse, she then addressed them—

“Fear gave me the fleetness of the timid hare; but truly ungrateful must I appear, through my own weakness, in forgetting that one of my generous preservers is suffering severe pain. Oh, pardon me, for my fault, caused by the dread of a danger which you are now unable to understand.”

Ivan assured her that his wound inconvenienced him so little, that he was able to continue at the same swift pace, if she thought it advisable; she again resumed the lead, though not quite so rapidly as before.

“Your horses are fatigued,” she said, as they rode onwards, “and the day is so far spent, that it will be after nightfall ere you can reach any shelter, and I fear that, before long, a storm will burst over our heads: yon black cloud is but the forerunner of others.”

As she spoke, she pointed to an opening among the trees, through which were seen dense masses of clouds fast gathering on the sky. “If you despise not the humble shelter of a gipsy tent, you will there be treated to the best of our means, for the people of my tribe, though rough and fierce in aspect, will vie with each other in shewing their attention and devotion to those who have rescued one of their daughters from peril.”

A determination not to leave the young Gipsy, until they had escorted her to a place of safety, added to a natural feeling of curiosity to learn something of the beautiful creature whom chance had introduced to them under such exciting circumstances, prompted both Ivan and Thaddeus to accept her offer of hospitality without hesitation.

Although but a few minutes previously, the sky over head had been bright and clear, the storm which their guide had predicted, now threatened to overtake them, as the heavens became overcast with a dark canopy of clouds.

Once more pressing their jaded horses, they galloped on for several miles, scarcely noticing the nature of the country through which they passed, until they arrived at a spot so thickly wooded as to render a passage impracticable. Their conductress, however, advancing a little to the right, led them along a path formed apparently by the hand of nature, through a narrow entrance, winding in various directions, and widening as they proceeded, till they suddenly emerged into a sylvan amphitheatre carpeted with soft green turf. In one part of the wood-encircled glade, arose a group of tents, surrounded by waggons; whilst horses and other cattle tethered hard by, were browsing on the luxuriant pasture.

The approach of the party was immediately announced by the loud barking of several large shaggy dogs, who rushed forward with open jaws, prepared to attack all intruders; but no sooner did the savage animals hear the silvery tone of the guide’s voice, than their angry growl was changed into a cry of joy, as leaping up they fawned on her, and endeavoured to gain her caresses. They were quickly recalled by a man who issued from the shelter of the waggons, armed with a long gun; he, on recognising the Gipsy maiden advanced without any parley, to hold her horse’s rein, as she dismounted, springing lightly on the turf. A shrill whistle from him brought out two rough looking little urchins, who, at his sign, ran quickly forward to perform the same office for the strangers.

After exchanging a few words with the attendant, in a language unintelligible to Ivan and Thaddeus, their guide led the way towards a tent, which, from its size appeared to be the principal in the encampment: like the rest it was formed of skins neatly sewn together, affording a secure shelter from the weather.

In front stood a tall well-built man, whose dark elf locks escaping from beneath a sheep-skin cap, gave him somewhat of a ferocious appearance, which, however, his full and sparkling black eye, and the laughing curl of his lips fully belied. His dress consisted of a cloth jacket confined at the waist by a leathern belt, and full trousers with leggings of untanned leather. He gazed with a look of astonishment at the intruders, then at their conductress, from whom he seemed to ask for an explanation, as she hastened to meet him with an air of affection. Folding her in his arms with a fond and gentle embrace, after exchanging a few words in a hurried and low tone of voice, he stepped up to where the strangers stood, and grasping their hands, pressed them to his heart.

“The preservers of my daughter,” he said, addressing them in Russian, “are thrice welcome to my humble tent, and it will be my aim, and that of all the tribe, of which I am the head, to show to the utmost our gratitude for the benefit conferred upon us. Think not, noble Sirs, that, though the world accuses us of many vices, ingratitude is one with which we can be justly charged. But see! while I thus detain you the storm is about to burst, and my tent will at least afford you shelter from its fury, though it be destitute of the luxuries to which you are accustomed.”

Heavy drops of rain had now commenced falling; the wind whistled mournfully through the boughs of the trees, which became wildly agitated by the sudden blast, while vivid flashes of lightning darted from the heavens, and played around their heads.

“Will you deign, noble Sirs, to enter the only abode I can call my own,” said the Gipsy chief, leading the way to his tent; “a very changeable one in truth; but wherever my tent is pitched, there shall my friends be welcome.”

Saying which, he arrived at the entrance of the principal tent, while his daughter, making a sign of respect to his guests, withdrew to a neighbouring one.

Volume One—Chapter Two.

The travellers had full reason to congratulate themselves on escaping the torrents of rain now rushing down from the thick-gathered clouds, as they followed the Gipsy chief into his tent, the interior of which seemed to afford better accommodation than its outward appearance had promised. About midway, a curtain stretching the whole width of the tent, now drawn up, exposed the whole of the interior at one view; but on being unfolded, formed two distinct apartments. The furniture was of the most simple description, consisting merely of several large chests, on which were piled various rolls of skins and blankets, and a few stools and benches. At one end, suspended against the sides of the tent, hung a variety of kitchen utensils in the highest state of polish; at the other, fire-arms of different sizes and workmanship, powder-flasks, and shot-belts, and hunting-knives, picturesquely mingled with the produce of the chase. There were also several planks intended for tables, beds, or for seats. The ground was hidden from view by a warm and soft carpet of skins; the selection of the spot was judicious, for, being raised slightly above the surrounding land, it remained perfectly dry, notwithstanding the flood of rain outside.

The only inmate of the tent, when the party entered, was a handsome woman, whom the Gipsy introduced to the strangers as his wife. She was busily employed in some housewifery occupation, which she quitted to receive the visitors, assuming an air which would not have disgraced a high-born lady, and then proceeded to prepare the evening repast.

A couple of chests were brought forward, upon which they laid a platform of boards, forming an excellent table: this was quickly covered with an abundance of cold provisions, fowls and game of various kinds, coarse but sweet bread, and a bottle of Quass, the common beverage of the country, manufactured from malt; nor were more potent spirits wanting to cheer the guests.

Their host requested the young men to be seated at the table, while he and his wife attended to their wants, nor would he be prevailed upon to join them in their repast. “It behoves us,” he replied, “to wait on you, while our tent is honoured by your presence; and I pray you, Sirs, to excuse my daughter Azila’s absence, she has retired among the other maidens of the tribe, to rest awhile after the fatigue her looks too clearly betray she has suffered. I confess I am still ignorant of the details of her adventure; it was sufficient at first for me to know that you had conferred a benefit on one so dear to me.

“Her protracted absence had, indeed, given me anxiety, as she had not told me of her intention to quit the camp; but at the same time I do not interfere with her movements, which are often unknown to any of the tribe, and she is accustomed to go and return unquestioned. Azila is indeed a strange girl, and few can match her in understanding, or resolution; I well know that she has always just reasons for her frequent excursions from the camp, and that her exertions are in the cause of justice and humanity, so I do not seek to inquire into more than what she herself thinks right to tell me; I know well that I can trust her.”

Although their host’s features and manner evidently exhibited his anxiety to learn all that had occurred, his hospitality would not permit his guests to speak of their adventure until the repast was finished; when they recounted the events which led to their liberation of his daughter. While they were speaking, the object of their conversation entered the tent, and approaching her father, reverently kissed his hand, then bowing to his guests, with arms crossed on her bosom she stood with downcast eyes by his side. The father gazed on her with looks of affection, while the young men could scarcely conceal their admiration.

“Can this retiring, modest creature,” thought Ivan, “be the same who, so short a time since, proved herself endowed with so much courage and resolution?”

Neither of the two friends could, for some time, find words to address her, for they felt that terms of flattery and compliment would be despised by one so superior; her father, however, relieved them from their embarrassment.

“Now that our guests have tasted of our food, and drunk from our cup, I may ask of you, my child, an explanation of the circumstances that preceded your rescue. I burn to know who has dared to commit such an outrage on one of the children of the Zingani; whoever he be, he shall not escape the punishment due to his villainy.”

A blush mantled on the cheek of the Gipsy girl as she answered, “Alas! my father, I fear that my enemy is too powerful and cautious, for you to be able to punish him, and there are circumstances which have lately occurred to me, I would fain have hidden even from you, had not he of whom I am about to speak, carried his persecution to so flagrant an extent. My story is a long one; but at your desire I will relate it, entreating my brave defenders will pardon a poor maiden for her hesitation in recounting events which have caused her much pain.

“During one of my last visits to Moscow, when our encampment was formed in its vicinity, I one day joined a party of the daughters of another tribe of our people, to one of whom I had matters to communicate. They were dancing and singing in the public gardens to crowds of admiring citizens, who were enjoying their evening’s recreation after the toils of the day. As we moved from place to place, I observed a person intently observing me, who I fancied had, during the day, been watching and following me; and him I now distinguished from the crowd by his handsome dress, and the disdain with which he regarded all around him. As I moved on with my companions he still followed us, till at length weary, doubtless, of viewing the same dances, and hearing the same songs, he disappeared from the gardens, and I then concluded that I had been mistaken in my suspicions. The evening was far advanced when, having parted from my companions, I set out alone to return to the encampment, and in seeking to reach it by a shorter path, I found myself in a secluded walk. Hastening along, I was suddenly confronted by a stranger whom I immediately recognised as the same, who had previously watched my movements in the gardens. As I endeavoured to pass him unnoticed, he seized my arm with a rude grasp, and exclaimed:

“‘Ah! have I at last found you, my fair damsel, for whom I have been searching so many long days? Often have I seen you, but until now never gained an opportunity of declaring my sentiments. I am the Count Erintoff! My carriage is waiting near, and will soon transport you beyond the reach of those who have interested motives in detaining you among them.’

“I cannot repeat all the arguments he used to persuade me to accompany him, or the terms of flattery and base offers he made. I treated them all with the disdain they deserved. When he pronounced his name, I recollected that I had heard he was notorious for many vices, even among those of his own rank, with whom virtue is too seldom practised, or prized.

“‘Unhand me, Sir,’ I exclaimed; ‘I will no longer listen to you, but would pursue my way to my friends.’

“‘Ah, my scornful beauty,’ he answered with a laugh, ‘not so fast I pray you; if prayers avail not, I must e’en use gentle force to compel you to accept advantages you would so foolishly reject; though not for the universe would I injure you. Here, knaves!’ summoning to the spot by their various names, some of the vile assistants in his crimes.

“Seeing his servants hastily advancing, I struggled in his grasp, and managed by a sudden effort to break from his hold; when darting along the road, without once looking back, I reached the camp, panting and breathless. This outrage remained concealed within my own bosom, for I well knew that the least hint would cause many to take more than ample revenge for the insult I had received. Having sustained no actual injury, and trusting that he would desist from any further persecution of me, I was unwilling to bring any of my tribe into danger, by interfering with so powerful an adversary.

“Alas! I was doomed to be too soon again exposed to his vile projects! This morning, I had gone forth from the camp with Aza, Lina, and other of our maidens, accompanied by many of the children, to enjoy our pastime in the woods, when in the midst of our sport, after chasing each other among the trees, I became separated from the rest. I heard the laughter of my companions as they retreated, but owing to the closeness of the trees, I could not distinguish their figures; at that moment, a cry was raised by the children, that they had seen a stranger in the wood. I hurried away as rapidly as possible to rejoin the party, when on a sudden, I was seized by two men, who had sprung from a neighbouring thicket. In an instant, before I could recover from the alarm of their assault, they threw a handkerchief over my head, to prevent me from crying for assistance. Notwithstanding my utmost resistance, they bore me roughly forward, until they reached another thicket; when the handkerchief being partly withdrawn from my eyes, I beheld a man on horseback, whose features were shrouded in his large cloak, attended by another holding the rein of a led horse. They endeavoured to persuade me to mount it, but I resolutely refused to stir from the spot; nothing they said could induce me, when the cloaked horseman losing patience at the delay, seized me round the waist, placed me on the saddle before him, and bidding one of his followers mount the led horse, bore me off at fall speed. Catching a glimpse of my captor’s countenance, to my horror I discovered that I was in the power of the Count Erintoff. The dreadful recollection now flashed across my mind, that we were in the neighbourhood of one of his estates; and I exerted my utmost strength to escape from his grasp, careless of falling to the ground in the attempt; but he held me firmly, protesting, that he loved me to distraction, and that nothing mortal should deliver me from him; while he threatened deadly vengeance against any who should dare to make the attempt.

“I could only vent my anger and terror in loud cries for assistance, having succeeded in withdrawing the bandage from my mouth, nor could he replace it, though the advantage offered me but slender hopes of my cries being heard.

“Thus was I forced away for a considerable distance, in utter despair of being liberated, when I was gallantly rescued by these noble gentlemen at the hazard of their lives. Oh, believe me, Sirs,” she added, “that the Zingani maiden can never, while life endure, be unmindful of the great benefit you have bestowed on her.”

At this recital, the eye of the Gipsy chief flashed with indignation; “The audacious barbarian,” he exclaimed, “shall rue his vile attempt, though happily rendered abortive; nor shall his high rank protect him! Can he not be content to tyrannise over the hapless slaves already in his power, but that he must seek for fresh victims among our tribe? Does he mistake us for the wretched serfs who till his lands? He has yet to learn that the Zingani are not of their base caste. But, Azila, my child! what causes thy sudden agitation?”

“See, see, my father,” she cried, pointing to Ivan, who overcome by fatigue and the pain of his wound, was falling to the ground, when the Gipsy sprang forward and caught him in his arms. “Alas,” cried Azila, with an agitated voice, “how ungrateful indeed I have been, and neglectful of him who risked his life to save me, that I should forget he had been wounded! but I will haste and conduct Hagar hither, who will tend him with greater skill than I can, though not with more care.” Azila had scarcely left the tent when Ivan returned to consciousness, as he reclined in his friend’s arms, Thaddeus having relieved the Gipsy of his charge.

“He will soon be restored by the care of our venerable mother, Hagar,” said the chief; “for there are few in this country so well acquainted as she is with the healing art.” As he spoke, the person mentioned entered the tent, accompanied by Azila.

Her locks were blanched, and her form bowed down by the weight of many years; yet though her skin was wrinkled and tawny, the fire of her dark expressive eye seemed unquenched. “Mother,” said Azila, “as you love your child, exercise your utmost skill in the healing art, by recovering this stranger, who has been wounded in my defence; by your help I know that he may be speedily restored to health.”

“Child,” replied the sybil, “the power of healing belongs alone to the great spirit who guards our tribe, and I am but his poor servant, ready to use the means he places in my hands; these will I gladly employ to cure this stranger, though by his looks, I judge that quiet and repose are the remedies most needful for him.”

Such indeed was the case, and in compliance with the old woman’s request, the Gipsy’s wife busied herself in preparing the tent for the night. The curtain alluded to, as intended to separate it into two chambers, was lowered, while, a bundle of skins and blankets being unrolled, a couch was quickly spread on the planks and chests, which had previously composed the table. Thither Ivan was soon conveyed in the arms of his friend and their host, the rest of the family having quitted the tent, with the exception of Hagar, who proceeded to examine the wound; the Gipsy meanwhile preparing a second couch, which he begged Thaddeus would occupy. The old woman, having completed her inspection of the hurt, and desiring the sufferer to remain perfectly quiet until her return, left the tent to procure the curative simples necessary to dress it.

Placing a lamp on the ground in the centre of the tent, the Gipsy chief, ere he parted from his guests, thus addressed them:

“Rest in perfect security, noble Sirs. I am about to perform the rounds of the encampment, to place trusty men on the watch, in case the ruffians, who have this day attempted so vile an outrage on my daughter, should be excited by revenge at her liberation to attack us under cover of the night. I scarcely deem them possessed of sufficient courage to venture on so bold a project; but their leader is capable of any atrocity; and in this land, where the rich and powerful are above the law, he relies on escaping with impunity, however flagrant the injury committed against the poor and humble. The wandering life we lead teaches us caution; but on my well-trained dogs I can place most reliance in case of a sudden assault, for they never slumber on their posts.” With a respectful salutation, he then quitted the tent.

Left alone with his friend, Thaddeus endeavoured to enter into conversation on the occurrences of the day; but Ivan, overcome by the pain of his wound, replied in so faint and languid a voice, as plainly shewed that he was in no state to answer his observations. He accordingly stepped noiselessly to the entrance of the tent, and gazed on the wild and unusual scene which lay before him. The storm had now passed away, leaving the dark blue sky in unobscured splendour, spangled with millions of glittering stars, which appeared to have derived a brighter lustre, as if burnished by the rolling of the dark clouds, or sparkling in triumph at the rapid flights of their sable adversaries.

A crescent moon threw a silvery light on the topmost boughs of the forest trees, whose giant shadows lay stretched in calm repose across the verdant glade.

At times he could perceive dark figures emerging from the shade, and flitting through the moon-light, again to be lost in the gloom, like uneasy spirits wandering in search of rest; but which he concluded were either parties returning to their tents, or the patrols on duty in the camp.

Thus he stood for some time wrapt in meditation, when suddenly he started at the apparition of a figure which, issuing noiselessly from the obscurity, was within a few paces of him ere it was observed. He instantly recognised Hagar, as she advanced, leaning on her staff, and bearing in her hand a small basket. Her white locks, hanging in disorder over her wrinkled and care-worn brow, caused her to resemble one of the weird sisters bent on midnight evil, rather than a minister of good, hastening to relieve a human being.

The young Pole might be excused if a tinge of superstitious distrust crossed his mind, and he hesitated to commit his wounded friend to the care of so strange a leech; but quickly banishing his doubts, he led the way into the tent. Kneeling by Ivan’s couch the aged Hagar gently withdrew the scarf, which Azila had applied as a bandage, and washing the wound with a decoction of herbs contained in her basket, again swathed it in linen. During the operation, she had continued muttering to herself, regardless whether her patient or his friend were listening, in the following strain:

“Aye, aye, too clearly do I see how it will be, and thus it has ever been! Slight wounds oft pierce far deeper than mortal eyes can see; and young hearts fear not the weapon that destroys them, but bare their bosoms to the stroke! Aye, my child, my loved one! bound nearer to my heart than my own offspring, may thy generous and noble heart have no cause to rue the wound this stranger youth has this day received in thy cause! Would that I could so read thy fate, as to guard thee from evil! Yet when I gaze on the star of thy destiny, my eyes grow dim, my thoughts become confused, and it vanishes from my sight. This stranger—he will be led by a far different path to any that thou canst follow, my child; for in this world justice will never be done thee. He will pursue his course among the high and mighty, and forget the Gipsy maiden. Or if perchance she should recur to his memory, it will be but as a phantom of a waking dream. Alas! far different will it be for her! And thus much can I foresee, that his coming will work danger to my child. Alas! alas! though I see it impending, I know not how to prevent it. Full well I marked the earnest gaze she unthinkingly cast on this gallant youth. In that one look lay concentrated, feelings, deep, subtle, unknown even to herself, for her thoughts were alone of gratitude to her preservers. Though the fate of her I love, the pride of my bosom, and child of my tribe, is hid from my sight, no sooner did the bright stars illumine the Heavens, than I discovered and traced the destined course of this stranger. Like the brilliant meteor which darted across the firmament, unseen by any mortal eye but mine, as I gazed but now above, I read that his course will be rapid and brilliant, but boisterous and marked with blood, yet pure and unsullied by crime, and leading to a high destiny. As I contemplate these features, calm, and composed, I mark that he is incapable of those crimes which debase human nature. Yes, he is worthy of her love. May the mighty spirit who guards our tribe, watch over and protect the preserver of my child.”

When the aged sybil had concluded these obscure predictions, uttered in a low tone of voice, as she performed her task, she poured out a cooling draught, which she tendered to Ivan, who gladly drank it off, and again composed himself to sleep.

Thaddeus had but a short time before thrown himself on his rude couch, and was fast wrapped in slumber, when Hagar took her seat by his friend’s side. Commencing in a low soothing chaunt, she continued singing till she observed that his eyes were closely sealed in slumber.

The words she sang, or rather chaunted, were to the following effect; but being in the Zingani language, which is known to few beyond their own people, it is difficult to render their literal meaning; most of the predictions she uttered whilst dressing Ivan’s wound, were in the same tongue, so that he remained perfectly ignorant of the fate she had prophesied for him.

Spirits, I summon ye;

Spirits of air,

Come round this stranger,

Watch him with care.

Come, come ye misty shapes,

Whence far ye stray,

Shunning the glaring beams

Of the bright day.

Come from dark Egypt’s land,

Spirits who dwell

’Neath the vast pyramids’

Deep hidden cell;

And who were worshipp’d in

Temples of old,

When priests of stern Apis

Men’s fates foretold;

From whence in middle earth

Fearless ye dwell,

Through its fierce fires,

List to my spell.

Come whence the northern blasts

Furious blow,

Fly on your whiten’d wings

From frost and snow.

Ye, who ’neath ocean roam,

Through coral caves,

Or in the sparkling foam,

Sport o’er the waves:

Ye, who on tempests ride,

When the fierce blast,

Driving the hapless bark,

Rives the stout mast:

Ye whose loud shriek is heard

’Mid ocean’s roar,

When the doom’d bark is hurl’d

On the stern shore:

Come, come, attend my will,

I summon all;

Haste through the elements,

Come at my call.

After a profound sleep of some hours, Ivan awoke with parched lips and a feverish thirst, which he sought to allay with more of the same refreshing beverage before presented to him. He begged for it, and on taking the cup, could not help fancying that the hand which offered it, was not that of the aged nurse who had previously tended him.

He spoke, to satisfy his doubts, but receiving no answer, and drowsiness again returning, he turned on his couch to recompose himself to sleep, when by the dim light which now issued from the lamp, he fancied that he saw a light airy figure gliding from the tent. Yet fully aware of his own feverish state, he attributed the idea to a delusion of the brain; nor had he much time to think on the subject ere he again sank into a sound and balmy slumber.

Volume One—Chapter Three.

Daylight was streaming brightly through the opening of the tent, when Ivan was awakened by the cheerful voice of his host in conversation with his friend, who had already risen. To their inquiries, he declared himself well nigh, if not entirely recovered, since he was able to rise and dress without feeling any inconvenience from his wound; nor did he consider it necessary to call in again the assistance of Hagar, so efficacious had been her remedies. He was soon, therefore, on his feet, and accompanied Thaddeus and their host into the woods surrounding the encampment; the latter carrying his gun, his constant companion he informed them, in case any game should cross the path.

“So, my worthy host,” said Thaddeus, “your camp has escaped an attack from our enemies.”

“I little feared them,” answered the Gipsy, “as I considered that the Count Erintoff, and his myrmidons lacked the courage to attack us, however powerful his inclination to possess himself of my daughter, for they knew that we should be prepared for them. Let them do their worst; we, the outcasts of society, and despised of men, fear them not. Thus it is, Sirs, in this unhappy country, where the haughty nobles trample on, and oppress the soulless, and therefore helpless people; but let them not suppose that we are of the same mould as those over whom they tyrannise! No, if we cannot oppose them by open force, we can summon to our aid our wit and stratagem.

“They have to learn also that a day of dreadful retribution is at hand; that it will come, when least they expect it. The people will soon be aware of their own strength, however ignorant they may now be of it, and will then no longer submit to bear the chains of servitude, to which they now patiently offer their necks. But your pardon, noble Sirs, you yourselves are of the privileged order, and it may not please you to hear your equals thus spoken of with disrespect; though I deem you both very different in nature from those I have described, and consequently know that I can trust in you, or I would not thus unburden my tongue.”

Ivan was surprised to hear a man, whom he imagined to be a wild, unlettered Gipsy, give utterance to ideas so similar to those which had been passing through his own mind; but still unwilling to express his own sentiments to a stranger, he merely assured him that what he had said, gave no offence, either to his friend or to himself; and he strengthened the assurance by warmly wringing the Gipsy’s hard hand as he spoke.

Thaddeus added, as he sauntered onwards, picking the wild flowers, that he considered it a grievous pity, that there were not a few more honest men like him in the world; as then there would be but little to complain of.

“Sir,” answered the Gipsy, “thousands of bosoms beat with impulses similar to my own, and wait but for the time and opportunity to free themselves from bondage. It will be a dreadful crisis, for what power can place bounds to an infuriated and desperate populace, when once they have received the frenzied impulse. Let those, who have been the first cause of the insurrection, attempt to quell it; it would be as vain to hope to check the mighty torrent rushing from the before pent up glacier, when it has burst its icy bonds. But enough of this, Sirs. I warn you that even now, a storm is gathering which will ere long burst over this country; and may you be prepared to meet the danger when it shall come. More I may not, dare not say, and thus much gratitude, and the certainty that I may fully trust you, have impelled me to speak, that you may benefit by the warning.”

As they retraced their steps in silence towards the camp, Ivan’s thoughts reverted to the expressions which the Gipsy had let fall.

“And can there,” he mused, “be a chance of the regeneration of this country; when slavery shall no longer exist; and all men shall have equal lights, and equal justice! Oh, how ardently do I wish that I could be instrumental in bringing about so happy a consummation!”

On their arrival, they found a repast laid out in front of the tent, consisting of wheat cakes, and bowls of milk. In the places assigned to the two visitors, were laid bunches of wild flowers; that of Ivan being distinguished by a wild rose, with the pure morning dew yet glistening on its delicate tinted leaves.

“These flowers,” said the Gipsy, “are my daughter’s gift to her guests, though she herself cannot appear before them.”

They both expressed their thanks for the delicately marked attention, and on finishing their simple, but plentiful meal, they mentioned their wish to resume their journey to Tver.

The Gipsy chief endeavoured to prevail on them, in his rough, but open and manly way, to tarry another day at his camp; but they excused themselves on the plea of their servant being in waiting for them, and Ivan declared himself fully capable of undergoing the fatigues of the journey.

“If we may not then keep you longer with us,” replied their hospitable friend, “we will, at least, accompany you on your way as far as the Volga; on the banks of which rapid stream, we are about to form our next encampment, for after the occurrence of yesterday, I have deemed it prudent to move at once.”

The young men gladly accepted of his escort thus far on the road, and he accordingly gave orders to strike the tents without delay. The order was obeyed most expeditiously; men, women, and children moving about with the greatest alacrity in its execution. Some dismantled the tents, and rolled up their covers; others stowed their goods away in chests, each undertaking his task according to his strength. The different rude vehicles used to transport the baggage were thus quickly laden, and in the course of a few minutes, on the spot where lately the skin-covered village stood in tranquil repose, was to be seen a moving mass of noisy human beings; the black marks of their fires on the grass being the sole vestiges of their transitory abode. Two wild-looking boys, whose elf locks hung down on their shoulders in tangled masses, and whose eyes sparkled with intelligence, led forward the strangers’ horses from a sheltered spot, where they had been picqueted and well taken care of, the chief of the tribe insisting himself on holding their stirrups, while his guests mounted, as he repelled the wild-looking creatures, who gathered round to perform the office.

Bestriding a strong built cob, which seemed fully able to perform a long day’s journey, he gave the signal, and the whole caravan was set in motion, proceeding at as rapid a pace, as the horses could drag forward the well piled baggage-carts.

The horsemen led the van, while Azila, the chief’s wife, and some of the more aged and feeble of the women, followed in a covered conveyance, of rather better construction than those which conveyed the baggage; the rest of the tribe proceeded on foot, assisting in guiding the carts and baggage horses.

The men were in general tall, strong limbed, and dark looking, their eyes sparkling with animation and intelligence while the wildness prevailing in their dress and manner, with the look of careless confidence in their countenances, shewed they were but little oppressed with care. The women were dressed in apparel of the most gaudy and fantastic colours, their free and independent gait and air, being very different from that of the inhabitants of crowded cities; their dark complexions set off by their flashing eyes, were handsome and expressive; and their light elastic laugh resounded through the woods, as jest succeeded jest amongst the party. Some beguiled the way by singing wild and plaintive melodies, with rich and harmonious voices, while others accompanied the singers on various instruments, which they touched with considerable taste and execution.

The Gipsies have indeed full scope for the exercise of their musical talents in the east of Europe, where they are invariably the chief musicians at all feasts and festivals; whenever a fair or merry-meeting takes place there, a number of them are to be found, and are always well treated by the people.

As Ivan and Thaddeus rode past the several groups, the latter testified the utmost respect for their leader’s guests.

The party travelled on for several hours, halting only for a short time to rest, till the fast-flowing stream of the majestic Volga first met their view, rushing onward in its unimpeded course towards the east, until it empties its mighty volume of waters into the far distant Caspian. Here the order was given to encamp, and a fitting spot being selected at a short distance from the river, the whole party were soon actively engaged in unloading the waggons, and in erecting their frail tenements.

“My worthy friend,” said Ivan, addressing their host, “time urges us to pursue our journey, and with many thanks for your hospitality, we must bid you farewell.”

“Well, Sirs,” he replied, “since it is your wish to depart from us, I must needs yield, though I would fain have persuaded you to remain longer among us, to have seen more of the independent wild life we lead; yet, ere you go, there is one here, who would again assure you of her gratitude for your timely assistance in her rescue; and, for my part, although it may seem presumptuous in me to make the offer, yet should you ever be in difficulty or danger, let me know of it, and I may be perhaps able to afford you more aid, than other friends in a higher station may be willing to effect.”

Her father summoned Azila, when the maiden advanced with timid and bashful steps, followed at a short distance by the aged Hagar, who tottered in her walk as she came forward.

Already had the strangers paid their adieus to the Gipsy’s wife, when turning round they perceived Azila standing near them, with her arms crossed on her bosom, and her eyes cast on the ground.

“Adieu, noble Sirs,” she exclaimed in faltering tones, while tears glistened in her eyes, which shone more brightly than before, undimmed by those eloquent vouchers of her feelings, “the remembrance of your gallant bearing will ever dwell in the mind of the humble Gipsy girl, and though she may never be able to shew any other mark of her gratitude, receive all she has to give—her deep and sincere thanks.”

She bowed her head to conceal her embarrassment and agitation, and the old Sibyl then advancing, thus addressed the strangers: “May the mighty spirit who watches over the people of the Zingani protect you from all dangers, for well do I foresee that you will require his all potent aid. The strong wind bloweth on a sudden, and none can tell whence it ariseth; so will dangers come thickly around you, nor can you foresee from what quarters they will spring, but like the bold mariner who steers his storm-driven bark amid rocks and quicksands to a safe port, be prepared to meet and escape them, and you have nought to fear. And thou, noble youth with the dark eye,” she said, turning towards Ivan, “the cold suns of Russia shone not upon thy birth. Thou earnest from a far distant land, and thither thou must return, where a high and glorious destiny awaits thee; the way will be stormy and dangerous, but hesitate not to follow it; for last night did I read thy fate in the starry firmament above, and it leads to what thou most desirest. And thou, gallant Sir,” she said, addressing Thaddeus, “with the joyous eye, and light laugh, the stars smiled when I read thy destiny, and it will be happy. Fare ye well! ye may never see the aged Hagar more, but remember her words. Farewell!”

While the Sibyl was uttering this prophetical rhapsody, with all the fervour of action and tone, which her supposed inspiration gave her, the tribe stood round in attentive and respectful silence; and even the young men were so struck by her impressive manner, that they could not resist paying more attention to her words than, perhaps, their judgment would have allowed them to bestow at other times.

“Thanks for your predictions, good mother, and may they prove true,” exclaimed Thaddeus, who was always ready to give a light turn to anything which appeared more serious than suited his humour; “and now, our worthy host, we must in truth delay no longer, and bid our last adieu.”

“Not yet, by your leave, Sirs,” answered the Gipsy, “I will, at least, shew you the road which will lead you more directly, and in less time across the forest; which, without my aid, you would scarcely find.”

“The longer we keep your company, the better shall we be pleased,” replied Thaddeus; “and therefore we again most willingly accept of your offer.”

Ivan had remained absorbed in thought, at the conclusion of the Sibyl’s predictions; but suddenly rousing himself, he joined the Gipsy and his friend; and as the young travellers rode off, they received the parting salutations of the whole tribe, and paid their more marked adieus to Azila.

Ere they lost sight of the encampment, Ivan descried the maiden’s light form, watching their departing steps, and, for many a day after, did her graceful figure, and lovely countenance dwell in his recollection.

Volume One—Chapter Four.

tention, which the noble mind of the generous Russian could conceive, was lavished on his unfortunate prisoner, with the benevolent view of banishing the recollection that he was an exile and a captive.

Although he expressed his gratitude for these courtesies, they proved of little avail in overcoming his wretchedness; and, for some time, he refused to give his parole to his captor, that he would not attempt to escape. At length, the patriotic old noble ceased to entertain hopes that his beloved country could ever regain her liberty, after the final and complete discomfiture of her heroic sons under the walls of Warsaw. With a heavy heart, he gave the required promise; and bowed down with grief at his country’s loss of freedom, he abandoned all wish of ever regaining his own. He thus lived on a hopeless exile from that land, where his forefathers had dwelt in honour and power for so many ages, and where all the affections of his heart were concentrated, save his love for his only son, now, the sole link which held the chain of his existence. On him he lavished all his care, and the boy returned his father’s affection with all the ardour of youth.

Although the Russian noble had rescued his friend from the rigorous sentence of banishment to Siberia, the whole of his interest and influence could not save from confiscation the property of one who had taken so prominent a part in every attempt of his countrymen to throw off the Russian yoke; so that, with the exception of a small pittance allowed him, he was entirely dependant on his generous host.

The old Polish noble, broken-spirited, and humbled as he was, hoarded his slender means to the utmost, that, although dependant himself on his friend, his son Thaddeus might never owe aught to any one but himself. During his son’s boyhood, he devoted his entire attention to his education, and it was a solace to the old man to find him so well worthy of his care; and when he had attained a proper age, he sent him to the military college at St. Petersburg, where he gave him a sufficient allowance from his accumulated savings, to enable him to support that standing in society which he considered his birth demanded.

He would willingly indeed have sent him to any other country for his education, in preference to that of the oppressors of Poland; but he found, on application, that his son could not be allowed to quit Russia; and disdaining any other than a military life for him, he was compelled to take advantage of the best which the country afforded.

With a father’s doting fondness, he hoped that his son might, with his talents and his sword, some day carve out a way to distinction; and perhaps, too, a latent hope existed in his breast that he might aid in the restoration of his native land.

From the time since Thaddeus resided under the roof of his father’s Russian friend, he became a favourite with every member of the family; and when he mixed more in the world, his pleasing manners and generous disposition caused his society to be much sought after by all of his own age and rank. No one, however, appeared to have gained so much of his regard as the young Ivan Galetzoff, who had won his affection without the slightest effort; but there was something in the bold, independent, and almost haughty manners of Ivan, which made Thaddeus at first regard him with more interest than he bestowed on the rest of his companions who were younger than himself.

Ivan was nearly two years his junior, which, at that time of life, often makes a great difference in a youth’s standing at school or college. From his first arrival at college, Ivan Galetzoff had appeared to keep aloof from the friendship of his companions, though he joined, and excelled in all athletic sports and exercises. He was courteous to all; but his cold and reserved behaviour prevented the greater number of his companions from making advances in his confidence or friendship. Thaddeus, by many trivial attentions to the solitary youth, was the first to overcome this reserve, and the latter seemed to feel grateful for his kindness. They had been as yet, however, but little in each other’s society, until Thaddeus was seized with a severe illness, when Ivan attended on him with fraternal care, ministering to all his wants, and scarcely ever leaving his side.

From that period was to be dated their firm friendship, which, though warm and sincere, could not thaw the reserve with which Ivan always guarded the subject of his family and connexions; and when any sought to question him, he would turn away with a haughty and angry air, so that even Thaddeus remained nearly as ignorant as before of his friend’s history. Every day, however, seemed more closely to cement the friendship of the two young men, until they were constantly together, supporting each other on every occasion of need. On one point, however, they were dissimilar in taste; while Thaddeus’s love of gaiety caused him to seek society, Ivan, on all occasions, shunned it, devoting himself with so much perseverance and energy to his studies and military exercises, that he was qualified to quit college at the same period with his friend.

Ivan Galetzoff was generally supposed at college to be the son of the Baron Galetzoff; but as the young man never spoke of him as his father, and indeed avoided, as much as possible, mentioning his name, there were some doubts entertained on the subject; and his proud and retiring manners were, therefore, considered to result from the galling feelings caused by a supposed stigma on his birth. The château of the Baron Galetzoff lay a short distance from Moscow; and in the neighbourhood of that city was also the residence of the generous noble who had been the protector of Thaddeus’s father; but there was no intercourse between the two families, the Baron living entirely secluded from the world.

The Baron Galetzoff was in truth, a fierce unpolished soldier, who had frequently distinguished himself in the wars of Russia against the Turks and the inhabitants of the Caucasus, as much by his unexampled cruelty, as by his bravery and military talents.

To his own soldiers he was overbearing and tyrannical, and he seemed to enjoy inflicting barbarities on the miserable foes who fell into his power; while to his dependants and the serfs on his estates, he was morose and hard-hearted; so that none could love, and all feared and hated him. His compeers disliked and shunned him, while he, on his part, seemed equally to disregard their censure or applause.

He had now retired for some time past from military command, and had since then immured himself in his own château, within which the stranger never obtained admittance.

When on several occasions Ivan had been tempted by Thaddeus to leave its sombre halls, and to mix in society, nothing could ever be gleaned from him respecting the internal arrangements of the family, notwithstanding all the attempts which were made to discover the secrets of the mansion.

Some of the more charitably disposed neighbours concluded that the Baron’s temper had been soured by domestic affliction, as it was reported that he had lost by sudden death a beautiful wife, whom he tenderly loved, and her child, which had mysteriously disappeared; others however declared, that his brow had always been clouded by the same dark lines.

In spite of these various rumours, all concurred in the opinion, that the generous qualities of the young Ivan almost made amends for the Baron’s defects; but they deplored his fate in being obliged to live with a person of so opposite a character. The serfs on the estate loved him almost to adoration, every one of whom was ready to lay down his life in his service.

Ivan had ever regarded the Baron more with fear and awe, than with those feelings of affection and respect, which a son owes to a parent.

There was however, one inmate of the château, on whom he lavished all the warmth and tenderness of a fond and affectionate heart. She was the one bright star pure and lustrous, towards which he gazed through the cloudy atmosphere of his existence. From his earliest days he had remembered that lovely countenance bending over him with a soft and enraptured gaze. Those bright eyes which looked lustreless on others, on him always shed a benign and soothing light. He had long ceased to call her mother, for he had once done so in his childish days, when with a deep drawn sigh, and a gush of tears, she pressed him closer to her bosom, and bade him never again to use that name: the child could not however be taught to call her by any other, and he would therefore avoid all mention of her to any one.

She had moreover succeeded in teaching him to refrain from paying her any attention or notice when, by chance, they appeared together in the Baron’s presence, and the lady’s greatest care seemed to be to appear equally regardless of the child.

How delightful was it, as a reward for this apparent estrangement, to commune during the Baron’s absence, with her, when he would listen to every word she uttered, and hear with delight the soft music of her voice. Then would she teach him a strange language, which none other around them spoke, and they would converse in it for hours together secure from interruption, until the child spoke it as fluently as Russian. He had never inquired, in what country the language he had learned was spoken, it was sufficient for him to know, that it was given to him by the being he most revered and loved, and he cherished his knowledge as a sacred gift which it would be profanation to impart to any other mortal. He always thought in that language, and in it he always poured forth his soul to the great Dispenser of good, for he looked upon it as the language of adoration; and as it had become his medium of communication with her he loved most on earth, he felt it as the most fit to adore Him who reigns in Heaven.

Upon her he looked as upon a being with an existence separate from and above all the rest of the world. In her presence, his thoughts became more holy, his aspirations loftier; his breast would swell proudly, as she oft described to him the noble deeds of gallant warriors fighting for the liberty of their country, until he ardently longed to emulate their actions; and thus were early implanted in his breast a sincere love of liberty, and a hatred of despotism, with a contempt of every danger which might beset him in the pursuit of the fame he thirsted after.

These sentiments had lain almost dormant within him, during the uneventful life which he had hitherto led, and it was only, when at college, he was witness to any tyrannical act of his own companions over their inferiors, that they burst forth; on such occasions he would always step forward in aid of the weakest and injured party.

He had so early been taught to conceal his feelings and opinions within his own bosom, that none of his companions were aware of their force or tendency, and had the officers of the college become acquainted with them, a decisive check would have been given to his advancement.

As far back as his memory could carry him, no event of importance had occurred to him: ere he was sent to college his education had been placed under the direction of a very worthy but most unintellectual priest, who did not attempt to give him more than the first general rudiments of knowledge; so that from an early age he was accustomed to depend much on his own powers to attain what he sought after.

At times the Baron seemed to take an interest in his welfare, and in the progress of his studies, but he was very uncertain and variable in his behaviour towards the boy; sometimes treating him with the greatest severity, at others, with indulgence; but never with that kindness or justice which wins the love and respect of youth.

He would frequently summon him to attend at the usual field sports of the country, in which he soon learnt to excel; but when the boy could make his escape, he would prefer wandering by himself in the woods with his gun, far more occupied with his own contemplations, than in the pursuit of game; or at other times he would urge his light skiff over the surface of a neighbouring lake, then resting on his oars, would sit gazing on the waters, his thoughts wandering to regions far away.

When safe from the Baron’s detection, he would hasten to a rendezvous with his beautiful guardian and friend, and spend hours of delightful intercourse in her society.

Reclining at her feet, his recollection would revert faintly and indistinctly to scenes of a far distant, undefinable period, when he fancied he could recall to memory a picture of the bright and sunny mountains of a soft and genial clime—a cottage on the green hill’s side, in front a clear and rapid stream, bounding from rod to rock, and sparkling joyously on its way to the blue distant sea beyond; the trees of varied foliage waving in the breeze, and gay-coloured flowers filling the air with sweet perfumes. Then would appear, before the vision of his mind, a figure of commanding stature, with noble features, clad in glittering armour, who ofttimes had carried him in his arms. He remembered the very shape of his shield, and the dazzling brightness of his sword, as it was wielded before his eyes in the rays of the sun. Then a confused tumult—the loud roar of cannon—the rattle of musketry—the clashing of swords—red blood flowing around—the wild shouts of men striving in deadly combat—the shrieks of terror-stricken women—the anguish-wrought groans of the wounded and dying—rushed across his recollection.

After those scenes, if such had ever been presented to his sight, the tablet of his memory, for a lapse of time, remained a complete blank, and his first clear remembrance was of the Chateau of the Baron Galetzoff, when he found himself loved and petted by its inmates, and even treated by its haughty Lord with as much kindness as his capricious nature would allow, and with much more than he seemed to bestow on any other human being.

Once only had Ivan mentioned the obscure recollection of his infant years to his fair protectress, but she had, in a passionate flood of tears, charged him, as he valued her love and happiness, never to allude to the subject again.

With advancing years, the visions faded gradually from his mind, or if he thought of them, he considered them but as a dream of childhood, and believed himself in reality to be the son of the tyrannical Baron Galetzoff.

Volume One—Chapter Five.

We left the serf Karl urging on the weary animal which drew his master’s baggage-cart towards Tver, and there he arrived without any other accident than a thorough drenching from the same storm which they had escaped under shelter of the Gipsy’s tent. He proceeded straightway to the best inn the town possessed, which was kept by one of the despised race of Israel, who are the principal innkeepers throughout the country. The inn in question was very inferior to those houses of entertainment which most of the larger cities of Russia now afford; but rapid improvements in all the conveniences for travelling have lately taken place.

The lower floor of the house consisted of two divisions; the one appropriated to the horses and equipages of travellers, the other to the culinary department of the establishment, as also to the accommodation—at that precise moment—of a motley assemblage of human beings, soldiers, mechanics, carriers, wagoners, postillions, all talking at the same time in their guttural language; smoking, drinking, and hallowing to each other, with loud laughter and jokes; yet the ear was never shocked by the profane oath, or other evidences of the fierce quarrels, which too often occur amongst a mixture of people of similar degree in other countries.

The upper part of the building was laid out in rooms for the accommodation of the better order of travellers. One of larger dimensions than the rest formed the dining-room—this was completely impregnated with the fumes of tobacco; the rest consisted of sleeping apartments.

As Karl drove into the court-yard, he seemed to have roused himself to a sense of his own importance, and the responsibility with which he was entrusted, for he endeavoured to assume an air of authority. “Help, here! help!” he exclaimed as the wheels of his cart rattled over the stones, “help here, to carry the baggage of my noble masters up-stairs! Does no one come? Help here, help, halloo!”

His calls for assistance were at last heeded by a being very similar to himself in dress and features. “Halloo, villain!” cried Karl, as the man approached, “can you not hear when a Christian calls? Here, help me to carry this baggage, will you?”

“Who art thou that speakest thus to me?” demanded the other; “art thou better than I am myself, knave? Art thou not a slave as well as I?”

“Ay, ay, truly,” answered Karl, “but I serve a noble master, whilst thou art but the slave of a base-born Hebrew innkeeper!”

“There thou liest!” exclaimed the indignant ostler, for such was his office. “I serve the innkeeper truly, and if he did not oblige me to observe his fasts, as well as those of our own holy church, the service would not be so bad; but I am no slave of his. I am the born serf of the noble Baron Ogstrofsty; he has let me out for hire, to the old Jew Levi, to pay off an old score, and when I have worked it out, I shall return to my own master.”

“That alters the case,” replied Karl, rubbing his forehead, that he might more clearly understand the knotty difference, “so now let us be friends, and lend me your aid.”

“With all my heart, now that thou art civil,” said the ostler.

Suiting the action to the word, after fastening the horse’s bridle to a ring in the wall, he assisted in taking the luggage from the cart, and led the way up a rude flight of steps, on the landing of which they were met by the landlord Levi, who had been eagerly looking out, in the hope of making considerable gain by his new guests.

“My noble master, the son of the Baron Galetzoff, and my noble master’s friend, sent me on before them to announce their coming, and to engage beds and supper. They will be here anon, so make ready for their reception: their baggage must be placed in their room that I may unpack it, for they will be rather wet, I fancy, when they arrive.”

“Your noble masters shall be well served,” answered Levi, bowing rather to the young nobles’ portmanteaus, than to the bearer of them. “This way, this way!”

And he conducted Karl into a room, boasting of but little comfort. To him, however, it appeared a luxurious apartment, and he immediately commenced unpacking the luggage. That done, he locked the door, and descended with his fellow-serf to look after his horse, and to attend to his own creature comforts.

Seating himself at the long table in the common eating-room, among the strange variety of guests, he applied himself with unwearied energy to the business of mastication, washing down his food with deep draughts of quass; and so completely was he engaged in this, to him, most grateful occupation, that he paid but little attention to what was going on around him.

When his appetite was at length thoroughly satisfied, he pushed the empty dish from before him, with a sigh, and took another long and steady draught from the jug of quass. He then resigned himself to the enjoyment of his sensations of satisfaction, when his eye-lids began to fall; re-opening slightly, they closed again, his head nodded for a minute, when he shook it to rouse himself, but it soon again fell slowly down, and he dropped fast asleep, resting his arms and shoulders on the table.

Some time had elapsed, when he was aroused by the entrance of two men, who seated themselves close to him, one of them pushing rudely against him as he took his seat at the table. The movement made Karl raise his head, and seeing two serving men in the liveries apparently of a nobleman, he endeavoured, for the sake of good fellowship, to join in their conversation; but he found it impossible to sustain his head without the support of the table. He listened, however, for some time to what they were saying, till their words grew indistinct and meaningless to his comprehension, and Karl sunk again into sleep.

“Well,” said one of the new-comers, “this is a pretty business we’ve been engaged in. First, the certainty of being knocked on the head by the Gipsies, had they caught us, of which there was every risk; then, the very clear reality of finding ourselves knocked down by two wild horsemen, who seemed to have risen out of the forest, for no other purpose than to interfere where they had no business; and then, because we could not prevent their getting up to the Count, when we did our best, to be rewarded with a thrashing and a load of abuse; and finally, to be sent, with our broken heads, scampering across the country to look after these gentlemen. And after all, what is the cause of all this fuss?—a woman—a girl—a piece of painted flesh! a baggage, no better than those who go singing about the streets of Moscow. So coy and modest too! Why the Count is mad to make such a disturbance about her. It makes me thirsty to think of it—hand the quass, Kruntz.”

“You may well say that,” answered his companion, “for I never saw our master in such a taking before. He swears he will have deadly vengeance against those who prevented him from carrying off the girl; and he says that he should know them again, whether he met them in this world or the next. I don’t think he has much chance of meeting them in a better place, do you, Groff?”

“No, no,” answered the first speaker; “our master has played too many odd tricks on earth for that. He may know them, perhaps, for he had time to see their faces; but it is too hard of him to expect that we should; for I could have sworn, when they came so suddenly upon us, that they were the wild horsemen of the woods.”

“They may be devils themselves, and still not escape our master’s vengeance,” replied Kruntz; “and, as for the girl, he will entrap her before long, or he will not act like himself. If he cannot do it by open force, he has numerous secret means to bring about his ends.”

“That I’ll be sworn he has,” said the other; “and so long as he pays me well, I am ready to serve him, though I do not much relish so hard a ride as he sent us, in a storm, on a fool’s errand. Yet if I could find out who the two young gallants were, who gave us such confoundedly hard blows, I should like to see how they felt under like treatment. Some more vodka, Kruntz, that’s the stuff; now for our pipes. Drown care first, and then smoke him dry, and he won’t trouble you; that’s the way for honest men like us to live.”

These two worthies, after enjoying their tobacco, left the room. They will be easily recognised as the myrmidons of the Count Erintoff, sent forward in great haste by their master, to trace the horsemen, who had arrested him in his flight with the Gipsy maid—a circumstance the more embittering to his pride, after his success in securing her person. He had also dispatched others in an opposite direction, with the same orders.

Karl at length awoke to find that the shades of evening had already enveloped the town in obscurity; and he rushed out in great dismay, at having overslept himself, to endeavour to gain some tidings of his young master and his friend; but in vain—he could hear nothing of them. The honest fellow now became greatly alarmed, making inquiries of every body he met, till finding that his master had certainly not yet arrived in Tver, he lay down, to await his coming, on one of the wooden benches in the eating-room, when he very soon again fell into a sleep—not the less sound from his deep potations of quass—and did not awake till long after the morning had dawned, and the inmates of the hotel were astir. He started up, rubbing his eyes, and looking around to convince himself where he was; when recollecting the events of the previous day, he instantly set off to gain intelligence of his master. With eager agitation, he questioned all who came in his way, high and low; but most people pushed the lowly unshorn serf aside, without deigning to answer him; some ridiculed him, and bade him seek a new master, if he had lost his old one, for he would never find him again. Among those whom he had casually addressed, was one of the two individuals, whose conversation he had partly overheard when sitting by his side on the previous evening.

“You are inquiring for your master and his friend,” asked Groff; “two young men, you say, whom you parted from about twenty versts off; as they rode by themselves through the forest.” By thus interrogating the honest, but simple Karl, he learned every particular he sought to know respecting Ivan Galetzoff and his companion.

Poor Karl spent the long day in great tribulation, walking to and fro in front of the inn, inquiring of everybody who arrived from the direction of St. Petersburg, if they had overtaken his master and fellow traveller; but obtaining no intelligence, he proceeded along the road for some miles in the hope of meeting them; again unsuccessful, he returned in case they should have passed by some other way. Towards evening, when he perceived the lost cavaliers approaching, his joy knew no bounds.

Running to meet them, and ere they had time to dismount, he seized their hands and covered them with kisses. He gave their horses in charge to the ostler, and conducted them to their room, where they were glad to rest, after the excitement and fatigues of the preceding day.

Their arrival had been observed by others with equal satisfaction to that felt by honest Karl, though arising from very dissimilar motives. Groff and his companion concealed within a doorway, watched them as they dismounted, and being fully satisfied of their identity, both from Karl’s description, and their own recollection of the wild horsemen, by whom they had been felled in the forest, they immediately mounted their horses to convey their information to the Count.

Ivan felt but little inconvenience from his wound; the aged Hagar having treated it so efficaciously. He was, therefore, enabled to continue on the journey to Moscow, early the next morning; notwithstanding the numerous eloquent reasons urged by their considerate landlord, to persuade them to delay it.

They crossed the magnificent Volga, by a bridge of boats. This mighty current rushing onward in its course, divides Europe from Asia; it is navigable well nigh to its very source—a distance of four thousand miles; and after bathing the walls of Astracan, finishes its career in the far distant Caspian. Its banks are peopled by the warlike tribes of Cossacks, who so unrelentingly harassed the skirts of the French army, during their disastrous retreat from Russia. On its noble waters were being transported rich cargoes of grain, the produce of its fertile banks, in boats of various sizes, rigged with a single but lofty mast, supporting an immense sail, and a long rudder, projecting far beyond the stern, which is admirably adapted to guide them, when passing the rapids.

The villages through which the travellers’ route lay, were forlorn and miserable; being generally the property of the Seigneurs, and occupied by their serfs. They consisted of a single long street, lined on either side with cottages built of rough logs: those of the more affluent being formed of the same materials, hewn and squared into more regular shape. Their gable ends projecting far into the street, discovered occasionally patches of rude carving; small holes perforated in the walls serving as windows.

In many spots along the road, were small chapels with pictures of the Panagia (the Russian appellation of the Virgin Mary,) or of some of the multitudinous saints in their calendar; these were the especial objects of Karl’s devotion, as he bowed his head to them, and crossed himself all over with the greatest reverence. They overtook many teams of small carts, sometimes forty together; carrying tallow, hides, and hemp to the cities, to be exchanged for merchandise, with which they return to the interior: their drivers were generally lying asleep on their goods, one alone at the head of the train, conducting the team. As evening closed in, they halted, forming bivouacs by the way-side, and their cheering fires served as beacons for the wayfarer.

Although but a few years have glided by, since the period to which we allude, great changes have taken place on the highway between St. Petersburg and Moscow. Not only has the road been macadamised, and become one of the best in Europe, but elegant bridges have been thrown across the rivers and streams; handsome, well-conducted post-houses have been established on the road, and public conveyances traverse it regularly.

It was towards the evening of the second day of their departure from Tver, that they approached the Phoenix-like, the resuscitated, holy, and ancient city of Moscow.

The rays of the setting sun shed a glittering lustre on the innumerable gilded domes, steeples and spires, of its churches, shooting upwards from amid the dark masses of habitations, like trees of gold in a forest of enchantment. Each tower being surmounted by the emblem of Christian faith, resplendent with gold, and connected by golden chains, which shone more brightly as they waved in the breeze.

This gorgeous scene breaking suddenly on their sight, arrested their progress; the stately city, extending over a wide space of undulating ground, encompassed by woody and cultivated heights—the hundred-crested Kremlin rising majestically above all—the magnificent palaces, churches, and convents, with their cupolas and domes of blue, and white, and gold, giving it an aspect of oriental magnificence.

Karl, animated by a spirit of devotion, threw himself from the cart, and prostrated himself on the soil, in adoration, as he beheld the Jerusalem of Russia—the city sanctified in their hearts, and so beloved by every true Muscovite. Having completed the ceremony, with innumerable genuflexions and crossings, much to his own satisfaction, he drove on to regain his master and Thaddeus, who not being imbued with the same feeling of respect for the City of the Czars, and having often viewed the spectacle, had, after a slight pause at the grandeur of the scene, proceeded on their road.

After traversing many of the irregular, winding streets of the city, the moment arrived when they were to part, to hasten to their respective homes. Exchanging pledges to meet again as soon as circumstances would permit, they then started off in opposite directions.

Volume One—Chapter Six.

Missing the society of his lively companion, a shade of gloom overspread the handsome features of Ivan; his mind being thus thrown back upon itself, the sombre scenery through which he passed, as he drew nigh to the end of his journey, on the day after he quitted his friend, contributed to augment the melancholy bias of his thoughts.

On either side of his path arose a thick and dark wood, without a single opening vista, or a green glade; every part seemed impenetrable to joy and gladness. The habitations of the miserable and oppressed serfs were closed; their inmates having early retired to rest, after the ill-requited toils of the day.

Occasionally, however, he fell in with labourers returning to their homes, who, as they recognised the son of their seigneur, saluted him with respect and a look of affection. In an instant, the cloud on his brow would be dissipated as he returned their greetings, and offered a kind word to each, either in inquiries after their families, or other good-natured remarks, by which the unsophisticated peasant’s heart is so easily gained.

On approaching the chateau, even such signs of life as had previously appeared ceased to exist, and all around wore, if possible, a still more gloomy and dreary aspect.

He unconsciously shortened his rein; that action sufficed to betray that he could not regard the Baron in the light of a father. So far from having an anxious desire to hasten to receive his welcome, his languid pace proved his reluctance to enter sooner than necessary into the presence of the fierce lord of that dark domain. His heart was a blank as he drew up at the principal entrance.

No group of bustling and pleased domestics stood ready to receive him on his return, after a long absence; no fond mother or affectionate sisters, to rush forward with outstretched arms, to welcome him in a loving embrace, or to surround him as they gazed with eager and delighted eyes, their repeated inquiries lost amid the confusion of anxious tongues. All within was as silent as without, a solitary household serf alone presenting himself at Ivan’s summons; while, after considerable delay, another of the same class appeared, to lead his horse to the stables; both, however, greeted him with welcome smiles.

His heart now beat with eagerness to hasten to the presence of the revered and much loved being so mysteriously connected with him, for well he knew how anxiously she was awaiting his arrival. At the same time, a feeling of dread came over him, of misfortune having befallen her; she might be on her death-bed, perhaps—horrible thought!—extended a cold and lifeless corpse! Lost to him for ever, and her important secret known to none but her God!

This idea became almost insupportable. He dared not make any inquiries respecting her of the domestic. To visit her, ere he had appeared to the Baron, who he was informed had desired his presence immediately on his arrival, would have been attended by results equally injurious to her as to himself.

Without delay, therefore, he was ushered into the apartment where the Baron was sitting, who neither rose as the young man advanced to pay his respects, or relaxed the cold stern cast of his features.

The Baron Galetzoff seemed a man long past the prime of life, on whom age had laid its wintry marks, but still retaining the air and firm port of a soldier. His stature was rather under than above the middle height, and his figure full and unwieldy. His features might have been handsome in his youth, though now they were disfigured by an habitual scowl on his forehead, and a deep cut reaching from the left eye to the lower part of the ear; his cold grey sunken eyes retreating, as if from observation, under the shade of his coarse overhanging brows. His grizzled moustache was long and untrimmed; and this, when excited by passion—no uncommon occurrence, unfortunately for his dependants—or labouring under uncertainty as to the success of his projects, he was wont to twist and pluck at.

“So, Sir,” he exclaimed, in a tone of severity, as Ivan approached the table, “you have loitered on your way, methinks; else why this delay in your arrival? Your duty and obedience would have been better proved by a more rapid journey. How did it thus happen, Sir?”

Ivan explained that the delay arose from a violent storm, which had obliged him to take shelter under the tent of a Gipsy; but he did not choose to hazard a relation of the rest of his adventures.

The Baron’s brow lowered as he resumed—

“And is this, Sir, the bent of your disposition to herd with outcasts, and the vilest of the earth? A race I detest and abhor; and strong enough are my reasons. Rather would I have bared my head to the fiercest storm the heavens ever sent forth, than to have been beholden to such wretches for a dry crust, or the covering of their miserable tents.”

“The people you speak of, Sir,” answered Ivan, “I found as kind and hospitable in their humble way, as any of a higher rank; and I received much attention from them.”

The Baron here rose from his seat, and took several turns across the apartment; then suddenly addressing himself to Ivan, exclaimed—

“Talk not to me of receiving kindness at the hands of such ignominious beings as those cursed Gipsies. I loathe their very name! Is this the return you render me, degenerate youth, for the care and attention I have lavished on your infancy and education? Though how could I have expected ought else? Yet I thought you possessed more proper pride than to have thus demeaned yourself. Learn, however, henceforth to pay more respect to my honour and dignity, though you may be careless of your own; and remember, the name you bear must not, and shall not, be disgraced by associating with the base and worthless.”

Ivan remained mute during this tirade, for he saw that the Baron required an object to vent his spleen upon, and he willingly offered his own shoulders, to screen some victim less able to bear it.

The haughty noble had thus worked himself into a state of passionate excitement, as undignified as it was causeless, and continued pacing the floor with hasty steps, while the young man stood silently by, waiting its result, knowing that his withdrawal from the scene would but increase the Baron’s anger.

After the lapse of a few minutes, this fit of rage seemed to have subsided, as turning towards Ivan, he said—

“Young man, let me never hear again of so discreditable an occurrence. And now listen to the reasons which induced me to recall you. I have been appointed by our gracious Emperor to high command in his armies destined for foreign service; and I intend that you shall accompany me to learn the art of war by practical experience, as you have hitherto done in theory. Before you, now opens a path which will lead you to honour and renown; and it rests with yourself to enter it or not. If you follow it, and I find you worthy, it then will be my care to advance you rapidly. But mark me! I demand from you implicit obedience; that rendered, rank and fortune shall be yours—if not, beware!”

Ivan’s heart beat high at this information, though conveyed in harsh and uncourteous words; but he ardently sought to enter at once into the exciting scenes of active life, and his eye brightened as he expressed his readiness to comply with the Baron’s wishes, and thanked him for the solicitude he professed for his welfare.

“My intention,” continued the Baron, “is, that you should visit Moscow in a few days, to procure your military equipments, and to mix somewhat in society; for though, I myself detest its ceremonies and trivialities, I wish you to gain the advantages its lessons afford, ere you enter into the more active and stirring scenes of life. You may now retire to rest after your journey, and to-morrow, I will impart my other projects.”

His listener, having expressed the gratitude he really felt at the prospects held out to him, gladly retired from the presence of his capricious father.

The above conversation, so characteristic of the Baron’s usual deportment towards his son, was little calculated to win either his respect or his love: indeed, his conduct altogether seemed inexplicable; for while he had spared neither care, nor expense in his education, he had evidently no affection for him; and had on every occasion tried his utmost, to imbue him with his own fierce and savage disposition: in the latter, however, he had signally failed, through an agency he little suspected. The young man, meanwhile, profited by the great advantages offered by a good education, and grew up endued with extraordinary firmness and courage.

Ivan had retired to his chamber for the night, after endeavouring in vain to obtain some communication with the lady before alluded to, as a mysterious inmate of the château; when, as he was reclining in a chair, and gazing through the window on the dark groves which surrounded the building, he was startled by a knock at his door. Hastening to open it, a person presented himself, of unusual and remarkable appearance.

He was one of those extraordinary productions of nature, possessing a figure of just proportions, though in stature he was scarcely three feet high. His dress was arranged with extreme neatness and care, but of a fantastic cut; and the little man seemed to delight in the most gaudy colours. His feathered hat was placed with a rakish air on one side of his head, from which flowed a profusion of curling locks. His whiskers were also curled with the greatest care, while his long thin moustaches rose fiercely upward, in imitation of heroes of larger size.

It was difficult to define the expression of his diminutive, but very regular features, which would have been considered handsome in a larger mould. Age had spared him not, for already wrinkles furrowed his cheeks, which were of a shallow, parchment-like hue. His small grey eyes still bright and twinkling, expressed talent, and cunning; there was a restlessness too in his look and manner—each movement he made being quick, but uncertain. He would first cast a hurried glance at the person he was speaking to; next on the ground, then suddenly over his shoulder, as if he expected an attack from behind; and presently he would spin his little body round on one leg, ere he recommenced the subject he had abruptly discontinued. When he spoke, the tone of his voice was so shrill and loud, that those who heard it, could scarcely believe that the sound proceeded from so diminutive a creature.

As this lilliputian-like figure entered the room, he opened his arms to their full extent to embrace Ivan, who kindly stooped to the requisite level to meet him, for otherwise the little personage, who seemed unconscious of his own size, would have been unable to clasp more than one of his friend’s knees.

“My friend, my dear boy!” exclaimed the dwarf, “my heart beats with pleasure to see you back again. You are grown, Ivan, since I saw you last, for we could then walk arm in arm; and now, I doubt if we could do so with perfect ease. I have been longing to have you here again, for I knew not what to do without you. I could neither ride, hunt, or shoot with any satisfaction during your absence; but now we will recommence our former amusements.”

“I am truly glad to see you, my worthy friend Ladislau,” answered Ivan, “and to find you as vivacious and active as ever; but there is one I would inquire after; my kind protectress—my most beloved friend—tell me, Ladislau, how is she? of no one else have I been able to learn, nor as you well know, dared I to seek the information, my heart yearned after, though my thoughts have been filled with sad forebodings.”

“My young friend,” replied Ladislau, “she is well, and is anxiously waiting to see you; but the mighty man, the great Baron, has been treating her more severely than ever, and will not allow her to proceed beyond the walls of the garden. One of these days his cruelty will meet with its due reward!”

“Alas!” said Ivan, “that I should not have the power to rescue that angelic being from his tyranny! She herself forbids me to interfere. Tell me, my dear Ladislau, when shall I find an opportunity of seeing her?”

“I cannot now say,” answered the dwarf. “I will, however, contrive the matter for you, whilst the Baron is from home, and the meeting will contribute greatly to the lady’s cure. Ha! ha! ha! I am laughing at the idea that those, whom the mighty tyrant despises, can so outwit him; aye, and revenge themselves too, in a way he little dreams of. The day will come, when he shall learn that the being he has kept to laugh and jeer at, has a soul with passions strong as his own, and who has known how to revenge himself for all the injuries and insults heaped on him for so many years. But away with such thoughts: now that you are returned, Ivan! pleasure must be our sole study, and I owe you my utmost services, for you were ever kind and attentive, while others scorned me, although they laughed at what they termed my antic tricks. I am grateful, Ivan, and I will prove it; for though I can be a bitter and implacable hater, I can also be a firm and true friend.”

“In your love, I have always trusted, my good Ladislau, though what I may have done is not worthy of mention; and you amply repay me by your services, and constant readiness to follow my wishes.”

“Well, well, we will not discuss that matter now;” said Ladislau, “but tell me, Ivan, how came it, that you did not arrive yesterday? I was looking out for you the whole day!”

Ivan gave him an account of his adventure, in rescuing the Gipsy maid Azila, and of his visit to the tents of her tribe, to which the dwarf listened attentively.

“You acted rightly,” said he, as Ivan concluded; “and you may some future day be richly rewarded. Is she not beautiful, and endowed with talent, and far superior to the life she leads?”

“If you allude to Azila,” replied Ivan, “she is both; but how happens it, that you are acquainted with these Gipsies?”

“Ha! ha! ha!” chuckled the dwarf, “that’s a long story, my dear boy, and I cannot tell it you now, though I may some day. You have much to learn—many deep secrets—of which my bosom is the depositary; ha! ha! those who despise me, little know the power I possess! There is one, who would give half he is worth, to know a secret which is safely locked up in my breast, and he would not scruple to tear it open, if he knew that it was there! Ha! ha! ha!” and the dwarf laughed shrilly, as he triumphed in this consciousness of his own power, and of the revenge he was taking on those by whom he considered himself injured.

“Now to you, Ivan,” he continued, “who indulge in no idle curiosity, and treat me so kindly, I will some day, when the fit moment arrives, disclose the treasured secret.”

“You are one of the first of the few persons I remember ever since my childhood,” answered Ivan, “and I act towards you as I feel—with sincere regard. But tell me, Ladislau, what is there remarkable, or unusual, with respect to the Gipsy’s daughter, besides her beauty, which I can judge of, and her talents which I suppose do not extend beyond her sweet singing, and a clever tact in turning her pretended knowledge of palmistry to account.”

“Ah, you little see into her character, if you imagine that she practises any of the vulgar deceits of her tribe,” answered the dwarf. “She is above every act of that kind. Her heart is with her people, and she delights in their wild life; yet she might, if it so pleased her, dwell in cities, and enjoy all the luxuries others value so highly. Her education has not been neglected, while her talents are of the highest order, her judgment superior, and her virtue unquestionable; these high endowments she employs for her noble ends. She might have been far different from what she is—enjoying rank, riches and power; but then too probably, alas! she might have been proud, vicious and ignorant. I love her much, but would not have her different to what she is, though on some future day, it may be said that I have injured her; but I know better. I am saying, perhaps, more than is prudent; I can, however, trust you, Ivan, and I beseech you, utter not a syllable of what you have heard, as you love me.”

“Your confidence shall not be abused,” answered Ivan.

“Fare thee well, fare thee well! I must now away, my young friend;” quickly cried the little man, as whisking round on one foot, waving his hand, and singing his adieus, he skipped out of the room.

As long back as Ivan could recollect, he had always been on terms of perfect friendship with the dwarf Ladislau; but never since his earliest infancy had he observed the slightest alteration in his appearance. At that early age, he used to romp and play with him; and as he grew older and stronger, with a consideration which few boys would have possessed, he never exerted his power and strength to his annoyance, so that the diminutive creature cherished a feeling of attachment for him, stronger than for any other human being; while Ivan, having but few to expend his affections upon, returned his regard with equal sincerity.

It is still the custom in many of the wealthy and noble families, both of Russia and Poland, to retain in their establishments, one of the race of dwarfs, to amuse their children and dependants, and as a butt for their own wit. As in former days, a jester, a fool, or a dwarf was considered a necessary appendage to the household of every noble throughout Europe, though that custom is now fortunately banished to the less civilised countries of the eastern part of the continent, where education has made but slow advances.

As soon as the dwarf had retired, Ivan threw himself on his couch; but it was long, ere the repose he sought, drew a veil over his confused and agitated thoughts.

Volume One—Chapter Seven.

Ivan had obtained but few and brief opportunities of meeting the lady who resided at the chateau, and whose history was so totally unknown to the world. The Baron constantly required his attendance, and narrowly watched her actions.

Some days had elapsed since Ivan’s arrival, during which time he had invariably accompanied the Baron in his hunting expeditions, the latter having determined to clear his forests of the wolves which infested them. On the next of these expeditions, he determined to find some expedient for absenting himself, so as to be able to obtain the long-sought interview with his mysterious friend.

Accordingly, whilst the followers were beating about for the lurking plunderers, and the woods echoed with their loud shouts, he feigned an excuse, and galloped back to the château, trusting that his brief absence would be overlooked. In the mean time, the dwarf, who had not been summoned to the chase by his lord, had willingly remained at home, and prepared every means to facilitate the meeting. The young man, with anxious haste, repaired to the appointed spot, where, beneath a bower covered with luxuriant dark foliage, and shaded by a group of venerable trees, he beheld the loved object of his search.

The lady had scarcely reached the meridian of life, still retaining every feature of matronly beauty. Her figure was tall; its every movement graceful; her face cast in the true Grecian mould, with a pure and translucent complexion; the long dark silken eyelash shading a clear grey eye, and giving a subdued softness of expression to her countenance. A casual observer on viewing the two persons, side by side, would have discovered a striking resemblance between them.

Her watchful ear caught the sound of his footstep, and rising, she rushed forward to meet him, folding him in a momentary embrace, as he endeavoured reverently to kiss her hand. A convulsive sob impeded her utterance as she attempted to speak; but her fast-falling tears, which bedewed his neck, expressed the fulness of her love. That agitating moment over, her composure returned; and retiring to a seat, Ivan placed himself by her side, his hand being fondly locked in hers.

“Loved one,” she said, “is it thus alone we can meet, by stealth, and but for a brief space, after so long an absence, and when, too, you may be torn from me for ever? Oh, Ivan! much have I suffered for your sake, and gladly would I suffer more; yet a woman’s weakness overpowers me, when I think of the dangers you may be exposed to. He has told me that you are about to accompany him on a distant military expedition wherein you may gain honour and renown, such as I know your noble heart will rejoice in; but dreadful forebodings haunt my mind, for I feel it will be full of peril; and I cannot trust him. I seek to discover the plans he is meditating for you, but they are beyond my comprehension. Whether affection, or any other motive influences him, I know not; yet though he promises to advance you rapidly, I doubt the sincerity of his words. But oh! Ivan, I am powerless, and commit you to the charge of the God of your fathers.”

“For your sake,” exclaimed the young man, “I would resign all my fond aspirations, and would gladly remain to protect you; but, alas! as a slave I must obey the Baron’s will, or seek my own fortune in the world without his aid.”

“Well do I know your love, my brave youth,” replied the lady, “which would hazard all for my welfare; but that I ask not. No! go where glory and fame await you, and care not for me, for I feel that my course of life is well nigh run, and that the day of my freedom is at hand. Much more of anguish than you, Ivan, can possibly know, has my bosom borne; but the hour is not yet come when I may recount to you the tale of my woes.”

“To what secret woes do your words allude?” exclaimed Ivan, in agitation. “Oh, my more than mother! my protectress! my guardian angel! am I then incapable of protecting you, or at least of comforting you? Oh despise me not by concealing your sufferings from me!”

“Alas! your interference,” said the lady, despondingly, “would be of little avail; it might bring ruin on yourself, without improving my lot. No, no, loved one! I would not blight your happiness with my sorrow. You are on the eve of visiting Moscow; when there, mix in the world; seek all the enjoyment it can afford, though I fear me there is but little to be found. Yet I too was once blest with perfect happiness. You will return here, I learn, before you depart for the army, when I will relate all; till then, may your young heart be unseared by grief.”

“Oh! disclose your griefs to me now, dearest lady. Let me endeavour to console them; and let my devotion in your service prove my love. Surely the Baron, though severe and unjust at times to me, cannot—dare not, be so barbarous as to injure one so lovely and gentle as yourself.”

“I may not at present reveal to you my sad history,” replied the lady; “prudence demands that the veil should not yet be withdrawn. You know not what the Baron is. Time will display his nature.”

The lady and the youth were still indulging in their melancholy, yet interesting conversation, when they were suddenly interrupted by the appearance of Ladislau, looking like some woodland sprite, as, with alarm on his countenance, he rushed up to them through the mass of the shrubbery.

“Hist! hist!” he cried, but in a suppressed voice; “fly, Ivan, fly! off with you—begone! this is no place for you! Madam, pardon my intrusion. Fly, Ivan, fly! The Baron has returned; this moment I heard the tramp of his horse’s hoofs in the court-yard, and his voice raised in anger; so I hastened to warn you. He stormed and raged as usual. Yes, his high mightiness was storming like a tornado.”

The dwarf laughed in a shrill tone, and added, “He will undoubtedly come this way; and it would not calm his anger to find his son here instead of accompanying him in the chase of animals, less savage than himself. So fly, my friend, fly from hence; tarry not another moment. And I would recommend you too, Madam, to avoid him at present, if you wish not to bear the brunt of his fury, which has been excited by Ivan’s absence.”

Ivan respectfully raised the lady’s hand to his lips, and was bidding her farewell, when the dwarf exclaimed, “Haste, haste, or you will be discovered—see, here he comes;” and at that instant, the Baron was seen at a short distance, walking rapidly towards them. Ivan quickly retreated by an opposite path, fortunately unperceived by his father, while the Baron advanced towards the lady and dwarf, with a dark frown on his brow.

“So, ho, Madam,” he cried; “is it thus you abide by my injunctions not to move beyond your apartment? Be pleased forthwith to retire to your chamber, until I repair thither; I shall know how to correct this disobedience to my commands. Make no answer! go, Madam, at once!”

The lady spoke not, though her lip trembled with emotion, and there was a flush on her brow, as she turned to obey the Baron’s command, and walked calmly towards the château.

“And you, imp! what business of state brought you to the lady?” said the Baron, turning to the dwarf. “Doubtless, you have been laying some mischievous plans together. Have you lately seen Ivan, sir manikin?”

“Yes, most noble and potent Seigneur,” answered Ladislau; “I met him some time since, walking in solitary and meditative mood. I ventured not to interrupt the current of his thoughts. Can I be the bearer of any of your most gracious orders to him?”

“Yes, go find him, and say I desire his attendance,” said the Baron. “No, stay—I myself will seek him. In which direction went he, do you say?”

“In yonder avenue,” replied the dwarf, pointing to an opposite spot to the one he believed the youth was to be found in.

As the Baron walked quickly forward, he muttered to himself, “Can it be that she, whose stubborn soul would never bend to my will, should be captivated by this youth! By heavens! if I so find it, I will tear her limb from limb, and let the boy feast his eyes on the spectacle. Had the idea occurred to me before, he never should have returned here. He is capable of any deed; there is a bold, unruly spirit within him, which I must curb with a tight rein, or he will break loose even from me. He to be my rival, forsooth! here comes the audacious youth. By heavens! he has a right noble air, which may well win any woman’s love. I would destroy him at once, to prevent any further mischief; but then I lose the cherished object for which I nurtured him—no, no, that were worse than folly. He shall live to become the fierce soldier I would make him, and when he gains more of the spirit of the tiger, which he now somewhat lacks, I shall be content. He comes of a race, whose blood is strongly imbued with it, and in his it must exist also.”

By the time the Baron had arrived at the conclusion of this soliloquy, which vaguely hinted at his sinister schemes, his anger had been tempered, partly by the ideas of future triumph it awakened, partly by the cool perfumed breeze, which played within the shady walk. He had been unsuccessful that morning in the chase, which had raised his choler; and when he missed Ivan from his side, and ascertained on inquiry, that he had been seen riding in the direction of the château, his rage was greatly increased. On his return, he learned that his son had proceeded into the grounds, whither the lady had shortly before also been observed to go.

“I perceive, Sir,” he said on confronting his son, “that you prefer luxurious ease in shady bowers, to the hardy and noble exercise of hunting, in disobedience moreover to my wishes; but let me tell you, young man, such is but a bad promise of your future conduct in a military career; and you need not expect my countenance or support, during the continuance of such frivolities, and opposition to my will. I expect henceforth to find you foremost in danger, and ever prompt to endure hardships without murmur. Thus it was that I fought my way up the ladder of fame, and thus must you follow, if you desire advancement, and value a high name.”

“I trust, Sir, you will never find me remiss in my military duties,” answered Ivan.

“I have found you already deficient in its most essential branch;” angrily rejoined the Baron, then assuming a calmer tone, he added “you had some motive, and not a trifling one, which induced you to act contrary to my will this day; ah, you start! Beware, young man, should my suspicions prove correct, your fate is sealed! Again, I say, beware! My nature is such as will not be trifled with; prepare for your departure to-morrow for Moscow; that is a favour I grant you; so answer me not; you now know my will.”

Accustomed as he was to the authoritative tone of one who, in his mildest mood, never brooked a reply, Ivan’s lips moved with emotion, yet they uttered no sound, as the Baron turned away, and walked towards the mansion.

The dark hints which his father had let fall fixed Ivan to the spot in deep meditation; yet he could not settle in his mind to what they could allude, dismissing at once, as too preposterous, the real cause. Finally he came to the resolution of implicitly following his orders, though he would fain have tarried a few days longer in the chateau, to hold further intercourse with his sorrowful protectress. Then retiring to his chamber, to make the requisite preparations, he was soon joined by the dwarf.

As soon as he was informed of his friend’s banishment, tears fell from the little man’s eyes.

“Oh, Ivan,” he exclaimed, “my friend, my brother, my son—for you are each and all to me—I have experienced many cruel trials; but to part with you is severer than all combined. We may never meet again, for I fear the Baron will not allow you to return here; and I am growing so weary of this cruel world, that I expect not to remain much longer an inhabitant of it. Ivan, my dear boy, forget not Ladislau, for be assured his first and last daily thought will be of you.”

Ivan succeeded in soothing his little friend’s grief, by sincere assurances of his remembrance. He then requested him to take his earnest farewell to the lady, as he could not hope to see her again before his departure, promising that, at every risk, he would return ere he joined the army, while during the interval, he would regularly inform Ladislau of his proceedings.

After quitting his son in the grounds which encompassed the mansion, the Baron repaired forthwith to the chamber of the lady, who received him with a proud and dignified air, before which even he for a moment paused abashed.

“Your time, Madam, I have discovered, is not always passed in the dismal solitude of which you so repeatedly complain. Hear me! you would seduce the affections of my son! Ha. Madam, is it so? You turn pale and tremble! This moment I parted from the youth; and as I taxed him with my suspicions, his look of conscious guilt revealed the truth. He had not a word to urge in his own defence. Do you answer for him? Am I not correct? Speak, woman!”

The lady stood for a while in mute astonishment at the accusations so suddenly and violently brought against her. At length she uttered, in a voice, choking with emotion:

“Be Heaven my witness that I speak the truth, when I declare that I am guiltless of the crime you charge me with.”

“Deceitful woman, thou liest!” cried the Baron, giving vent to a burst of uncontrollable anger; he gnashed his teeth, while his eyes rolled wildly; he lifted his arm, and struck the defenceless female. She uttered no cry; but every drop of blood quitted her cheek, and she would have fallen to the floor, had not the wall supported her. Rivetting her eye on her oppressor, and mustering all her energy, she proudly confronted him in scorn and contempt, branding him with the epithet of coward. The ruffian, in his turn, trembled, and quailed before the superior might—the majesty of a lovely woman, conscious of her unsullied virtue. He felt himself to be the despicable being she termed him; his honour had been for ever disgraced by this foul indelible stain. He felt that his name was for ever blotted from the rolls of chivalry; that every slave who crawled in chains on his land would be deemed more worthy to touch a lady’s hand than he.

The haughty lord answered not: his tongue was tied—he was conquered. Without even daring to meet her glance of scorn, he turned away, and quitted the apartment. When left in solitude, the lady sunk on a couch, and pressed her brow within her hands.

“For what fate am I reserved?” she cried. “To perish by the hand of this dastard tyrant! No more to revisit my own sunny hills and smiling vales. Yet, for the sake of that loved one, I can and will bear all. Could I but feel assured of his happiness, I would yield to death contentedly. There is, however, one duty more due to him—then welcome death!”

Volume One—Chapter Eight.

Ivan was fully equipped for his journey to Moscow, in pursuance of his father’s orders, when he received a summons to attend him.

“I have desired your presence,” said the Baron, as he entered, “to communicate my last orders. I will allow you an ample sum for your expenses, and a sojourn of six weeks in Moscow. Dedicate that period to amusement; at its expiration you will be attached to my staff; meanwhile have your uniforms prepared. You may now depart.”

The young man withdrew, his parting salutation being scarcely noticed. He was met in the court-yard by his friend the dwarf, who shed tears as Ivan mounted his horse; while he himself felt sad in parting from one of the few friends he possessed in the world. He took a last look at the apartment occupied by the lady so deeply beloved by him. All was closed and mournful there. Then spurring his horse, he rode rapidly from the chateau.

A lively and bustling scene met his view as he entered Moscow. It was a day dedicated to one of the numerous saints in the calendar of the Greek church, and a holiday; so that all the world was abroad, taking recreation during their brief but beautiful spring.

The sumptuous equipages of the nobles were dashing by, with their four spirited horses, harnessed in long traces, and guided by a tiny postillion, while a portly, liveried coachman was seated more for state than service, on the richly ornamented coach-box. Officers, in various uniforms, and followed by wild and fierce-looking Calmuc Tartars, galloped in every direction. Countless were the gay vehicles in motion; conspicuous amongst these, was the light-formed drosky, drawn by a pair of horses, the animal in the shafts advancing at a finely paced trot, while his companion, now prancing and curvetting, now sidling in graceful bounds, attracted the spectators’ admiring gaze. Costly were the dresses, and glittering the stars with which the proud nobles were arrayed, as they rode or drove past in rapid succession, offering a marked contrast to the humble and bearded citizens assembled on the occasion. Every human being, whatever his garb or condition, seemed happy; and the young visitor unconsciously caught the same feeling. Having given his friend Thaddeus notice of his intended coming, he was not surprised, though much pleased, to be welcomed by him on dismounting at his hotel.

“Most grave hermit,” exclaimed his friend, “happy am I to find that you have been enticed away from your contemplations amid groves and lakes, and I trust soon to initiate your philosophy in the mysteries of a city existence.”

“Thanks, my good Thaddeus, I have determined upon seeing what you term the world and its amusements, and resign myself entirely to your sage guidance.”

It is unnecessary to follow the two friends through all the scenes of gaiety, into which they plunged with the ardour of youth; it is sufficient to say, that Ivan, in spite of his retiring disposition, soon found himself much sought after, among the highest circles of rank and tone in Moscow, formed as he was both in person, and mind to adorn society. He could not but feel gratified by the attentions he received, and amused by the various scenes of gaiety in which he moved; so that sombre reflections had no opportunity to creep in, and mar his pleasure. Many days had thus flown quickly by, without a single interruption to their light and joyous course; even the adventure with the Gipsies, on their journey from St. Petersburg, was forgotten; when one evening, at an entertainment given by the Prince Galitzin, they were startled on hearing announced the name of the Count Erintoff.

Shortly after, they saw him advancing with an acquaintance of theirs, in the direction where they were standing, apparently without his recognising them, and he would have passed by, had not Ivan’s eye been fixed sternly upon him. A sudden start accompanied by a frown marked the recognition, when his companion turning round, and observing the two young men, stopped to present him to them. With a bland smile he advanced, and politely saluting them, began, without hesitation, a light and diverting conversation on the common topics of the day. His address was so unembarrassed, and his manner so cordial towards them, that they became doubtful whether he actually remembered them as his former opponents; a slight incident, however, took place later in the evening, which made them again feel certain, that he knew them. Ivan had engaged, as a partner in the dance, a beautiful girl, to whom the Count had been paying marked attention; and he was standing near to her, when Ivan advanced to claim her hand, which she offered with a smile.

The eyes of the Count turned upon him with a peculiarly dark and ominous expression, indicating his feelings of animosity more fully and directly than any words, that he could venture to utter in such an assembly; ere Ivan had time to scrutinise that glance, the Count’s features had resumed their wonted bland expression; and he had turned with some witty repartee to the nearest lady.

“No matter,” thought Ivan, “if he does recognise me, I may yet laugh at, and despise his vengeance.”

On quitting the palace with Thaddeus, they fancied that their steps were dogged by some one, who appeared to be watching the course they took; but whoever it might be, he kept at so wary a distance, that they could not devise a plausible excuse for addressing him; and ere they had reached their hotel, the individual had disappeared.

The following day was also a festival of the church, and again were the promenades and public drives swarming with old and young; the gay noble, and sober tradesman.

Thaddeus engaged Ivan to accompany him in his drosky, to the favourite promenade of the citizens, called “L’Allée des Peuples,” which is without the city barrier; and were the shopkeepers and inferior classes of society assemble to enjoy their favourite pastimes. On their way they observed in the distance the state prisons, where the unfortunate exiles are confined, previously to their departure for Siberia; collected together from all parts of the Empire, in gloomy despondency, they there await the day, which always falls on Monday, when it shall be their turn to set forth in a troop on their toilsome and dreary journey.

“Ah,” thought Ivan, as he gazed on the long, low, but strongly guarded walls, “how many an innocent victim has there parted from all the sweet, and fond ties of life, to march bare-footed, and in chains over hundreds of long leagues, weak and bleeding; his companions dying by his side, day after day, as lying down to rest, they find an everlasting repose, happier than the survivors left to eke out, with hopeless toil, a miserable existence, in an inhospitable clime.”

It must, however be observed, that though the fate of most of the exiles is forlorn and miserable in the extreme; others of higher rank, and banished for slight political offences, are allowed comparative freedom, on their arrival at their place of destination. Many reside in cities with their families, surrounded with most of the luxuries of Europe, though under the surveillance of the police. Yet what can compensate for a banishment from their native land without the remotest hope or power of returning thither?

The promenade of the people of which we have spoken, is a wide tract, ornamented with noble trees, and furnished with all the means necessary to promote the national amusements of the Russians. Thither had resorted the easily pleased citizens to amuse themselves, to the utmost, after their busy occupations. Surrounded by their families and friends, seated on the turf, they were enjoying their tea, which was served out of large urns, placed before them on the ground; the joke and the refreshments passing merrily round. Here, a large concourse of idlers formed a circle round a party of mountebanks and jugglers; each feat of dexterity receiving loud applause: there, a troop of Gipsy girls gained equal admiration, as, in the mazy figures of the dance, they exhibited their picturesque and graceful movements.

It mostly happens that those of a higher station do not deign to become spectators of these scenes, and restrict themselves to their own promenades; yet, there were a few whose curiosity, like of that our two friends, had led them to this spot.

Thaddeus was conversing with an acquaintance whom he accidentally met, while Ivan, standing a few paces from them, observed the approach of a band of dancing girls, and, among them, he recognised a face he could not easily forget, though the person was evidently not taking a part in the exhibition. He could not be deceived in Azila, the Gipsy maiden. She passed close to him, and a slight momentary blush tinged her cheek, as beckoning to him, she separated from her companions. He followed her, until she stopped beneath a thick cluster of trees, which screened them from observation.

“I fear you will think me bold, and forward in thus addressing you,” said she, “but I have urgent reasons for so doing. This day, I purposed seeking you out in another part of the city; when, having joined the band of dancers, with a view of meeting those whom I sought, without suspicion, I saw you enter the gardens. Think not,” and she blushed deeply; “that I would exhibit myself to the gaze of the miserable slaves assembled to witness the performances of my companions. You will shortly understand more clearly the reasons which induce me to appear among them; till then, judge not ill of me—but to my errand, for time presses. Danger threatens under many shapes; and one whom you know, the Count Erintoff, has sworn to revenge himself on you, for your generous defence of me. He seeks your life, and that of your friend; and though he is too great a coward to hazard his own, he may employ others to do his bidding. Be therefore constantly on your guard, yet without fear, for there are those who feel an earnest interest in your welfare, who will watch over your safety, and have marked each movement of yours, since you arrived in Moscow.”

“I thank you, fair one, for your warning,” answered Ivan; “but I fear not the Count, or any plans he may form against me or my friend.”

“You know not,” hastily rejoined Azila; “what means a man of his vindictive, and dastard disposition would stoop to, for the accomplishment of a vile purpose; and I entreat you to beware of him—but I have more to say. You are destined for nobler deeds than the life you now lead affords, where you are dissipating your time and talents in pursuits totally unworthy of you. My boldness of speech may surprise you, and appear unmaidenly; but I know that I may trust you in what I am about to impart. A great revolution in the affairs of this country is about to take place; yet you—so fit to lead your countrymen, and to aid in their regeneration, are ignorant of the project. Sure I am, that were you once summoned to join in the noble work, you would stake all on the glorious enterprise. One, on whom you may rely, will shortly communicate with you on the subject; oh! do not hesitate to follow his advice. The day of the regeneration of Russia is at hand! Thus much—but more I may not disclose; but think deeply on my words;—see, some one draws near, farewell for a time!”

Ere Ivan had time to make any answer to this extraordinary communication, the speaker had escaped, and following her with his eye, he traced her, until she rejoined the party of dancing girls, who shortly moved away from the spot.

On returning in search of Thaddeus, he pondered on what he had just heard. “Extraordinary being that she is,” thought he; “what secret motive can so deeply interest her in my actions, and how can she become acquainted with plots and conspiracies of such deep import?”

At first, he hesitated to mention the occurrence to his friend; but, on their return to the hotel, when he was rallied on account of his silent and meditative mood, he informed him of the warning he had received.

Thaddeus laughed loud, as he expressed his opinion; “Truly, indeed, this is an excellent excuse which the pretty Gipsy has discovered for renewing her acquaintance with you; why, Ivan, I see through it all. She has fallen desperately in love with you, and would have told you so, had you given her the slightest encouragement, and the time been more opportune.”

Ivan indignantly repelled the idea. “No, no!” he said, “her manner was too earnest—too respectful to bespeak any such inclination. She naturally feels gratitude for our aid in rescuing her from the power of that smiling faced ruffian, the Count Erintoff, and, in return, has warned us of the revenge he meditates for our interference, and which she has, by some means, discovered. With regard to the more important part of her disclosure, I confide in you with an equal trust to that she has reposed in me. I gather from her words that a plot is being laid to overthrow the whole mighty fabric of this despotic government, which now appears to stand on so immoveable a foundation.”

A laugh again burst from his friend, who replied, “Your vivid imagination, my dear Ivan, carries you beyond the limits of probability; though I sincerely wish it were so; but I rather think that the pretty messenger’s sole view, was to excite your curiosity, in order to gain another interview.”

“Time will shew, Thaddeus,” replied the other, “I differ entirely from you, and, until then, I will not give up the opinion I have formed of Azila.”

Immediately on quitting the public promenade of the citizens, and previously to their return to the hotel, Thaddeus drove to a far distant scene. The aristocratic promenade of Pedroski leads through a magnificent forest; the grounds encompassing the venerable château are laid out with perfect taste, and are ornamented with every variety of tree and shrub. Here they were among the votaries of rank and fashion; the élite of Moscow; vying with each other in the magnificence and style of their equipages. Elegantly dressed ladies, reclined in their carriages, and proud seigneurs covered with decorations, and followed by their attendants, galloped by with erect and haughty mien. Dashing young officers, in their brilliant uniforms, were displaying themselves and their mettled steeds to their own satisfaction—if not to that of others.

Whilst they were in earnest conversation, on the subject of Azila’s warning, a messenger arrived to summon Thaddeus home, on account of the illness of his father. He accordingly departed, leaving Ivan again alone. Left to his own thoughts, a heavy weight oppressed his spirits, for his mind dwelt forcibly on the mysterious import of Azila’s words. At one moment, his calm reason warned him not to listen to the seductive arguments that might be used to induce him to join in an attempt, which would too probably lead to the utter destruction of all engaged in it; and, then again, his enthusiasm would be aroused, and he confessed the enterprise was well worthy of a severe struggle.

He was alone in the hotel on the following day, when a noble of some consideration, whom he had frequently met in society, was announced.

The visitor, as soon as the servant had retired, looked cautiously round the room, and approaching the door, secured it. “I would be private,” he whispered, “and free from any chance of interruption, for I have a communication of deep importance to make:—are we safe from eaves-droppers?”

“I believe so,” answered Ivan, wondering to what grave matter such cautious preliminaries would lead.

“Can I trust to the most inviolable secrecy in what I am about to say?” inquired the stranger guest; “but why do I ask, for I am satisfied that I may.”

“Undoubtedly you may, Sir,” proudly replied Ivan, “in anything not opposed to my honour.”

“Far from it,” hastily rejoined the other. “Think not for a moment that I would propose aught that would reflect disgrace on your name. I pledge you my own word of honour; that all I require, in return for my disclosure, is inviolable secrecy on your part; any step farther I leave to your own judgment.”

“Speak on,” answered Ivan, “whatever you may reveal, shall never pass my lips.”

“My confidence is fully confirmed,” replied the guest, “or I should not have visited you. You were last evening in the ‘Allée des Peuples’ with your friend, Stanisloff; you were there accosted by a Gipsy girl, whom you had previously known; she beckoned to you, and you followed her. You recollect the words she uttered—‘The day of the regeneration of Russia is at hand.’ Nay, start not, no one overheard you: she was but performing a commission for others of power and of influence—a task she gladly undertook. You have been marked by them as one fit to assist in the noble cause in which they are engaged. Azila, the Gipsy girl, is one of the chief means of communication with our friends in all parts of the country; she has guaranteed your honour and fidelity.”

“What aid can I afford to the cause of freedom?” inquired Ivan, “when I am myself utterly powerless; opposed as you must know the Baron Galetzoff to be to any measures calculated to give liberty to the people.”

“We well know that the son has far different opinions to those entertained by his father; we are also well aware that the Baron is a staunch upholder of despotism; but, need I ask—is it incumbent on the son to adhere to the despotic principles of his parent? No!—I feel confident that you at least, will not.”

The stranger, as he spoke, had intently watched Ivan’s countenance, and appearing to gather confidence, continued—

“That you will ultimately join us, I anticipate with satisfaction; meanwhile, however, come and hear our plans. These I dare not utter within these walls, for even they may have ears and a voice to carry the tale; but, would you know more, I will conduct you where all will be disclosed. Will you accompany me?”

“I must deeply consider the matter, ere I answer you; but tell me,” said Ivan, “where I can meet you, should I consent.”

“On the banks of the Moskowa, beneath the walls of the Kremlin, is a secluded walk, which is entered from the public gardens—you doubtless know it; there we may escape observation; our converse secure from the lurking spy. At dusk this evening—may I reckon upon your coming?”

A few minutes succeeded, during which Ivan appeared wrapped in thought. At length, he answered firmly—

“I will meet you at the spot and hour you name, and, though I do not engage to enter into your views, I swear that your confidence in me shall not be abused.”

His visitor smiled, and replied: “With you, fear has doubtless little influence; but there are some who require that motive for secrecy; and imagine not that a thought of treachery can be harboured, without drawing down instant retribution. At dusk we meet again, adieu!”

Ivan ushered the stranger to the door, the latter, passing out into the street, assumed the easy and careless air of the numerous loungers thronging around him.

How little can the passenger through the crowded streets tell of the varied thoughts, feelings, and passions, which fill the breasts of those who encounter him! The grief and agony; despair and hatred; the avarice, love, or beneficence, the joy, or careless indifference of the wayfarers; the man whose dearest tie has been torn from him; the ruined gamester; the assassin, advancing to his work of blood, the miser to his hoards; the father to his offspring; the lover to his mistress; the Samaritan, hastening to relieve the distressed; the long-absent traveller, to his home; the fop, the fool, or the wise man; every character is passed in succession each instant, unheeded and unknown.

Volume One—Chapter Nine.

Ivan, once having resolved to follow the guidance of his new friend, looked forward with eagerness to the approach of evening; and, ere the time had arrived, throwing his cloak about him, he sauntered forth in the direction of the Kremlin.

This venerable pile, regarded by the inhabitants of Moscow as the heart—the sacred place—the tabernacle, as it were, of their city, was anciently a fortress of the rude and fierce Tartars; and indeed, at that period, the whole of the city was contained within its walls. It stands on a commanding site by the banks of the Moskwa, whose waters wash its base, surrounded by high and ancient walls of a triangular form, nearly two miles in extent. Its area encloses numerous cathedrals, gorgeous palaces, churches and monasteries; surmounted by towers, belfries, and steeples; displaying every variety of architecture, including the Tartar, Hindoo, Chinese, and Gothic. Above all this vast pile rises the lofty tower of Ivan Veliki, its golden ball now reflecting the rays of the setting sun with dazzling brilliancy; the whole forming a strange mixture of barbaric splendour, blended with the stately elegance of modern times.

There are no regular streets within the Kremlin, the buildings being raised around several open places or squares, to which the inhabitants resort for walking or driving.

The walls, which are surmounted by battlements and watch-towers, have five gates, the principal of which is the “Saviour’s” or “Holy Gate.” Through this awe-commanding portal no male, not even the Czar and Autocrat of all the Russias, may pass, save with uncovered head and bended body.

Through this gate, Ivan now proceeded bareheaded, and entered a noble esplanade, commanding one of the most interesting views of Moscow, having in front the range of the palaces of the Czars, with their varied and fanciful style of architecture. He paced its extent for some time, meditating on the important affairs which he was likely to be suddenly, and as he could not but admit to himself, rashly engaged in.

As the shades of evening began to close around him, he left the Kremlin by one of the less remarkable gates, and sought the appointed place of rendezvous.

After traversing the walk several times, he began to suspect that he must have mistaken the time and place, as no one appeared; or that his new friend had been prevented from keeping the appointment by some unforeseen circumstance. He accordingly determined to return to the hotel, when suddenly, as if springing from the earth, a dark figure stood before him, so closely muffled as to baffle recognition. Ivan recoiled a few paces, so unexpectedly did the figure come upon him; and, as his mind recurred to Azila’s warnings respecting the secret revenge of the Count Erintoff, the idea of treachery presented itself, and his hand clutched the pistols concealed within his breast. Thus prepared, he confronted the stranger, friend or foe as he might prove to be.

“Why come you here?” demanded the figure, in a voice unknown to Ivan’s ear.

“In search of him who appointed a meeting with me here,” answered the young man. “Know you aught of him?”

“Behold him before you,” said the visitor of the morning, stepping forward, and speaking in a tone which the other immediately knew.

“It is well,” replied Ivan. “Your feigned voice at first deceived me. But how came you so suddenly upon me?”

“All, you were taken unawares,” said the other. “You then did not observe my skiff, as I guided it noiselessly under the bank, and landed when you had turned the other way while I closely watched you. It behoves all of us, in these times, who seek success in bold enterprises, to be wary in our movements. But we have no time to lose; and now to the matter on which we have met.”

“Speak on,” said Ivan. “I am prepared to hear, and shall not forget my promise.”

“Listen then,” said the other. “Ivan Galetzoff, you are far better known than you are aware of. Since you came to Moscow you have been constantly followed, and your words marked. Many, of whom you are totally ignorant, know you, and admire your principles; and further, have selected you as fit to engage in noble and daring deeds.”

“You surprise me!” exclaimed Ivan, yielding to flattery, so difficult for youth to resist when administered to the very points on which he probably prides himself; “I did not deem myself of sufficient importance to have notice taken of my words and actions.”

“I speak but the truth respecting you,” answered his companion. “Say, do you not abhor despotism and tyranny? Do you not cherish the love of freedom, and the happiness of your fellow-creatures?”

“I both detest tyranny and love freedom,” answered Ivan; “but what service can my single arm afford, either to overthrow the one, or to defend the other?”

“Much,” hastily responded the stranger. “You do not stand alone. Your principles are supported by thousands of spirits, noble as your own. The sacred cause of liberty must, and will be triumphant over all her base opponents.”

“I fear that our chains are too securely rivetted, to be wrenched asunder,” answered Ivan, “and too many are interested in forging fresh links to leave us hope of freeing ourselves, even at the sacrifice of our heart’s blood.”

“You labour under a false impression, my young friend,” answered his companion; “for all classes join heart and soul in this glorious work. Indeed, the Despot has no greater enemies than many among the highest in the land, who feel their chains more galling than do the humble serfs; again I ask you, do you not wish success to their gallant spirits engaged in the noble attempt?”

“Most earnestly do I hope they may succeed,” said Ivan.

“Enough,” answered the conspirator, for such he declared himself, “I need test you no more; for I place implicit confidence in you. This evening, the advocates of Russian Liberty hold a meeting, and, as I anticipate that ere long you will join them with heart and hand, I will introduce you to them.”

“Lead—and I will follow,” replied Ivan, with enthusiasm; “my heart yearns to join any who advocate so noble a cause, and I trust I may not prove unworthy of it.”

“No time must then be lost; e’en now they are assembled,” rejoined his companion, “their place of council is at some distance, and speak not, till I give the word, for we shall be obliged to pass the police patrols, ever watchful and vigilant.”

“Forward then,” said Ivan, “and rely on my prudence.”

The conspirator stealthily led the way down a path to the margin of the river, where they found a small skiff, capable of containing three persons—a rower resting on his oars being already seated, who, on a signal from the former, pulled rapidly down the stream. Continuing their course in silence for some time, the oarsman abruptly ceased rowing, and the little bark glided swiftly into a dark and narrow creek on the opposite bank of the river. Ivan followed his guide on shore, while the boat held her course again down the narrow stream.

As they advanced, lights were visible in the apartments of many handsome buildings, and Ivan found himself in a respectable part of the city, though one in which many vestiges still remained of the devastating conflagration which had reduced Moscow to ashes. His guide threaded in his way many lanes, and traversed wide streets, till suddenly retreating to the back of a handsome mansion, that had lately been raised from the ruins which surrounded it, he gave a low and peculiar knock at a wicket gate, opening apparently into a garden. The signal on being twice repeated, was answered by a decrepit old man, with a long beard and tattered dress, who unclosed the gate, but instantly relocked it, as the two visitors entered.

“Who is it,” said he, “seeking to disturb the old serf Kersoff at this late hour?—If any wish to buy his garden produce, let them come by daylight, and not rouse him from his bed.”

The guide whispered a word in the old man’s ear, and he retired to his hut by the side of the gate.

The light afforded by the starry heavens enabled Ivan to distinguish the appearance of the place where he stood, which seemed to have been a large garden, now filled with ruins; apparently the remains of buildings of considerable extent.

Passing over heaps of rubbish, his guide stopped at what appeared to be a small summer house—also in a ruinous state; the same signal as before was given, and the door opening, admitted them into an apartment in total darkness.

Ivan for a moment hesitated to follow; the idea of some diabolical treachery—such as he had heard of too often—again rushing on his mind; yet, quickly determining to brave the worst, he prepared to go on. His guide spoke a few words to the person who had admitted them, and who yet remained concealed, and then offered his hand to Ivan to conduct him onwards.

“The neophyte must pass through darkness before he can reach the light,” he whispered; “but fear not, it will soon burn brightly on you. Ah! I feel your pulse beats calm and regular, such are the nerves we require; do not speak now.”

They descended a flight of steps, narrow and winding, till they were again stopped by another door, which was opened, on the like signal as before being given, without the porter being visible, and they found themselves in a small chamber, lighted by a single dim lamp suspended from the ceiling. The walls were hung with black; a chair, and a table, on which were placed a skull and cross bones, an hour glass, and writing materials, were the only furniture.

His guide again spoke. “This,” said he, “is the chamber of meditation; if you doubt, you may draw back. Stir not from hence till I return, when I will lead you to undergo your ordeal, should you still nobly keep to your determination of engaging in our cause. I need not tell you not to fear, or to shrink from an ordeal which you will pass through with ease, though it may fright nerveless fools. I now go to prepare the friends of freedom for your coming; adieu!” Saying which, the conspirator disappeared through a door opposite to the one by which they had entered, and which closed with a loud noise behind him.

Ivan looked round, not a door was visible; he was a prisoner, he knew not where. Left to his own reflections, he half repented the step he had taken.

“I like not this mummery,” thought he. “How weak I have been to put such implicit trust in a man of whom I know so little. He may, after all, have deceived me; but it is now too late to retract, and if deceived, I must suffer for my folly, and will boldly carry through the adventure.” He threw himself on the chair. “Emblem of mortality!” he exclaimed, looking at the skull, “to this must we all come, and to a brave man, what terrors canst thou bring? Death, what have we to fear in thee? Why, then, should I hesitate, when thou, happen what may, must be the victor at last! Thou art, at the same time, the mighty despot of all, and the only true dispenser of liberty! Thou canst conquer the proudest potentates, and make all men equal—and yet I fear not thee; then, why should I fear aught else? Time flies quickly; I learn this lesson, that one must not delay when work is to be done!” His eye caught sight of a sheet of paper, on which were inscribed several questions. He seized the pen, and wrote appropriate answers. He remained lost in thought. “Yes,” he exclaimed, “the die is cast; I will plunge boldly in, nor dream of retracting.”

He had just come to this conclusion, when suddenly, three dark figures stood before him enveloped in cloaks, and their features concealed by masks.

“You must consent to be for a time deprived of sight,” said one, “ere the true light can shine on you. Are you ready to undergo your ordeal?”

“I am prepared for every ceremony necessary,” answered Ivan; “do as you will!”

One of the dark figures advanced, a handkerchief was tightly bound over his eyes, and he felt his hand grasped by some one.

“Follow me,” said a voice, “we have a long and toilsome road to take, full of difficulties and perils, such as you dream not of finding here; but true courage and perseverance will carry you through all dangers.”

“Lead on then,” said Ivan, “I am eager to undertake the journey.”

Ivan felt that he was led from the chamber, when a sudden rush of cold air met him, almost stopping his breath. He then seemed to be climbing over rough rocks, from which he had to spring to others, following the guide’s directions; then a torrent seemed to be rushing at his feet, into which he appeared every instant to be ready to fall, so slippery was the broken ground. He felt himself next led up a steep mountain, the ashes on its sides giving way under his feet as he climbed, till at length, he reached some harder ground, when, no sooner did he appear to have attained the summit, than he was as quickly obliged to descend, and to pass through some low and damp cavern. On a sudden, his guide bidding him spring forward, and dragging him at the same time, enabled him to evade an icy torrent, which broke overhead. On, on he went; but he neither hesitated nor trembled. A loud din now assailed his ears, of a strange variety of confused sounds, and in a moment he found himself near some immense furnace, into which he appeared to be about to plunge, when his guide drew him aside, as the fierce and forked flames rushed after him. Again he heard a loud noise, and this time it was intelligible. He could distinguish the clashing of swords, the shrieks of the wounded, the cries of the victors. He was in the midst of some fierce combat. On every side was heard the jarring sound of weapons; he felt them whirling round his head, as his guide protected him; their sharp edges seemed to pass close to his ears, the struggling combatants swept by him in their desperate strife, but he remained unharmed. On a sudden, the silence of death reigned around. He stood alone: some one presently approached, and a deep and solemn voice thus spoke—

“Ivan Galetzoff! you have shewn that you can go through the lesser dangers and difficulties of life without shrinking; but have you courage to face the worst, for what you have just undergone is as nothing to what you must suffer, before we can confide in you.”

“I am prepared for the most terrific dangers, and fear nothing.”

“Stay then,” said the voice; “answer our questions. Wherefore did you come hither?”

“To meet those who are lovers of true freedom,” answered Ivan.

“You speak well,” said the voice; “are you ready to devote your talents, your fortune, and your life, to their sacred cause?”

“Most willingly would I do my utmost to win true Liberty for Russia,” he answered.

“Are you willing to take the oaths which bind all the members of this association?”

“I would be equally bound to support others, as they are to support me, but I cannot pledge myself to measures of which I know not the aim.”

“You speak sensibly,” said the voice, “that we do not demand. Inviolable secrecy and fidelity are all that is required of you, but oaths must not be taken in the dark: from henceforth, may the light of liberty shine as bright and purely as this flame.”

At that moment, the bandage fell from Ivan’s eyes, and he was almost blinded by a dazzling and brilliant flame which burned before him. On recovering his sight, he found himself standing in the midst of a circle of persons, the points of whose swords radiated towards him.

“With these swords we swear to protect you! to gain true liberty for Russia, or to perish in the attempt, with them in our hands!—and with these swords we swear to destroy any, who, by word or deed, shall betray the trust reposed in him!—We swear!” uttered all the persons present.

“Our aims are these,” added the first speaker: “to curb the despotic power of the autocrat; to abolish the exclusive privileges of the nobles; to place every subject of Russia on an equal footing of liberty; to liberate the serfs from the thraldom under which they groan; to have but one law in the land to govern all men.”

“To these we have sworn,” responded the conspirators.

“Ivan Galetzoff! are you ready to swear to do your utmost to aid in the accomplishment of these objects?”

“To all this I solemnly swear!” said Ivan, repeating the secret form of the oath.

No sooner had he uttered these words, than the conspirators dropped the points of their swords, which they had hitherto held up at his breast, and advanced towards him with extended hands, exclaiming—

“Welcome, our brother in the great work of the regeneration of Russia!”

“We will leave you now,” said he who appeared to be the conductor of the ceremony, “till it be time to summon you to the assembly of members;” saying which, the conspirators disappeared by a number of separate doors, from the chamber, which was much larger than the one where he had been previously left, and Ivan again found himself alone.

The room was vaulted, and lighted by a number of lamps, shedding a bright glare on the various devices with which it was ornamented; but Ivan was too much occupied and confused by the strange adventures he had gone through to examine them. He had now banished all hesitation and doubt, having once made the step from which there was no retracting, and he stood with dilated eye, compressed lip, and determination on his brow, boldly prepared to redeem, to the utmost, the pledge he had given. He had not much time left for thought, when his friend, who had conducted him to the place, entered, summoning him to follow, and led the way down a flight of rude and broken steps, through a long passage, ascending to a door, through which proceeded the sound of many voices. He presently found himself in a rude, but large and vaulted apartment, in the centre of which was placed a long table, surrounded by a number of persons, who rose at his entrance, and he was desired to take a seat by his guide, near the head of the table. As he gazed around him, he recognised, to his astonishment, the faces of several nobles whom he had met in the first circles of the society of Moscow, though, with the greater number of persons present he was unacquainted.

The association comprised men of rank, fortune, and influence; military officers; grave citizens, distinguished from the rest by their beards and long coats; and even some who appeared to be lowly serfs. All present wore an air of anxiety and eagerness on their countenances, conversation being carried on in an undertone: meanwhile, several others entered, and took their seats at the board. When all were seated, the president of the meeting arose, and silence ensued. He was a man long passed the prime of life, of a tall and commanding figure, whose expansive forehead, piercing eye, and firm set lips, marked one fit to command.

“Countrymen! Fellow Russians!” he cried, “the sacred cause of liberty is advancing with rapid strides, and soon may we hope to see its standard unfurled, and floating proudly in the face of our panic-struck enemies. To those who have not yet had an opportunity of hearing our ultimate ends and aims discussed, I now address myself.

“We have not combined to overthrow religion, virtue, and honour, order, and wholesome government; no, my countrymen! our purpose is rather to confirm and strengthen them throughout the land. We war alone against vice and tyranny, unjust power and misrule. These shall crouch trembling before our triumphant standard. I ask you, is it right—is it just, that one man should rule millions, by the fiat of his will—that he should be the sole and undisputed master of their lives and properties? Are Russians worthy of the name of men, while they tamely submit to bow their necks to so despicable a yoke? Who amongst us is, for a moment, safe? The noble, the citizen, or the serf, by the single word of a tyrant, may be deprived of his liberty, his property, and his life; each amongst them is liable to be torn from his home and family—from all that is held dear and sacred, to be bound in chains, and sent to pass a life of exile amidst the dreary wilds of Siberia. Can we longer submit to be thus enslaved? No—justice, honour, manhood forbid it!

“We have, moreover, other enemies to contend with. We must attack the privileges of those vain and dastardly nobles, who, bending their necks to the yoke of the despot, aid and abet him in his tyranny; for without them, how could his power stand? Are not the rest of their countrymen equal to them in intellect, in talents, in virtue? Why then should they be allowed to hold in slavish subjection, creatures, human as themselves, with the same blood and sinews, with hearts beating to the same impulses, with thoughts as free, and sentiments as noble, as their own? There are many among us here of aristocratic birth, disinterestedly refusing to avail themselves of their privileges, and animated by a spirit of the most exalted philanthropy, who have arrayed their power under the banner of freedom.”

The speaker paused; his eye proudly surveyed the assembly, and the countenances of all tacitly echoed his sentiments. He resumed:

“My brave, my loved countrymen! pardon me for speaking of myself; but I must do so to afford you an example. I was born of the privileged class. I once held high rank, noble possessions, unbounded wealth, and, as I thought, power. I was young, and vainly fancied myself happy and free. I dared to speak the thoughts of my heart, which were bold and free, under the impression that I was too far removed from the authority of the Emperor, to fear his anger. I dared to assert the right and just independence of man—to utter the word liberty. Yet how had I deceived myself in my dream of impunity; for a word spoken thoughtlessly, I was deprived of my rank, stripped of my wealth, dragged from my family, and banished from my rich possessions, to the barren soils of Siberia. I, who had been brought up in the most luxurious indulgence, was driven over hundreds of weary leagues, bare-footed, and in chains, exposed to the inclemency of the weather the lash of the brutal guards impelling my drooping, my exhausted steps. Each time that the sharp thong became crimsoned with my blood, I swore deeply that no human power should prevent me from returning, and straining every nerve to overthrow the tyranny which could allow such atrocious barbarities to be perpetrated. I passed many years in banishment, forgotten, and unknown. At length, I escaped, to return to my native city; and here again I vow to accomplish that noble purpose, or to perish in the attempt. Russians, you know my history—many here will remember my name. The same fate may await any of you, when least expected; and thus you are all equally interested in rescuing our country from so abject a thraldom.

“Is it not preposterous—is it not shameful, that men who, with the light of education, have by their own exertions gained wealth, must still wear the vile mark of bondage; that they cannot without their masters’ will be free, and that their children must be brought up as slaves!

“To liberate the serfs from their state of galling vassalage, is, in itself, a great and noble work. No sooner shall the bright folds of the standard of liberty be displayed, than thousands, tens of thousands of that now debased class, arousing from their lethargy, will flock around it, and proclaim the regeneration of Russia! For this cause we are all ready to shed our blood; and again do I swear never to sheath my sword till our holy, our glorious object is accomplished.”

Every man simultaneously animated by the same spirit, stood up, and with one accord, drawing their weapons, exclaimed together “We swear to accomplish the regeneration of Russia, or to die in the attempt.”

The president was succeeded by several of the conspirators, who in their turn rose to address the meeting. Some were fierce and fiery characters, to whom mild measures were distasteful, and who would be satisfied with nothing short of the total overthrow of the Imperial family; the abrogation of all the privileges and titles of nobility; and the establishment of a republic, in which each member of the government should be elected by ballot. Ivan was at first carried away by the enthusiasm, and force of eloquence displayed by some, but he soon discovered, that many were actuated by motives far different from those which they professed; some by vindictive feelings; others by the anticipation of succeeding to offices and employments, from which the present occupiers would be thrust. Some, bankrupt in purse and character, hoped to reap a harvest amid the general confusion, which must ensue on a revolution, having themselves nothing to risk; but few of the whole number perhaps, were solely influenced by the exalted principles of liberty.

The meeting, after numerous speeches, and discussions, at length broke up; no plan of proceedings having yet been arranged. The conspirators departed a few at a time, each man as he reached the open air, shrouding himself in his cloak, and bending his steps in various directions across the mass of ruins, so that no two persons sought the same path at the same time.

As Ivan was about to depart, he was accosted by the friend who had brought him to the meeting.

“You have acted well, and nobly,” said he; “and I trust that you may never have reason to repent, that you have engaged in this just cause. Ere we go, I will explain to you the secrets of this place of meeting. This large vaulted chamber was a cellar belonging to a mansion, destroyed at the burning of the city, during the French occupation. The former inhabitants of the place have all died, or have left Moscow; and no one knows of this vault, save the owner of the new house, and he is one of the principal and most active members of the Association. He discovered the vault amid the ruins, and prepared it for our meetings: he himself never approaching it, except at night, and by the many secret exits, he has formed with indefatigable labour. In every avenue are trusty guards in various disguises, so that there is but little likelihood of a surprise; yet, should we by any chance be discovered, we are prepared to sell our lives dearly. I will now lead you forth; follow—but at a short distance behind me.” Threading several passages, they gained the open air, and passing from the garden by a different gate, to that by which they had entered, after a short walk, Ivan found himself in a part of the city, with which he was acquainted; his guide then bidding him farewell, he returned to his temporary home.

Volume One—Chapter Ten.

It has been the constant aim of the Imperial Court to draw within its focus the noblesse from all quarters of the Empire, with a view to keep them more entirely under the eye of government, tempting them with ribbons, stars, and titles.

However well the plan has succeeded with the poorer nobles and many indeed of the more powerful, attracted by the pomp and magnificence of St. Petersburg, no lures have been found to decoy others equally rich and influential, who prefer the independence and freedom they enjoy in their palaces at Moscow, and country-seats, to the formality and tedious etiquette of the court. The Czar, therefore, naturally regards with a jealous eye, those who shun his presence,—as inimical to his rule, and none more so perhaps, than the proud and wealthy patricians of Moscow, known to possess the liberal principles so subversive of despotism: men who prefer to reside with their families among the ancient retainers of their house, and to enjoy the freedom, and surpassing beauty of their native city.

Not so, however, the Count Erintoff; he kept at a distance from the court, and the eye of authority, that he might enjoy greater license for his vices and profligacy. His palace stood in the environs of the city, and was furnished with all the magnificence and luxury for which his fortune gave ample means.

It was a stately mansion, and had been rebuilt after the conflagration by his father; a nobleman every way qualified to fill the high station he held; but who with culpable indulgence had not paid that attention to the education of his son, which would qualify him to be a worthy successor to himself. Magnificent mirrors and pictures adorned the walls; couches and hangings from the East; objects of virtu from Italy; of decoration, from France; and furniture and all the appurtenances of comfort from England, filled the rooms.

The Count was pacing through his spacious galleries with hasty steps, when a servant submissively approached him.

“How now knave! what want you here?” said the Count, angrily; without noticing the person of the intruder.

“I come to bring you the information you sent me to gain,” answered the man. “I have been partly successful.”

“Ah, Groff! is it you, faithful villain. I did not expect you so soon,” said the noble. “What is the information you bring me? for if I recollect right, you had a variety of commissions to perform.”

“Why, what I should think would please you most—about the Gipsy girl, who before slipped through our fingers,” answered the man.

“What of her, knave?” said the Count, in an angry tone at his servant’s freedom of speech; but the man seemed unmoved as he answered, “She is now in Moscow, I passed her just now on my way here, and I have formed a plan by which I think I can induce her to come here.”

“Tell me not of your plans, knave!” answered the Count. “I require no suggestion but must have execution, and you shall then have the reward I promised. But say, when do you expect to succeed with this most notable plan you talk of? The girl is not to be entrapped so easily as you anticipate.”

“By to-morrow at furthest, or perchance this very day, if my messenger can find the girl, though he may have some difficulty in falling in with her; but you may have changed your mind, Sir. Is it still your pleasure that she come here?”

“Yes, knave; and mark me, if you fail and disappoint me, you shall suffer!” said the Count. “Now, tell me quickly, how you hope to succeed; let me hear all you have to say.”

“In the first place, fortune has favoured us, Sir,” said Groff, “for while I was out concerning the affairs you sent me on, it appears that two Gipsy boys were singing and playing in front of the palace, to the idle porters and other servants, when a drosky, driven furiously by, knocked one of them down, and left him senseless on the ground. I know not how it was, but Kruntz and some of the other men, were seized with a fit of humanity, and brought the wounded boy within the palace, and when his companion was crying over him, some of them bathed his bruises and hurts. I arrived at that time, having just encountered the damsel of the same race where I told you. A thought struck me, that I might turn the accident to some account. I found that the boys did not know in whose palace they were; and after some talk with the one who was not wounded, I contrived to learn that he belonged to the same tribe as the girl you are in search of. I accordingly hinted to the boy, where she was likely to be found, and persuaded him to set off, in order to bring her to his brother, as she was better able to cure him than any doctor. I told him, therefore, that this was the palace of the Prince Raziminski, into which she will not fear to enter; and having directed him to mark it well so as not to forget it, sent him off to bring her here immediately. Have I done well, Sir?”

“I have no great expectation, that your ill-contrived scheme will succeed,” answered the Count, stiffly; “I know she will not come! What else have you to communicate?”

“Somewhat with respect to the son of the Baron Galetzoff. I think Sir, you may soon have your revenge on him.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the Count, looking deeply interested, “what of that youth? could I wreak my vengeance on him, and win the girl into the bargain, I should be contented. What have you to say of him?”

“Why, Sir,” replied Groff, “I have discovered where he resides, and have dogged his steps constantly; once or twice I have been nearly discovered; but have hitherto eluded him successfully. I know all his haunts, his habits and his movements; and I find that he constantly passes a spot where a dagger might reach his bosom, without fear of the deed being discovered. You have thus a full opportunity of satisfying your vengeance.”

“What, villain!” exclaimed the noble, indignantly, “do you think that I have become a common assassin, to strike my enemy in the dark? I would have revenge; but not such as your dull brain can invent. In what part of the city, do you say you have seen him?”

Groff mentioned a part of Moscow, near the spot where the conspirators held their meetings.

“And at what time did he usually pass by?”

“Soon after sun-set,” answered Groff. “I marked him on his way from the hotel; but each time I lost sight of him, soon after he passed that spot: I have then waited for hours till his return; but before long, I hope to discover where he vanishes to, and he will be clever if he again escapes me. I have my suspicions, that he is not the only person who visits that part of the city by stealth; for I confess that I have twice made a mistake, and followed different people, when I was in search of him.”

“That must be looked to,” said the Count, “we may find that something is going forward worth discovering; beware, that you do not make a mistake. For myself, I would not imbue my hands with blood. It would be but slight satisfaction to feel my dagger entering his bosom, and his warm life-blood streaming from the wound: I leave those feelings to the passionate, fiery-blooded Italians. Yet, mark me Groff! I hate the young Galetzoff, and it would be enough for me to know that he had ceased to live. There are many dark lanes in Moscow, and the Istvostchiks are great villains, and often commit murder with no better object, than for the sake of the paltry sums a person may have about him; you understand me. I loathe the very sight of that youth. He faces me with the coolest indifference, as if he had not injured me to the utmost; and yet there is something in his eye, when he meets my gaze, by which I have strong suspicions that he knows me. I cannot rest till I am revenged on him. You will probably win one reward, and here take half for what you have already done, in earnest of the future.”

The Count then tendered a purse which Groff weighed in his hand, as if to consider whether the bribe was high enough for the deed. “I will do my best to please you, Sir,” he answered.

“Enough, I need now say no more then; ten times the sum you hold in your hand shall be yours, if, by chance, I hear of that youth’s death. The police are not over vigilant in those matters, and I think the Baron will take no great pains to discover the author of his son’s death, for he seems not to have much love for him. Now leave me, and think well on what I have said. Should the Gipsy girl fall into your snare, let me immediately know of her arrival; but take care that she does not see your face—that alone is enough to frighten her, and she would remember it. See that the wounded boy is well tended, that he may learn to speak well of the owner of the mansion; and let the girl remain some time with him, if possible, ere I go to her.”

As soon as Groff had disappeared, the Count continued his walk through the corridor. “Fortune seems to favour me,” he soliloquised; “as to young Galetzoff, I need trouble myself no more;—his fate is sealed! I saw that in the look that villain Groff gave, as I promised him the gold! His eyes glistened as he seemed eager to clutch it. He is a faithful ruffian, and well earns his reward. Such slaves as he, would sell their very souls for gold; and I, some would say, would sell mine; but oh! for what?—Not for gold; no;—for revenge—for love—for power—a worthy exchange too! What would life be worth, if one could not enjoy all three?

“That Gipsy maiden has enchained me. I scarce know why, but, though lowly her lot, there is a fascination about her which I cannot withstand. I must win her at all hazards in some way. Either gold or flattery must gain her; she must be more than woman if she holds out against the two combined. And if she does, with that proud and haughty air she possesses, she is worthy to become the Countess Erintoff, though that is an alternative I would avoid. Bah! I cannot think I shall be brought so low as to sue at the feet of a Gipsy!”

While the Count was thus uttering his thoughts aloud, Groff returned.

“Success attends us, Sir,” he exclaimed. “The maiden is at length safe within your palace, from whence she may have some difficulty in escaping, though she firmly believes that she is under the roof of the most grave and virtuous Prince Raziminski, and continues heaping blessings on his head, for his charity in protecting one of her tribe.”

“Enough, knave! the reward shall be yours,” said the Count. “In what part of the palace have they put the boy?”

“I will lead you to it, Sir,” answered Groff, “for I doubt if alone you could find the room.”

“Shew me to it then, and leave me,” said the Count; “your presence would alarm the maiden!”

Saying which, he followed Groff down several flights of steps, and through long passages to a room in the lower part of the palace. He then waited at the half open door, through which he heard the sound of voices.

“I thought that few of the nobles of this city possessed charity sufficient to shelter a humble Gipsy boy; but I see that I am mistaken, and may blessings rest on the head of the good and kind Prince,” said Azila.

“He is indeed, kind,” said one of the boys, “for he has sent us abundance of good things to eat, and his servants told us we should have more, and that he would send us away with plenty of money in our pockets.”

“He will not go unrewarded. See, Conrin! I have bound up your brother’s arm, and he will now do well, and if the kind Prince will let you remain, you must take charge of him, for I have matters of importance to attend to, and must away!”

Hearing this, the Count moved from the door, and went in search of a servant.

“Go quickly,” said he, “to the chamber where the wounded boy and the Gipsy girl are, and say that the Prince—mark you, the Prince, your master, desires to see her, ere she departs, to inquire how her brother fares; then conduct her to the state apartment. Guard her well, and see that she escapes not, by any chance.”

The Count repaired immediately to the magnificent room he had mentioned, to await the coming of Azila. The floor was covered with rich Turkey carpets; superb pictures, and mirrors, reaching from the ground to the highly embossed ceiling, ornamented the walls, the latter reflecting the luxurious and handsome furniture which filled the room, while from the windows was seen an extensive view of the beautiful city of Moscow.

“Though other means have failed,” he said, “I will try if she is not to be tempted by this display of magnificence and luxury to become the mistress here. Surely a girl, brought up beneath a skin-covered tent, cannot resist such a temptation; and if so, my conquest is easy.”

He stood partly concealed by the thick drapery of the curtains; a light step approached; Azila entered the apartment, and the door was closed behind her. She was dressed in the same graceful costume as when Ivan and Thaddeus had first seen her, except that a cloak, worn over her dress, almost concealed her form. She advanced to the centre of the apartment, ere she had perceived the Count, when he turned towards her. She started slightly as she saw him, but betrayed no other sign of trepidation or fear.

“I must have been deceived,” she said. “I came to thank the noble Prince Raziminski for his kindness and charity to a wounded boy of my tribe; but it seems that to you is due the credit of that charitable deed. I will send some of our people to take away the child, and beg to offer you our grateful thanks for your charity in taking care of him. With your leave I will now depart.”

She was turning to go, when the Count advanced somewhat nearer towards her.

“Lovely girl,” he said, with an impassioned air, “I took advantage of the boy’s accident, and used an excusable artifice to draw you here. I sought but to see you, to convince you of the ardour—the truth of my affection. Believe me, that I regret the violence I before used, which your coldness—your cruelty compelled me to resort to. Let me hear my pardon from those lips, beautiful maiden! ’tis all I ask for!”

“For the favour you have done to one of my tribe, I would endeavour to forget any injury you would have caused me. Beyond this, I have nothing to forgive: I bear you no malice, noble Lord! and all I now ask is leave to depart,” said Azila.

“Still haughty and cold! why this indifference? you know not the love—the passion—with which your charms have inspired my bosom. Surely it cannot be in your nature to be thus so cruel to me, who love you to desperation, who would do ought to please you. Behold this spacious palace! these magnificent chambers! Are they not superior to your skin-covered tents? Remain, and you shall be mistress of all; numberless servants will obey you; sumptuous fare shall be served to you; boundless wealth shall be at your command. Every luxury and indulgence which love can invent shall surround you, if you will but consent to accept them at my hands. Whatever you may desire—any thing—every thing shall be granted to you?”

“I make but one simple demand,” answered the maiden. “It is to be allowed to depart, free as I came;—more I cannot say.”

“Have you no other answer to make than that, cruel, inexorable maiden? Hear me!” exclaimed the Count, throwing himself at her feet, and seizing her hand, which she vainly endeavoured to disengage. “Hear me! I love, I adore you to desperation; your very coldness has inflamed my passion! the bright glance of your eyes consumes me; the sweet tones of your voice thrill through my frame, and drive me to madness at the thought of losing you! I cannot exist without you. Hear me once again! I offer you wealth, power, unbounded luxury! I offer you more—my name—my rank—for well could you, as the Countess Erintoff, grace that station. Speak, ere I die at your feet, for I rise not till you give me hopes of life and happiness with you.”

Azila for an instant seemed moved, and turned aside her head, to avoid his fixed gaze; but there was no answering softness in the expression of her full bright eye.

She spoke at length: “Rise, noble Lord! rise, you but demean yourself by thus bending before one humble as myself! I am grateful for your generous offers, but I cannot accept them. A captive can make no just conditions with his jailor, and I still ask but one favour; to depart as I came.”

The Count started from the ground, astonishment and rising fury blending in his look.

“Can that heart,” he exclaimed, “be so frozen by the frosts of winter, that it is callous to the voice of love? But no, it would be contrary to the law of nature, it is impossible! Maiden, you love another! I know it—answer me—is it not the truth? By heavens! I cannot brook a rival in your love, and he shall deeply rue it!”

As the Count spoke, a blush did now for the first time rise on her cheeks and brow, and as he went on threatening his vengeance, with furious action against his rival, the colour again forsook her face, and left her as she then stood in an unintentionally commanding attitude; like some lovely statue of a goddess uttering her commands to mortals.

“If my love is given to another, why ask me for what I no longer possess? but I say not, that it is so. Again I ask to depart; for in no way, while an unwilling prisoner, could I make any engagements with my captor.”

The Count advanced furiously again to seize her hand, but she started back a step from him.

“Girl,” he cried, “think you I can tamely submit to be thus despised, to have my love—my devotion trampled on. Again I ask you, consent to return here—to become my Countess! to accept my love, and you are free to depart; my carriage shall then convey you where you will.”

“It cannot be,” answered Azila, firmly, “I have but to repeat my former words.”

“Rash girl, your obduracy has driven me to madness, and the blame must rest on your own head!” exclaimed the Count, again springing forward to seize her; but she calmly retreated, placing her hand beneath her vest.

“Proud noble, forbear! I fear you not, for I venture not abroad without the means of defending myself, since you first taught me the necessity of so doing. Advance another step, and you either destroy me or yourself.” The Count seemed again about to spring forward, when she drew a dagger from beneath her vest, and pointed it to her bosom.

“See,” she said, “my weapon is of so fine a tempered steel, that even my feeble arm will suffice to protect me.”

The Count stood astounded; he seemed fearful of advancing, and unable to speak, as she continued:

“Now let me depart, lead the way and I will follow you. See! I hold my firmest protector to my bosom, so attempt not to stop me, or the first hand that is laid on me will be the signal of my death. I fear not to die, so think not to detain me; with full confidence I leave the boys of my tribe under your care.”

The Count exclaimed, “Inexplicable girl! you have conquered for a time; I now obey you! but you have kindled an inextinguishable flame within my bosom, which will consume us both. We must soon meet again. I will lead the way as you desire.”

Uttering these words, the Count led the way from the apartment towards the hall of entrance, where the domestics stood with amazed looks, as their haughty lord passed, followed by the humble Gipsy girl. The portal stood open as Azila passed out, bowing coldly to the Count, when he stepped aside to allow her to pass; she did not cast a glance at the others who were present. She seemed more like some distinguished guest respectfully attended to the entrance of the mansion by her host, than one of a despised and lowly race, escaping from the toils of a proud and libertine noble.

The Count retreated to the upper apartments of his sumptuous palace, moody, and furious at his defeat. The ruffian Groff was then summoned to attend him.

“Hear me, villain,” he exclaimed, “the youth I spoke of must die! I will have no doubt or hesitation on your part. The sum I promised you, when I hear of his death, shall be doubled; although you have enough to revenge for your own sake, without requiring any other stimulant. Mark me! he has again crossed my path, so let there be no delay, for I cannot longer endure the thought that he should triumph over me.”

“Your orders are sufficiently clear,” Sir, answered Groff, “and they shall be obeyed without fear of the consequences. I am not a man to hesitate in my duty to so generous a master; and perhaps you will recollect that my first plan succeeded as far as it was in my power; the ultimate failure will be no fault of mine.”

“I understand you, knave, you would receive your wages as you proceed; here, take this purse, it contains a trifle in comparison with the sum you will be soon possessed of, if I do not mistake. Now begone! and let me not see your face till you can bring me the news I wish to hear.”

Groff departed, and the Count continued pacing the floor with feelings, of which few would envy him the possession.

Volume One—Chapter Eleven.

It was a dark and stormy night. The wind blew in violent and fitful gusts through the ill-lighted and irregular streets, now and then entirely extinguishing some of the few straggling lamps, while the remainder gave but a feeble and uncertain light, as the rain rushed down in torrents, making the road and pathway slippery with slime and mud.

The night had just closed in; yet, notwithstanding the inclemency and boisterousness of the weather, and the difficulties of the road, persons were still wandering abroad on various avocations, when a figure closely muffled in a large cloak, (apparently to shield himself from the tempest), issued from a side door of the palace of the Count Erintoff. He walked hastily along, keeping on the darker sides of the streets, as if to avoid recognition, and paused not till he reached the hotel where Ivan had taken up his abode. He remained concealed beneath the shelter of a porch, on the opposite side of the street, into which no gleam of light penetrated; though a lamp, burning in the doorway of the hotel, enabled him to command a distinct view of all who might enter, or depart. Thrusting his hand in his bosom, he thus muttered to himself:

“Ah! most trusty weapon, thou art not likely to fail me, if my arm proves true. Far better is the silent and sharp dagger to do such a deed, than the noisy and treacherous pistol, which has often failed a better man than myself, on a like occasion; yet, I did well to bring my noisy friend, in case, by any chance, the first should fail to strike home.—Ah! some one approaches.”

Groff, for it was he, drew farther back into the shade, to prevent himself from being seen by the stranger who was about to pass. At that moment, a person with a light and active step, completely shielded from the weather, walked quickly by, so that Groff could catch a glance of his features. He had not long to remain after this on his watch, when a figure appeared at the door of the hotel, whom he guessed must be his intended victim; for having cast a look at the dark and clouded sky, the person issued forth in the direction Groff expected him to take. The ruffian accordingly emerged from his hiding-place, and stealthily followed, at a short distance, the steps of his hoped for prey.

It was impossible to distinguish the figures of anybody, on such a night, wrapped up as all were who ventured abroad; but Groff felt that he could not be mistaken, both from seeing his intended victim issue from the hotel in which Ivan resided, and from the direction he was taking.

The person walked rapidly along, threading the intricate and obscure streets, without hesitation; every now and then, however, drawing his cloak closer around him, and casting a hurried look behind, as if to observe if he was followed. On these occasions, Groff contrived to shrink under the shade of some buttress, or projecting wall. Owing to his being perfectly well acquainted with the streets, and knowing each turning the person would probably take, he was enabled, successfully to dodge his footsteps, till he had arrived in the neighbourhood of the mansion previously described, in the garden of which the meetings of the conspirators were held. The man there stopped, and looked cautiously around, retracing his steps for a short distance, as if to assure himself that he had not been followed; throwing a scrutinising glance, as he lifted his hand to shade his eyes, down two or three narrow lanes, which there turned off from that along which he had passed. He seemed, however, satisfied, and was about to pass on.

“Now is my time,” thought Groff, who had hidden beneath a dark arch way, “I will now rush forward, and strike him, to make sure, and save myself a long and disagreeable watch; but he looks as if prepared for danger, and I may find a warmer reception than I wish, or he may cry out and give the alarm, before I have time to escape.”

While Groff was thus debating with himself, the person again walked on, unconscious of the danger he had so narrowly just escaped; and the assassin, fearful of being discovered after his evident wariness, if he pursued him further, concealed himself carefully under an arch, let into a wall, which had at one time served as an entrance to the garden behind it; but, for some reason, the inner part was now blocked up with stones, leaving, however, a recess sufficiently deep for a person to hide within it.

“Here I will await his return,” muttered Groff; “he has never yet failed to pass this way, and I have well marked his figure, so that I should know him if there was but a glimpse of light. I wish I had followed him to find out where he goes to, for there may be some secret worth knowing in that. It is an odd place for a person to come to so constantly, and I should make a fine thing of it, if I discovered any hidden plot, which the Count could reveal to the Emperor; it would bring him into high favour, and I, his follower, would benefit by it. I might easily manage to get rid of the youth in some other place, and if I slay him now, I lose my opportunity. But no! one scheme is but a chance, while his death will give me a certainty of reward.”

Having thus made up his mind, Groff remained in concealment for two or three hours, till he began almost to fear that his victim had escaped, by passing some other way. He watched with breathless expectation—anxiously looking forth from his place of shelter. The rain still fell in torrents, and flashes of lightning now and then darted from the heavens. One flash, brighter than the others, almost blinded him, as he grasped his dagger firmly in his hand; but he was no coward, though but a common ruffian, and he did not tremble. He again drew back, and listened attentively. Footsteps approached, he could not be mistaken; he heard the light and quick step advancing—nearer and nearer it came—he feared to breathe lest the sound might reach his victim’s ears—he more firmly clutched his dagger. With one foot advanced—his arm raised ready to strike, he stood pressing his body against the wall; he could distinguish the very breathing of him who was approaching. The figure filled the archway—the assassin sprang from his lair, his dagger’s point towards the breast of his victim. The lightning flashed brightly in forked streaks from the sky and played round the blue steel, but it failed to bring heaven’s vengeance, as it glanced before the eyes of the doomed one. He started back, but, alas, too late! the sharp point pierced his bosom. Too firmly was the assassin’s arm nerved; deep—deep, he drove his murderous weapon home; his whole force was in the thrust. Loud rolling peals of thunder reverberated through the heavens, as the work of blood was doing, and drowned the dying groan of the murdered man. Heavily he fell, struck down by the force of the blow. No sigh escaped his breast; but the foul midnight murderer was not content; drawing the reeking steel from the wound, his teeth grinding with fury, his eyes starting from his head, he plunged it again, and again, to the very hilt, into the bosom of the fallen man, the warm blood spouting from each fresh wound, and dyeing his hands. He stooped down, tearing aside the cloak and vest, seeking with eager haste, to feel the bosom of him whom he had slain, to find if perchance it yet palpitated with life; but well and truly had he done his work; a deep deadly wound had pierced that heart, which, but a few moments before, had beat with confidence—true patriotism—high hopes and aspirations; inflicted by his foul hand.

For a moment, a gleam of satisfaction passed through the murderer’s bosom that his work was accomplished, and his reward gained; but an instant afterwards, and oh! for ten thousand worlds would none have exchanged the most wretched poverty for the feelings which possessed him. It was his first cold, deliberate, mercenary shedding of blood; he felt himself to be an accursed wretch on the earth.

He could not fly, a fascination chained him to the spot; his fingers were clammy with blood, thick clotted to his dagger’s handle. He sought for a pool that he had stepped in near the spot; he tried to wash away the damning stains, but he knew that to be impossible.

In the exciting moment of the murder, he had been thoughtless of the blood which flowed over him, but he now observed that he was covered with it. The rain again fell in torrents, he stood exposed to its fury, to let it wash away the stain. It revived him; his thoughts again returned to their accustomed channel. The recollection of the money, for which he had done the deed, recurred to him; avarice seized his heart, and he remembered that, perchance, the murdered man might have gold about him.

He now neither trembled nor hesitated, as he felt about the body of his victim. With joy he clutched a purse, by the size and weight of which he knew it must contain gold; he felt in the breast, he drew from thence a packet of letters; a thought struck him that they might be of use to his master; he also possessed himself of watch and jewels. He was satisfied: no regret, no compunction for the deed oppressed him. His callous indifference had returned; an idea then occurred to him—horrid—diabolical. He searched around, to find some large stones, and with all his force he dashed one on the head of the murdered man; he seized another, and another, and hurled them with fury on the head of his victim, till he knew that every feature must be obliterated.

Again the lightning flashed brightly, and shewed him his work. He gazed on the ghastly spectacle; the thunder rolled terrifically, and seemed about to cast its bolts on his head. Even the assassin, callous and hardy as he was, now trembled, he could stand no more, and fled hastily from his cursed work. On—on—he went, nor dared to look behind him, for he felt himself pursued by some phantom of tremendous, of horrid aspect. There was a weight at his breast, his brain burned; he longed to shriek, to give vent to his feelings; but his voice seemed choked, he could utter no sound. He felt a longing desire to rush into fierce strife, to find more and more to slay, more to destroy. He was like the tiger who has once tasted of blood; nothing could slake his thirst; blood—blood he longed for, and still he fled away from that he had first spilled; but he thought he could blot out, with fresh blood, the remembrance of that dreadful deed.

He was flying on, a sort of brute instinct guiding his way, when he was called to his senses, by the loud challenge of a sentry from some government building. In a moment, he was again himself, the bold, careless ruffian; he answered calmly to the challenge, and was allowed to proceed onward; he drew his cloak closely around him, and walked towards the palace of his master, with a steady step; but it still required some exertion over his nerves, to prevent himself from rushing onward at his former pace.

At length he reached the palace, and knocked at a side door, where Kruntz was in waiting for him. His fellow ruffian started, as holding up a light, he caught sight of his pale, haggard cheek, his starting eye, and the dark red stains with which, as his cloak fell off, his dress was besmeared.

“What work hast thou been about now, Groff?” asked the man, “thou look’st like some wandering ghost.”

“A butcher’s!” answered Groff, in a thick husky voice; “but ask me no questions. Where is our lord? I must see him directly; I have matters of importance to communicate.”

“Would’st go to him in that pretty guise, friend?” said Kruntz; “truly it would please him much to see thee thus. Look at thyself in a glass, man, and thou would’st not much admire thine own countenance; if thou didst look always thus, thou would’st have but poor chance with the fair damsels thou seekest to captivate, and even men would be apt to shun thy company. I, for one, should not much like to be as near thee always as I now am. Get thee in, man, and change thy draggled garments.”

“Aye, I forgot me,” answered Groff. “Say not a word, Kruntz, nor rouse the other knaves. I’ll go change these wet garments, and then present me to our Lord; here, give me thy lamp.”

Thus saying, Groff seized the lamp from Kruntz’s hand, and turned the light away from himself. “Go, tell the Count, that I have returned and will give my news, when I am fit to appear before him.”

While Kruntz went to report the return of Groff, the assassin hastened to throw off his blood-stained garments, which he carefully tied up in a bundle, and hid them away together with his dagger; then having washed all stains from his cheeks and hands, he presented himself before the Count Erintoff.

He entered the room abruptly. “The deed is done which you required,” he said; “to-morrow morning the whole city will ring with it, and I may then claim my reward. I made sure work, and the youth will never more stand in your way.”

“Good,” answered the Count, “you shall have your reward. Come to-morrow to claim it.”

“It is well and hardly earned, let me say; and here is something that I found in the breast of the youth; these papers may give you some information,” said Groff.

“Let me have them,” said the Count. “Is this all you found upon him, knave, eh?”

“Nothing farther; I stayed not to search him,” answered the ruffian.

“Well, well, it matters not,” said the Count; “leave me, I will examine these papers.”

The murderer gladly withdrew from the presence of his instigator to crime, to join his companion, and to drown his conscience with wine; first examining and then carefully hiding the spoils he had taken from his victim.

The Count, when left alone, eagerly tore open the papers he had received, though he shuddered as on the outer packet, he caught sight of the stains of blood; the blood of the youth he had so heartlessly, so revengefully consigned to an early death; but all thoughts of remorse for the deed were forgotten, as he glanced his eye over the documents. Some were in cypher, but others he perused with the deepest interest. As he read, he exclaimed aloud: “Ah, this is a fortunate discovery! How many do I now hold in my power! Ah, and you too! The man I hate! I shall be amply revenged on him! My fortune is on the ascendant! By Heavens! this information is worth a princedom to me! Ay, and I will gain it too! I would have sacrificed a thousand lives to have gained it! My revenge satisfied, now for love! Ah, beautiful but haughty girl, your lover dead, you will now become mine; you will soon willingly come to my arms. Fortunately, that villain cannot read, nor has he even looked at these papers; I must not let him guess at their contents, or he may make higher demands on me. I trust he has not kept back any other papers; but no, he has given these as my share, and has kept the youth’s gold, if he had any, to himself:—he is welcome to it. But if I give information of this affair, may I not be suspected of the murder? However, that matters nothing; the government will be too well pleased to gain the information, to inquire very minutely how I came by it, or, if they should, I may easily invent a tale to account for it. I must see to this.”

Volume One—Chapter Twelve.

We must now turn our view to a chamber in the chateau of the Baron Galetzoff. It was furnished with heavy and old fashioned hangings which gave it a solemn and sombre air, increased by the windows being closed to exclude the glare of day; one stream of light alone entering through the curtains, and throwing a still darker shade into the rest of the room. Two female attendants stood by the side of a couch, on which reclined, now wan and emaciated, that unhappy and mysterious lady, whom Ivan had so short a time before left in health, and all the majesty of beauty.

Her eye fixed and regardless of all around, her thoughts seemed to be far away, wandering perchance amid the scenes of her youth, with the loved beings of other days, whom she had long, long ago lost, but soon hoped again to meet in other and happier realms. As she gazed, their airy forms flitted before her eyes, and the well remembered lineaments became clear, and distinct, beckoning her to follow. She moved not, she spoke not, and as the attendants looked on her, they thought her spirit had departed.

A slow and gentle step approached: it was that of a venerable grey-headed man in the robes of a priest, whose clear, calm eye, and placid countenance, betokened an amiable and tender heart. He seated himself quietly by the side of the couch, but the movement roused the lady from her seeming trance, and she turned her eyes towards him.

“Daughter,” he said, “I could not rest away from your side, and as soon as I had performed the duties which called me hence, I returned to afford you all the consolation of which religion has so great a store.”

“Father!” she answered in a low voice, “to your instructions do I owe the great, the inestimable benefits which I may now partake of; else had I remained like the beast that perishes, without that faith and hope which now sustain me.”

“Daughter! those are the sentiments which should possess the bosoms of all who are about to leave this vale of tears,” continued the holy man; “clear your thoughts of all things appertaining to this world, and fix them on the next.”

“I would do so, Father, but I cannot!” answered the lady. “I must, ere I die, see one, the dearest to me on earth; till then I cannot tear my thoughts from him. Has he arrived? Oh! that I could see him, ere my spirit wings its flight from hence. Oh! let there be no delay when he comes, for each instant I feel the throbbing of my heart grow weaker.”

“There shall be no delay, my daughter! a faithful messenger has been sent to summon him; but, when I just now entered the house, he had not arrived,” said the priest. Scarcely had he uttered the words, when the lady exclaimed, “Ah, I now hear his horse’s steps approaching; oh! haste, Father, and bid him come hither.”

“You are mistaken, daughter, I heard no sound, and he could scarcely arrive by this hour,” answered the priest.

“Ah, no! Father, I mistake not, even now I hear his footstep in the hall. He approaches. Oh, my heart! cease not to beat, till I have seen him once again,” she exclaimed, nor had her sense of hearing deceived her; rendered still more acute, as her other faculties were fast failing.

In a few moments, a gentle knock was heard, and the dwarf entered. “I know that he is come,” said the lady, “oh! let me see him without delay; and holy Father, I would be alone with him.” The priest rose to obey her wishes, and withdrew with the attendants, as Ivan entered.

As she saw him, her faded eye brightened; and she stretched out her arms to receive him, as throwing himself on his knees by the side of the couch, he shaded his face with his hands, and a convulsive sob escaped his bosom.

“Do I find you thus?” he exclaimed after a moment’s pause, “my friend—my kind protectress? why was I not before apprised of your illness? why was I not here to solace and comfort you?”

“I knew not that death was making such rapid strides towards me,” answered the lady; “but think not that I am unhappy. Now that I have you with me, loved one! I am content to bear my lot; but I must not waste these precious moments, for I have much to say and my time on earth will quickly end. Listen to me,” and she spoke in that language which she had taught Ivan in his youth, and in which they loved to commune together.

“Can you remember the early days of your youth, and those scenes of which I once forbade you to speak?” she said.

“Yes—yes—vividly can I now recall several to my mind,” answered Ivan. “I remember a strange land, and scenes far different to this country; and also your kindness, your love from my earliest days.”

“Think you that the affection and fond solicitude with which I tended your youth, could ever have been felt by any but a mother! None but a mother could feel the undying love which I bear for you. My boy! my child! come to my arms, and let me hold thee there, before I die. You are—you are my son, and though in life, I dared not, for your sake, acknowledge it, I rejoice to die, that now I may declare the truth before all the world.”

“My heart always told me so,” exclaimed the young man, fondly embracing her, as she held out her arms to receive him. “O my loved mother! would that I might thus have called you before! but say who is my father? Is it not the Baron?”

“Thank great Heaven! no, my loved son—no! Your father was noble, generous, and brave; methinks, I now see his noble countenance reflected in my boy; but my strength fails me, my voice grows weak. Listen, ere it be too late, to my story.

“It was in our own loved and beautiful land, amid the magnificent mountains, the green and fertile glens of Circassia, that your father was distinguished as one of the noblest and bravest chieftains. Five thousand daring horsemen assembled at his command, ready to follow wherever he should lead. Many of the neighbouring chiefs were subject to him; all honoured or feared him. He kept free from the feuds which distracted and weakened the other tribes, and all sought to be in amity with him. He had numerous flocks and herds, which fed on the richest pastures; he had abundance of wealth; fleet and hardy steeds; rich armour and apparel; faithful and devoted servants.

“I was the daughter of a neighbouring prince; your noble father sought and won me in marriage. We had two children, you my loved son, and a fair young daughter; how my heart has bled as I have thought of that lovely cherub, whom I have been destined to see no more, and whose fate I tremble to think of! But our happiness, which seemed as full as mortals could enjoy, was destined to be fleeting and transitory; we were awoke, suddenly and without preparation, from our short-lived dream of bliss.

“Our territories, which extended over many of the rocky and precipitous mountains bordering on the sea, had hitherto, on account of their lofty situation, almost inaccessible to attack, escaped the devastating visits of the invaders of our country. Our home was near, the coast, and your father, confiding in the security of our situation, had gone with the greater part of his followers to repel a distant inroad of the enemy, leaving only a few to protect our herds, when a fleet of the lofty ships of the Russians, made a sudden descent on our coast. Their troops landed in numbers, and stormed the passes leading to our dwellings, destroying the fields of corn on their road, and carrying off, or killing all the cattle they could seize; the few of our men remaining in the neighbourhood assembled in haste, and disputed each spot of ground practicable of defence, with all the energy and bravery of despair; even the women seized arms and joined the men, aiding them to their utmost; some hurling down stones on the heads of the invaders, as they defiled through each narrow gorge. But what could a handful of men do, taken almost by surprise, against a host of well-equipped and ferocious enemies? Frantic with our hopeless efforts, we fought till our men were all slain, for none would yield, while they had strength to use their weapons.

“My heart sickens even now at the wanton and cruel butcheries which the ruthless barbarians committed. The children were torn from their mothers’ arms and slaughtered in their sight; some few of the women however escaped with the infants under their charge, among whom was your young sister, and gained the mountains, beyond the reach of their pursuers.

“A ruffian was about to destroy you, my boy, when you were rescued from his grasp by a more humane comrade, who, as I afterwards found, was a servant belonging to the leader of the enemy’s forces. From a height overlooking the pass, I beheld you borne away in the arms of the soldier, and I sought to throw myself down, to tear you from the robber’s grasp, or to share your captivity. I was, however, forcibly prevented by my attendants, who deaf to my entreaties and disobedient to my commands, when I ordered them to release me, compelled me to remain concealed in a cavern from the sight of our enemies. The Russians had retired from the defiles and passes in the mountains and encamped near the seashore, under protection of the guns of then ships; we, the wretched and melancholy few who remained, watched from the neighbouring heights, there passing the live-long night, for we had no homes to return to; our once smiling dwellings were burnt to the ground, our streams choked with the dead, and tinged with their blood, our cattle carried off, and desolation reigned around.

“We were aroused from our lamentations over the fallen brave, by the arrival of a band of horsemen, who had been sent back by your father; they proposed to delay making any attack on the foe till their numbers could be increased from the neighbouring villages; but I thought of you, my boy—you a prisoner in the hands of our enemies, and I dreaded lest they should set sail, and bear you far away without a hope of recovering you. With lamentations and entreaties, with tears and commands, I urged on our men to the attack. I shewed them the ignominy, the disgrace, which would cover them, should they allow an enemy, who had devastated their lands, slain their kinsmen, and carried away captive their wives and children, to escape, without attempting to revenge their loss. I pointed out to them that the son of their beloved chieftain was in the power of their enemies, and that should they discover the value of their prize, they would endeavour to bring us to terms, disgraceful and injurious to our country, for the sake of recovering him. I excited their valour—I fired their souls with my eloquence, wrought to the highest pitch by a mother’s anxiety—I offered to lead them, putting myself at their head, and swore never to return unsuccessful.

“We sent out messengers in all directions around, summoning all who could be collected to join our forces. None hesitated to obey our summons, for the same detestation of our invaders animated the breasts of all. Before the morning broke, we had assembled from all quarters an irregular, but heroic band, eager to be led against the common foe. From the thick wooded heights, which overhung the coast, we rushed down upon the unprepared camp, like some mountain torrent, suddenly swelled by the thunder cloud, sweeping over the plain, bearing all before it. I felt not like a weak, timid woman, but as the enraged lioness, whose young has been torn from her by the hands of the huntsmen. I sprung to rescue you; by word and action, I encouraged our men to the assault, and heeded not the overwhelming numbers opposed to us.

“The Russians roused from their sleep, ere the out-posts could give the alarm, rushed to their arms; many, owing to the confusion and darkness, missed their weapons. In an instant we were upon them; and as corn before the sickle we hewed them down, none crying for mercy; they knew they deserved it not, we shewed none. But ere our work was done, the morning broke, and exhibited our scanty force to the enemy, who rallied at the sight, and retreated fighting in order. But I had not recovered my child, and it was for that object alone that I fought. Suddenly, I caught sight of you at a distance, with other prisoners amid the ranks of the foe. I strained every nerve to reach you—I saw not the blows aimed at me—I encouraged my followers, and on—on, we rushed, fearless of the danger, and ignorant of the vast power of the mighty engines of destruction which their huge ships bore. Fighting step by step, we repelled the Russians, till they gained the very margin of the sea, and then, just as we thought victory secure—their ships opened upon us suddenly the hot shower of their artillery, which no valour could withstand; my brave companions fell fast around me while fighting, and still hotly pursuing the foe, till death arrested their course.

“Scarcely any remained by my side, when it seemed that a sickness came over me, and I fell to the ground, and knew not what further happened.

“When I awoke to consciousness, I found myself on board of one of the Russian ships, borne far from my native land. I endeavoured to recall my scattered senses: a fever raged through my brain, as I was conducted into the presence of the chief who had led the attack on our territory—he was the Baron Galetzoff!”

Ivan’s brow grew dark, and an exclamation of anger rose to his lips; but he restrained his passion.

“He eyed me with a glance which pierced me through my soul, as I stood with my head bowed before him, nor could words find utterance through my parched lips. He spoke, but I was deaf to the sound. Strange people were around me; an uncouth language was spoken, whose meaning I could not understand: entreaty, resistance, complaint, were alike unavailing. I had none to appeal to from whom I could hope for assistance. I knew myself to be utterly helpless; none around me could understand my words. I was led back, unresistingly, to my solitary cabin. I yielded to my fate, for all thoughts of escape were hopeless. I thought of death as a refuge for my wretchedness; but one idea, one hope still sustained me, and bade me cling to life. I might, should you have escaped destruction, still have a chance, though a remote one, of meeting with you. The very thought restored me. I determined to live to devote my energies to find you; for I knew not of the difficulties in my way. The ship in which I was borne captive from Circassia, reached the shores of Russia; and I was transported to this mansion in some strange conveyance, which I had never before seen. I was here treated with every care and attention, having female attendants to wait on me, and to supply all my wants. From them I learned gradually the strange language they spoke, being inspired with the hope that it might be of service to me in my search after you; and sustained by this deep feeling, I became partially reconciled to my fate. I had not seen or heard of my captor since I left the ship, except that, as far as I could understand, he was still absent from his domain.

“My sole delight and employment was in wandering through the woods, while thinking of you, and in forming many different projects to discover to what part of the country you had been conveyed. On one of these excursions I had gone further than usual from home, and had for an instant lost sight of my attendant, when a child’s cry caught my ear. I rushed forward eagerly at the sound, for the notes vibrated through my heart like some beloved and well-known voice. I was not to be deceived. Oh! joy of joys! blessing unspeakable! it was you, my own loved boy—far off, I knew you. I sprang forward—I pressed you to my bosom—I covered you with kisses—I placed you on the ground: again and again I snatched you in my arms. I wept—I felt mad with joy; all my sorrows, all my miseries were, for the moment, forgotten; all the happiness I had lost, in an instant, appeared restored tenfold. I know not if you recognised me; but I thought you did; for you returned my embrace, looking up smilingly in my face.

“A rough, but honest-faced looking man, broke through the woods in search of you, and looked surprised and alarmed on finding you in my arms. He made signs that he must take you from me; and though I sought to prevent it, you returned willingly to him. With my spirit broken, I could not dare to oppose him; and I guessed, too, from his manners and countenance, that he might prove a friend. This honest serf was the father of Karl; and from him I learned that you had been carried off by his brother, who had saved your life from the hands of some of his comrades; that the Baron had seen you, and for some unknown reason, had taken a fancy to you, and ordered you to be committed to his charge; and also, that you had been conveyed to the estate at the very time that I was, while I had been pining in despair for your loss. Every day I frequented the same spot, which was near the serf’s hut, in hopes of seeing you and clasping you to my bosom; when the honest fellow at length, taking compassion on me, used to bring you forth to meet me. Oh! the happiness, the bliss of those moments, almost repaid me the misery I had suffered. I was not acquainted with the Baron’s disposition; but an idea occurred to me, though I scarcely know how it originated, that, should he discover you to be my son, he might, by threatening to tear you from my sight, endeavour to gain more control over me. Every time that this thought recurred to me, it gave fresh strength to my opinion, and I resolved, at all hazard, to profess utter carelessness on your account; and thankful I have ever since been, that I adopted that course; for no sooner did the Baron arrive, than my trials commenced. I, at first, with the most abject entreaties, prayed to be restored to my own country, hoping to take you with me; but he laughed at my petition; and when I pressed my demand, with some haughtiness of manner, he sternly refused.

“All hopes of escape were as vain as the prayers addressed to my captor had been unsuccessful, for I knew not even to what part of the country I had been conveyed. I thought of the beloved husband to whom I was lost—of my sweet daughter—of friends and home; and I felt that I could not survive their loss: but your voice, though at a distance, struck on my ear, and for your sake I resolved to live on.

“When you were brought to the chateau, your playful manners, and light prattle, seemed to win on the affections of the Baron, as much as his rough and savage nature would permit; but I kept to my prudent resolution, and pretended not to recognise you. At first you would oftentimes throw your arms round my neck, and call me by the endearing name of mother, in your native tongue; but I taught you not to utter that name, though it almost broke my heart to do so; and my artifice succeeded; for you were constantly allowed to be with me, and the Baron seemed to have no idea of our relationship.

“The Baron’s conduct towards you was always inexplicable, for it appeared entirely contrary to his fierce and cruel disposition, to treat you as he has done. I have lately suspected that he has some secret motive for thus acting, for to me he has always been harsh and tyrannical.

“There was one person in the Baron’s establishment who soon became entirely devoted to me—it was the dwarf Ladislau. I pitied his weakness and helplessness, treating him always with kindness, for which he has shewn his gratitude by every means in his power. From him I learned that the Baron had, some time before, married a lady of great beauty, who, his servants and dependants fancied, was a native of some foreign country, though they knew not from what part of the world she came. Ladislau added that he himself perfectly knew, and that she was of the Zingani race, and had been induced to marry the Baron, more for his rank and wealth, than for any great love she bore him. This he soon discovered, and in revenge treated her so barbarously, that she was preparing to fly from his mansion, but was prevented. Soon after the unfortunate lady died, after giving birth to a child; but, previously to that event, she had called the dwarf to her, and given some injunctions, which he had sworn most solemnly to fulfil, and even to keep secret within his own bosom.

“The Baron at first seemed repentant of his jealousy and tyranny, and grieved for his loss, seeking to make amends by his kindness to the child, for his cruelty to the mother; but, during his absence from home for a time, the child had mysteriously disappeared, and all his attempts at discovering it, had proved fruitless. Methought the dwarf gave a sinister look, as he told me the tale. He said that the Baron had raged and stormed at the loss of his child, but had at length given up all hopes of ever discovering the perpetrators of the deed; rather believing that it had come to some violent end, and perhaps, when he first saw you, the smiling cherub that you then were, he thought of supplying the place of his own lost one.

“From the dwarf I learned, that the Baron bore a deadly hatred to my country, for the reverses he had so constantly met with there; and he had sworn utterly to subdue, and reduce its inhabitants to the most abject slavery. He knew little of the noble spirit which animated their bosoms, while indulging in hopes of success against them. Ladislau added, when the Baron found that you, a Circassian child, had been saved by one of his soldiers, he, with a refinement of cruelty, had determined to bring you up, and teach you to feel the most deadly hatred against your own countrymen, if by chance they were not subdued before that time. I thanked heaven that I was at hand to counteract his evil intentions, and the aim of my life has been, to inspire you with a love of freedom, and a hatred of all tyranny and injustice. The Baron would be less than human had he not one redeeming quality; having been a father himself, he seemed, when you were a child, to have some sparks of affection for you, beyond the object for which he has educated you. He has even now adopted you, and would leave you all his wealth, would you comply with his requests. But oh! my loved son, be not seduced by the glittering baits he will offer—to turn traitor to your native land! Else shall my life, and all my sufferings have been in vain. Oh no! even I, to whom you are dearer than all else, counsel you to hazard death or captivity, rather than shed the blood of your countrymen, by the side of their foes. Let me beseech you to fulfil the lofty purpose for which I consented to live in this hated place; and when I am no more, as I soon shall be, then fly from hence, and endeavour to reach your native land. That amulet, which you carry round your neck, has always been worn by the eldest son of the chieftain of your tribe. No sooner shall your father’s followers see it, than they will acknowledge you, if unhappily your noble father no longer lives. Seek the spot which was once your home, then proclaim yourself, and relate my unhappy story, when all with joy will own you; and should my loved husband still exist, give him my parting sighs.”

Her voice, during this recital, frequently faltered through weakness; and as she fell back exhausted at its close, a thrill of horror shot through her son’s frame, as for an instant he thought that, in truth, her spirit had fled to the realms of bliss; but to his great joy, she again opened her eyes, to gaze on him she loved so deeply, as he held her sinking form in his arms. He was overwhelmed with the interest of the story he had heard; and though he had loved her before he knew she was his mother, how deep and earnest was his gratitude now for her devoted, her heroic affection for him?

“Mother!” he cried, “I swear to obey your commands. Already have I engaged in the accomplishment of a great work, after the issue of which I will haste to that land, which oft have I visited in my dreams.”

“Enough, my son, sure I am that heaven will protect you on your way; but I have yet more to add. When you reach your native land, oh! endeavour to instil into your countrymen that mild and pure religion, which the good priest, who educated you, first taught me to know. It was once the religion of our forefathers, and the cross—the emblem of that faith—is still to be seen in the land. Oh! reclaim them to the true and ancient worship of their country. My loved son! let me gaze on thee once more, ere my sight fail me. May heaven guard thy life, and make thee the deliverer of thy country! Then shalt thou be known by thy true name, and well wilt thou prove worthy of thy gallant father. I cannot longer see thee, my son; but kiss me once more, and receive my last sigh:—when thou bearest it to thy father, say that I loved him to the last.”

She ceased to speak, Ivan felt her form recline more heavily in his arms; no pulse answered to his touch. She looked lovely still, but her eye had lost that mysterious expression of the mind, when the living soul yet animates the frame. Her spirit had fled!

In that bleak land died the lovely exile, far distant from her own sunny clime: but she was happy at the last, when folded in the arms of that son for whose sake she had so nobly endured long and weary captivity.

The young man uttered no loud complaint; but laid her form calmly on the couch, and with reverent awe closed her eyes; then gazing earnestly on her features, he threw himself on his knees by her side. The attendants entered, and found him in this posture when he was aroused by the entreaties of his faithful friend Ladislau, who led him unresistingly to his chamber; and the kind-hearted dwarf then lavished his attentions upon the bereaved Ivan.

The stern Lord of the mansion had been for some days absent, unaware of his captive’s approaching liberation from her misery and thraldom; Ivan was thereby enabled to indulge his grief without interruption.

Volume One—Chapter Thirteen.

The female attendants and wives of the nearest serfs assembled to utter their lamentations over the body of the deceased, which was laid out on a couch, with the hands crossed on the breast, dressed in a crimson robe, and a rich coif placed on the head. The venerable priest who had attended her when living, came to sprinkle incense over her body; and while thus engaged, he chaunted psalms in a low and solemn voice.

On the third day from her death, the remains of the lady were placed in a coffin covered with crimson cloth, and surrounded with torches; from thence it was conveyed to the neighbouring church. At a distance, followed Ivan unknown and unnoticed, enveloped in his cloak; and as the priest concluded the short funeral service, he drew near, and kneeling by the coffin, kissed that cold and inanimate hand: on that spot he again swore to fulfil her commands, and to devote himself to the cause of his native country. With a tearless eye, but bursting heart; he saw all that he loved committed to the earth, and lingered long near the spot, until he was urged to depart by Ladislau.

The day after the sad ceremony had been performed, the Baron returned to the château, but made no allusion to the melancholy event, nor did it appear to affect him in any way. Summoning Ivan to his presence soon after his arrival:

“My plans are arranged,” said he; “our gracious Emperor has appointed me to the command of a strong force, to quell the rebellious Circassians; and, in a short time, I hope to bring them under lawful subjection. This has ever been the height of my ambition. I own that the difficulties are great; but if I fall, in you, Ivan, I hope to leave a worthy successor. In this parchment, you are made heir to all my possessions; and our noble Czar, in consideration of my services, and as the only favour that I have asked, will permit you to assume the same rank I bear.”

Ivan, for a time, remained silent after this announcement. A momentous period to him had arrived, and he almost dreaded the effects of what he was resolved to say, in reply.

“What, young man!” exclaimed the Baron, impatiently, “are you not overpowered with gratitude? What mean you by this silence—that fixed gaze—those clenched hands? Do you hesitate to accept my offer? Speak, boy! thwart not my will, or you will deeply repent your folly!”

While the fierce old Baron raved like a wounded lion, lashing himself into fury, before him stood the young Circassian, calm, but determined, like some courageous hunter, who has been unexpectedly allured into the lair of the beast. After a still further protracted silence, he at length addressed the Baron:

“I might once have accepted the noble offer you make me, Sir; but that time is passed. I now know who I am: and rather would I toil as the meanest serf on your domain, than bear arms against that country—my own, my native land. Yes, Sir, I am a Circassian; and prouder am I to belong to that heroic race, than to the highest rank the autocrat of all the Russias can confer.”

“What words are these I hear?” cried the Baron, furiously. “Disobedience to my orders: rebellion against the Emperor! Is it for this I have brought you up—have educated you; and would have made you wealthy and noble? I have treated you as my own son, and never wished you to know that I was not your father. Who has dared to fill your mind with such dreams? They shall richly repent their interference and folly.”

“She, who has escaped from the reach of your power,” answered Ivan: “she, Sir, who devoted her life to me, who was my only friend—my mother!”

“What! have I been deceived, then, by the wit of a frail woman; and have I been nourishing a young viper, for years past, within my bosom, that now rises to sting me. I recall the offer I made to you. Begone, leave my presence! and henceforth, let me see your face no more. From this moment I discard you—I throw you off for ever; and beware, lest you suffer as a traitor and rebel to the Emperor. Even now you should be seized: you have uttered treason and sedition, which merit full punishment. Before long, Siberia shall be your destination, where you may proclaim such fantastic nonsense without fear of injuring any. But with such pestiferous notions you shall no longer abide under my roof. Begone, quit my presence, or I will send my slaves to drive you hence. Am I to be thus bearded by a boy?—my offers despised?—no gratitude shown for my paternal care and liberality! Begone! Again I say, I will hear no reply.”

Overwhelmed by so many various and contending emotions, Ivan could with difficulty collect his thoughts, sufficiently, to determine how to act. He felt that the Baron had, indeed, afforded him many advantages, and had but just now made him what, at all events, appeared to be a generous offer; although he had, at the same time, treated his mother with cruelty and injustice, which might counterbalance all kindness shewn to himself. His better feelings, however, conquered; and as he slowly quitted the apartment, he turned, and was about to express them, when he encountered the fierce look of the Baron, and saw that further discourse would but increase his anger.

When left alone, the Baron, with furious gestures, paced the apartment.

“I would yet tame,” he muttered to himself, “that proud and haughty spirit, which, otherwise directed, might have fully answered to my wishes. No, no, I will let him range at large; his means will soon be exhausted, and I shall then find him returning to crouch at my feet. Ah! that will satisfy my vengeance; and I may then do with him as I list. He shall no longer remain here, nor return, until he comes a suppliant before me.”

Summoning his attendants, he exclaimed, “Let a horse be given to the rebellious youth who has just left me, and you, Karl! take whatever belongs to him from hence, and bear it wherever he lists. Henceforth he returns here no more. Do you hear me, slaves? Depart, and obey my orders!”

The frightened servants hurried out to obey their fierce Lord’s commands, and the dwarf Ladislau, who had stolen in unperceived among them, no sooner heard the order given, than he hastened to report it to Ivan.

“My best—my only true friend!” said Ladislau, in tears, “alas! you are banished for ever from hence, for I know that the Baron will not relent! nor shall I be allowed to see you again. I know not what course you mean to pursue; but this I know, my dear Ivan, that wherever you go, you will require money. Now I have no need of any myself, and therefore, if you have any regard for me, if you would not break my heart before its time, accept this purse. You will find in it enough to supply your wants for some time to come, and I shall never feel the loss of it.”

Ivan was affected to tears by this mark of affection from his diminutive friend, but at the same time he hesitated in depriving him of his means of existence, should he, like himself, be turned out into the world; but the excitable Ladislau broke out into a violent flood of tears, as he at first refused the gift, and swore that he himself would never touch it, if Ivan did not make use of it. So that at last, much against his inclination, he was obliged to accept a small portion, sufficient he trusted to carry him to the shores of Circassia.

After waiting some time, in the hope that the Baron’s anger would cool, he sent a message requesting permission to see him again before his departure; but a stern refusal was the answer, and an order that he should quit the house without further delay. His proud spirit thus irritated, he no longer hesitated to obey the stern command, after taking an affectionate leave of Ladislau, who refused to be comforted.

With heavy heart, and agitated feelings, he sallied forth for the last time from the gates of the chateau, amid looks of sadness and regret depicted on the faces of the servants, who dared in no other way to express their sentiments; and as he passed through the domain, many an affectionate regard was uttered by the serfs whom he met, grateful for his many acts of kindness to them; he then pursued his journey towards Moscow. On his arrival he repaired to the same hotel where he had before resided; he now had to undergo the pain of parting from the honest serf Karl, when he felt how few there were who cared for him; and this man having been his particular attendant from his childhood, he could not but feel grieved at the separation. The poor fellow, who would willingly and gladly have followed his fortunes, shed many tears as he embraced his master’s knees; but it was useless for him to repine, the stern law of the land forbade him. He was a slave chained to the soil, and obliged to obey the owner whoever he might be; and the Baron had ordered him to return to the château without delay.

It was long before he could tear himself away from the youth, whom he had attended from his boyhood, and for whom he felt a faithful attachment; but at length, bathed in tears, he rushed from him, mounted his horse and returned to his place of bondage, mourning over his own abject state, which should thus prevent him from following where his inclinations led. He had never before thought or dreamed of quitting the domain where he was born and bred; but now the wish to be free seized him, to throw off the yoke which could thus enchain his movements. He returned discontented and unhappy to his father’s hut, determining to seize the first opportunity to emancipate himself from bondage.

Ivan immediately despatched a messenger to acquaint his friend Thaddeus with the circumstances which had occurred; summoning him to his aid and counsel. He had now entered a new era in his existence; henceforth he felt that he must entirely depend on his own judgment and courage, to conduct him through the difficult and perilous way of life he had chosen, in preference to the one the Baron had offered.

His thoughts reverted to the days of his light-hearted boyhood, and he felt himself to be a man, indeed, with all the cares and anxieties almost inseparable from that stage of life; but he also felt that it was not a time for needless meditation—action, decided and instant action, was now become necessary.

He had devoted himself to assist in forwarding a great cause, the freedom of Russia; but then again, he felt that his own country had a prior claim to his services. He hesitated in deciding which plan it was most incumbent on him to pursue. Whether, at once to carry his sword to the aid of Circassia, or to fulfil the first engagements he had entered into, when he thought himself a Russian, and to assist in the liberation of Russia from despotism.

It occurred to him, at the same time, that by following the latter plan, he might be more effectually aiding his own country, for should freedom once be established among the Russians, he supposed it but natural that that people would desist from their unjust endeavours to deprive Circassia of her liberty.

Ivan determined, therefore, to wait a short time, at least, the course of events before he set off on his expedition in search of all which could now be dear to him. Country—home—father—and relations. He had to begin a new life: to throw off many of his old habits; to make new friends; and to consider those as enemies whom he had hitherto looked upon as countrymen. While these ideas were rapidly passing through his mind, he recollected that that evening had been fixed upon for a general meeting of the conspirators; and as soon as night arrived, he sallied forth amid the bustling crowds who hurried by, heedless of him and his intentions.

But there was one who anxiously had been waiting to observe his movements. As he left the house, that person, who was no other than his intended murderer, Groff, followed his steps, cautiously threading his way among the crowd, or retiring, when requisite, from observation to recommence his trail.

As Ivan walked quickly onwards, it struck him that he was followed, as he had been on a former occasion, and he prepared himself for any sudden encounter. Without any impediment, however, he reached the place of meeting, where he found the greater number of the chief conspirators assembled, and several new recruits among them.

On his entrance, all turned their faces towards him, and started from their seats.

“What! is it Ivan Galetzoff we see before us?” exclaimed one, advancing towards him with surprise on his countenance. “Is it possible that you stand before us alive and well?”

“Indeed,” answered Ivan, “I know it to be perfectly possible, although I do not understand the drift of your observations. Are you inclined to be merry? Yet I should suppose our affairs were too important to furnish matter for jesting!”

“Here’s some extraordinary mistake,” said the conspirator, “and glad are we to find you alive, when we thought you had been foully murdered.”

“Murdered!” exclaimed Ivan, “what gave rise to such an idea?”

“On the morning succeeding the last night you were here, a person was found, not far from this spot, murdered, with several wounds in his breast, and his features so disfigured that it was impossible to recognise him; it was also said that there was nothing found about his person, by which he could be known. Rumour proclaimed you to be the unfortunate individual, and from your not again appearing among us, we concluded that you had indeed been the victim.”

“It is clear that we have been mistaken,” said another conspirator, adding as he turned to Ivan, “Know you not that you have broken through the laws of our society, by absenting yourself without giving reason for so doing; it is for the safety of all, that the movements of every member of our association should be known to the committee of direction. Remember, that the sword of vengeance hangs over the head of him who shall turn traitor to our cause: secret, and sure will be the punishment, from which the guilty cannot escape, sheltered even in the palace of the autocrat.”

“Gentlemen!” said Ivan, rising, “ready should I be to suffer a traitor’s death, were I so base as to betray the sacred—the noble cause in which I am engaged. No time was allowed me to apprise you of my departure, when I was called away to attend a parent’s death-bed. If such be considered a crime, I am ready to suffer; but rather let my actions convince you how true and earnest I am in the cause of liberty. You see one before you now, ruined to all worldly prospects, and eager to assist in the work we have proposed. Let there be no further delay; we are already strong in the numbers and resources of our friends. Let us at once raise the standard of revolt against tyranny, and proclaim liberty to Russia, for sure I am that at the signal of deliverance, thousands will hasten joyfully to join our ranks, and that ere long the Russians, having thrown off the yoke of slavery, may lift up their heads among the free people of the earth.” These sentiments were received with loud acclamations by the majority of his hearers.

“The youth speaks well,” said one of the conspirators, rising; a violent and turbulent character, and a strong advocate for extreme measures; “but before we take the field openly, one great object must be accomplished, without which all our future efforts will be vain. Will you, who have so bravely spoken, undertake to perform that great, that sacred work? It is no slight deed—it is full of peril; but if success attends your aim, it will cover your name for ever with a wreath of glory. It is this: let me not hesitate to declare it; and let yours be the high honour of ridding the country of its greatest oppressor; let yours be the daring hand to stab the unsuspecting tyrant to the heart while revelling in the fancied security of his power; for until that first step be taken, naught else we can do will avail us!”

Ivan rose astounded, and indignant at the vile proposition; his feelings were responded to by the greater number of the most influential conspirators, at the same time that they were unwilling to damp the mad enthusiasm of others, who hesitated not in proposing violent measures; such men being but necessary tools to work out their own more moderate views.

“I came here,” he said, with deep emotion, “to offer my sword to the sacred cause of liberty, and not to act the abhorred part of a midnight assassin; and cursed will be the cause which requires such means to ensure its success. If such be the only resources by which liberty can be gained for Russia, I here demand back my pledge; my oath forbids me to denounce any to the Emperor; but I will never associate with men, who can even allow such a proposition to be made among them.”

He spoke proudly and dauntlessly, and, having uttered these sentiments, was about to quit the assembly, when several of the conspirators gathered round him, endeavouring to calm his agitation and anger; while others regarded him with stern and lowering glances, ready to sacrifice him to their vengeance, should he shew the least sign of betraying them.

Though some manifested a slight opposition to his leaving the meeting, he was nevertheless allowed to depart, by his more intimate acquaintance undertaking to answer for his fidelity.

Hot and eager discussions then arose, and many loudly stigmatised the vile proposition which had been made; though some still adhered to their opinion, that they were justified in any deed that would forward the great end. The debate had increased in warmth, until the conspirators formed themselves into distinct parties, when a person rushed into the assembly, consternation and dismay marked on his countenance.

“My friends,” he cried, “I have just made a discovery which places us all in imminent danger; for instead of Ivan Galetzoff, who was supposed to have been murdered, I find that it was the young Count Flatoff, who fell a victim to the dagger of an assassin, having in his possession the important dispatches for St. Petersburg, which he had undertaken to convey thither. Nothing was found about his person, when his corpse was discovered, so that there is every probability that the murderer has possessed himself of the documents. Some of the Count’s friends here have been making inquiries for him, on finding that he had not set off, and it was thus I first suspected that he was the person found murdered. We are, therefore, completely in the power of whoever possesses those papers, for even the assassin himself would obtain pardon for the deed from the government, in return for the valuable information he can give.”

This announcement caused deep alarm among the conspirators, who immediately broke off their debate, to prepare for departure and separation. But what was their dismay, when on emerging from the garden, they found every avenue occupied by officers of police, and one by one as the foremost appeared, were made prisoners. The rest, seeing the fate of their friends, formed into a body, and made a desperate effort to cut their way through the guards; some succeeding; but by far the greater number fell into the hands of their enemies. Those who got off fled in all directions, pursued by the police, but very few escaped.

Volume One—Chapter Fourteen.

The young Pole, Thaddeus Stanisloff, had been appointed to a regiment, destined to proceed with many others to join the army in the Caucasus, now quartered in Moscow on its way to the south. On the same day, that Ivan had been driven from the château of the Baron Galetzoff, he left his home to join his regiment; taking a farewell, which he felt might too probably be the last, of his broken-hearted father, now rapidly drawing towards his end, worn out by grief and sickness. He received also the warm and cordial adieus of his generous and high-minded host.

Thaddeus, naturally light-hearted and gay, by the time he reached Moscow, had forgotten the sorrow of parting, and was looking forward to the pleasure of again meeting his friend Ivan, as, soon after dusk, he rode through the streets towards the hotel where he expected to find him; but was disappointed on hearing that he had already gone out. He immediately set forth on foot by himself, in hopes of finding him at some of their usual places of resort, when, soon after leaving the hotel, the light of a torch falling strongly on his features, a small and feminine figure, who was about to pass on, stopped to look attentively at his face, and then addressed him in a timid and agitated manner. As she looked up to speak, the veil which had before concealed her face dropt on one side, and discovered the features of the Gipsy girl Azila.

“I meet you most fortunately,” she said, “for you may be able to give assistance, where it will be much required. Are you ready to meet a great danger to assist a friend?”

“I should be unworthy to be called a friend, by any whom I should hesitate to aid, whatever the risk to myself,” answered Thaddeus. “But of whom do you speak?”

“Of your friend, Ivan Galetzoff! I have this moment been to his hotel, in the hope of warning him of an impending danger, with which I have but just become acquainted. I could not trust any other with such a communication to him; he has already gone out, and although I am too late to prevent him from encountering danger, I may yet be able to rescue him with your assistance.”

“That, I will gladly give at every risk,” answered Thaddeus. “But how am I to find him? Where is he, that I may hasten to his aid?”

“That, I may not tell you,” answered Azila; “but trust wholly in me, and I will place you where you may be ready to lend your assistance, if required.”

“I will trust entirely to your guidance,” said Thaddeus.

“I knew that you were too noble to hesitate,” rejoined Azila, in a deep tone of gratitude. “Let us then waste no more time here.”

“Lead the way, fair lady, and I will follow,” said Thaddeus.

“Have you your weapons?” she asked, “for they may be needed.”

“Yes, I carry my sword under my cloak.”

“That is well,” said Azila; “and now, Sir, follow me closely, and promptly, or we may be too late.”

Azila, looking back for an instant, to see that Thaddeus followed, then advanced at so rapid a pace, threading her way through the intricate streets, that he could scarcely keep up without running. She crossed the river by one of the bridges, and passed through several desolate streets, where many of the houses had not yet been raised from their ashes, hurrying on, till she arrived beneath the dark shadow of a broad archway, and then paused.

Here she spoke to her companion, in a low earnest whisper: “I cannot lead you further, but you must consent to remain here patiently, till your assistance be called for, or until I return; as I now must hasten to summon one of my tribe, who are in the neighbourhood, to aid in your friend’s escape. Wrap yourself closely in your cloak, and remain concealed within this arch; keep your sword drawn for a sudden rescue, for I have reason to suppose that your friend will be set upon by assassins, as he passes near this spot. At all events, be cautious and on the alert.”

Gliding away noiselessly from the spot, she then left Thaddeus, who forthwith retired into the darkest corner, effectually concealed from any passer by, beneath the buttresses of the arch. He did not exactly comprehend by what means his friend had exposed himself to the danger, but it was sufficient for him to know that his aid was required, no matter at what risk to himself; and he determined to abide the result, whatever it might be.

He was doomed to keep a long watch; straining his eyes in endeavouring to pierce through the gloom, and intently listening, to catch the sound of any approaching footstep; when suddenly he heard the sound of voices in muttered conference, apparently approaching the spot where he stood concealed.

The arch, in which Azila had placed Thaddeus, was not the same in which Groff had concealed himself, ere he perpetrated the murder of the young Count Flatoff, but at a short distance from it. The former would not have answered the assassin’s purpose, being too far removed from the lane Ivan usually passed by. This will account for Thaddeus now remaining undisturbed in his concealment.

“Halt here, Kruntz,” said one voice; “this is the spot, I know it well, where I have seen this cursed youth pass so often, and I recommended our noble master to wait here for him. Something has enraged the Count more than ever against him, and he vows that he will not be content, until he has passed his own sword through him. He’ll make sure of him, I warrant.”

“More sure work than you did the other night, Groff,” said Kruntz.

“What mean you?” replied Groff; “what work do you speak of?”

“What mean I! why the murder of Count Flatoff! Tush, tush! comrade, think not to hide that from me, or fear that I would betray you. I suspected that you had been about some dirty work, when you came in, and I was not long in discovering the truth.”

“If you know it, what’s the use of speaking about it,” hoarsely muttered Groff. “I’ll not make a mistake again, trust me. We will have our revenge this time, and gain a reward. A pretty work the youth has given us, what with watching and hunting him about so long.”

“We ought to know each other by this time, Groff, and need keep no little secrets of this sort from one another: so, no fear of my betraying you. But say, how did you manage to find out that young Galetzoff is likely to pass this way?”

“Why, the Count set me to watch all his haunts; and several times I followed him in this direction, when I suddenly lost sight of him among the garden walls; but after waiting here, I found that he again passed by, and each night he has done the same. I felt certain that it was he, when I made the mistake the other night; but I will not fail a second time, trust me; and I know that he will come, for I am sure it was he, we saw pass at dusk. Ah! what is that object on the ground, Kruntz? see, it moves! It is too horrid to look at!” cried Groff, in a hollow, husky voice. “I see its mangled features. Do you believe in ghosts, Kruntz?”

“Ghosts—no!” answered Kruntz, jeeringly; “I never saw one yet. Why, what’s the matter, man? you are not wont to tremble. Rouse yourself, Groff: be a man. Why, what is there to care for, if you did put a wrong man out of the way; you are not the first who has done so.”

“It is well for you to laugh, Kruntz, who have no feelings; but if you had seen the horrible sight that appeared to me just now, you would have trembled.”

“Nonsense, man,” said his companion, “it was all your fancy; and now get rid of such ideas, for here comes some one. Be prepared!”

Thaddeus heard nearly every word of this conversation; and becoming much alarmed for the safety of his friend, stood ready to rush out to his assistance, for he fancied that through the gloom he saw him approaching.

As the footsteps drew near, the voice of the Count Erintoff was heard: “Hist, hist! what, knaves, are you there? Kruntz, Groff, answer!”

The men who had been concealed by the arch, stepped forward as they heard their master’s voice.

“Has the person I told you to watch for appeared, or have you again let him escape you, villains?”

“No, Count,” answered Kruntz: “no fear of that. I owe him a broken head, and I don’t forget my debts. I should like to catch his friend, the other young fellow; I would pay him off all old scores.”

“Hush, knaves!” said the Count. “Listen, some one approaches: be prepared to rush out. It is he!”

A footstep was heard. Thaddeus grasped his sword more firmly—his heart beat high, as he stood ready to spring from his hiding-place. The person had reached the spot. It was Ivan; for the Count and his servants sprung out upon him, and attacked him furiously.

“Yield; you are my prisoner!” exclaimed the Count, making a pass with his sword at Ivan’s breast, though, fortunately, not so rapidly but that he had time to spring aside, and draw his own weapon, with which he had provided himself since Azila’s warning; this enabled him to parry a second thrust made at him.

“Rescue! Ivan! here’s rescue, my friend!” cried Thaddeus, darting forward, most unexpectedly, and beating down the swords of the two servants, who attempted to oppose him. “What means this assassin-like attack?”

He was met by Groff and Kruntz, who had recovered from their surprise in a moment, and now turned upon him with their whole united strength, while their master pressed Ivan hard.

“Yield!” again exclaimed the Count, “you are a traitor to Russia, and have joined in a dark conspiracy against her laws.”

These words urged Ivan to defend himself with greater determination; and returning the Count’s attack with the utmost vigour, the latter would have fallen a victim to his own nefarious plot, had he not called Kruntz to his aid.

Left to engage Thaddeus single-handed, Groff now attacked him with such blind fury, that he left his own person exposed; while his opponent, anxious to lend his aid to Ivan, who was now so unequally beset, did his utmost to disarm him. Failing in this attempt, he made a lunge to terminate the contest, and his sword passed through the body of his adversary, who fell, with scarcely a groan, to the earth. In the meantime, Ivan had defended himself successfully from his determined assailants; but just as his friend turned to his aid, his foot slipped, and the Count observing the movement, passed his sword through his side. Thaddeus soon succeeded in disarming Kruntz, whirling his sword, by superior fence, out of his hand, and over the adjoining wall, when the ruffian, instead of assisting his master, turned and fled. Before the latter had time to follow up his advantage, by a second and more effectual wound on Ivan, he was vigorously assailed by Thaddeus, who, pressing him back to relieve his friend, disarmed him likewise; but, retreating behind a projecting buttress, the Count baffled his pursuing adversary, and being well acquainted with the different intricate windings, he succeeded in effecting his escape.

Retracing his steps, Thaddeus rejoined his friend, at the moment when the latter, returning to consciousness from the effects of his hurt, attempted to raise himself from the earth. Bending down by his side, he proceeded to bind up his wound, and as Ivan recognised him, he exclaimed:

“Fly, Thaddeus, fly! for treachery and danger surround us: there is not a moment for explanations; but I beseech you to fly instantly, or you will be involved in my ruin.”

“Never could I leave you thus,” replied Thaddeus. “Lean on me for support, and perhaps we may yet have time to escape.”

“Thanks for your generous aid,” said Ivan; “but I fear escape is impossible; I feel too much hurt to walk, and you would inevitably be overtaken: for be assured, that the Count has but retreated to call the police, without whose aid he first trusted to satiate his revenge. I know too well, by the words he uttered, that I am completely in his power, through secret information he has gained.”

At that moment, a light footstep was heard approaching, and a female form appeared, whom Thaddeus recognised as Azila.

A cry escaped her as she beheld Ivan hurt and on the ground; when, throwing herself beside him, she assisted Thaddeus in supporting his wounded friend.

“Alas!” she cried, “unhappy I am that I should have arrived too late to prevent this calamity; but I have friends on their way who may still be of service.”

“Thanks, fair girl,” said Ivan, raising himself with their assistance, “I will exert myself; but first, persuade my friend to save himself by flight, for his stay here can but subject him to great peril, without affording me further aid.”

“He speaks but too truly,” said Azila, turning to Thaddeus. “It were, indeed, madness to remain, and so offer another sacrifice to the Count’s revenge; for believe me, your friend has been betrayed by that dastard, Count Erintoff, and has incurred the rigour of the most tyrannical laws. Fly, therefore, while you have time, before the police are upon us, when your uniform alone would betray you; fear not for your friend, his safety will be cared for.”

Thaddeus still refused to desert his friend, in spite of the latter’s persuasions; when, as she spoke, lights were seen to glimmer in the distance.

“Fly, fly, Thaddeus! my dear friend!” cried Ivan: “see, the police are approaching, and you will but involve yourself in my misfortunes. And you, lady, leave me to my fate; your safety is also perilled if you are discovered.”

“I will not quit you, Sir; I have nothing to fear,” answered Azila. “Ah!” she exclaimed, “the Great Spirit is merciful!” as, at that moment, two dark forms emerged from the opposite direction to that in which the lights had appeared, and towards which she had constantly been directing an inquiring glance. “These are my friends, and may yet be in time to save you.”

Two men then approached, to whom she spoke in her own language, and instantly they raised Ivan gently from the ground, and bore him rapidly in the direction whence they had come.

Azila led the way in silence. Thaddeus followed, and he was happy to find that their distance, from the lights carried by the police, evidently increased.

The fugitives continued their way for some time, along the dark and narrow lanes, amid the ruined buildings we have already described, and with which Azila seemed perfectly acquainted; never for a moment hesitating which path to take, among the numerous turnings. They at length paused in front of a huge pile of buildings equally dilapidated, looming still larger and darker in the gloom through which they were seen. Their guide passing beneath a low covered way, followed by the rest of the party, struck a sharp blow on a small door, scarcely distinguishable from the masonry which surrounded it. It was opened without a moment’s delay; the party entered, and after descending a few steps, Thaddeus found himself in a small vaulted chamber.

The door was carefully closed behind them, and a decrepit old man made his appearance, bearing a lamp in his hand, with which he scrutinised each individual on entering. The two athletic gipsies now placed their wounded burthen on a low pallet which stood at one end of the vault, when Azila thus addressed the old man:

“Father! I am come to entreat your succour for one in distress, who has escaped from the police now in full search of him. While here, he would, you know, be in safety.”

“Daughter,” answered the old man, “I would refuse you nothing. I will do my utmost for the youth’s safety; but who is this other? An officer too! what does he here?”

“He is a friend of the Wounded man, and would not quit him, though at great danger to himself,” answered Azila. “Ere the morn dawns, he must be from hence. But now that you have granted us your hospitality, father, we must attend to your wounded guest.”

It was indeed time, as from the exertion Ivan had undergone, his wound bled afresh; the old man, however, produced salves and linen to apply to it; but his hands trembled with the feebleness of age as he performed the operation, assisted by Thaddeus.

“Ay, ay, I have bound up many wounds in my day, and thought to have long ago departed for that place where there will be none to cure. God’s will be done!”

Ivan had just strength to express his thanks, and fell back exhausted. In the mean time, Azila had dispatched the two men to watch the direction taken by the police, and to bring back word, as soon as it would be safe for Thaddeus to venture on his return to the city. She then took her seat by the side of Ivan’s humble couch, watching each movement of his pallid face, while Thaddeus was seated opposite, and their old host busied himself in producing various articles of refreshment, including a flask of wine; a small quantity of which considerably revived Ivan. The old man kept moving about, and muttering to himself, but bestowing few words on the strangers.

After a considerable time, the scouts came back to report that the road was clear; the police having returned to their posts in despair that their prey had escaped.

“It is now time for you to depart, Sir,” said Azila, addressing Thaddeus, “for longer delay here would be hazardous, while your friend, trust me, will be carefully attended to. One of these men will be your guide, till you reach a part of the city known to you.”

As at these words Thaddeus rose to depart, Ivan exclaimed:

“Adieu, my generous friend! I know not when we may next meet, for all around me looks dark, and lowering; but something within tells me, that I shall yet surmount all difficulties. Our courses, I fear, however, must be widely different; yours is clear before you, though I sincerely wish that you would follow mine. You shake your head. Well, well, I cannot now urge you to do as I wish; but I will take care to apprise you of my movements, and perchance we may some day again meet in happier circumstances.”

After expressing his thanks to Azila, Thaddeus followed one of the Gipsies, who conducted him at a rapid place, till they arrived at a part of the city with which he was familiar; when the man pointing to the direction he was to take, disappeared without waiting for an answer; and the young Pole soon after reached his lodgings in safety.

Volume One—Chapter Fifteen.

A gentle and refreshing slumber stole over Ivan’s senses, banishing from his mind all remembrance of the cares and dangers surrounding him, as he lay on his couch, watched over by the vigilant care of Azila.

He had been undisturbed in his place of refuge for several hours, when he suddenly started in his sleep, aroused by a singular and hurried knocking at the door. Azila hastened towards it, as the old man, slowly rising from his seat, had begun, with muttered grumblings, to undo the fastenings.

“In mercy, father, let him not in,” said Azila, “whoever it may be! He may bring ruin on your guest. Oh! bid him seek shelter, or whatever he may want, elsewhere.”

“Ay, that I would, with a pestilence on mankind, who are for ever worrying me,” muttered the old man; “but my oath—my oath compels me. I may refuse admittance to none who make the sign.”

Again the knocking was repeated, as the old man, having finished his task of unbarring, opened the door, and a man pale as death, his dress torn and disordered, sword in hand, rushed into the vault.

“Hide me—hide me, father!” he exclaimed. “All is lost; many are taken, some slain, and all dispersed; and even now the police are in pursuit of me.”

The old man peered into the face of the new comer to identify him, and as if to ask for an explanation of what had happened; while the stranger, on his part, looked with surprise at seeing Azila and Ivan already occupants of the vault. He was, however, recognised as one of the conspirators, as he threw himself exhausted on a stone bench.

“What means this agitation?” said Ivan, as the person recognised him; “what means this alarm? for I scarcely heard the words you spoke as you entered.”

“Alas!” answered the conspirator, “our noble enterprise has been discovered before all was fully prepared, and is now utterly and for ever overthrown. No sooner had the meeting broke up, than, as we were separating, we found the police gathering in strong force round all the entrances to the garden. No time was to be lost, many of our friends had already been seized, when I, with others, made a desperate rush through one of the avenues, less strongly guarded than the others; some of us escaping, favoured by the darkness, and our knowledge of the situation; and fear giving swiftness to my feet, I distanced all pursuers, and hastened hither. Yet, at one time, I heard my enemies following close behind me; but they lost sight of me among the lanes which lead to this spot. Had the assembly broken up sooner, we should have escaped for this night, as the police had but just begun to arrive at the place, to which some of the party must have been traced by spies, or some foul treachery has been at work. I had a narrow escape; but I had no fear when once I got outside, for I knew that you, father, would shelter me.”

“Ay, ay,” muttered the old man, “at the risk of suffering the knout again, and being sent back in chains to Siberia, if they discovered who I was. I have had enough of that already; but fear not, I will not betray you, and it will be long before the knaves find out my den; or should the worst happen, here is a place they would find it difficult to discover:—therefore, should the police come here, you must conceal yourself within.”

At those words, he removed what appeared a large ill-shapen slab, or rather block of stone, in the wall, but which turned on well-made hinges, and disclosed within, a recess or small chamber ventilated by an aperture in the roof. It had evidently been formed with great labour and perseverance for the purpose it was now to be put to, and was capable of containing three or more persons without inconvenience.

“If the police discover us here, your wounded friend must also take refuge within this place; and they will have more wit than I give them credit for, if they espy him. Hark! I hear footsteps; surely none can have betrayed me. If so, all is lost.”

Scarcely were the words uttered, than a thundering attack of blows was heard at the door, and a voice loudly demanding admittance in the name of the Emperor. The conspirator turned pale with terror, and rushed towards the entrance of the concealed chamber.

“Stay,” said Azila, “would you leave your wounded comrade to perish, while you secure your own retreat? First place him in safety, and all will be well; fear not, for I will soon manage to get rid of our unwelcome visitors.”

Ivan thanked her with a look of gratitude, as the conspirator, following her directions, with the feeble aid of the old man, lifted him through the narrow aperture, and laid him on some straw hastily thrown together; when Azila, carefully closing the entrance, prepared to receive the emissaries of justice. She threw a cloak over her head and shoulders, so as completely to cover her form and features, busying herself over the fire, as if watching some culinary operation, while the old man employed himself in slowing unbarring the door, muttering and growling as if just aroused from sleep.

A second and more impatient summons made him hasten to withdraw the bolts, when the door flew open, almost knocking him down, and a party of the police rushed into the vault, but started back confounded, on beholding who were its sole occupants.

Azila’s watchful eye marked the servant of Count Erintoff—the ruffian Kruntz, among the party.

“Well, I could have sworn,” said the man; “that I saw some person enter here not a quarter of an hour ago; and I know that he could not have again escaped without my seeing him.”

“This is strange,” said the leader of the police, “we must question the old man, if he has sense enough to understand us. Here, old man! has any one lately left this mansion of yours?”

“Few come to visit one overcome with age and infirmities, who dwells in a dark vault where the light of day scarcely enters,” said the hermit; “no, no! they leave me alone to die in peace and quiet, it is all I require. What is it that you desire of me, gentlemen? can I do aught to serve you? I have, indeed, little to offer!”

“Cease your prating, old man!” said the officer, “and listen to what I say. A foul plot has just been discovered, and some of the conspirators have taken refuge in this neighbourhood. Now harken! I am not to be trifled with: you, old man, know somewhat of them.”

“Woe is the day, that such things should be!” cried the old man. “Look around—see! none are here; there must be some mistake.”

“We shall prove it,” exclaimed the police officer, who, exasperated at the chance of his prey escaping him, produced a thick leathern thong, with which he struck the aged hermit a violent blow across the shoulders; “this will refresh your wits and ideas perchance. Say! can’st thou now remember, old knave; or must another blow yet revive you?”

“I cannot speak more than the truth,” said the old man, meekly, and bowing before the petty tyrant, too well accustomed to such deeds. “Your stripes can draw no more than the truth from me, I know not of whom you speak.”

“Is it so!” cried the officer, now growing furious at his disappointment, and having strong suspicions that he had, in some way, been deceived. “We shall see what efficacy there is in leather to draw the truth from you,” aiming at the same time several more blows at the old man, which made him shrink down cowering before the barbarian, though he uttered no words of complaint, nor could the slightest information be elicited from him.

Since the entrance of the myrmidons of police, Azila had kept her seat apparently unnoticed, bending down her head before the fire, her cloak concealing her features so effectually that none could know them; at the same time keeping a watchful eye on those whose presence caused such risk to Ivan’s safety; hoping that a woman’s wit, in case of necessity, would lead them astray. She now, however, could no longer contain her indignation at the cowardly assault by the police officer on the defenceless and decrepit old man, for, suddenly rising from her seat, she boldly confronted the tyrant.

Drawing herself up to her full height, and assuming a look of proud disdain, she thus addressed the brutal ruffian:

“Dastardly tyrant, can you not find some nobler object to vent your unjust rage upon, and to display your power, than yonder decrepit old man? Perchance you may deem a weak and helpless woman a fitter subject for the exercise of your proud prerogative, if so—strike! fear not! I can bear as much as that infirm old man—perchance more. What! are you afraid? Then order some of your myrmidons to begin the attack; do they also lack courage? Oh! most brave and noble band to fear an old man, and young woman! Go your way then, if you have no better errand—or search here first, for what you want!”

The rough natures of the men were awed by the majestic air, and authoritative manner of Azila, for they drew back to the entrance of the cavern; while their leader foamed with rage at finding himself baffled by a young girl; but he meditated revenge.

Azila had shewn much tact in drawing off the officer’s anger from the old man to herself, and then working him into a fury, and increasing it so as to confuse his faculties, and prevent him from making a stricter search, when the retreat of the two conspirators might by chance have been discovered. Her plan had well nigh succeeded, and the officer was preparing to depart, when something seemed to strike him as left undone, and turning to the old man, he seized him roughly by the shoulder demanding his name; the latter hesitating to give this at once, brought upon himself a fresh shower of blows.

“Stay—stay your hand!” cried he, “do you demand my name? alas! my memory is so bad that I can scarcely remember it; but I am called Orenoff, and I live here on the charity which a few people, whose hearts are not yet turned to stone, bestow on me. My heart has undergone a like fate, else I could not bear your treatment.”

While the old man was babbling away in this strain, the officer made notes on paper, and presently turning to Azila, said:

“Now, Madam, you must give me some account of yourself, or else prepare to follow me. What do you here?”

“I answer your questions,” replied Azila, “because forsooth, it pleases me to do so. I came then to attend yonder weak, sick old man, and to bring him food and medicine, for he has none other to attend him.”

“Whence do you come, then?” demanded the officer.

“From a noble and charitable lady,” said Azila; “and perchance it may occur to your wisdom, that it was my cloak, which was seen entering the vault, and which your spies took for one of the conspirators!”

“If you can give no better account of yourself than this, you must accompany me forthwith,” said the officer.

“But, should it not be my pleasure to leave, you may experience some difficulty in compelling me,” replied Azila.

The officer smiled grimly, and was stepping forward to seize her slight figure, which could indeed have offered but a slight resistance to his grasp, when she exclaimed:

“Stand aside, and touch me at your peril!” producing at the same time a paper from her bosom. “Know you that signature?” she said. “Go your way, and leave this old man to rest, who is too ill and infirm to move hence, and learn in future to exercise your bravery on objects capable of self-defence.”

The police officer, with an abashed and scowling look, now prepared to depart; still however shewing some hesitation, as if doubtful of acting wisely; but a significant wave of Azila’s hand, decided him to order his men to withdraw, when they, glad to escape, soon made their exit through the narrow doorway of the vault, followed by their leader.

As their footsteps were heard receding, the old man hastened to close the door, but was checked by Azila.

“No, father,” she said, “let them not suppose that we have aught to conceal, by manifesting haste to shut them out, or they may perhaps return and renew their search, although I think their brutal leader would rather not attempt it.” Some minutes accordingly elapsed, ere the door was again closed and barred.

While this scene was taking place, Ivan’s feelings may be better conceived than described, as he lay concealed with his companion in their narrow cell; first, on hearing the entrance of the police, and their treatment of the old man, and again when their leader threatened to seize Azila. At first he felt inclined to rush out, and at all risks to arrest the barbarian, but the pain of his wound recalled him to timely reason, and he reflected that the act would not only sacrifice his companion and himself, but also indeed doubly commit his aged host and Azila. The maiden appeared at the entrance of the cell, soon after the police had withdrawn, and addressing its inmates, said:

“For the present, I trust you are safe, but I cannot answer for how long a time you may remain so, as the police will yet keep a watch on this place. I should advise, you, Sir, who are strong and able to seek safety elsewhere, to retire from hence as soon as I can ascertain that the road be clear; I am even confident, that they will return here again before long. Are you ready to depart?”

“Yes, yes,” replied the conspirator, “I would rather trust myself to the dangers of the open streets, than run the risk of being taken here, like a fox in his hole; but it will be a perilous undertaking to run the gauntlet through the bands of the lynx-eyed police. Can I serve my friend, Galetzoff? and shall I not leave him in greater danger?”

“Fear not for him, leave him to my charge,” answered Azila, “and now, be ready to fly hence on my return. I will learn from those on the watch if all be safe.”

The maiden departed, the old man closing the door with the utmost caution, while the conspirator pressed Ivan’s hand, bidding him farewell, and stood ready to sally forth on her return. She soon came back, assuring him that none of the police were to be seen in the neighbourhood; with hurried and anxious look, he then rushed forth to reach a safer refuge.

The door was now again secured with bar and bolt. Assuming the same bashful and retiring manner as before, when in Ivan’s presence, so different from her usual free and independent bearing, when in discourse with others, Azila addressed the wounded youth—

“I must now leave you for a while,” she said, “for I go to seek means to enable you to escape hence, in safety, to the tents of my people, where your wound will be quickly healed, and you may dwell until you gain strength to fly from the country. Until my return, I confide you to the care of an old and tried friend, and a trusty guard watches outside, who will give immediate notice of the slightest danger.” Then making her usual oriental obeisance, she withdrew towards the door, lingering to cast one look on her patient; and before he had time to express his thanks, she had quitted the vault.

Ivan was left in the recess, the entrance being open, while his aged host prepared himself for slumber on a pallet in a corner of the vault; he followed the latter’s example, although every passing sound aroused him.

The remainder of the night waned, no fresh event occurring to disturb the occupants of the dreary vault. No sooner had a few streaks of morning found ingress through the crevices of the walls, than the old man arose from his uneasy couch, and after tendering his services to Ivan, proceeded to prepare a morning meal. This considerably revived his wounded guest, though the pain he suffered had not diminished. Still the very recollection of his narrow escape gave him hopes for the future, and he looked forward with eagerness to the time when his present confinement would cease, and he should again breathe the pure air of Heaven in unrestrained liberty. Occupied with these thoughts, he passed the remainder of the day, anxiously awaiting Azila’s return.

Volume One—Chapter Sixteen.

The principal place of resort of that singular race of people, the Zingani, or Gipsies, or as they universally call themselves the Rommany; of whom there are several thousands in and about Moscow; is the Marina Rochte, lying about two versts distant from the city.

Most of these people obtain their livelihood in Moscow, either by keeping taverns, or by dealing in horses and by various other like kinds of traffic, bearing in general but an indifferently good character. The class, however, to which we now allude, are of the lowest order; whose females sing at the taverns and different public gardens in the neighbourhood, and are not of the best repute, as to modesty of behaviour. Here they congregate in great numbers, their countenances resembling those of their race who are to be met with in England; of brown complexions, and for the most part having beautiful and regular features; their eyes fiery and intelligent; their hair, somewhat coarse, of coal black hue; and all having the same free and independent bearing.

There is, however, another class of Zingani, whose very existence will surprise those who have been accustomed to consider these people as mere wandering barbarians, incapable of civilisation, and unable to appreciate the blessings of a quiet and settled life; for many of them inhabit large and handsome houses in Moscow, appear abroad in elegant equipages, and are scarcely to be distinguished from the upper classes of the Russians, unless, indeed by possessing superior personal advantages and mental accomplishments. Of this singular social phenomenon at Moscow, the female Gipsies are the principal cause, having from time immemorial cultivated their vocal powers, with such effect, that although in the heart of a country in which the vocal art has arrived at a greater perfection than perhaps in any other part of the world, the principal gipsy choirs in that city are, by universal consent, allowed to be unrivalled.

The sums obtained by these singers, are very large, enabling them to live in luxury of every description, and to maintain their husbands in almost princely magnificence. Many are married to Russian gentlemen of consideration. The lovely, talented, and domestic wife of a Count, well-known in the highest, circles of Moscow, is by birth a Gipsy, and was formerly the chief pride of a Rommany choir at Moscow, as she is now one of the principal ornaments of refined society.

In no other part of the world do the gipsies flourish as they do in Russia, affording a great contrast to the wretched hordes steeped in penury and vice, who infest the Peninsula; and to the low thieving trampers of England and Scotland, existing by petty pillage; such bands often being indeed but a collection of the lowest vagabonds of every description intermingled with the original race.

There are many opinions as to the land from whence the Zingani have sprung; it is generally supposed, that they originally came from Hindostan, being of the lowest class of Indians, called Suders, or those who have lost caste; that they migrated from thence in great numbers in 1409, when Timour Beg ravaged India, to spread with fire and sword the tenets of the Mahomedan religion. It seems probable that in their way towards Egypt, where we first hear of them, that they resided for a time in the country called Zinganen, at the mouth of the Indus, from whence they may perhaps have gained the name of Zingani. By what route they reached Egypt from thence, is not known, but they had fixed themselves there in great numbers in 1517, when Sultan Selim conquered the country. They revolted from his rule, under a leader who has assumed the name of Zinganeus, probably from being chosen chief of that people; but were completely worsted, being again compelled to seek safety in flight, and made their appearance in Europe in large bands about the year 1520. Some of their leaders, who with their followers found their way to the northern parts of Europe, called themselves dukes and lords of Lower Egypt, endeavouring to impose on the people, among whom they came, with pretentions of rank and dignity; in this, however, they were not very successful, soon sinking into a class considered no better than rogues and vagabonds.

In Russia, on the contrary, among an ignorant and barbarous population, their various talents and acuteness enabled them to sustain a superior station; nor have they, at any time, been there subject to the persecutions and indignities which they have had to endure in other countries of Europe. Though some, as we have said, have taken up their abode in cities, others still retain their primitive and wandering habits, living in tents; and roving from place to place, as may suit their fancy; or as they find it convenient to carry on the pursuits by which they exist.

The tribe or family to which Azila belonged, was under the guidance of a sagacious leader, and was compelled by him to refrain from all marauding habits. Though the Zingani chief was possessed of considerable wealth, he was of too free and independent a disposition to confine himself to the trammels and restraint of the social life of a city, preferring the more varied and roving existence enjoyed in a camp. He had, however, numerous connexions of every rank in the city; among the most superior of whom, his daughter Azila, had in truth been educated, and when her own inclinations led her to return to her father’s camp, she was still regarded by them with the greatest affection; and it was by their aid, assisted by her own talent and penetration, that she was able to collect the varied information, which as we have seen, was of so much importance to the conspirators.

It is towards the close of one of the few bright and balmy days which cheer the hearts of the Russians in their short-lived summer, that we must again introduce our readers to the camp of our friend, the Zingani chief. It had lately been pitched on the confines of a wood, at a short distance from Marina Rochte; and it was evident, from fewer people than usual being seen about the encampments, that many had joined their brethren in the village, to enjoy their constant amusements of dancing, singing, and other sports.

At a short distance from the tented circle, the Zingani chief was slowly pacing the grass, with his arms crossed on his bosom, and lost in thought. At length he soliloquised aloud:

“This is the baneful effect of departing from our ancient laws and customs, by taking part in the affairs of the people with whom we dwell; losing our freedom and independence, by becoming subject to their cruel and unjust laws. Ought not I to have prevented that loved girl from trammelling herself with the affairs of others, who would show but little gratitude for her exertions, even if successful; and now too, probably, she herself may be in danger: and if so, what resource have I but to declare her parentage. That would save her: but the so doing would bring ruin on one who still lives. If she falls into the power of the tyrannical dispensers of the law, her fate would be dreadful. Should I not then save her? Yes, I must, even at the expense of the oath I so thoughtlessly took. It provided not for such an emergency. It must be done; and even thus, it would well nigh break my heart to part from her; to see her subject to all the deceit and treachery to which her station would expose her—to see her free-born spirit oppressed by the strict rules and absurd etiquette of society; to see her governed by one who could not appreciate her qualities, and shrinking before his stern and savage glance; confined too within walls, and no longer allowed to wander in free and unrestrained liberty. And yet, some will say that I am acting wrongly; that I am depriving her of the enjoyment of luxuries and of wealth, which are her due. Fools—fools! who value worthless gold, outward pomp, and idle, debilitating effeminacy, to health, and the free air of heaven.”

As he again turned, he saw the object of his thoughts approaching, at a quick pace, from the direction of the city. Azila appeared hurried and eager in manner; and after holding a short conference with her father, they entered together within the circle of tents. The gipsy chief then summoned round him the men who yet remained in the encampment—persons in whom he could place the utmost reliance in cases of emergency.

“Men of Rommany!” he said, addressing them in that style of language which they most love to hear, “there is an arduous and dangerous task to be performed, which will require the utmost sagacity and care. I have, therefore, summoned you around me, to select one who will swear to undertake it; but whoever offers himself, must know, that he risks his liberty, and perhaps his life.”

As he finished speaking, a youth stepped forward from the circle of his companions, exclaiming:

“I am ready to undertake whatever you propose, if it be within the power of man!”

The keen, lustrous, dark eye; handsome and intelligent countenance; and well-knit limbs of the youth, were powerful recommendations in his favour; and the chief, without hesitation, selected him.

“I well know that I can trust you,” said the chief; “the task will require all your sagacity and courage. Its main object is to ensure the freedom of the young stranger. But remember, Javis, that if your attempt be discovered, chains, imprisonment, and banishment, will infallibly be your lot: and for your reward, if you succeed, the utmost I can give, are my own and Azila’s grateful thanks. More she cannot give,” he added, as a blush rose, for a moment, on the youth’s dark cheek.

“I ask not for reward,” answered the youth. “It is but a debt of gratitude each man of the tribe owes to the young stranger; and I should be base if I were not ready to pay it: I will save him, or perish in the attempt.”

“I trust you fully, Javis,” said the chief; “and now we will call Azila to our conference.”

He beckoned his daughter to approach; and for a considerable time they held an earnest consultation together.

As they finished speaking, a boy ran in, to inform the chief that a stranger was approaching the encampment.

“I will speak with him,” said the chief.

In a few minutes the boy returned, accompanied by a peasant, whose weary and sorrowful appearance seemed to demand compassion.

“Who are you?” said the chief, eyeing him narrowly, and apparently satisfied with his scrutiny. “Who are you, who come uninvited among the people of Rommany? What do you seek with us?”

“If you are the person I take you to be, you shall presently know,” answered the peasant; “tell me, are you not that kind, honest Gipsy, who was once very civil to my master; my poor young master, whom I have been seeking all over the city, and can hear nothing of. Alas! alas! I fear that he is in great peril.”

“Who is your master?” asked the Gipsy; “when I know that, I may perhaps answer some of your questions.”

“My poor young master,” replied the peasant, who proved to be our old friend Karl, “is the son of Baron Galetzoff. Well, I was sent to Moscow to-day, and venturing to pay a visit to my young Lord, I heard that he had disappeared, nobody knows where. I have been seeking for him all day, in every place I could think of, and have now come to ask you, if you know any thing of him?”

“It is not my custom to answer the questions of those whom I do not know,” said the Gipsy. “Tell me, how came you to suppose, that I could tell you any thing of your master?”

“Why, for this reason,” said Karl; “I once heard my poor young master, and his friend Thaddeus Stanisloff, speak of a Zingani chief, who had promised to assist them, if they got into any difficulties. Well, as I was wandering about, and looking in search of my master, I saw some of the Rommany people; and I bethought me that I would come out here, and learn if their chief was in the neighbourhood, and if he knew any thing of my dear master.”

“Well, my good friend,” said the Gipsy, who was pleased with poor Karl’s simplicity and sincerity, “go back now to the city, and say not a word more of your master; but return here to-morrow, at day-break, and be careful that you are unobserved, and perhaps you may then see him.”

“Thanks, most kind and worthy Sir,” answered Karl, “you have made my heart light and happy again.”

He then took his leave, as desired, and returned to Moscow; where, as he was wandering about, looking into various shops, to pass the time, he met an acquaintance, to whom he could not resist giving the gratifying intelligence, that he had heard of his young master, the son of the Baron Galetzoff, as he still persisted in calling Ivan. He did not observe that a stranger was standing within ear-shot, at the time; but he soon found, to his cost, the effects of his thoughtless communication; for, within, an hour, he was seized by some of the police, and dragged immediately before a magistrate.

He was at first mildly interrogated respecting Ivan, in the hope of extracting some voluntary information from him. The magistrate then pressed him more severely, but discovered that the prisoner was a most difficult subject to exert his authority upon, and when sternly ordered to confess all he knew, he stoutly denied ever having received any information of the person in question.

Unfortunately, however, for poor Karl, his perseverance was of no avail to himself, for his acquaintance, who had confessed all he knew, was confronted with him. Another person was found, who proved that he was a serf of the Baron Galetzoff, and consequently must have known the son of that noble. His denial was therefore of no further service to him, and the next day, he was ordered before a criminal court then sitting, where for his contumacy in refusing to answer any questions, he was condemned forthwith to receive the punishment of the knout.

Poor Karl turned pale when he heard his sentence pronounced, but his courage did not forsake him, and he determined to undergo any torture, rather than betray his young master. He was dragged off, therefore, to receive his punishment, with two other criminals convicted of heinous crimes, and whose pallid countenances and trembling limbs, betokened their dread of the coming torture.

The place of execution and punishment is in an open space, outside one of the barriers of the city; and there a mob of skin-clad labourers and peasants had collected, as they saw the prisoners approach, conducted by their guards and the officers, whose duty it was to see that punishment was duly inflicted.

Even in Russia, the executioner or Palatch, as he is called, is looked upon with the same opprobrium and dislike as in most other countries, and he is always some criminal, still considered as a prisoner, but lodges by himself in a solitary house outside the gates of the city. Instances have occurred of criminals actually refusing the odious office, preferring, rather than undertake its cruel duties, the weary and toilsome journey to Siberia, with all the miseries and wretchedness incident to it, and an eternal banishment from their country.

The Palatch, on the present occasion, was a criminal sentenced for life to hard labour in the Siberian mines for murder. The mere appearance of this man, bespoke that savage disposition, which could find gratification in the exercise of his horrid occupation. Underneath his red tangled locks, a scowling forehead protruded, exhibiting beneath his rough eye-brows, a pair of bleared eyes; a flattish, turned up nose, was the only other feature to be seen on his face, his mouth being concealed by a mass of grizzly red hair, which covered the lower part of his face. Even the yoke-necked, slavish multitude, set up a shout of disgust, as the hated inflictor of cruelty appeared; but he seemed callous to their feelings, commencing the preparations for his loathsome office, with cool indifference.

The two real criminals were to suffer first, all three being stationed ready for punishment, in a conspicuous place. The first culprit was placed before an upright board, shaped like an inverted cone; in the upper or broad end of which are hollowed out three notches, the middle one being contrived to receive the neck of the culprit, and the other two the arms, which are securely bound; the legs being fastened to the bottom of the board. The upper part of the body is then stripped quite bare. These preparations being completed, the brutal executioner flourishes the knout round his head, and with tremendous force it descends on the back of the victim, horribly lacerating the flesh. The handle of the knout, is a thick stick eighteen inches long, to the end of which is fastened a twisted thong of leather, twice the length of the stick; and to the end of the thong again, there is a copper ring, through which is passed, with a slip knot, a double strap of leather, an inch broad near the ring, and tapering to a point near the running end; the straps being boiled in milk, to swell and harden them.

Poor Karl looked at this formidable weapon, in the hands of the executioner, with feelings of the most intense hatred; but even the shrieks of his precursors in suffering, as the lash descended on their backs, did not make him waver in his constancy. He was doomed to a still greater trial; for just before it became his turn to suffer, he heard a voice, calling out his name, proceeding apparently from a telga, which, with some others, had just left the gates of the city, and was quickly passing by. He turned round for an instant; and a glance of pleasure lit up his countenance, as he fancied that he recognised the voice: but instantly recollecting himself, he again hung down his head, and appeared to observe nothing around him, till the telga had driven rapidly away.

At length he was also lashed up for punishment; but he uttered not a groan, until nature almost gave way before the executioner had finished his hideous work, which he seemed to go through with greater zest, from the practice he had already had; as the wild beast, which has once tasted human blood, feels insatiate until he has gorged himself with it. Karl knew that at one moment he might have saved himself the torture inflicted upon him; but he willingly suffered without a complaint—a true specimen of the Russian national character, displaying sturdy fidelity and passive endurance, without an expectation or hope of reward.

As yet, he had not half expiated the crime he was charged with, and justice still retained him in her clutches. He was carried back to prison till his wounds were healed, at which period he was compelled to serve the Emperor as a soldier. The constant draft, which an unhealthy climate and the Circassian sabres made in the army of the Caucasus, necessitated the frequent incorporation of criminals in its ranks. With manacles on his hands and feet, he was marched off with others, formed into large bands, containing many volunteers, who were, however, treated in the same way, to prevent their escaping, lest they should change their minds.

Karl knew that it was useless to complain; and as he was of a contented and happy disposition, not much addicted to thinking, he determined to make the best of his lot. Fortunately for themselves, his companions also were blind to the hardships and miseries they would probably be compelled to undergo; although thus loaded like culprits with heavy chains, they passed their time in singing and laughter. As they marched on, their shouts of merriment rose to the skies, amid the clank of their chains, as if to mock the cruelty of their oppressors: the poor wretches being entirely ignorant of the blessings of freedom, and incapable of feeling their degradation, perhaps even incapacitated for thought! Such are now the only people in Europe who can securely be governed by despotism; and such are the senseless tools with which the mighty Czar of Russia works out his imperial will. What care they how many freemen they bring to a like state of bondage as their own? The yoke has so long pressed on their necks, that they heed not its galling weight; but like the patient oxen, they are content to be goaded on to their work, at their master’s will. This vast, soulless engine, is indeed of tremendous force; and has but too often been used to crush and overwhelm freedom, and to plant the banner of tyranny amid lands, where the flag of liberty has hitherto waved bright and unsullied.

Volume One—Chapter Seventeen.

It was towards the close of the day, when a young and active peasant, who, contrary to the usual character of his class, was rather intelligent-looking, was slowly driving a small telga or wagon, filled apparently with hides and merchandise, at the end of a bye-way or narrow lane, at a point where it joined one of the principal roads leading from the south towards Moscow. Observing a cloud of dust rising in the distance, in a southerly direction, he drew up his telga, anxious to ascertain the cause of it. He presently found it to proceed from a long train of wagons, about twenty in number, mostly drawn by oxen, but others, of the same description as the vehicle he himself drove, drawn by horses. The drivers of the wagons were short, ugly-looking fellows, with sandy moustaches and beards, black woolly caps, sheep-skin jackets, the woolly side next the skin. Many of them were half asleep on the tops of their vehicles, trusting to the sagacity of their beasts; but it was now time to rouse themselves into activity, for they were approaching the end of their journey, on which perhaps they had come several hundred miles. Moscow, their bourne, was at hand.

The young peasant joined in the line of the caravan, driving between the carts as if apparently he belonged to their party.

Laughter and joking soon arose among the easily pleased wagoners, caused by his jests and stories; and, searching, under the hides which covered his cart, he produced a case of vodka, and a glass, which he filled with the much-prized liquor, handing it about to the people nearest to him. By this means, and from time to time also singing a song, he soon won all their hearts; the Russian peasants being as passionately fond of music, as they are addicted to vodka.

“Jump up, my friend,” said he to one of the men trudging along-side, “you will find a better seat here than in your own wagon.”

The man readily complied, and the young peasant began to ply him with a number of questions. In this way he learned that they were to remain only one day to rest their cattle, and to start on the following morning for the south. The information seemed to give him much satisfaction; and he intimated to his new friends, that he should wish to enter the city as one of their party, and to return at the same time with them, reminding them that he should not forget to fill his can of vodka.

The lofty towers, and polished domes of Moscow now appeared in sight; and being allowed to pass the gates without hindrance, the caravan proceeded to the part of the city where that class of people chiefly congregate: the young peasant acting in every way like the rest of the party.

After dark, however, giving his telga in charge to one of the wagoners, whom he had more particularly made his friend, he sallied forth into the still crowded and bustling streets, meeting parties of pleasure returning from the gardens in the neighbourhood. Rich nobles driving from one gay scene of dissipation to another; the military returning from relieving guard; drunken men of all classes, reeling home, attempting to support each other as they tottered against the door-posts; none of them, however, joining in bacchanalian songs, as in England and other countries; for the Russian, though a careless, light-hearted being, when sober, becomes when overpowered with liquor, a surly, morose animal, with all his worst passions aroused, and having no pretensions to enjoyment. This is too common a scene in Russia; but we should rather pity than blame such slavish beings, sunk so low in apathetic ignorance, and who are never taught to respect themselves.

The peasant seemed well acquainted with the city; for without once deviating from his course, he quickly threaded its intricate streets. Whatever was his business, he soon performed it; and on his return, again joined the most convivial of his new friends, treating them from his can of vodka, and singing songs to them till late at night. The whole of the next day was spent by the carters in distributing the contents of their vehicles to their different destinations, and in reloading them with goods to convey to the south. The stranger peasant having likewise apparently disposed of his cargo, returned with a very light one, saying that he had a friend with a broken limb, whom he was anxious to convey to his home in the country.

In the evening, he again unloaded his cart, leaving his goods under charge of his friend the carter, and drove away in the direction he had formerly taken; saying, before he went, that he should return with his maimed companion. He drove his light cart quickly along the streets, till he reached that part of the city before mentioned, as the neighbourhood of the place in which the conspirators held their meetings; when on his giving a low whistle, a lad sprang out from behind a wall, and taking the place of the peasant, drove slowly on, the other hastening to the door of the vault, in which Ivan had been so long concealed.

“Is all safe?” he asked of the lad, who took his place. “Have you seen none of the cursed police in the neighbourhood?”

“There is nothing to fear, and no one could pass near here, without my seeing or hearing them,” answered the boy.

The peasant gave the peculiar knock at the door of the vault, which being opened by the old man, he immediately entered. No one appeared in sight, as the telga drove up to the nearest spot, by which the door could be approached; and without allowing it scarcely time to stop, the peasant and a gipsy were seen, bearing the body of a man, wrapped up in the folds of a peasant’s dress, his head bandaged so as completely to conceal his features. No sooner was he placed in the cart, reclining his whole length at the bottom, than the young peasant, again taking the reins, drove rapidly away. The old man was again left to his solitude, and the two gipsies hastened off in an opposite direction.

The peasant proceeded quickly through the narrow and winding streets of the city; once or twice the police seeming inclined to stop him, but as he put on a careless air, whistling and singing as he drove along, they did not think it necessary to interrupt his progress. At length, however, an officer of police, in search of some of the conspirators, who had as yet escaped detection, ordered him in an authoritative tone to stop his telga. He instantly obeyed, uncovering the face of its occupant, and displaying a profusion of red shaggy locks, and large untrimmed beard; a cloth being bound round the head of the wounded man.

The peasant’s volubility and frankness, seemed to convince the officer that there was no cause for suspicion, and he bid the former drive on, an order most promptly obeyed; until at length the peasant escaping all further impediments, reached the caravan party in safety.

He was warmly welcomed by his friends, who were making merry over cans of their beloved quass and vodka; and having attended carefully to the comforts of his charge, whom he covered up in his wagon, he joined his comrades, and remained with them, until they stole off to rest in their carts, the young peasant rolling himself up beneath the shelter of his own telga.

The next morning they were all astir; but it was some time before they were ready to begin their journey towards the south. The wounded man was able to sit up among the merchandise, with which the telga of the peasant was now loaded, the owner walking by its side; and as they passed the gates of the city, he had a joke for each of the guards, who after looking into each vehicle, allowed the caravan to pass on.

At a short distance, outside the gates of the city, they observed a concourse of people assembled, when the wounded man inquired the cause of the crowd. “It is only because a few people are going to be knouted,” answered one of the drivers, taking it as a thing of course.

As they passed close to the place of execution, the wounded man observed one of the unfortunate culprits standing in a conspicuous situation, just about to receive punishment. He uttered an exclamation, and seemed as if he would rush forward to the rescue of the criminal; but his weakness reminded him of his incapability even to walk, as with a look of indignant regret, he sank back on his seat. The young peasant, observing the movement, leaped quickly into the telga, urging on his horse at a faster speed.

“Hist, Sir! hist! Would you spoil all, by want of caution?” he said, “nothing can save the poor fellow, and I know he would rather die than bring you into danger. The knowledge that you are safe will fully repay him.”

The caravan had now proceeded on some way, clouds of dust obscuring the hateful scene from their eyes, and perchance, even among that servile band of drovers, many a breast might have heaved, indignant at the cruelty they had witnessed; for to their sorrow they knew, that the innocent too often suffered punishment, due alone to the guilty, yet none of them dared to utter their thoughts, even to their comrades. It was some time before the young peasant could resume his gaiety, as he returned to his post by the side of his telga; however, he at length began to talk and laugh as before, his light-hearted companions quickly dismissing all recollection of the scene they had witnessed.

Some versts further on, after charging his comrades not to mention his having been with them, and receiving their cordial farewell, he drove away rapidly along the bye road which there presented itself.

He was long remembered by that kind-hearted and simple race, in whose breasts enmity retains a slighter hold than gratitude and affection.

The caravan had proceeded for about the space of an hour, along the road, when an alarm was given, that a party of mounted police were galloping after them. The emissaries of justice were soon among the wagoners, calling loudly to them to stop, striking at them with their thick whips, and demanding a culprit, who had escaped their vigilance. Though the sturdy carters could easily have overpowered their brutal assailants, not one attempted to make any resistance; but the young peasant reaped the reward of his address and wit, in conciliating them, for they one and all denied any knowledge of the person described, nor could additional blows gain any further information from them. The police, after bestowing a few parting stripes, returned the way they came; many a muttered curse followed them, the honest carters rejoicing that their friend had escaped, and piously crossing themselves, offered up many a hearty prayer for his ultimate escape.

The peasant drove on, till he caught sight of the Gipsy encampment of our former friends, between whose tented walls he forthwith entered, and was received with a shout of congratulation by its swarthy inhabitants. The Zingani chief went forward to welcome the new-comers; a cry of pleasure escaping Azila, who timidly followed her father, as the wounded man was lifted from his conveyance; and he with the seeming peasant, throwing off their disguises, discovered to their assembled friends, Ivan and the young Gipsy Javis.

The chief warmly welcomed Ivan, and congratulated Javis on the successful commencement of his undertaking, to which Azila added her own thanks. Ivan was then conducted to the principal tent, where the old crone Hagar, took the wounded man again under her surgical care, and from the effects of her healing remedies, he soon experienced relief.

The chief took a seat by his side. “My daughter,” said he, “could not venture again into the city, to aid your escape as she wished, having as we have reason to know, been already suspected by the police of being concerned in the late conspiracy; and as you well know, suspicion is sufficient to condemn a person in this country, of a political crime.”

“I trust, my friend, to be soon able to relieve you from the danger you run in sheltering me,” said Ivan.

“Not until you are sufficiently recovered to undertake the journey, will we allow you to depart,” answered the Gipsy, “and then I have hopes, that by the talents and ingenuity of Javis, you will entirely escape from the power of your enemies.”

While this conversation was going forward, a man who had been sent out as a scout, hastened into the tent, to say that he had seen a party of the police, galloping on the high road towards the south, in the direction the caravan had taken which Javis had just left.

“Ah!” said the chief, “you have had a narrow escape, Sir, but I have my hopes that the police will lose their scent, and I trust that we are not yet suspected. We will, however, move our camp as quickly as possible towards the south, where we may be more secure from their interference.”

Volume One—Chapter Eighteen.

We must now refer back for a short period, to the morning on which the Count Erintoff learned, from public rumour, that a dreadful murder had been committed, on some one who could not be recognised, owing to the mangled state of his features, and to the absence of any papers or valuables upon the body by which it could be known.

The Count congratulated himself that he had at length got rid of one, whom he most deeply hated; looking upon him as his rival in Azila’s love; and he now therefore anticipated an easy conquest of the beautiful Gipsy girl. He was however, not aware that she had been made fully acquainted, not only with his views towards herself, but with his intention of causing Ivan’s assassination.

It will be remembered that there were two Gipsy boys, whom Groff had kept in the palace for the purpose of enticing Azila thither; these lads were, by the Count’s orders, afterwards allowed to remain, in the hope of again attracting her there. None of their tribe, however, seemed to take any notice of them; the wounded boy remaining in bed, and the other who appeared to be dull and heavy was suffered to wander about the house, at will. The Count little thinking at the time, that he was an active, intelligent spy, whom Azila, profiting by the accident which had introduced them to the palace, had purposely left there to discover and report all the Count’s movements.

The Count being convinced of Ivan’s death, when Groff presented himself to claim the wages of blood, gladly paid the money, and then bethought himself of some plan, to make the most advantageous use of the papers he had become possessed of. They clearly proved the existence of some conspiracy, but of what nature or extent he could not tell; and he began to consider whether or no, he had not better make further discoveries, before he communicated it to the government. He ordered Groff, therefore, to watch the neighbourhood of the place, to learn if others assembled there; an office the wretch was very unwilling to perform; a horror seizing him as he approached the spot, where he had committed the murder, and driving him away, so that he brought back word to his master that he had seen no one.

The Count’s rage and disappointment was excessive, when on the morning of Ivan’s return to Moscow, he heard, by chance, that it was suspected the Count Flatoff was the person murdered, and on making particular inquiries at Ivan’s hotel, he was informed that on the night of the murder, he suddenly departed for the country. This, it will be remembered, was the very time when he was summoned to attend the death-bed of his mother, owing to which he escaped the fate intended for him.

He therefore stationed Groff to watch for his return, to bring him instant information, determining this time to glut his vengeance with his own hands. Groff had not long to wait before Ivan returned, when he hastened with the intelligence to his master.

The Count ordered him to arm himself with a sword, and to return to watch Ivan’s movements, in case he should visit the place of meeting; then taking Kruntz with him, also well armed, he himself repaired to the neighbourhood. He then informed the chief officer of police, that he suspected some plot was on foot, desiring that some of the subordinates might accompany him, in case his suspicions proved correct. His plan was, to attack Ivan under the pretext of arresting him, and to kill him when he attempted to defend himself, as he had no doubt he would do. This purpose, he communicated to his two worthy followers, but it was fortunately overheard by the young Gipsy spy, who had concealed himself in the apartment, and as soon as the lad was able to make his escape, he communicated the information to Azila, who was waiting for him.

The Count’s arrangements occupied some time, so that Ivan had left the place of meeting before the police had arrived, and the Count was but just in time to encounter him. His fury and disappointment were doubly increased at finding himself again foiled in his purpose; his only satisfaction being in the death of Groff, who was in possession of some rather dangerous secrets. How much greater was his rage, when on returning with the police, he found that his prey had escaped him altogether. He eagerly joined in the search, urging on the police to their work, but to no purpose, until baffled and enraged, he returned to his palace, resolving not to rest until he had discovered his rival, and obtained possession of Azila. In order to accomplish the first of these objects, he instituted inquiries in every direction, sending out spies with promises of rewards, if they should discover the traitor, he himself again joining in the search. On inquiring for the Gipsy boys, in order to ascertain where Azila was to be found, he learned that they had both escaped, no one could tell how or when. Of Azila, he could not hear anything, as she had not again appeared in the city.

At all points, he seemed doomed to be disappointed in his vile purposes, when early one day, he heard that a telga had been seen on the previous evening, coming from the direction of the place where the conspirators had held their meetings; and taking the hint, he repaired thither with some of the police. They went directly to the vault of the old man, who had been previously suspected. The wretched inmate was dragged from his abode, and on refusing to answer the questions put to him, which might betray his late guest, he was sentenced to receive the punishment of the knout. The sentence was carried into execution. The old man sunk under it; he died unknown, and unmourned.

The police, however, traced the telga to the place where Javis had passed the night, and finding that a caravan had set out that morning, some of their mounted comrades were sent in pursuit. As we have before stated, they arrived after Javis had driven away, and were again at fault, not knowing what course to pursue; for they were now persuaded that they had been led on a wrong scent.

Count Erintoff at length almost despaired of wreaking his vengeance on Ivan, until, in his inquiries for Azila, he learned that she had been implicated in the conspiracy, and it then occurred to him, that she might have been the companion of his flight. He learned also, that the very tribe of gipsies, to which he knew Azila belonged, had lately been in the neighbourhood of Moscow, though the police were not aware of the fact, and that they had moved towards the south soon after the conspiracy had been discovered. Connecting all these circumstances together, his hopes of gaining possession of Azila, and of punishing his enemy, were again raised. On his giving, therefore, the information he had gained to the police, a party of that force was ordered to attend him. He now felt certain that they could no longer escape; indulging his mind with the thoughts of vengeance, and the success of his passion. He easily traced the route the Gipsies had taken, following up each of their day’s journeys, which he was enabled to accomplish in a much shorter time than they had done. With savage delight at his expected triumph, he caught sight of the tents of the Gipsy encampment; when ordering some of the police to watch well that none escaped, he with the rest, confiding in the power and terror of the legal authority they possessed, rushed into the centre of the encampment. The gipsies appeared to be completely taken by surprise, the women crowding together in alarm, and the men starting on their feet, and advancing to meet the intruders.

The chief came out of his tent, as if just aroused from sleep.

“On what account,” he demanded, “is the quiet and order of my camp thus suddenly broken into by the police? Who is it you seek here?”

“The traitor Ivan Galetzoff, and a Gipsy female called Azila,” said the Count; “and if they are not delivered into our hands, you shall suffer.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the chief, starting and eyeing the Count narrowly, “I have no one here among my people, of that name.”

“You refuse then to deliver up those we are in search of,” said the Count. “Examine the tents,” he exclaimed to his followers; who immediately commenced pulling them down, strewing the contents in all directions on the ground. The Gipsies looked on at the work of destruction with sullen indifference; neither interfering, or offering any resistance to prevent the injury committed; for the police wantonly cut the ropes of the tents, broke open the chests, turned the animals adrift, as they examined the vehicles; so that in a few minutes from the time they entered the encampment, where the quiet circle of tents then stood, there was now a scene of confusion and disorder. Yet it was of no effect, for their intended prisoners could no where be found.

“You have set at defiance the Emperor’s authority,” said the Count, addressing the Zingani chief, “and must take the consequences. I arrest you in the name of the Czar.”

“What, has the noble Count Erintoff turned police officer, as well as assassin?” exclaimed the chief. “I fear you not, Count. Either let me go free, or take the consequences. The murderer of the Count Flatoff is known,” he added, stepping closer up to him. “I well know your motives, Count; but will not interfere, while you attempt not to injure me or mine. I am your prisoner if you wish.”

The Count turned pale with rage and fear. He felt that he was entirely in the power of the bold Gipsy, should he not succeed in destroying him at once, and that he could not hope to do in the midst of his people, when no resistance was offered. The only alternative was to make him his friend, for he saw that terror was not likely to influence him. The Count, therefore, pretended to be satisfied that the people he sought were not among the Gipsies; hoping, by throwing them off their guard, to pounce upon them when unprepared, and intending to take the first opportunity of crushing: one who had a secret of such importance to him in his possession. He feared too, that the accusation would lead to further inquiries as to the means by which he became possessed of the papers, and how he gained his information of the conspiracy, for he knew there were already some causes of suspicion existing against him. Secretly vowing vengeance therefore, he ordered the police to remount, and accompany him in a further search he meditated making, being convinced that the fugitives were at no great distance.

The Gipsies saw their enemies depart, with bitter feelings of vengeance towards them, as they set about repairing the wanton damage they had sustained, while the latter rode on their way; the Count being resolved to accuse the Gipsy of having, like his daughter, given his assistance to the late conspiracy, hoping thus to crush him, without danger to himself, knowing that the first accusation has always the greatest weight. How he succeeded will be seen hereafter.

The Count did not gain the reward he expected for the discovery of the conspiracy; it being strongly suspected, that he would have kept it concealed completely, had he not been instigated by some motive advantageous to himself. Instead therefore of receiving some lucrative office, or of being raised to a higher dignity in rank, the Emperor fully appreciated his motives, and giving him the credit of believing that if it had been to his interest, he would have joined the conspiracy without scruple, appointed him to the command of a regiment in the army of the Caucasus, hoping thus to get rid of a troublesome and suspected subject. As the Count had a short time before reached the rank of Colonel; this order could not appear singular; and although he well understood the reasons of his appointment, he had no alternative but to obey.

The regiment which the Count Erintoff commanded, was one of those forming a brigade under the orders of the Baron Galetzoff, destined for the army of the Caucasus, now marching towards the south, to embark for the opposite coast. Levies had been raised in all directions, the recruits as soon as collected being marched off to the depots in the south, to join an army with which the Emperor had determined to overwhelm and crush his mountain opponents of Circassia; and no one exulted more in the prospect of carrying fire and sword into the country of his detested enemies, than the Baron Galetzoff, as he reviewed his well-equipped though mostly newly raised troops.

Under his standard were collected the short hardy natives of the north, Cossacks from the banks of the Don, and Volga; regiments of enslaved Poles, now fighting by the side of their conquerors; some few cavalry, whom the Russians called Circassians, but who were, in truth, men collected from the confines of the Caucasus; Georgians, Immeritians, Mingrelians; but not one who could boast of true Circassian descent.

With these troops was also the regiment to which Thaddeus Stanisloff was attached, he being obliged to leave Moscow ignorant of the fate of his friend; and many a long day passed, without his receiving any tidings of him. Absence did not however diminish his friendship, or his regret at their separation. Though under the orders of the Baron Galetzoff, it was long before he came in contact with him; he heard it reported, that there was no one so bitter against the defection of his supposed son, or more eager in endeavouring to apprehend him, vowing that he should be punished as a traitor and renegade, if he fell into his power.

Volume One—Chapter Nineteen.

It was now the beautiful, balmy, and genial month of a Russian June, all nature rejoicing, clothed in one entire bright livery of green, fresh from the new bursting buds, yet unseared by the burning heats of summer, like the beauteous maiden just ripened into perfect womanhood, surrounded with a halo of freshness and purity, ere the blasts and scorching atmosphere of the cruel world have had time to obscure the one or sully the other.

A few days had been passed by Ivan in the Gipsy camp, with but slow progress; each day, however, contributing to his strength. At length he declared himself sufficiently recovered to undertake the more difficult and dangerous part of his journey on foot; so eagerly burning was he with the desire of reaching the place of his destination, to fulfil the vow he had taken at the death-bed of his mother.

Azila had been his constant attendant, enlivening him with her conversation, and soothing him with her attentions; but so completely were his thoughts occupied with the events which had occurred, and especially with those to which he was looking forward, that no other sentiment entered his heart. That lovely being, day by day, sat by his side, watching anxiously each look, listening eagerly to each word he uttered, yet he loved not. He felt sincere gratitude to her as the preserver of his life, he would have again risked his own to aid her; but no other feeling excited his bosom. And she—so proud, so indifferent as she had shewn herself to be, towards the Count Erintoff, could she give her love to one from whom she could scarce hope for a return. The hearts of women are uncertain, incomprehensible, inscrutable, and we will not venture to pronounce by what special agency Azila’s was influenced.

Ivan was much indebted to old Hagar for his rapid recovery, though it was some time before she would give her consent to his eager wish to quit her care.

On the last day’s journey, as he was riding among the Gipsies, dressed in the costume of the rest of the party, the chief unfolded the plan he had formed to enable him to make his further escape from the empire.

“At this time of the year,” said the Zingani chief, “thousands of pilgrims flock from all parts of the empire, to what they superstitiously call their holy city of Chioff, and I propose that you should first repair thither with Javis, who is intimately acquainted with every part of the country, as your guide, both of you disguised as peasants performing the pilgrimage, for which I have provided every thing necessary. Should you, by any chance, be again followed, among the vast crowds who are now assembling at Chioff, you will find more facilities for preventing all clue of your route being discovered. After you have passed through the city, you and your guide may assume the character of pilgrims, returning from thence, towards their habitations on the confines of the country. I have sent forward a messenger to some friends of our people, who are now near the place where you will find the least danger in crossing the frontiers into Moldavia, to which Javis will lead you; and our people there, will afford you assistance should you require it. I must now ride forward to select a spot for our encampment; I wish to keep as much as possible concealed from all passers by, for we know not who may prove an enemy among them.” Saying which, the Gipsy chief rode on.

We must observe that the Zingani party had been travelling as much as practicable across the country, keeping all the bye roads and lanes, and avoiding all communications with the villages, near which they were at times obliged to pass.

As they journeyed on, Ivan rode up to the side of Azila, for the maiden seemed sad and dispirited. After some other conversation—

“You go, Sir,” said she, “amid scenes of excitement and of wild strife, where all your thoughts and hopes are centered, and where you will soon forget those you leave behind, those who would have died to serve you; but believe me, there is one who will never forget your aid, nor your bravery in her defence; who—”

“Neither can I ever forget one to whom I owe my life and liberty,” he exclaimed; “nay, much more: who will have enabled me to fulfil, I hope, a deep sworn vow, the accomplishment of which I have so rashly hazarded.”

Their conversation was here interrupted by the return of the Zingani chief, who rode to Ivan’s side.

Early the following day, Ivan and his guide sallied from a tent, so completely changed in appearance, that no one could possibly have recognised in the two old peasants, they now seemed to be, the dark featured, handsome young men they really were. Their very skin had been tinged of a reddish hue, with wrinkles on their brows and cheeks; while red shaggy locks sprinkled with white, covered their own dark hair, and long full beards of the same colour fell over their breasts to the waist, large low hats still more concealing their countenances. They wore long dark coloured gowns, and sheep-skin coats: rough boots of untanned leather protected their feet, and by their side hung wallets to contain their food. In their hands they bore thick sticks, ostensibly to support their tottering steps, but really to serve as a means of defence, in case of necessity.

Thus equipped, when ready to depart, the Zingani chief embraced them both, bestowing on them the peculiar blessings of his people, and charging Javis with many injunctions for the guidance of his conduct on their journey. The whole tribe assembled to bid them farewell, the old crone Hagar calling down curses on all who should impede them in their progress, and blessings on the heads of all who favoured them.

Azila alone was no where to be seen; and feelings which Ivan could scarcely acknowledge, even to himself, prevented him from asking for her, till the last moment. The chief, on missing Azila, sent in all directions to discover her, his alarm becoming considerable when she was not to be found. The travellers delayed their departure, in the hopes of gaining intelligence of her before they went; for fears began to be entertained, that by some means or other she had been entrapped either by the Count Erintoff or by the police, who might have feared to seize her by open force, among so large a band of defenders.

While the whole camp was thus thrown into a state of alarm, one of the scouts, who were at all times kept on the watch, to give timely notice in case they might be pursued, came running hastily among them, to say that he had descried, at a distance, a party whom he took to be police, riding rapidly towards the camp. Without a moment’s delay, Javis seized Ivan’s hand, hurrying him away at perhaps a faster rate, than their apparent age would have warranted; but they were only just in time to escape, for before they lost sight of the encampment, they perceived the police ride into it. The delay which there occurred, as we have already seen, enabled them to make good their distance, though they were in momentary expectation of being pursued: no signs, however, of their enemies appearing, they continued their journey at a more moderate speed.

On the second day, as they were about to repose by the road-side, the heat of the sun becoming oppressive, they heard the clattering of horses’ hoofs behind them, and perceived, on turning their heads, a party of the police galloping along the road, before they had time to attempt concealing themselves. Javis, however, with perfect presence of mind, begged Ivan to imitate his style of walking, when the police coming up, merely cast a glance at them, and rode on; but the travellers saw them stop at a short distance ahead, to interrogate a young peasant lad, whom they had just before observed. The lad appeared in no way disconcerted, pointing in answer to their questions, to a road across the country, which they followed at the same rapid speed.

Quickening their own pace, they soon overtook the boy, who saluted them as they passed, in respect for their seeming age. They did not think it prudent to rest, until the evening was far advanced, when Javis led Ivan to a hut, with the inhabitants of which he exchanged a few words, and was instantly admitted.

It is not necessary to give here a detail of each day’s journey, their adventures possessing but little interest, merely observing, that on some nights they rested in the cottages of the peasants, and at other times they found shelter beneath the shade of the thick leaved trees, or reposed during the heat of the day, and travelled at night while the moon shone brightly. Several times, Ivan felt almost confident, that he had caught sight of the same peasant lad they had passed on their second day’s journey, who seemed to be dogging their steps; but Javis declared that he had not seen him, so that he concluded he must have again been mistaken. Ivan had now perfectly recovered not only his strength, but his spirits, for trusting that his hopes might be realised of reaching the land of his birth, where all his thoughts and aspirations centered, he felt that nothing could press him down, or prevent him from accomplishing his much desired object.

One day, towards the evening, a violent storm overtook them, obliging them to stop at a wretched hostelry on the road-side, the only house of public entertainment to be found for a considerable distance. The fierceness of the tempest made it impossible for them to proceed; in spite therefore, of the slight danger they perhaps ran in entering a house where a spy might already be, they agreed to remain there, till a clear sky should again allow them to prosecute their journey.

While they were seated at the wretched repast the house was able alone to afford, in an apartment serving the purpose of kitchen and receiving room for the guests, for whose accommodation tables and benches were placed at one end of it, a boy entered, who started at seeing them, turning back as if he would retreat, when Ivan recognised in him the lad whom he had suspected of following their steps. He entered the house, throwing himself on a bench near the fire, and while he endeavoured to dry his wet garments, he seemed lost in a reverie, gazing at the burning embers on the hearth, speaking to no one, nor turning his head to look at the other guests.

Ivan at length taking compassion on the youth’s disconsolate manner, forgetful of his suspicions about him, in his assumed character of an old man, approached to invite him to share their humble fare.

The boy started as Ivan spoke, a blush mantling on his cheek, and he hesitated to accept the proffered offer, till Javis came to add his persuasions. At length, he yielded and took his seat at their table, when Ivan asked him, if he had not before seen him on the road. The boy acknowledged that they had passed him.

“Are you then going to Chioff, boy, to worship at the shrines of the holy saints?” asked Ivan.

“Yes, I go thither for that purpose,” answered the boy.

“You are but a youthful pilgrim to attempt so long a journey alone and unprotected,” said Ivan. “It surprises me that your parents put you not under the care of older people travelling the same road, who might have guarded your youth from the dangers your inexperience may lead you into. Had you no friends from your neighbourhood, making the pilgrimage?”

“Alas, I have no parents who are able to protect me, and few friends who love me; but for protection I need it not, I can protect myself.”

“Do not say that you have no friends, boy,” interrupted Javis, “when perchance, there are some, who most likely, would be ready to shield you from the slightest harm.”

The boy answered not, but hung down his head, nor did he venture to look towards Ivan, while he was speaking.

Ivan, in compassion for the boy’s timidity, spoke to him a few kind words of encouragement, when Javis addressed him. “You are travelling the same road we go, boy, and may, perchance, require protection. You shall, if you wish, accompany us, and you shall have all that two old men can bestow. Will you accept our offer?”

The boy again seemed to hesitate, until Ivan pressed him to accept their protection, when he gladly assented. “You seem, poor boy, weighed down by some secret sorrow; tell it to us, that we may, if possible, afford you all the consolation in our power.”

“Not for worlds,” answered the boy, sadly; “it would but increase my sorrow to name it, nor would you have power to heal it.”

“But tell me, boy,” said Ivan, “by what name shall we call you?”

The boy hesitated for a moment, before he spoke. “They call me, Conrin, Sir.”

“Forsooth, boy, the name is a pretty one,” said Ivan, “and Conrin will we call you. You seem fatigued and weary; and now that you have satisfied your hunger, lie down and rest, for you have yet many a weary mile to travel, ere you can reach the shrines of the holy saints.”

The boy indeed seemed unwilling to enter into conversation, listening however with earnest attention to the words which fell from the seeming old men’s lips, and as they ceased speaking, he retired to a corner of the room, where throwing himself on a bench, and wrapping his cloak close around him, he placed his head on a bundle he carried, and composed himself to sleep. The poor boy was evidently weary, and unaccustomed to the fatigues he had undergone on his journey, and though dressed as a common peasant, there was much greater neatness and care displayed than usual, the cloak also being a luxury few of his class possessed.

The storm continued raging furiously as before, and as there were no beds in the house, nor any thing like such a comfort, the two travellers were fain to repose as best they might, on the hard benches placed against the wall.

On the next morning by break of day, their new companion was already on foot, prepared to start, when the storm having passed away, the whole party set forward on their journey. They had not proceeded many miles, when Javis informed his companions, that there was a cottage in the neighbourhood, from whence he could procure a conveyance to carry them on at a faster rate; and begging them to rest for a while, he went in search of it, and soon returned, driving a small vehicle capable of containing all the three. In this carriage they travelled till the end of the next day, when Javis again found a fresh horse, so that by thus frequently changing both horse and carriage, in a few days they reached the neighbourhood of their destination.

A distance now remained, which would take them two days to perform on foot, it being necessary to travel thus in their assumed characters of pilgrims, for already had they overtaken large crowds, all hastening to the same destination.

The pilgrims travelled in bands of one or two hundred, of both sexes, and of all ages; the hoary headed grandsire and the athletic youth, aged women and laughing maidens, the old supporting their weary limbs on their staves, while by their side ran young children of all ages. The troop headed by a white bearded monk, leaning on a long staff, clothed in sackcloth and bare-footed, chaunting forth songs of encouragement to the weary, and praise to heaven.

Thousands were at that moment on their way, to visit the catacombs of Chioff, from every part of the immense Empire of Russia; from the bleak and freezing Kamstchatka, from the vast and far distant regions of Siberia, from the confines of Tartary, and from the scattered provinces of the south; performing with unabated perseverance the whole distance on foot, seldom sleeping under a roof, and living on the precarious charity of the miserable peasants on their road. Our friends therefore joined one of the numerous companies, uninvited, yet cheerfully welcomed.

All day the band travelled on, assembling at night in a grove of a few lofty wide-spreading trees near the road-side, through which the pale moon shone brightly on the heads of the numerous groups, here and there seen amid the darker shades. A fire was lighted to cook their scanty meal, after partaking of which, they assembled reverentially round an aged monk; who arose, commencing a slow and solemn chaunt, in which by degrees, the whole concourse joined. Far off, amid the silence of the night, were heard the hymns of adoration of those simple people, and for many hours of the night, did those songs of praise continue, ere throwing themselves on the bare ground, their bed, the heavens their only covering, they composed themselves to sleep.

The boy found shelter close to the trees, amid some groups, apparently of about his own age, the bright moonbeams streaming like rays of glory on the youthful heads of the sleeping pilgrims.

The road they had been hitherto travelling, had led over the flat and uninteresting steppe. The country, however, as they approached Chioff or Kiov, as it is also called, now became slightly undulating; but it was not until towards the evening, that they came in sight of the Holy City.

As that unique and strikingly beautiful city first struck their view, standing in a commanding position, on a hill, the golden cupolas and domes, with which it is crowned, reflecting the rays of the sun with dazzling brightness, the pilgrims simultaneously raised a hymn of joy and praise. Every one of the vast crowd kneeling down, devoutly crossed himself, rending the air with songs of thanksgiving. After some minutes spent in prayer, again they all arose, and headed by the reverend monk, they descended the hill, to cross by a bridge the river Dnieper, whose waters wash the walls of the city. Some, in eager haste, without stopping to rest their weary limbs, rushed towards the Cathedral of the Ascension, or the Church of the Catacombs, which stands a little removed from the city on the banks of the Dnieper. Others, among whom were Ivan and his companions, sought rest and food, ere on the next morning, they should commence paying their adorations at the numerous shrines, they had vowed to visit. So well had Ivan and Javis sustained their characters, that not one of the credulous people, among whom they had freely mixed, suspected that they were otherwise than as what they appeared.

Next morning Ivan and his companions set forward, to go through the usual routine of visiting the shrines. It is said, that in some years, more than fifty thousand pilgrims have visited the catacombs, and even now the whole city was filled with them, many too encamping outside on the unsheltered ground, thinking to gain more credit with heaven, by thus enduring greater hardship on earth. By early dawn, the whole of that vast concourse of strangers were on foot, hastening to the different places of worship.

The Church of the Catacombs is adorned with seven golden domes, and seven golden spires, which are connected with gilt chains, now glittering with the first bright rays of the rising sun, seeming to shed a blaze of glory over the holy edifice, as the orisons of the morning worshippers rose towards heaven. Upwards of five hundred feet above the river, rises the dome of the belfry, adorned with Ionic columns and Corinthian pilasters, to which all Russians accord the greatest admiration and praise.

As the doors of the church were thrown open, the eager pilgrims rushed in to throw themselves before the shrines of their favourite saints, whose pictures hung over their altars; though the least devout among them would have been scandalised had an image or figure stood there instead.

As the first deep and solemn tones of the sacred harmony in the service rose towards heaven, Ivan and his companions entered the cathedral, and following the example of the multitude, knelt before one of the altars; but there was an almost imperceptible curl of contempt on the lip of Javis as they did so, even the boy seemed scarcely so devout as the long pilgrimage he had undertaken would have led one to suppose he should be.

When the service was concluded, the pilgrims bought tapers at the porch of the church, and forming a procession in a long line, descended a wooden stair-case of many steps to the mouth of the catacombs, down each side of which were arranged an uninterrupted line of kneeling devotees, of the most wretched appearance. The procession halted, as the first part reached the entrance of the excavated passages of the catacombs, the priest preceding them; they then slowly and reverently entered the subterraneous vaults, the roof blackened with the smoke of thousands, and tens of thousands of the candles of the faithful, which had burnt there on previous years.

On each side, in niches in the walls, were placed in open coffins, the bodies of those, who dying in the odour of sanctity, have been canonised for their pious acts and thoughts. There unburied they remain, enveloped in wrappers of cloth, and silk, highly ornamented with gold and silver embroidery, that their fellow mortals who come to them for intercession, seeing their honours after death, may study to imitate them in the purity of their lives; while their spirits, having ascended into heaven, are devoutly believed to exercise an influence with the Father and Son. Their names are written on their breasts, and many have also a history of their virtuous actions, while their stiffened hands placed before them in the attitude of prayer, receive the kisses of the pilgrims, though few perchance could decypher even the names of those they worshipped.

Further on, they reached a passage in which was a range of small windows, where men had, with their own hands, built themselves in with stones against the wall, leaving open only a small hole to receive their food; dying with the insane thought, that they were doing their Maker a good service. Before each of the windows of those fanatics’ last dwelling, now their tomb, knelt some bigoted and devoted worshipper, firmly believing that their self-immolation and unnatural death, had purchased for them everlasting life, and place, and power, among the spirits of the blessed.

Though it may seem incredible, yet so it was, that perchance not even one of that vast crowd had any just or clear notions of the tenets of the very religion they professed; for so ignorant are the Russian peasants, that the most absurd and superstitious legends find fall credit in their minds. Of the attributes of the Supreme Being, the majority have but the slightest conception, regarding him in the light of one inferior to their Emperor, and neither respecting nor fearing him so much. So completely does the despotic influence of the Czar extend over the greater mass of the people, that they have been taught to look upon him as one sent with divine authority, to rule over their lives and property, against whom it would be the most dreadful impiety to rebel; and for this end has their religion, and every feeling, and sentiment of their minds, been made subservient. Yet these are the people, whose rulers profess to extend the benign light of Christianity, and the blessings of civilisation, among the nations of the East!

Leaving the church, as they walked through the crowds, Javis adroitly made inquiries among the peasant pilgrims, as to when a party was likely to start for the west confines of the Empire and gladly found that a band was about to return towards the frontier of Bessarabia the very next morning. With his usual tact and cleverness, he soon discovered where the party was lodging, introducing himself among the peasants, and gaining their good will. They therefore gladly received him and his friends among their company.

The rest of the day was of necessity spent, in their character of pilgrims, in visiting the churches and most interesting sights of that gorgeous city, though gladly did they prepare to accompany the party of self-satisfied pilgrims, who were returning the same way they wished to pursue.

End of Volume One.

Volume Two—Chapter One.

Thus far, Ivan had been successful in the accomplishment of his journey, though there still remained many difficulties to overcome. These, however, were lessened by the presence of mind and cleverness which Javis at all times displayed. He seemed too to be possessed of noble and generous sentiments, so that, notwithstanding their difference in rank, Ivan began to feel for him a sincere friendship, independently of the gratitude due to his assistance and attention.

A change, however, had come over him, for though active and intelligent as ever, he was no longer the gay light hearted being, he had at first appeared. It was in vain, that Ivan endeavoured to discover the cause: Javis would start at times, and walk on muttering to himself, as if some important subject occupied his thoughts: his laugh was hollow, and his smile forced and painful. Young Conrin often turned an inquiring glance towards him, but seemed also equally puzzled to account for the alteration. He too had won much upon Ivan’s regard, by his gentle and unassuming behaviour, and by his evident desire to please his self-constituted masters. It was with much regret, therefore, on the morning of their departure, and while Javis had gone out to make some necessary purchases for their journey, that Ivan called the boy to him, to bid him farewell.

“We must now part, Conrin. Believe me that I do so with regret; but we return not to the place whence we came, while you must go back to your parents and friends. Here, take this small sum of money, it is all I can spare, but you may require it on your journey.”

While he spoke, the tears fell fast from the boy’s eyes. “Alas! why are you so ready to dismiss me from your company, Sir?” he said, putting aside the money. “Have I done aught to offend you? I have no home—no friends to return to—I have quitted all, and for ever! Oh, let me accompany you then as your servant, and I will serve you faithfully and truly.”

“But we go far from hence, boy,” said Ivan; “and perchance, you might never again see your own native Russia.”

“It matters not, Sir, to what part of the country, or to what part of the world you go. Whither you go, there I will follow you. But in pity, dismiss not an orphan child, who claims your protection.”

Seeing that Ivan still seemed to hesitate, he added, “Think not that I am a serf, escaping from bondage: no, I am free-born, and free alone will I live; for no proud master shall ever claim me as his slave.” The boy’s eyes flashed with a look of proud independence as he spoke.

“But, young Conrin,” answered Ivan, “I am as you see, but a poor old man, without the means of supporting you, or of giving you employment fit for your youth.”

“I seek not the wages of a servant,” answered Conrin; “perchance too, I may find the opportunity of serving you. Try me, at least, and if I prove useless, you can but dismiss me at last.”

“But suppose, that though we are old men, we may lead you into far and strange countries, where you may be exposed to hardships, under which your tender years may sink? You will then repent that you followed us,” said Ivan.

“I fear no danger that you can lead me into,” answered the boy; “and am too well accustomed to hardships to sink under them. Besides, I am older than I appear, and understand full well the task I undertake.”

Ivan still hesitated to comply with young Conrin’s extraordinary fancy, as it seemed, when Javis entered, and the boy instantly referred his cause to him. Javis, without hesitation, seconded his petition, when Ivan, at length, consented to his accompanying them.

“Oh, trust me, Sirs,” he said, “that you will not find me wanting in aught that becomes a servant. You know not how my heart is lightened by your kindness.”

The pleasure which beamed in the speaker’s eyes attested the truth of his words; yet, it had before occurred to Ivan, and now did so again, that the boy had seen through their disguise from the very first; and he was not without a suspicion, that the boy followed them thus pertinaciously, as a spy sent to betray them at the end of their journey, and in the very moment when they might have congratulated themselves on having effected their escape. Ivan knew how varied and constant are the devices made use of in Russia to entrap the unwary, and to shew that the power of that vast engine of despotism, the secret police, can extend to the very confines of the Empire.

At length, however, he dismissed the thought as contradicting the stamp which nature sets on the countenances of her children; and while looking at the boy’s face, he felt convinced he was incapable of such treachery.

That Conrin was not deceived by the disguise the fugitives had assumed, Ivan felt convinced, as he at all times addressed him in a tone and manner of respect that he would scarcely have paid to a poor peasant pilgrim, although children are early taught in Russia to treat age with respect and attention. He never, also, attempted to intrude into their presence, keeping aloof till called to approach nearer, though, several times, Ivan had discovered, as he thought, the boy’s eyes fixed on him with an earnest and inquiring gaze, as if he wished to read his very thoughts. But again, he fancied that in that idea he must have been mistaken. He saw clearly, that at all events, there was something which the boy wished to conceal, and whatever was the cause of his attachment, he felt gratified in the knowledge that there was one more human being who could care for him, in the world.

We will not accompany the travellers each day in their long and tedious journey, in company with the returning pilgrims, of whom, in a short time, they became very weary, so much so, that Javis was of opinion they might now venture to travel on at a faster speed, by themselves. For this purpose, he left the party, as they encamped, in search of some of the numerous wandering bands of his people, whom he had heard were in the neighbourhood.

He returned the next morning before break of day, with the intelligence that he had procured a telga, which was in waiting a short distance in advance, to which he led Ivan and their young companion, before the pilgrims had begun their march. These were, accordingly, soon left a long way behind. Our travellers were fortunate in procuring a constant change of horses and vehicles, from the friendly tribes of Zingani, or from peasants with whom they had communication, so that they rapidly approached the confines of the Empire, to cross which would prove another difficulty, and demand a change of disguise.

Since leaving the band of pilgrims, Ivan and his companions had kept a south-westerly course, as much as possible, by cross-roads and bye-paths, both to avoid observation, and because, in the more unfrequented parts of the country, Javis had a greater chance of encountering some of the wandering tribes of his people. Indeed, from information he had received, he expected to find a party of them encamped in the neighbourhood of the Pruth. The travellers were now approaching that river, where it divides the principality of Moldavia from the Russian province of Bessarabia, in which they now were; their greatest hazard being in passing the Russian posts on the frontier, though they had yet other dangers to encounter, from the numerous spies sent out by the Imperial government, who exercise complete influence in the principality, to the very borders of the Turkish provinces.

As they journeyed on, they observed a figure before them, jumping and singing as he went, now and then stopping to look around him, and then again pursuing his extraordinary antics. When he saw the party approaching, instead of endeavouring to escape, by increasing his speed, he turned round to meet them. In this ragged, half-witted creature, fantastically dressed in coloured rags and tatters, Javis recognised one of his own race. A few words from Javis, in the Rommany language, brought the poor being directly to their side. He gave them to understand that an encampment of his people was not far off, adding that he would lead them to the spot.

As they came in sight of the encampment, several fierce-looking men of the Zingani, on seeing strangers approach, rushed out with threatening gestures; but when Javis called to them in their own language, they gave him a hearty, though a rude welcome, and forthwith ushered the strangers within the circle of their camp.

Here all the people of the tribe gathered round the travellers, telling them that they had been already informed of their approach, and were prepared to offer them assistance. Javis, in return, explained the wishes of his friend and himself, and the necessity of proceeding without delay. Several men at once volunteered to assist them in crossing the river at an unguarded spot, and to be answerable for their safety, on condition of their assuming the dress and character of their own people, as they were in the custom of communicating with others of their tribe in Moldavia. They also advised them to continue the same disguise till they had arrived in the Turkish provinces, as numerous tribes of their people were in the country, who would assist them. Such a dress would, moreover, exempt them from the attack of the numerous robbers who infested the land, but who would not deem such poor-looking wayfarers worth pillaging.

To this proposition Ivan gladly assented; and, after a plentiful supply of provisions had been placed before them, Javis set about arranging the necessary dresses; the Zingani treating Ivan and his youthful companion with the greatest respect.

While engaged in this employment, the brow of Javis grew more clouded and uneasy than before. As he passed Ivan, he would turn a quick uncertain glance towards him, his countenance assuming an expression as if a sudden pang had tormented him, and then he would endeavour to look calm and composed as before.

Ivan, overcome with the fatigue of his journey, gladly accepted the offer made by the chief of the tribe to rest in his tent, where throwing himself on a heap of skins, he was soon wrapt in deep sleep, it yet wanting some time before it would be safe to venture across the Pruth.

The dark shades of evening were fast coming on, and the sky gave threatening warnings of a rough tempestuous night, when Javis, unperceived, as he thought, by any of the people, stole from the camp. He looked tremblingly behind him, but saw no one following, and again pursued his way. He hastened onwards at a fast rate, then stopped and hesitated; fear and doubt were working in his breast. At last he mustered all his courage, and again ran quickly on. His purpose he scarce dared utter to himself. Could he, the hitherto brave, the true, the most loved of all his tribe, be guilty of treachery?

The long-threatened storm now broke with sudden fury; the lightning flashed brightly, and the wind loudly howled. Javis kept up his speed. The Russian guard-house was in sight, when a flash brighter and more dazzling than before darted from the clouds. For a moment his eyes were blinded. He looked up, and fancied that a tall and majestic form rose before him. The attitude of this phantom of his brain was threatening; the countenance fierce and angry.

He beheld before him, as he believed, the spirit of his tribe, such as it had been described to him. He thought a voice, as if borne on the blast of the tempest, uttered these awful words:

“Cursed is he who shall hinder the friend of our tribe on his way; doubly cursed the betrayer of the confiding one, and thrice cursed the perjurer.”

The youth’s eyes rolled wildly; his heart throbbed with violent pulsation; his limbs trembled. He could not move. He fell prostrate to the earth, where he lay for some time—he knew not how long. A gentle touch on his shoulder recalled him to consciousness.

“Rise!” said a gentle voice, yet trembling as if with alarm; “rise! you could not do the vile deed. Thank the great spirit that you have been saved so cursed an act—an act so contrary to your nature. Think you thus to have won a maiden’s love? She would have doubly hated you. Rise, and return to the camp, and henceforward atone by fidelity, for your thoughts of treachery. Guard with your own life his you would have taken, and in time the curse, which hangs over you for your oath broken in thought, may be averted.”

The speaker turned, and flew towards the camp, when Javis arose, and threw himself on his knees on the ground.

“Great spirit,” he cried, “I will obey you! Take but this heavy curse from off me, and I will follow this stranger wheresoever he listeth to go. Never will I quit him until I see him in safety in his native land. Though my heart consume with hopeless love, yet will I endure all for his sake. Let this heavy trial gain me pardon.”

Javis arose, and fled back to the camp.

Ivan, unconscious of the danger and treachery he had escaped, awoke and came forth from his tent; soon after which Javis, having thrown aside all marks of age, appeared in his proper character, and Ivan gladly followed his example. Returning again to the tent, he equipped himself as a young Gipsy, Conrin having also assumed the same character.

When all was prepared, the fugitives set forward with their Gipsy guides towards the banks of the river. The weather was still dark and stormy, and the wind whistled among the few straggling trees which grew on the shore. Here and there a star glimmered forth, as the dark masses of clouds were rapidly driven across the sky. The water rushed by in turbid eddies; and for a moment the wild scene was lit up by flashes of lightning, to be again left in total darkness.

Descending a steep bank, the guides launched a small boat which had been concealed among some thick underwood, and the travellers, taking their seats, pushed off into the stream. The Gipsies, however, well knew their course, and, as they believed that none of the Russian guards were likely, on such a night, to venture away from their posts, seemed free from apprehension.

It was thus, amid storm and tempest, that Ivan bade farewell for ever to the inhospitable territories of Russia, leaving behind him few regrets, and looking forward to his future path with enthusiastic ardour and confidence.

The Gipsies pulled their slight bark boldly and safely across the boiling stream. While Ivan landed on the opposite shore, a vivid flash followed by a long continued roar of thunder, gave him the last glimpse of Russia, as he and his two companions stopped for an instant to gaze at it without speaking.

The guides now took a direction across the wild and uncultivated ground, which extends for a considerable distance along the shores of the Pruth. No rain had fallen to impede their progress, and with rapid strides they pursued their way, Javis assisting young Conrin, who could scarcely keep pace with the party. They hastened on thus, in hope of reaching some shelter, before the expected rain should fall, and having travelled some miles, the barking of dogs gave notice that they were approaching a human habitation. A loud whistle in return was given by the guides, when the fierce bark was changed into a cry of welcome, and the fugitives found themselves at the entrance of another Gipsy encampment. The chief came forward to meet them, and as soon as he had heard their story from Javis, he received them with a courteous welcome.

When the guides were about to return, Ivan offered them some remuneration for their trouble. “No,” said they, refusing it, “we take nothing from the friends of our people, and from one who is so highly esteemed by our brother near Moscow. It is from our enemies and from those who oppress us, that we exact tribute; and when they do not give we take. May a prosperous journey be your lot.”

Saying which, they hastened away on their return across the river.

Contrary to the expectations of the travellers, they had no sooner reached the encampment than the sky grew clear, the stars shone out brightly, the wind subsided, and the summer storm had passed away. They were glad to find rest and shelter in the friendly tents of these wild people, whom, however dishonest they might be towards others, Ivan had found faithful and true to him. One of their small skin-covered tents were prepared for Ivan’s accommodation, into which he was invited to enter, and repose himself. Young Conrin, seating himself at the entrance, prepared to watch his master while he slept; the boy, however, over-rated his own powers, for while he fancied that he kept guard, a deep slumber stole on his weariness.

Ivan slept soundly for some hours, fatigued as he was with the exertions of the last few days and the anxiety of his escape. As he was first returning to consciousness, the curtains of his small tent being closed, and a gentle light streaming through them, he fancied, or it might have been a waking dream, that a strain of music fell on his ear. As he listened, he was lulled into that half-dreaming, half-waking state, so delightful after the heavy slumber induced by fatigue; yet the syllables sounded distinctly, and he feared to stir, lest the sweet tones should prove but a dreamy illusion of the ear.

The words were to the following effect, sung in a clear rich voice, which Ivan fancied that he could recognise as that of young Conrin.

Far as the waves can bear

O’er the deep sea;

Far as the breezes blow

O’er vale and lea;

In whate’er lands you roam,

Leaving my father’s home,

I’ll follow thee.

O’er the blue mountain’s brow,

Joyous and free;

E’en where the desert plain

Bears not a tree,

And the dark simoon’s breath,

Comes bearing sudden death,

I’ll follow thee.

Where, in the forest, waves

Many a tree,

To those cold regions which

Day cannot see;

Over the arid sand

Of Afric’s scorching land,

I’ll follow thee.

To the proud battle-field

Bounding with glee,

Bearing thy banner high,

As the foes flee;

Or mid the raging strife,

Where fierce men seek thy life,

I’ll follow thee.

In the dark prison hold

Near thee I’ll be;

For thy lov’d service gives

Freedom to me:

Should grief or sickness come,

And when death is thy doom,

I’ll follow thee.

(See Note)

No sooner had the strain ceased, than Ivan awoke to perfect consciousness, and springing from his couch, went forth from the tent, where he found Javis and Conrin waiting his presence, and a blush stole on the boy’s cheeks at having been detected in his musical performance.

“Ah, my young page!” said Ivan, “were you the good spirit which first aroused me from slumber with your sweet strains? I knew not of your vocal skill; but now that I have discovered it, I may often call upon you to soothe my spirit when oppressed.”

“Ah! gladly would I sing to you the live long day, if I thought it would please you, Sir,” answered the boy.

“Indeed, it does please me; but how came you possessed of this art, the most prized in the sendee of a page?” asked Ivan.

“I lived with those who gained their livelihood by it; but I could never sing for pay; my voice is dumb if my words flow not from the heart.”

“Well, boy, I hope often to hear you; and now you see that I am not the decrepit old man I first seemed, still do you wish to follow my fortunes, knowing that they may be perilous ones? But I would not command you to leave me.”

“Say you so, Sir? and I would not quit you for worlds,” answered Conrin.

“Then, my good page, I hope we may not part for a long time; and I trust, moreover, that in my country you may find a home you will love more than the one you have left. But we must away on our road towards that loved land.”

The hospitable chief of the tribe, as they are here called, Tzygani, undertook to pass the travellers on from camp to camp of the numerous gangs of his people, (who wander through Moldavia), till they could reach the Danube, where it passes the Turkish provinces.

Ivan and his two companions, much refreshed by their night’s rest, after bidding farewell to the hospitable chief, set forward on the horses he had provided for them. They were accompanied by a guide, to shew them the way across the country, until they should again fall in with another camp of their people. In this way, they quickly travelled through the principality.

Moldavia, which formed part of the ancient kingdom of Dacia, for a long time groaned under the iron rule of the Turks, until freed by the victorious arms of Russia, when the people began to rejoice at the prospect of the amelioration of the country, placed under the benign protection of a Christian power. Alas! they found to their cost, that they had only changed masters, and that their new protectors were determined to rivet still more firmly the chains which enslaved them, being yet more determinately opposed to liberal institutions, and all general improvement. The wretched peasants had no sooner been relieved from their Turkish masters, by whom they had been pillaged and exhausted, than they were reduced to a state of absolute starvation by the Russian army of occupation, which took up its position in the country. Already scarcely able to find food for themselves, their corn and meat were forcibly torn from their grasp to feed their rapacious guests, and to supply provisions for the army engaged in the war against the Turks. Even a supply of corn, sent them by the benevolent inhabitants of the neighbouring Austrian provinces, was seized by the Russian soldiers, after crossing the frontier, thus depriving the famishing peasants of their last resource. On no side could they turn for assistance or sympathy, while, sinking under their misfortune, thousands died from famine and disease, the rest of Europe being kept in utter ignorance of the foul and unwarranted tyranny exercised over them.

So brutalised, indeed, have the lower orders become by a long state of vassalage, and utter insecurity of property, as to be almost insensible to the hardships of their condition, while the upper classes are most lamentably demoralised.

In consequence of this state of things, the travellers found great parts of the country an almost entire wilderness, only slight patches of cultivation appearing here and there, though the soil seemed rich and productive. They passed but few miserable villages, and those far distant from each other.

The peasants have a wild and savage appearance, increased by their black hair streaming loosely over their countenances, and by their sheepskin habits and caps, with sandals of goat skin fastened round the leg by a rope. The women are still more wretched and squalid. At each quiet and solitary farm house, at which our fugitives stopped, the poor people received them kindly, though they appeared to be in hourly alarm, from the fierce bands of robbers who were scouring the country in every direction, levying their lawless contributions alike on the peaceable villagers, and the unprotected travellers, and not unfrequently adding murder to robbery.

The paths traversed by Ivan and his companions scarcely deserved the name of roads, though the light low cart Javis had procured, carried them safely and quickly over them. Several rivers and streams interrupted their course. Some of the latter were nearly dry, and the first they passed in boats, with small parties of gipsies, whom they fell in with, and who accompanied them on purpose. As they approached the broad Danube, they proceeded on foot across the country, by paths scarcely trodden, except by their wandering guides. It was with considerable difficulty they gained the river, passing over a long distance of low marshy shore, which here forms its banks, and rousing from their rest the pelican and other wild fowl of this desert region.

On a calm and lovely night, they crossed the rapid, but smooth stream, in a boat, pulled by their friends, the Tzygani; and, in about an hour, landed in the Turkish province of Bulgaria. The spot at which they struck the Danube was considerably above the Walachian town of Galatz, near the Turkish Hirsova, situated on the summit of precipitous rocks close to the river. They did not venture to enter that now ruinous place, as most of the Turkish towns taken by the Russians in the late war, were still held by their troops.

The direct road of the travellers now lay along the southern bank of the Danube for a considerable distance, to Silistria, a wretched town with a fort, also destroyed by the Russians, who yet retained a garrison there. They therefore avoided it, keeping across the country to the left of the road.

The hamlets, through which they passed, consisted of about fifty houses, each formed of wicker work plastered over, and kept neat and clean within. The men were clad in brown sheepskin caps, jackets of undyed brown wool, white cloth trowsers, and sandals of raw leather; while the women, who appeared without hesitation before the strangers, were handsome and neatly dressed, all wearing trinkets, the girls having their heads uncovered, and their hair braided and ornamented with different coins.

Most of the villages were inhabited by Turks, except the first at which they arrived. Here our fugitives were fortunate in finding that the greater number of the simple and industrious people were Christians, by whom they were kindly and hospitably received. The villagers seemed to vie with each other in shewing them attention, insisting on their resting, and taking such refreshment as they could produce, so that in a short time they were again ready to proceed on their road.

They here again laid aside the Gipsy dress and appearance, and assumed a costume more approaching the European, and which would procure them more respect than they could expect to receive in the other. They also obtained horses to finish the journey across the Bulgarian Mountains, which form part of the great Haemus chain, to Varna, the port of their destination, expecting there to find some vessel by which they could reach any other Turkish port in communication with Circassia.

Note. The above lines have been set to music by Miss L. Kingston, and published by D’Almaine and Co.

Volume Two—Chapter Two.

Notwithstanding the heat of the noontide sun, which shone forth with the unobscured splendour of a southern clime, our hero and his two followers, who had been travelling since the early morn, still kept the road, eager to reach the coast they were now approaching.

Mountain after mountain, hill after hill, had been left behind, which at a distance had appeared so steep and lofty as to be almost insurmountable. Thus, in the ordinary affairs of life, difficulties which threaten to impede our progress when viewed in long perspective, and from which the faint-hearted turn back in despair, when fairly encountered and grappled with, may often be overcome with half the labour and pain we contemplated.

They had just gained the brow of a lofty hill, up which they had been toiling, when a long and glittering line of silvery brightness met their view.

“The sea! the sea!” exclaimed Ivan, as for a moment the party reined in their steeds, to gaze with interest and curiosity on that longed for sign of the near accomplishment of their weary journey. “Onward, my friends, onward!” he added, setting spurs to his horse, impatient to reach that liquid road which now alone separated him from his country.

As they rode quickly on, by degrees the line grew broader and broader, till a wide expanse of sea lay before them, heaving in gentle undulations, and shining like a sheet of polished silver.

Here and there, the tiny white sail of some light caique seemed like a sea bird floating calmly on the waters, and farther off, the loftier sails of larger vessels, seen through the haze caused by the heat, resembled thin and shifting pillars of white smoke. All nature seemed to slumber. Not a human being, nor a dumb animal was to be seen abroad. The sails suspended in festoons from the yards of the few vessels floating in the bay, hung down without moving, nor were the crews stirring. Not a boat was visible. All were taking their rest, till the great heat of the day should have passed.

As the travellers entered the small sea port of Varna, the streets also were dull, and deserted; and it was only when they reached the neighbourhood of the few cafenehs, of which the place boasted, that some signs of life were perceived; and, even here, few of the inmates had as yet roused themselves from their mid-day sleep. At the barber’s shop also, the loquacious and vivacious operator might be seen just awaking from his slumbers, to welcome his customers, as, one by one, they lazily strolled to his door, either to submit their heads to his care, or to converse with his friends, or with any strangers who could supply the place of newspapers.

Our travellers first proceeded to the caravanserai, to which they had been directed, to leave their horses to be returned to their owners; and they then repaired to the principal cafeneh, to refresh themselves with food and rest.

As they entered, a few of the occupants roused themselves to gaze at the strangers; and in a short time, the coffee-house was again filled with guests. Some, forming knots, filled their chibouques, and as they smoked the fragrant weed, discussed various subjects in a grave and solemn tone. Here a group of listeners formed a circle round one of those story tellers, to be found in every Turkish coffee-house, intently hearing the wonderful tales he narrated, and expressing their satisfaction by low exclamations of applause.

Ivan and his companions had not been long seated, when a smoking dish of pilau and other Turkish dainties were placed before them.

While he and his friends were discussing their meal, a party of men had clustered near them; the sound of whose language, as he listened to their voices, made his heart beat with feelings of the most intense interest and delight. He drew in his breath with eagerness as he listened attentively. He could not be mistaken, they spoke in that language heard by him before, only from the mouth of one ardently loved—his mother. Those sounds struck a new chord in his feelings. It was his own native tongue. What a tumult of sensations did the words, simple as they were, raise in his bosom! He gasped, in his anxiety not to lose a syllable of the words which fell from the mouths of his newly-found countrymen. He could not remain quiet. He rose, and approached them. He could not withdraw his eyes from them, as he scanned the countenances of each to read their different characters. He longed to address them, but hung back hesitatingly, in fear of not finding suitable expressions. He understood all they said, and their conversation had become deeply interesting to him; but as he attempted to speak, his lips refused to give utterance to what he sought to say.

He returned to his seat in despair, but soon again arose, determining to address them. Words now flowed rapidly from his mouth. The Circassians started, as they first heard one dressed in the Frank costume, speaking their own language; but a smile of satisfaction lighted up their countenances as he continued. He told them that he was a Circassian, that he sought to reach his native land, in which all his hopes were centered—that he had long lived away from it, and knew not even its customs—that he had undergone many dangers and difficulties in approaching to that point—but that he had not further means to accomplish his purpose.

As he finished speaking, a rough weather-beaten man in the Turkish dress started up, exclaiming: “The way to get there is clear before you; for my vessel now rides in the bay, waiting only for a fair wind, or any wind at all, to sail direct for the coast. This good company is going with me, and by Allah! we will reach it safely, or never trust the Reis Mustapha, in spite of all the Russian fleets that may beset our course. May the Evil One possess them, and their mother’s sons!”

Having thus delivered himself of his unusually long oration, he sat down; and a tall and venerable man, who appeared to be the chief of the party, rose to confirm his words.

“Whoever you may be, young stranger, who, though with a Frankish dress and appearance speak our language, and are as you say of our country, you shall be welcome to join our party; and if, with good intentions, you visit the land of the Attèghèi, I will protect you from all dangers which may beset you, to the utmost of my power.”

The speaker was dressed in the Circassian costume. He bore on his head a white turban. His long beard descended to his breast. He wore a flowing caftan of silk; and at his girdle, a cama or dagger, with a broad two-edged blade, and an ivory handle. His features were handsome, and his eyes sparkled with the fire and animation of youth as he spoke.

Ivan’s heart bounded with joy and gratitude at his words; for one of the last, the greatest difficulties in the accomplishment of his undertaking, was overcome.

“Willingly do I embrace your valued offer,” he said; “and I trust to be able to prove to you and all my countrymen that I go to Circassia for the purpose alone of aiding her cause. As yet, I am a man without a name, and without friends: but the time may come when I shall find both, and be able to show my gratitude for your generosity. Till then you must be content to remain in ignorance of my previous history. My first endeavour shall be, to gain a noble name by gallant deeds, and thus prove myself worthy of the race from whence I sprung. I will then seek a brave and honoured sire, who may not blush to own his son. Till I have accomplished my purpose, I have sworn to conceal my name from all. Know me, then, alone as ‘The Stranger.’ I bring with me but my own willing arm, and two faithful followers.”

“It is enough,” replied the old man who had before spoken. “Nor has Hadji Guz Beg lived so few years in the world that he cannot read the countenances of men. To your’s, young stranger, I can fully trust. In it I can read truth and courage. Say no more. I seek not to pry into your motives or private history. I have confidence in the one, and sure I am there is no disgrace in the other. You shall join us.”

“I confidently put myself into your power,” said Ivan. “You will thus be able to test my truth. For that of my followers I will be answerable.”

Javis and young Conrin were now invited to join the party, with whom the former, in his usual manner, soon made himself acquainted.

It was arranged that, at dawn of the next morning, the Turkish Reis Mustapha should return to the cafeneh, to conduct Ivan and his followers aboard his vessel, when, if the wind proved favourable, they were to set sail immediately. Ivan was surprised at his good fortune in finding a vessel at Varna, bound for the Circassian coast, as he fully expected to be obliged to touch at several Turkish ports before he was successful in his search; but it proved that she had been driven, on her passage from the Bosphorus, by a violent gale of wind, thus far to the north, when she had been obliged to anchor to save herself from going ashore. A calm had succeeded the gale, which, most fortunately for Ivan, had detained her there for several days.

The principal person among the passengers was the Hadji Guz Beg, a celebrated Circassian leader, now returning from a pilgrimage which he had undertaken to Mecca, during a short interval of peace, which the Russians had, for their own sakes, afforded his country. He spoke much of the lands he had visited, and the adventures he had encountered, particularly of a visit he had paid to Mahomet Ali in Egypt, when his brother hero received him with affection and respect, urging him to remain some time with him. But news of the war in the Caucasus having been renewed had caused him to hurry back to partake in its dangers and excitement. None could look at the old warrior Hadji, without believing that he was possessed of the most indomitable spirit and heroic bravery. As we pursue our history, we shall have much more to say of him.

The party soon separated, to make the final preparations for their voyage. The indefatigable Javis set out to purchase dresses and other necessaries, nearly exhausting the remainder of their money. Ivan had determined to make his appearance on the Circassian shores in his native costume, throwing aside for ever all marks and remembrances of Russian thraldom. Conrin wished, also, to adopt the same style of dress, to which his master willingly needed: while Javis, who claimed no nation as his own, preferred the Turkish habit, as being suited to the language he spoke.

Javis returned late in the evening, bringing with him a sword of highly tempered Damascus steel, which he had obtained with great difficulty; a rifle and dagger for Ivan, and a brace of pistols for himself. He had procured, moreover, a handsome Circassian coat of dark cloth trimmed with silver, and a red cap, trimmed with fur, with other parts of the dress for his master, and a light-coloured tunic and vest, with a cloak for the page, for whom he also brought a sharp silver-mounted dagger and pistols.

It would be difficult to describe the feelings of satisfaction with which Ivan assumed the garb of his ancestors. In imagination, he fancied himself at the head of a faithful band of his tribe—if in reality he could claim the rank of leader—ready to rush down on the invaders of his paternal shores; he grasped his sword, gazing on it with a stern and determined eye, and internally vowing never to sheathe it, until they had been driven from the land, or to perish with it bravely in his hand. As he drew himself up to his full height, with eye dilated, thoughts abstracted from all present scenes, he looked in truth already the gallant and brave warrior he fancied himself.

So regardless was he of all around him, that he did not observe the glance with which his youthful follower, who had silently and unobserved entered the apartment, regarded him. The boy stood rivetted to the ground as he first caught sight of his master in his new costume; and had Ivan wished to know what effect he was likely to produce on others, he might have looked into the countenance of his page, when his vanity would have been fully satisfied.

Neither spoke for some time; but when Ivan at last perceived the youth, “Ah! Conrin,” he cried, “are you come to welcome your master in the free garb of the mountains? Rejoice with me, that I no longer feel myself a slave and an alien in a land of tyranny; henceforward you will follow the fortunes of one determined to rise above the frowns of fate. Are you still resolved, boy, to share all the dangers and hardships I must encounter, to receive alone the slender reward I may be able to offer? Will you now quit me?”

“Oh, speak not thus, Sir,” replied the boy; “where you go I will willingly follow, through all dangers, all hardships, even to death: that I may be only near you, to warn you of any threatened harm I may discover, is the utmost reward I seek for my poor services. To nurse you when wounded, to cheer your couch when you might be left to the heartless care of strangers, will be my anxious task. To accompany you on your excursions—to follow you to the field—to fight by your side—to shield your life, will be my greatest happiness.”

Carried away by his feelings, the boy clasped his hands with energy as he spoke; but in a moment he stopped in confusion, as if he had expressed more than he had intended.

Ivan looked at him with astonishment. “You are indeed a noble, gallant youth,” said he, “though you claim not high birth or descent; I am happy in finding so faithful and true a friend. I could not, if I wished it now, send you back to your country, and much it would grieve my heart to part from you; but I will protect you while I live and have an arm to wield my sword. Wherever I go, you shall accompany me; but I fear that you will be exposed to many perils in my sendee; for, believe me, the enemies of my country will not be driven from their attempt, without a fierce and desperate struggle; and it may yet be many years before they are free.”

“Oh, Sir, you know not the happiness your words cause in my breast,” answered Conrin. “With you I shall laugh at all dangers and difficulties, and fear nothing that can happen to me.”

“I know your regard, my good boy. Now, leave me to myself. I would be alone, to meditate on my undertaking. A few days more will carry us to those shores whence I wish never to return.”

As the page withdrew, he cast a glance of affection at his master, and Ivan sunk again into the train of thought from which he had been aroused.

At length he rose, and wandered forth by himself, not feeling inclined for the company even of his faithful attendants. He climbed to the summit of the half ruined citadel of the town, and looked forth anxiously on the broad expanse of ocean which lay calm and unruffled at his feet, longing eagerly for a breeze, to fill the sails of the bark which was to carry him and his fortunes to death or victory. But not a breath fanned his cheeks as he waited, long watching, till he saw the sun descend over the land of his destination, in a broad flame of glory, tinging the whole sea with a yellow glow.

On every side, the fortifications were in a state of ruin and dilapidation, owing to the severe and protracted siege the town had sustained from the Russians, till it was traitorously delivered into their hands by that execrable monster, Usef Pacha. (Vide Spenser.)

Rousing himself, he returned to the cafeneh, where he found young Conrin anxiously awaiting his arrival. The boy looked sad and melancholy, till he saw his master’s countenance wearing a more serene expression than before, when his features were lit up with pleasure, and he followed him into the house, where they found the Hadji, the captain of the zebeque, and the rest of his passengers.

The Hadji, on first glancing towards Ivan, as he entered in his national costume, scarcely knew him, but no sooner did he recognise him, than he rushed forward with outstretched arms to embrace him.

“Ah, my son,” he cried, “I now recognise in you a true scion of the noble race of the Attèghèi; (the name the Circassians call themselves) and welcome shall you be to join, with your youthful arm, in our struggle for independence. Bismillah! with a few hundred such youths as you at my back, I would take every cursed Russian fort on our coast, may the Evil One possess them! You, perchance, have no father; I will be to you as one, and you shall be to me as a son. I will protect you from all who shall dare to oppose you, so fear not.”

“I would wish for no more valiant protector, noble Hadji,” replied Ivan, “and gladly, in all things, will I follow your advice, and profit by your experience. Under your guidance, I trust soon to gain that renown after which I thirst, and to shew myself no unworthy child of the Attèghèi.”

“You speak well, young man,” replied the Hadji; “I have grown too old not to boast a little; and you need have no fear of not gaining credit under my standard. Bismillah! the fana Moscov well know the sight of it. I will shew you what fighting is in a few days, with the blessing of Allah!”

With such like conversation, the time passed, till all the party sought repose.

At the first streak of dawn, Ivan started up from the carpet on which he had passed the night, at one end of the divan, summoning Javis and his page, who came the moment he heard his master’s voice. The Hadji, and the rest of the party quickly followed his example, and were met at the door of the cafeneh by the Reis, who came in haste to inform them that a breeze, light, though favourable for their voyage, had sprung up.

They rowed off into the bay, where the light zebeque lay at anchor, with her sails loosened, and were quickly on board. The anchor was tripped, her head gradually paid off from the wind, and calmly and slowly she glided from the shores of Turkey.

Far in the distance appeared the blue and indistinct ridges of the Balcan mountains; before them, the quiet sea; while around passed many of the primitive looking fishing boats, and small coasting vessels, skimming over the waters, their crews habited in picturesque dresses, and gaudy-coloured turbans. No sooner were they under weigh, than the devout Mahometans of the party knelt for the performance of morning prayer, while Ivan, following their example, offered up his thanks to Heaven for his escape from so many and imminent dangers.

Volume Two—Chapter Three.

For several days did the light zebeque, which bore our hero and his fortunes towards his native land, glide calmly and securely over the unruffled surface of the blue and shining waters, without encountering any of those violent, but short lived, tempests for which the Euxine is so noted; or, what was still more to be dreaded by the voyagers, without meeting any of the Russian cruisers. All on board were congratulating themselves on the calmness of the sea, and the favourable weather, which seemed to promise a prosperous termination to their voyage, when they were doomed to experience how uncertain and changeable are all things here below.

The wind, which had hitherto blown gently in their favour, now treacherously shifted round to the north-east, while dark lowering clouds appeared in the horizon ahead. The breeze came at first in fitful and strong gusts, so suddenly commencing, that it scarcely allowed time to the slow-moving Turkish seamen to take in their canvass, ere the light vessel heeled over to the strength of the blast, but as they clewed up the sails she again righted.

“Allah be praised!” exclaimed the sturdy captain of the zebeque, running here and there, encouraging and assisting the people in their exertions to shorten sail; “we shall yet weather such a summer storm as this. Bosh! this is nothing. Now, my brothers, my dear brothers, work with a good will, and by the blessings of the Prophet, no harm will happen to us. Keep her well before it, Osman,” turning to the man at the helm. “We must run before it for a time till the wind moderates, since she will not look up to it. Square the yards, my men,” as the people descended on deck, having close-reefed the lower sail, and taken in the upper ones. “Well done, good brothers, Allah is merciful, and we may laugh at the storm.”

With such like exclamations of encouragement, the Reis cheered the men’s spirits, instead of swearing at and abusing them, as the commanders of vessels of more civilised nations are apt to do.

As the vessel’s head turned from the gale, she ran quickly before it, bounding over the low, but froth-covered, hissing and sparkling waves which the squall had raised. The breeze quickly abated, and her head being again brought to the wind in nearly her right course, she dashed bravely through the water, the spray breaking over her bows in showers, sparkling with the hues of the rainbow, and sorely disconcerting her passengers.

To our hero, who had never been before on the surface of the ocean, the scene was novel and highly exciting. The waters, so lately smiling in calm and unruffled beauty, were now crested with a white glistening foam; the waves madly danced and sported in confused ridges; the dark clouds chased each other across the sky, and quickly disappeared to leave it blue and clear. From the looks of his seafaring companions, he could have seen that no danger was to be apprehended, had he not been too much occupied with the contemplation of the sudden, and to him, extraordinary change which the face of nature had undergone, to think even for a moment of peril or mishap.

The youthful page, standing near his master, kept his eye fixed on his countenance, giving an eager and an inquiring glance; but, reading in his tranquil looks that there was nothing to fear, he seemed perfectly satisfied. Javis, who, in his wandering life, had passed over many leagues of sea, saw there was no danger to dread in this summer squall, and with his usual activity was giving his assistance to the sailors. He had already become a great favourite with all the crew and passengers; and even the dignified but kind-hearted Hadji regarded him with an eye of favour, as one faithful to the friend to whom he considered himself as protector. Young Conrin alone kept aloof from the crew in solitude and silence, except when answering a few low words to Javis’s attentive inquiries, or when Ivan addressed him. His countenance would then light up with pleasure and animation, as he poured out his soul in expressions of admiration at the vast changing scene of waters, seeming alike, and yet so different and variable.

As the sun sank down beneath the waves, a vast, glowing ball of fire, seeming to throw a liquid flame over the sky to the very zenith, reflecting its burning hue on the dancing waters; the wind fell as suddenly as it had arisen; but in its stead a dense fog came on, so that by the time the shades of night had cast their gloom over the sea, it was scarcely possible to distinguish any object beyond the head of the vessel. Nevertheless, with a firm confidence in destiny, the Reis kept the zebeque on her course, trusting that she would not be run down by any larger craft in the dark, or meet with any other accident, and throwing himself on his mat spread on the deck, waited for daylight, in the hope of seeing by that time the Circassian coast, to which he calculated they were drawing near.

The night passed tranquilly; but it was yet scarcely daylight when the breeze, again freshening, partly dissipated the fog, blowing slight openings in some places, and in others wreathing it into thick columns, when the man at the mast-head sung out that he saw a large and towering sail on the weather bow, close aboard them. As he gave the alarm on deck, the Reis sprung from his mat and rushed to the helm. The lookout man indicated the direction of the stranger, who evidently did not yet see them, concealed as their low sails were by the fog. Nothing daunted, the sturdy captain put the helm up, ordering the yards to be squared, and keeping the vessel’s head before the wind, hoping thereby to escape the vigilance of their much-dreaded foe, for there was not the slightest doubt the stranger must be a Russian, it being improbable that one of any other nation should be found in those waters.

For some anxious minutes it appeared that this manoeuvre had succeeded; and calling on Allah and his holy prophet to succour them, he prayed that the fog, again becoming dense, would favour their escape; but it was a narrow chance. Should the breeze freshen a little more, it might in a moment blow aside the thin veil which shrouded them, and expose them to their remorseless enemies.

Ivan, the Hadji, and the rest of the passengers, had assembled on deck, and on being informed of the threatened danger, the former, to whom it was the most critical, nerved himself to meet it with fortitude. To fall into the hands of the Russians, by whom he would probably be soon recognised, would be utter destruction, perpetual slavery or death.

The Hadji, forgetful partly of his newly assumed sacred character, drew his sword with one hand, while he commenced telling his beads with the other; and, addressing himself to prayers for their safety, at intervals he hurled abusive epithets at the foe, and uttered words of encouragement to his companions. The rest of the landsmen followed the more pious part of his example, except Ivan’s two followers, who stood by their master’s side, looking as if determined to sell their lives dearly, ere they would permit him to be captured by their hated enemies. The crew, much to their credit, kept at their posts, ready to obey any of the orders the Captain might find it necessary to give, in altering their course, or in taking in or making sail.

As much canvass had already been spread on the lower yards of the vessel as she could bear, the Reis being fearful of setting any more aloft, in case of thus exposing her to the sight of the enemy. The man from the mast-head gave the welcome intelligence, that the Russian ship was no where to be seen; but scarcely a minute had elapsed, when another violent and sudden squall struck the zebeque, almost splitting her sails, but, fortunately being before the wind, she scudded on still quicker from the danger.

The hopes of all on board, at this chance of escape, were raised high, only to be as quickly and grievously disappointed; for at the same instant, the blast which had struck them cleared away the fog, and discovered a large Russian corvette, at some distance fortunately, and heeling over on her beam ends to the violence of the squall, it having caught her it appeared unawares, her people being busily employed in taking in her more lofty sails.

It was a moment of deep suspense to all on board the Turkish vessel; but a cry of despair arose from her crew, as they saw with their glasses the crew of the corvette descending from her rigging, the sails yet unfurled, the yards being squared as her head came quickly round in the direction they were sailing. Onward she proudly came, ploughing with her bow the now fast rising sea, all her sails swelling, as if they would burst from the ropes which confined them. It seemed that no power could stop her course, as throwing the foaming waters aside, she spurned the waves on which she rode.

Many a cheek on board the Turk was blanched with anticipations of the worst, and many a heart trembled which had scarce before felt fear, as the crew looked on their overwhelming pursuer, now rapidly shortening her distance from them. Even on the sturdy Captain’s brow large drops of perspiration stood, as he grasped more firmly the helm, casting many an anxious, but momentary, glance behind him, and then again at his sails and masts to see that they stood the gale; for he knew that his vessel’s best point of sailing was before the wind, drawing as she did, so little water, and scarcely seeming to touch the waves as she bounded along before them. Dark and thick masses of clouds rose rapidly behind the enemy, causing her sails to appear of snowy whiteness, and making her seem still more alarmingly near than she really was. As yet, however, for fear of stopping her way, she had not fired her guns, being perfectly certain of quickly catching her tiny chase.

The turmoil of the foaming waves, now lashed into ungovernable fury, increased each moment, while the thick heavy clouds, clashing in their hurried and disordered race, sent forth reiterated peels of thunder, and vivid and sharp flashes of forked lightning darted through the air. The rising sun had for a moment shed forth his beams on the scene of tumult, casting a bright glittering light on the madly leaping waves; but as if angry at the wild uproar, again concealed his glory behind the clouds, leaving a deep gloom on the disturbed waters.

The huge billows rolled along side of the little bark; and, following up astern, as if eager to grasp her beneath their vortex, threatened every moment to overwhelm her. Still, however, keeping before them, she seemed thrown from wave to wave; her head now dashed into the frothy, boiling cauldron, and now lifted high above the sea, while a dark abyss threatened below, and a towering billow seemed about to break over, and inundate her. At intervals also, the clouds, to add to the disorder, sent forth deluges of rain so thick, as almost to conceal their vast pursuer from view; but when again it subsided, she was seen approaching still nearer to them.

At length, the Russian, angry and weary of the long chase, yawed a little, and discharged his bow chasers in hopes of crippling the Turk, and bringing him to; but the balls either plunged into the leaping waves, or flew high above his masts, as difficult it was to take any certain aim, while so high a sea was running.

When the missiles of destruction passed thus wide of their mark, a laugh of defiance, which sounded much like desperation, escaped the Reis, as he watched where they fell. The corvette continued firing, as fast as the people could load the guns, but without doing any damage to the chase; and of course, the manoeuvre constantly repeated, made her fall further astern, till hopeless of hitting so small a mark at that distance, she desisted from firing; and continuing the pursuit, followed, according to the shiftings of the wind, the devious track of the zebeque.

The gale as if wearied by its own violence, seemed to have expended its fury, and to be passing over; first leaving the larger vessel astern, which was preparing to make more sail, when it shifted round suddenly to the west with redoubled fury.

Though the zebeque was thus placed to windward, it was certain destruction to attempt bringing so crank and light a vessel as she was, broadside on to that raging sea, which would, in an instant, have overwhelmed her; on a wind being her worst point of sailing. The only alternative of unavoidable and quick destruction, was to run still on before it, and thus to bring the vessel under the very bows of her gigantic opponent.

Few men, however brave, will rush with their eyes open on certain death, if it is to be avoided. Not a moment was to be lost in deliberation, and as the renewed fury of the gale struck her, the zebeque’s head was again turned towards the east, rapidly approaching the enemy.

The respective positions of the vessels may be thus described. The corvette was to the north, with her head south-east, while the Turk was running due east; thus approaching each other on two sides of a triangle, of which the apex was towards the east.

Now was the most trying moment for all on board the Turkish vessel, yet still there was one remote chance of escape—a hazardous one unquestionably; and yet, in preference to captivity, it was worth while to risk destruction. They might, by running down to the Russian, and pretending to submit, pass under her stern, and escape before the wind. Yet it was an experiment, the very mention of which might be derided as the proposition of madmen.

The moment the Russian perceived the change of course the chase had made, the corvette hauled her wind without stopping to take in sail, and recommenced firing her guns, to allow no chance to escape, should the wind again fail, of capturing her almost certain prey. The balls, as before, at first flew harmlessly through the air, or plunged into the deep, as, towering in her pride; on she came, heeling over to the furious blast, and casting the foaming waters high over her broad swelling lofty bow.

Yet the power, the majesty of man’s greatest achievement, seemed as nought amid the strife and tumult of nature. The roar of the artillery was mocked to scorn by the far louder crash of heaven’s thunder, and the wild tumult of the waves. The flashes of the guns were far outshone by the brightness of the vivid lightning; but none in either vessel seemed to regard the violent fury of the elements, too intent were they on their own desperate game.

During this awful and critical interval, Ivan stood firm and collected, though a sad fate seemed to await him. On one side, he saw imprisonment, degradation, and a hopeless exile: on the other, a certain death, should the Russians, as was but too probable, when there was no prospect of a prize of value, run down the vessel which had given them so much trouble; or if she refused to yield, sink her with their guns. Ivan earnestly prayed for the latter fate: for of what value would life be to him, with all its lofty aspirations overthrown, his hopes blasted? What but misery and hopeless slavery, chains and toil, could he expect, if he escaped with life? Javis had brought him his sword, which he held firmly in his grasp, yet somewhat mechanically, perhaps, as if it would be a satisfaction to die with that in his hand: while Javis, casting glances of scowling defiance towards the foe, stood ready to defend his master if it were possible.

And young Conrin, where was he during this time of tumult and danger? Calm and undismayed, he too stood by his master’s side. His courage seemed to have risen with the imminence of the danger. It was not ignorance of the peril of their situation which gave him that cool and intrepid air; for he marked it well, as with unflinching glance he gazed ever and anon at the coming foe, and then fixed his large flashing eye intently on his master’s face. His brow and cheek were paler than usual, and his lips compressed: yet it seemed that, although an awful death was about to overwhelm all on board, his features wore an air of almost satisfaction and happiness; but he spoke not, nor moved from his post. It was strange that so young a boy should show such courage at so trying a moment, when hardy seamen quailed and turned pale with terror.

Well did the gallant old Hadji show that his heart was fearless, and that he was a warrior-leader of a brave people, whom no danger could daunt, as rousing himself from his prayers, he stood defying his enemies, and prepared for the worst. Of his followers and the crew, some took courage from his example, and bravely grasped their arms, in the futile hope of, at least, having one blow for life; while others, pallid and trembling with dismay, tried to shelter themselves behind the bulwarks of the vessel.

The Russians continued firing without intermission, the shots every instant falling closer to the mark, till one went through the Turk’s after-sail, and another followed, striking his deck, ploughing up the wood, and throwing the splinters on every side, ere it bounded overboard. A few more fell harmlessly; but they were now approaching frightfully near the Russian, and they could scarcely hope to escape more of his shots. Another of these missiles came on board tearing away part of the bulwarks, striking one of the seamen, and carrying his mangled body with it into the sea. At this event, even the hardy captain’s presence of mind forsook him: his courage for a moment gave way; and quitting his post, he wrung his hands in despair, leaving the vessel to her fate.

At this critical juncture, Ivan sprang aft, seizing the captain by the arm, and forced him to resume his place at the helm.

“For shame, Reis Mustapha!” he exclaimed. “You, have hitherto behaved like a brave, good seaman, continue to prove that you really are one. Regard not the shots till they sink us. That can but be our fate at the last, when all hope has flown. While you live, use all means, all exertions to escape, for Providence may yet rescue us from destruction.”

“Ay, ay, my brother,” interrupted the brave old Hadji. “Give not way to despair while a hope remains. Cowards alone do that. Think you that I have prayed to Allah and his Prophet for no purpose, that he should thus abandon his servants? Have I journeyed to his holy city, and kissed the sacred Kaaba for nought? Still hope that our time is not yet come.”

“The noble Hadji speaks truly,” added Ivan. “Take the helm, Reis, and guide us straight onward. We shall soon know the worst.”

The Reis obeyed; taking the tiller from the hands of Javis, but with a look which plainly indicated that he was without hope.

By this time they were close to the corvette; but her guns were now more carelessly aimed, from the certainty the Russians felt of capturing the chase.

The awful, the dreaded moment approached, which would too probably consign every human being on board the zebeque to eternity, for their huge opponent seemed determined to run them down if their colours were not instantly lowered, and even then there was but little chance of their escaping that fate. Another moment and the next vast surge would bring her upon them! A more tremendous blast than they had hitherto felt now struck them, hurling their tiny bark before it into the very jaws of the foe. Deluges of thick rain rushed down, while a loud roar thundered from the clouds, and a vivid flash of lightning darted through the air. A loud shriek of despair rose from the crew: their fate was sealed.

“Allah protect us!” cried the Hadji. “This is an awful time.”

The bravest gasped for breath; the deck seemed to shake beneath their feet. The sea dashed over them, but the thick falling rain obscured all around from their sight.

The young page gazed more earnestly at his master, but his limbs trembled not, nor did a word escape his lips.

The dreaded shock came not; the vessel still floated on the waves; the thick rain ceased.

Again a cry arose from the Turkish crew, but it was no longer that of terror. “Where is the Giaour? where is the Russian ship?” was uttered by the voices of all. They had passed her.

There she lay, close on their quarter, with her head to the wind, her foremast shattered to the deck, the spars and rigging dashing against her sides, her bulwarks stove in: the proud ship of Russia, was a wreck—she was on fire!

Even at that moment of confusion, some small guns were fired over her stern, with a determined feeling of animosity and revenge, in the hopes of doing some injury, but their shot fell impotently into the waves, and the crew were too much occupied with their own preservation, to pay any further attention to the hard-driven chase.

Loud prayers ascended from the deck of the Turk, for their narrow and providential escape; Ivan’s heartbeat quicker with gratitude than it had with fear; while young Conrin clasped his hands with silent fervour, and seemed ready to fall at his master’s feet with joy.

The Hadji, having concluded his brief prayer, exclaimed; “Did I not tell you, Reis, that Allah would protect us, that my prayers would not be in vain? Look, where the late impious Kaffir lies shattered and scathed by Heaven’s rage, at the very moment he thought himself secure of his prey. Another time think not that it is your kismet (fate) to die; that will come in Allah’s good time; but strive on always to the last. Think you my countrymen could hold out against our mighty foe, if we thought that it was our kismet to be conquered? Bosh! kismet is a good thing, when it points to victory; but else it is nonsense. No, my brother, no; strive while you can, and yield to fate only when it overpowers you.”

These principles the gallant Hadji not only preached, but with the rest of his countrymen, practised.

As the danger diminished, so did the courage of the terror-stricken crew return. They taunted with gestures their crippled and now impotent foe, as the light zebeque bounded away from her before the gale. “Why don’t you come on now?” some cried. “See, Giaour; see, cowardly Kaffir, we are sailing away from you; why don’t you follow us as before? Come on, then, come on. We cannot wait for you. We are in a hurry to pursue our voyage.”

With such like expressions the crew shewed their delight at their escape, while rapidly scudding onward they soon run the corvette out of sight. As long as her movements could be distinguished, she remained with her head still to the wind, dipping her bows under the waves which broke in deluges over her. Thick wreaths of smoke rose from that part of her deck where her foremast had stood, curling round her remaining masts as it was blown aft; but that in time decreased, and the fire was apparently got under. So little mercy had she shewn to the zebeque, that no commiseration was felt for her fate, whatever it might be.

Those only who have escaped from imminent peril, when either death or slavery has been about to overtake them, can fully enter into the feelings of gratitude and satisfaction which our hero experienced, as the last topmast sails of the Russian ship sank below the horizon; and those only who have seen a loved object rescued from a threatened danger, can feel as the young Conrin did; for few could love so well as that strangely enthusiastic and romantic boy loved his master.

They continued on their course, running all day before the wind, which drove them towards their destination, each moment dreading to fall in with another Russian cruiser; but not a sail appeared to alarm them. By night the wind, still keeping favourable, subsided to a gentle breeze, while a sharp lookout was kept from the mast-head for another enemy, or to discover the coast, which they knew they must be now nearing.

Volume Two—Chapter Four.

The territory of the Circassian tribes is bounded on the north by the River Kouban, which separates it from the lands now inhabited by the Tchernemorskoi Cossacks, whom the Russians—after utterly annihilating the former inhabitants, (not using the words in a figurative sense)—placed there as a rough and sturdy outwork to their empire. From the mouths of the Kouban it is bounded by the Black Sea, the coast trending from the north-west to the south-east as far as Iscuria, on the mouth of the Salamache River, which separates it on the south from the province of Mingrelia, now nominally subject to Russia. To the south-east is the former kingdom of Georgia, now also brought under subjection to the same benign and far reaching power. To the north-east, the sources of the Kouban and some of its numerous mountain tributaries pass through its present borders, the plains beyond having been conquered by Russia. To the east, the boundaries are uncertain, depending on those natural fortifications, the inaccessible cliffs of the Caucasus; but the tribes even to the very shores of the Caspian, have set their invaders at defiance, and have joined the league of the patriot Circassians.

Circassia Proper is divided into Lower Abasia to the north, bordering on the Kouban, and Upper Abasia to the south; the inhabitants of the former being by far the most civilised and polished of the two, though both equally cordial in detestation of their invaders. These two divisions are again separated into provinces, those of Nottakhaotzi, Khapsoukhi, Bredoukha, and of the Demirghoi, in Lower Abasia, which is the part of the country to which we are about to introduce our readers. The tribes keep distinct from each other, though the members of each live scattered about in all parts of the country.

The whole of the independent part of Circassia is mountainous, that alone having: been able to withstand the immensely superior force which the Russians brought against them; but the tribes of the plains equally hate their conquerors, and take every opportunity of escaping to join their still free countrymen. Indeed, the whole, or greater part, of some tribes have migrated to the mountains to be released from Russian oppression, leaving their homes, their fields, and their property, to ruin and destruction.

There are no cities or towns in Circassia; the inhabitants preferring the freedom and health of a mountain life to the trammels and formality of the city, and each chief choosing the most beautiful and romantic spot for his habitation, while his followers and dependents collect in hamlets in the neighbourhood.

The principal rivers falling into the Kouban are the Kara Kouban, the Ubin, the Aranos, the Laba, and the Urup; those which empty themselves into the Black Sea are the Sukhoi, the Mezi, near the Russian Fort Ghelendjik, the Toughe, the Soubachi, which divides Upper and Lower Abasia, the Kenehili, the Llhena, the Kodos, and the Salmache, which separates the country from Mingrelia. Numerous other streams and rivulets meander through the whole country, and fertilise every vale.

At the time to which our story refers, the Russians had succeeded in erecting several forts in the boundaries of the country; those of Anapa and Ghelendjik on the coast, both built under the protection of a powerful army, aided by the guns from their ship. They have established also a line of fortified towns to the north of the Kouban, the principal of which are Ekatermodar, Labinskai, Stavrapol, Alexandrof, and Georgivesk, forming a road of communication from the Black Sea towards the Caspian, called the Valdi Caucasse. But even between these towns the Russians cannot move except with a strong escort, as otherwise they would run the greatest risk of being cut off by the mountaineers, who descending from their fastnesses, frequently make excursions far beyond them. There are also other forts of less importance, which will be mentioned in the course of our history.

The origin of the Circassians, like that of all nations who have tradition alone to hand down their history, is clouded in obscurity. They themselves do not pretend to know from what race they are sprung, but it is certain that they are of very great antiquity, and have in all ages been celebrated for their bravery and other warlike qualities, their courtesy, and the surpassing beauty of their women. At one period they inhabited an extended tract of territory, comprising the Crimea, and all the country bordering on the Sea of Marmora and the Euxine; but the tribes dwelling in that country either became amalgamated with the Tartars, or were driven thence by the superior numbers of that people, as the pure stock is now only to be found among the mountains of the Caucasus, or in the plains immediately below them.

It seems probable, that the Circassians are of Median extraction, and were at one time as civilised as any of the surrounding nations, if not more so: but it must be confessed that they have not advanced, even with the same steps in the arts and sciences as their neighbours; though they retain in a greater degree the polished and courteous manners, and heroic virtues which formed the pride of the nations of antiquity. The tribes which boast of belonging to the purer race, unmixed with any foreign blood, distinguish themselves by the name of Attèghèi, and as in Great and Little Karbadia, their language is spoken with the greatest purity. Those provinces have most likely from time immemorial, been inhabited by the true Circassians, who thence scattered themselves over the surrounding districts, either by conquest, or by finding the land unoccupied.

The people to whom we give the general name of Circassians, call themselves Attèghèi; some writers mention them as Carbadians, from their former country of Karbadia, while the Turks and Russians call them without distinction, Abasians.

There are four classes of society among them, the first, that of the Pchees or Princes, who are the heads of the most powerful tribes; the Ouzdens or nobles, many of whom, at present, have no real power, but who disdain to intermix their blood with those below them; the Tocavs or Freemen, many of whom possess wealth, and are, except in blood, equal to the nobles; and lastly, the serfs, or slaves taken in war, who in time become incorporated into the tribes of their masters, and may gain their freedom. The power of the Princes has of late years much declined, though they are treated with the strictest observances of respect, by those of inferior rank.

In some tribes, the chiefs are hereditary, while in others, a head is chosen among the principal nobles of their own tribe, for his life, except he should prove incapable, in which case he is deposed, and another elected in his stead. At times also, instead of the head of the tribe, a leader is chosen to conduct them to war, while the former acts in a civil capacity alone.

In no country is greater respect shewn by inferiors to those above them in rank or age; and in no country has the spirit of clanship been carried further, all being bound to revenge the death of one of their tribe on the slayer; and, should the offender not be given up, on the life of any member of his family; the Lex Talionis, being indeed the principal law of the land, as it must be in all countries, where there is no fixed government to dispense justice.

The government, indeed, such as it is, may be looked upon rather as a Republic, than as an Oligarchy; for those of all ranks may give their opinion, and vote at the public meetings, though the princes and chiefs of clans have the most influence, and their sentiments are looked upon with the greatest respect. Perhaps, no country is more free, or governed with so much regularity and order.

Each man may if oppressed, leave his chief, and put himself under the protection of another; changing his lands at will to any spot he may find unoccupied, no one having the right of keeping lands he does not cultivate. Though, for many generations, they have remained under successive descendants of the same chief; they are bound by no other tie, than that of love and respect, while so carefully does each class guard its own privileges, that no chief has ever succeeded in uniting the whole under his own authority.

Their laws are few and simple, exactly suited to their state of society, and so strictly enforced, that they are comparatively rarely infringed; each tribe being answerable for the crimes of any individual member, who consequently offends equally against his own friends. All claims are settled by a jury, composed of six members from the respective tribes, and are generally arranged by payment of fines, two hundred head of oxen, being the fine for manslaughter, and so on for theft, abduction, etc. Should the fine not be paid by the time agreed on, the sufferers carry off the cattle, and destroy the fences and fields of the offenders.

It must be understood, that these tribes of the Attèghèi are not distinct races, but merely families who have been, perhaps for ages, bound together by a solemn oath, to support each other in every way, forming a brotherhood, as it were, who consider themselves so nearly related, that they may not even intermarry with each other.

The religious faith of the people, is formed of a belief in one omnipotent Being, and in the immortality of the soul; but they have no established priests. The elders and most venerable chiefs, or those most noted for piety, together with their aged bards, perform the few and simple ceremonies of religion. Their place of worship is in some secluded grove of aged and lofty trees, held sacred for ages by their ancestors, whose tombs lie around them.

Let our readers ask themselves, if such worship is not more likely to be grateful to the Divine Being, than the gross superstition and bigoted idolatry of the benighted Russian, who scarcely knows the name of his Maker.

There is not the slightest doubt, but that Christianity was at one time the prevailing religion of the country, as there are numerous crosses in all parts, still looked up to with veneration by the people; and there are the ruins also of several churches. It is said, that in some parts of the interior of the more remote districts of Upper Abasia, the people still profess Christianity unmixed with any Pagan observances.

The Circassians divide the week as among us, considering Sunday as the most sacred day. Easter is celebrated by them as a holy feast, with the utmost pomp, beginning with a strict fast. They have several saints or inferior deities, guardians, they say, of the air, water, the harvest, the summer, in whose honour they hold festivals at stated seasons, as in Catholic countries; particularly one, which they celebrate much in the same manner as the feast of St. John, in some parts of Germany, by decking a tree with flowers, lights, and other ornaments. Except on these particular days, they do not pay their presiding guardians any attention, nor even then, do they pray to them, but offer up sacrifices by immolating victims on an altar, according to the old Pagan custom of Greece and Rome. They meet in the sacred groves to pray before going to battle, and after a victory.

No religious ceremonies take place at their marriages, the couple being alone betrothed in the presence of their friends, (as is now the lawful way of coupling people in civilised England) when a feast is given, and games take place.

The burial ceremonies, even of a chief or warrior, are simple, consisting of a funeral oration, pronounced over his grave, while hymns are sung by those who attend the procession to his last resting-place. The anniversary of his death is celebrated with feasts, and prayers over his tomb, decked with flowers.

Mahometism has of late years been introduced into the Caucasus by the Turks, and some mosques have been established, but it has not gained much ground; their ancient institutions being too deeply rooted in the affections of the people, though numbers now profess it, but conform to its customs, as far only as their inclination leads them.

The Circassians are, in general, a most abstemious people, living chiefly on a farinaceous diet, and though possessing spirituous liquors and wine, they use them in moderation, indulging in them, as well as in meat, only on their great feasts.

They are hospitable in an unbounded degree, their guest-houses ever standing open for the reception of visitors, but they have been taught, by the vilest treachery, too often practised against them by the instigation of the Russians, to be suspicious of strangers coming without a recommendation to them. Any one, however, who may visit their country under the protection of one of their chiefs, they are ready to protect to the utmost with their lives, each noble vieing with the other in paying their guest attention.

They have the deepest veneration for age, listening to the counsels of their elders, and obeying their commands.

To the female sex also, they pay the most chivalrous devotion. Their minstrel’s highest theme, next to their warrior’s deeds, is the praise of woman’s charms, and the proudest noble treats the lowly maiden with every consideration and respect, nor thinks himself demeaned in aiding her in any occupation in which she may be engaged.

The lower orders are in the habit of sending their daughters to the Constantinopolitan matrimonial market, (for so it is to them,) receiving, however, some valuable consideration, to insure their safe arrival there. The Circassians also take every precaution to hear continually of the welfare of their daughters in Turkey; nor do they ever compel them to go against their will, or, as in the more civilised countries of Europe, drive them to contract a hateful marriage, or offer them the dreadful alternative of being immured for life in a convent. The nobles never allow their daughters to marry, except with one of their own rank, and when they send them to Stamboul, it is to become the chief sultana of some Pacha’s harem, an arrangement the fair girls consider the happiest fate which could befall them, though exchanging the liberty of their mountains for riches, splendour, and a prison, but gaining what they never could at home, entire liberty, on the death of their lord, and frequently considerable wealth. The Circassian girls are much prized in the Turkish harems, beyond their beauty, for their various useful and ornamental accomplishments.

We have said that there are no towns, the people living in villages, hamlets, or detached dwellings. The houses consist only of a ground floor, built of wood plastered over, and neatly thatched. The dwelling of a chief consists of several separate divisions: the anderoon, or women’s apartments; that of the lord himself; and the guest-house; besides the houses of the servants, the granaries, and stables for the horses and cattle.

It is curious to see the interior of what appears a humble cottage, filled with rich couches of silk, magnificent Turkey carpets, splendid armour and weapons, inlaid tables and other valuable articles.

Some of the villages are fortified, but in a manner to afford no protection against cannon. They are generally situated by the side of some limpid stream, and in the most picturesque situations.

They speak a language entirely different from any other known tongue; but Turkish and Arabic is understood by many of their chiefs, who have served in Turkey and Egypt. Several also have been in the Russian service; but have returned to their native country to defend her rights, in preference to indulging in luxury and ease under a despot.

They say that their fighting men amount to two hundred thousand; but every man amongst them is a warrior.

The arts are at a very low ebb among them, though they possess the greatest skill in forging their armour and weapons, which they emboss beautifully. They also work in gold and silver embroidery; but it must be confessed they are totally ignorant of science, nor have they even a written language, and very few among them can read Turkish, though they pay the greatest respect to the Koran, with which they administer their oaths.

They are very industrious, having brought their lands into the highest state of cultivation, thus enabling them within a small extent of country, aided by the fertility of the soil, to support a large population. The farms are kept with the greatest neatness, and surrounded with thriving orchards. They possess also large flocks and herds.

On all public occasions and when engaged in war, the chiefs wear complete suits of splendid armour, much like that of the ancient Persians, from whose country they sometimes procure it at the present day. On a foray, when activity is most requisite, and they wish not to be distinguished from their followers, they have under their ordinary dress, light coats of chain armour of most exquisite workmanship, many of which are made in the country, and others come from Persia. They possess rifles and pistols, but many still use the long bow and arrow, with which they can take the most deadly aim. They have also long swords, and the broad two-edged dagger, such as was used by the Romans of old, a most murderous weapon in their hands. They use also a sharp straight sabre without a guard to the hilt. The ordinary dress of all classes is elegant and picturesque.

There are numerous wild animals in Circassia, such as bears, wolves, jackals, and stags, which the people eagerly hunt. Their horses are celebrated for speed and strength, and they are perhaps the most expert horsemen in the world.

We will now sum up the character of the Circassians. No one, even their enemies, can deny that they possess the most heroic bravery and undaunted courage, the most devoted love of liberty, are hospitable to the utmost of their means, generous in the extreme, virtuous in their lives, and abstemious in their habits; that they venerate age, are courteous and gentle to their women, polished in their manners to each other, more especially to strangers, humane to their prisoners, have a firm reliance on the goodness of the divinity, a deep sense of religion, and the strictest regard to an oath, which is inviolable among them; and yet, this being no highly coloured or overdrawn character, these are the people, whom the Russian stigmatise as untameable barbarians, whom it will be a benefit to the human race to sweep from the face of the earth.

Volume Two—Chapter Five.

The now calm, glass-like waters shone with a rich glow of orange tint reflected from the sky, as the sun rose in majestic glory from his ocean bed. The sails of the Turkish bark caught the radiance, as, impelled by a gentle air, she glided through the sea of molten gold.

As the deep glow gradually faded from the horizon, leaving a clear view of the ocean’s margin, the man from the mast-head shouted in tones of delight, “Abasa! Abasa! land! land! the land of Circassia!” The effect was electrical. All on board turned their gaze towards the east. The Hadji and the devout Mahometans ceased from their morning prayer; the seamen mounted the rigging; and, as a light gauze-like veil of mist was drawn up to the sky, the blue mountains of the lofty Caucasian range appeared just rising above the waters in the far distance.

Ivan’s heart beat with enthusiastic delight as he gazed on the land of his birth, the land of all his most romantic aspirations. The accomplishment of his eager wishes—the fulfilment of his vow—would not much longer be deferred. His earnest gaze was fixed on the scene, as mountain after mountain, and hill after hill, rose to view.

As the zebeque glided swiftly towards land, the more minute details of the landscape could be distinguished; mountains of every fantastic form were seen piled one on another, clothed with verdure from the bright water’s edge to the topmost peak, where they seemed lost in the pure blue sky. Trees of various foliage bent over precipitous and rugged cliffs, bounding a smiling valley, through which meandered a sparkling stream; by its banks grazed herds of cattle while numerous horses galloped in unrestrained freedom over the velvet lawn.

The zebeque had made the shore rather too far to the south of their destination, and as she coasted calmly along, Ivan gazed with enraptured and untiring eye on the lovely scene. Far as the eye could reach, up the sides of the steep sloping hills, numerous flocks of white sheep were seen quietly grazing, and from craig to craig, bounded nimbly with long and slender limbs the jet black goats.

He looked on the unostentatious abodes of his countrymen, their little cots built on the slopes of the gently swelling hills, amid fields of ripening corn, their farm yards surrounded by groves of trees covered with fruit, from among which the thin smoke from their domestic hearths curled upward in wreathy pillars. All around appeared the abodes of contentment and peace—how sadly deceitful and treacherous. In another day all might be laid waste, and a howling desert usurp its place.

The lately dignified Hadji, excited to the most enthusiastic delight, walked the deck with the activity of youth, pointing out to Ivan the names of the different little inlets, bays, valleys, and mountains as they coasted along.

They were saluted too, as they passed, by many a band of warriors, hastening towards the scene of strife in the north, where their invaders had landed. Many a gallant chief, in his war array, his bright armour glittering in the sun, galloped by, waving his shining sword to salute them, attended by a band of followers, shouting defiance to their foes, and singing hymns of victory.

No one seemed to enter into Ivan’s feelings so well as young Conrin, whose eyes brightened with delight unusual to him as he gazed ever and anon at his master’s countenance: and then turned them towards the lovely scene, whose beauties he seemed to enjoy the more that they were seen by one he loved.

The spot where the Reis had appointed to land was near the Bay of Pchad, in sight of which they soon came. Here a dense forest covered, with thickest foliage, both the mountain side and the shore to the very water’s edge, affording a secure shelter to the inhabitants, should any of their enemies attempt to land in order to destroy their vessels. The zebeque ran boldly on towards the smooth yellow sand, almost overshadowed by the trees; and as she neared the shore, a man, whose glittering armour and helmet, decked with an eagle’s plume, betokened him a chieftain, approached the water, mounted on a coal-black steed, and urging the noble animal up to his girths into the sea, he waved his sword, and courteously beckoned to the strangers to land. Having saluted them, he again slowly and with dignity retired from the shore.

As the vessel’s keel almost touched the sand, her anchor was let go, her sails being quickly furled by her eager crew, delighted at thus having brought their hazardous adventure to a successful issue. In a moment, she was surrounded by boats from the shore, to lighten her of her cargo ere she was drawn up on the beach beneath the shelter of the trees.

Into the first the Hadji, our hero, and his two followers stepped; and as her bow touched the strand of Circassia, the natives flocked around, eager to welcome the strangers to their shores.

Ivan’s heart leaped with joy as his foot touched his native land; and he would have knelt down in gratitude to heaven, and kissed the soil he had so eagerly longed to tread, but that the presence of the surrounding multitude prevented his giving way to his feelings. For an instant, then, that sensation of blankness, of loneliness, that unsatisfied feeling, which sometimes comes over us, when we fancy that our desires are accomplished, seized him, and oppressed his spirits, as accompanied by his two retainers, he followed the Hadji towards the spot to which the chieftain had retired.

No sooner did the latter see the Hadji approaching, than he leaped from his steed, which his squire held while he hastened to meet him. The two aged men, for the noble warrior seemed far advanced in years, rushed forward; their dignity thrown aside, and falling on each other’s necks, they embraced and almost wept for joy.

“My brother!” exclaimed the aged chief; “hast thou, indeed, again returned to me from thy long and perilous pilgrimage among strange people? Do I again see the noble pride of our race in life and strength? Allah be praised for all his mercies!”

“Yes, my brother!” rejoined the Hadji, “yes, Allah is merciful. I have escaped all dangers, and my heart rejoices to see you still able to bear arms against our foes; but say, my brother, how fares my son Alp, my well-loved young son? Does the boy live? Does he still follow up the early promise of his youth?”

“Your son, my brother, is well worthy of your name. He still dwells with his Attalick; but being well skilled in all martial exercises, he is now able to follow you to the field, and has already gained some honour against the enemy. It will rejoice your heart to see him, and you will seem to live your youth over again as you recognise yourself in him.”

“To Allah and his prophet be all praise,” replied the Hadji, piously. “Then am I content. But say, my brother, does my wife still live to rejoice in the growing promise of our son?”

“Yes, yes, she still lives.”

“Allah be praised!” again ejaculated the Hadji. “And say, does my sister still live; does she also rejoice in the noble deeds of your gallant sons? Are they yet numbered among the stern bulwarks of our country? Do their steeds yet carry them like thunder-bolts against the foe?”

The old warrior shook his head.

“Alas! my brother, the leaden death of the hated Urus (the name the Circassians give to the Russians) have laid two in the graves of our fathers, where they sleep the sleep of the brave; but the rest yet remain to avenge their fate.”

“God is great,” answered the Hadji, “and by his prophet’s help we will yet take ample vengeance on their destroyers.”

“Allah is merciful, and will give us blood for blood,” replied the other. “But think not that they died ere they had made their foes pay dearly for their death. No, hundreds of the slavish Urus fell before their conquering sabres; and in that thought, I cease to mourn, but yet what are the lives of a thousand Urus to one true son of the Attèghèi?”

“Bosh! as nothing. As chaff to corn, as dross to pure gold; but we will avenge them brother,” said the Hadji, grasping his sword. “My heart will beat with joy, when I find myself once more among their ranks.”

“That may soon be; for their ships, but a short time ago, landed a large force on the coast to the north, who are yet shut up in their fort. But say, who are these strangers who accompany you? What do they here?”

“In the first joyful moment of meeting you I thought not of them, but will now attend to the duties of hospitality,” And introducing Ivan, the Hadji added, “I bring with me, one who is our countryman, my adopted son, next to Alp in my love; regard him as such, for my sake.”

“To me he will always be welcome,” replied the chief, taking Ivan by the hand. “And I will believe that he is worthy to be a true son of the Attèghèi. But come, we will waste no further time here. He and his attendants shall accompany us, while some of my followers shall stay to bring up your goods from the vessel. We will at once repair to the dwelling of the noble Prince of Pchad, whither I was bound, when I saw your vessel approaching the land. He will welcome you with the arms of friendship. Away, my Deli Khans,” he cried, addressing several young men who surrounded him. “Give notice to the noble Prince of our coming, and say, moreover, that some strangers accompany us.”

The Chieftain, and his brother, the Hadji led the way from the sea shore, accompanied by Ivan, and followed by a numerous band of active young mountaineers, each completely armed, with a gun slung on his back, a sword by his side, and a dagger in his belt, to which several had added pistols. Their dress consisted of a coat, fitting close to the body, of dark cloth trimmed with silver, without a collar, and open at the neck, secured by loops in front, and having long hanging sleeves; the skirts reached completely round to the knees, wide trowsers of a darkish green colour, tightening at the calf, embroidered boots of dressed leather, and belts round their waists of the same. Their bonnets were of sheepskin or dark cloth. Altogether the costume was elegant and picturesque.

The party proceeded for a short distance through a thick grove, on a gentle slope, which soon terminated in rough cliffs rising abruptly from the lower ground, under the shelter of wide-spreading beech trees of vast height, and of venerable oaks, extending their leafy boughs, almost to the water’s edge. They soon arrived at the entrance of a beautiful valley, which extended in a winding course far inland. After passing some way through it, they were entirely shut in by rocky cliffs, or steep, almost precipitous hills, yet clothed with the graceful linden, the dark leaved mulberry, the magnificent chestnut, the dark and silvery olive, and many other trees; and as they wound their way up the steep sides of the hills, they passed beneath natural arbours of the high creeping vine, and the graceful hop, which twined their slender tendrils from tree to tree, and from peak to peak.

The distant scenery was still hidden by the leafy shelter, when a successive discharge of fire arms was heard, and as they emerged from the thickets into an open space on the summit of the hill, a party of young cavaliers was seen galloping towards them at desperate speed, flourishing their swords, and firing off their pistols, and uttering shouts of congratulation and welcome; to which the old chief’s party answered when the others rushing forward, joined their ranks.

A beautiful village of low cottages scattered among the trees now appeared. Apart from the rest, and having greater pretentions to architectural grandeur, stood a dwelling, surrounded with several other buildings appertaining to it. From the principal gate-way in the fence, which enclosed it, was seen advancing towards the party, a personage, whose appearance struck Ivan with admiration. His long, flowing, and blanched beard, the deep lines which furrowed his expressive countenance, and his attenuated figure, bespoke him a man far advanced in the vale of years, though his eye still glowed with some of the fire of youth. He walked erect and firm, clothed in complete armour, with helmet on head, cuirass and cuisses of polished steel plates richly embossed, as with a noble and dignified air, he advanced to meet his guests, and to welcome them to his home.

He courteously pressed their hands. “Welcome, my noble friend,” he said, addressing the chief, “and you, oh venerable Hadji, who by the blessing of Allah, have returned from your travels, to bring wisdom and knowledge to our country. Welcome also to these strangers, who, under thy protection, I will receive as my sons and friends. My house, and all whom Mahmood commands, are at your orders—”

“Most noble Prince,” replied the Hadji, as spokesman of the party, “not the least of my happiness in returning again to my loved country, is to see you still alive, and ruling your people with wisdom and justice. Gladly will we partake of your well-known hospitality.”

Saying which, the Hadji led the way to the guest-house, to which the Prince pointed, following himself in the rear of the party, who entering, took their seats on broad cushions or ottomans, which surrounded the room; their arms being hung up on the walls by attendants in waiting. The aged host would not take a seat, till the Hadji and his brother had earnestly pressed him to do so.

“Rest here awhile,” he said, “till my women can prepare food to refresh you after your voyage. Do not imagine, that though daily threatened by a descent of our deadly enemy, I cannot, as in other days, prepare a banquet for a thousand or more of our gallant warriors, if they should honour me by a visit.”

The conversation now became general. The Hadji had many inquiries to make, and much to relate; and as the time wore on, several nobles of lesser rank, and importance in the neighbourhood, and subject to the Prince of Pchad, entered, and took their seats on the Divan. Ivan was silent, listening with interest to the conversation, while his two attendants stood respectfully among the others at the further end of the room.

The subject of discourse then turned entirely on the state of the country; the Uzden Achmet Beg, the Hadji’s brother, giving him an account of the different military operations which had occurred since the commencement of the campaign.

“Bismillah!” exclaimed the old chief. “We have well beaten the cursed Urus, whenever we could catch them beyond the shelter of their fortresses, where we coop them up like so many sheep in their pens. They talk of occupying our country; why, they have in all but three or four forts in it, which they can only hold by means of their fleet; and which we could capture any day we liked. Except Anapa, which we care no more for, than a dog chained to his kennel, who barks without reaching us to bite, they have only Ghelendjik, and another small fort near the sea, and Aboon at the head of the Kouban, where we close them in, and have nearly starved them to death. But as they can do no harm there, we do not choose to risk losing many valuable lives to take it. They once attempted to establish one of their colonies and forts at Soudjouk Kalie; but that time we were prepared for them. We rushed down upon them like a troop of wolves into a sheep fold, ere they could throw up their fortifications, and carried away one half of their people to till our own fields; while the rest we drove into the sea, where their ships picked them up. They found it was no use attempting to sow corn where they would never be allowed to reap, so they sailed away; and with the blessings of Allah, we will soon make them do the like from all parts of the country.”

“Allah be praised, we will soon accomplish that work,” exclaimed the Hadji. “My heart yearns to be among them again, with my true sword in my hand, in the loving way I used to treat them. Bismillah! we must make a foray among them, just to take the rust off our weapons. What say you, my son?” turning to Ivan, “will you try the strength of your arm on the hard heads of the Urus, and strike your first blow for the liberty of your country?”

“Gladly will I accompany you, my noble friend,” said Ivan. “I should not wish to serve under a better leader, for you well know how ardently I long to prove myself worthy of the race from which I have sprung.”

“Then, by the favour of Allah,” replied the Hadji, “before long, I will lead the way among their ranks, and we will then see what stuff they are made of, by cutting them to pieces. They are slaves and curs. Their mothers and fathers are dogs.”

The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of several male and female slaves bearing a repast. The dishes were placed on small wooden tables, about a foot high, before each person, as they sat round the room on the ottoman. The host himself handed to every guest a cup of light mead, a ceremony preliminary to the repast. He would not be seated until he had performed this courtesy; nor would he join the meal, notwithstanding his advanced age, till repeatedly urged by the party to do so. The servants stood round to attend to the wants of each guest:

The repast consisted of mutton, dressed in a variety of ways; fat poultry, pastry, preserves, and fruit, commencing with a bowl of rich and savoury soup, with spoons placed for every person to help themselves; after which, each man drew a small knife from his girdle, to commence the attack.

Before the attendants had cleared away the tables, the aged Prince arose, and filling his cup with mead, drank to the health of all present in turns.

“By what name shall I address my young stranger guest?” he asked, turning to Ivan. “Though he speaks with the tongue of our people, and his eagle glance, and lofty stature, betoken him to be a noble, yet know I not his name. Say, under what appellation shall he dwell in the memory of Mahmood Indar?”

“Noble Prince,” replied Ivan, rising from his seat, “you speak truly, though I am, I trust, of the pure race of the Attèghèi. Name have I none. I love not the one I have borne for many years, therefore, I give it not, and the noble name I long to bear, I give not, until I have done some deeds, to shew myself worthy of the race from which I deem myself sprung; that my kindred should not say, when I claim their love, that I am no true scion of their stock. This I have sworn by the bright heaven above us. My noble friend, the Hadji Guz Beg, has offered to shew the way among the ranks of our foes, and I have sworn to follow him, even to the cannon’s mouth.”

All applauded this speech, the Hadji springing forward to embrace him. “I see, my second son, that you will prove a true Circassian,” he cried, “and by the blessing of Allah, by to-morrow’s dawn, we will proceed in search of our foes: to-night, we will rest under the roof of our noble host.”

“Happy am I to receive so gallant a warrior as you have proved yourself, oh! Hadji; and honoured am I in such guests as you and your friends,” answered the Prince.

The repast being concluded, the party strolled out among rich and fertile meadows, sloping from the house down to a pure and glassy rivulet. An orchard of various fruit trees surrounded the dwelling, while, before it, grew some magnificent chestnut trees, under whose grateful shade the old noble loved to sit, surrounded by his youthful descendants, enjoying their gambols on the grass.

In the neighbourhood of the house were the farm yards and granaries, stored with all kinds of corn, the produce of the surrounding highly-cultivated fields. On the mountain’s brow grazed his numerous flocks, and in the rich meadows below his herds of fat cattle.

Our hero had parted from his companions, when the page sought his side; and as Ivan’s eye fell on the boy, he exclaimed—

“Conrin, do you find yourself sad and solitary among so many strange people?”

“Ah, no!” answered the page, “I cannot be sad or solitary when in your presence.”

“Do you then come to congratulate me on having, at length, arrived in the land of my hopes?” asked Ivan.

“Yes, Sir, yes; whatever gives you pleasure makes my heart beat with joy; and may your utmost hopes be now fulfilled!”

“Thanks, page; but still my heart is full of fears. I know not, nor dare I ask, if yet my father lives. Why do you sigh, boy? Does the name of father cause you thus to sigh?”

“Alas, Sir, I never knew one: the name sounds like mockery on my ear. The kind and noble friend, whom I thought my father, I found was not so; and yet I feared to ask who was.”

“’Tis strange,” said Ivan. “And your mother, boy?”

“Alas, Sir!” said the page, “the kind and gentle care of her, who was my mother, I never knew.”

The boy’s eyes filled with tears.

“I would I had not asked you, boy, about your parents, to make you weep thus: but dry your tears; I will supply the place of both your parents, as much as in my power lies; and you shall share my fortunes, which, I trust, will lead to happiness.”

In a moment the boy’s eyes brightened, as he gazed up into Ivan’s face, with an inquiring and searching glance, yet radiating with smiles of joy.

“’Tis that alone I ask to do,” he replied. “To follow your fortunes through good or evil, in happiness or misery. Still speak to me in words like those you just now uttered, and they will repay me all the hardships I may endure.”

“I could not speak harsh words to one so unprotected as you are. Now tell me, what think you of my countrymen? Are they like the wild barbarians the Russians would have taught the world to think them? But, thank heaven! they yet may learn how true courage can oppose its arms to tyranny, though backed by hosts of slaves.”

“I did not think to find them as they are,” replied the boy; “more courteous far, and hospitable, than the people of the land whence we came. True valour sits in the eye, even of the lowest of the multitude.”

“You praise them well, good page, but justly,” replied Ivan. “But see, the party move towards the house. We must go in. Keep by my side, as you see the pages of the nobles do.”

Volume Two—Chapter Six.

As the sun of the first day, which Ivan had passed in his native land, sunk down beneath the waters of the ocean, shining bright and blue between an opening in the hills, the guests re-assembled in the hospitable mansion of the Prince Mahmood, where another repast was served, much in the style of the former; and as the party were seated at it, a new comer entered the guest-house. He was dressed in the high fur cap of Armenia, with a long-flowing, dark robe, bound by a belt round his waist, at which he carried an ink-horn, pen, and book.

A slave followed him, staggering under the weight of large packages, which he had unloaded from two horses at the door.

He took his seat respectfully, at some distance from the chiefs, and humbly ate the viands which the Prince ordered to be placed before him.

“Whence come you?” demanded the host of the stranger, who seemed to be a pedlar or travelling merchant. “What goods do you bring for sale? Allah knows we have little need of any, except powder and lead in these times.”

“I come from the City of the Sultan,” replied the Armenian, “from the rich Stamboul; and I bring jewels and silks for your lovely wives and daughters, and gemmed daggers and swords for you, noble chiefs. But I am a man of peace, and thought not of the powder and lead.”

“You will find but a bad market for such wares here,” answered the Prince; “but in my house you are welcome. What news bring you from Stamboul? Do you hear what measures the great Padishah is taking in our cause? Or, forgetting the children of his holy creed, does he tamely submit to the audacious tyranny of the proud Moscov?”

“Alas! my father,” replied the merchant, “though all men desire to aid your cause, and many would eagerly hasten to your assistance, yet the power of Russia is great, and no movement can be made without coming to the ears of her minister in the capital of the Sultan, where a whole host of spies are ever on the watch to carry information to him. The Sultan—may Allah prosper him!—would of his own free will do much for you; but where is now his power, since the standard of the Osmanlis has sunk before the eagles of the Moscov? Alas! fallen is the greatness of the Turks, my father. Their old allies, the Inglis, have forsaken them, and joined the armies of their foes. What help have you, but to yield to the mighty power opposed to you?”

“What help have we!” vehemently exclaimed the Hadji. “You are a man of peace, and the guest of our host, or you should eat those words of dirt you speak. What help! We have the help of Allah in our rightful cause, and our own good swords to defend our homes; and with the will of heaven, we will show those cursed Urus that we know how to use our arms. Let them venture from their strongholds, and we will teach them a lesson they will not easily forget. Go to their camps, merchant. Tell them to come on; we fear them not. But, man, you speak false. Bosh! it is nonsense. I, too, have come from Stamboul; and the Inglis are again the friends of the Sultan; and I know well they would aid our cause if the Urus did not cram their ears with lies. There are many noble spirits among them, ready to fly to our assistance. Go to, man, you speak of things long passed. You know not what you say.”

The Armenian pedlar looked confused for a moment, but his assurance soon returned.

“If the noble Hadji has just arrived from Stamboul, I have no more to say. I have journeyed far by land since I left that city, so he, perchance, brings fresher news than I do.”

“The Hadji is right,” said the Prince. “For I too know that the Inglis are our friends, and if they would but send us powder and lead, we would be grateful, and be their friends for ever.”

“The Inglis, say you, Prince?” answered the Armenian; “you are deceived in the Inglis. They are a nation of merchants like me, and aid not a cause where they cannot make gain; some few are gallant warriors, and would shed their blood perhaps in your cause; but of what assistance would a few more swords be among a nation of warriors? No, Prince, I say, expect no help from them. Seek not to war against so powerful a nation as the Moscovite. I say not, be friends, but it is madness contending with them.”

“Mashallah!” exclaimed the Hadji, furiously regarding the stranger, “I warned you, trader, not to speak of peace with our foes, and you have again done so. Beware how you utter those words again. The Inglis are a brave nation, and I know that they are good warriors, for I have met many of them; and all who come to this country shall be welcome. But what want we more than our own arms to defend our own mountains? Speak not again of peace. Bosh! such words I spit upon;—they are vile.”

“I see, noble Hadji, your slave is wrong,” cringingly returned the pedlar. “I thought of some other Franks; mine too is not a nation of warriors like your’s, to hold out so long against an invader, and to endure, for so many years, all the miseries of war. I spoke but my own feelings, therefore let not your anger be kindled against a poor merchant, who would do nothing to offend you.”

The Hadji’s anger was as quickly appeased as it was easily excited, and he regarded the Armenian more with feelings of the deepest contempt than with any hostile thoughts. The pedlar himself appeared to have discovered that the most discreet conduct he could follow, was to keep silence among the present company.

Appealing to the Prince, he craved leave to exhibit his goods to the ladies of the family.

“I have but little to give for aught you may possess, merchant; yet as the women love to look on fine silks and jewels, you may send in your packages to the anderoon, and see if they will select any. Go now, it is late, they will soon retire to rest.”

As the Armenian left the apartment, the Hadji glanced at him with a look of disgust. “For what should that slave talk to us of treating with the Urus?” he cried; “one might think from his words that he was a friend of theirs; but he is a craven-hearted slave, and not worth further thought.”

The principal part of the company now adjourned to the verandah in front of the house, where they passed an hour in smoking the much prized tchibouks.

Before they retired to rest, the pedlar returned, having disposed of some of his silks to the ladies of the family.

“Your slave,” he said, humbly addressing the Hadji, “hears that you and some other noble chiefs are travelling towards the north to-morrow, and it would be a high honour as well as a great kindness, if you would allow him to accompany you.”

“Do you fear, merchant, that your friends the Moscov would ease you of your goods, if you happen to go near their forts?” The pedlar started. “But what care I? you may go with us if your pack horses can keep pace with our steeds; but remember that we delay not for a few bales of silk.”

“Thanks, noble chiefs,” replied the pedlar, bowing before them; “much shall I prize your protection. But do not say that the Russians are my friends; I know them not, I hate them, I detest them, I spit upon them.”

“You do well, man,” replied the Hadji. “But remember another time, that if you talk of peace between the sons of the Attèghèi and the Moscov, while they remain on our coasts, you may chance to take a leap from a higher rock than you would like.”

“Your servant hears, and will follow your advice,” replied the Armenian; then turning to the Prince, he presented to him a richly jewelled dagger. “Perchance, as the noble Prince Mahmood will not purchase, he will accept as a gift this dagger from his servant, to prove his love for the Attèghèi, and his hatred for the Moscov. He will honour his slave much by receiving it from his hands.”

The Prince looked musingly at the dagger, which seemed of great value.

“Take back your gift, merchant,” he said; “what Mahmood requires he can purchase, and beware how you make such gifts. They are too much like the bribes the Urus offer to tempt traitorous hearts to join them. Mahmood thanks you, but cannot accept your gift.”

“Your slave would be more gratified if the Prince would take the trifling gift. He can repay it when he pleases.”

“I thank you, merchant, but I have said I will not accept your gift,” replied the Prince. “Therefore take it back, and go in peace.”

The Armenian, as desired, took the dagger, concealing it beneath the folds of his dress, while the Prince whispered a few words into Achmet Beg’s ear.

The night being already far advanced, the party prepared for rest. Slaves entered the guest-house, bringing cushions and coverlids of rich silk, and spreading them on the floor, to form beds for the guests, on which the voyagers gladly threw themselves to rest.

Seeing that every thing was arranged, their Princely host retired to a part of the dwelling appropriated to himself.

The walls of the room were adorned by tablets with passages of the Koran written on them, while the arms of the guests, with several suits of rich armour, hung suspended around. The internal ornaments afforded a strong contrast to the primitive simplicity of the mansion, and to the simple habits and customs of its inhabitants. The manners of the chiefs, however, were courteous and knightly, resembling all we hear of the chivalry of the middle ages, or perhaps still more like the heroes of ancient Greece.

The lower orders and serfs, also, are certainly less barbarous, and perhaps more intelligent than the Scottish highlanders of the same class a century ago, if it is necessary indeed to go back so far.

The next morning, the Uzden Achmet Beg assembled his followers, who had been dispersed about the neighbouring hamlet for the night; and when it was rumoured that the celebrated Hadji Guz Beg had returned from his distant pilgrimage, and was about to take the field, with his hatred of the Urus unabated, numbers of young men volunteered to join his standard, leaving the old men and women to attend to their fields. Achmet Beg indeed, though the head of his tribe, and a much respected noble, had not gained that renown which his younger brother had acquired by a long series of hazardous and daring exploits. The latter, therefore, was always preferred as a leader by the young and bold spirits of their tribe, nor did the elder, who was of an unambitious, quiet character, feel the slightest jealousy at his brother’s superior military abilities.

Ivan was overjoyed when he found with whom he had formed a friendship, little thinking while aboard ship, where he had scarcely spoken on the subject of war, that the sedate Hadji was the renowned warrior he on all sides was acknowledged to be; and though he seemed somewhat to boast among his friends of past deeds, and of others to be accomplished, it was easy to see that it was not the vaunting of a pretender, by the attention paid to his words.

A gallant array of cavaliers now assembled before the house of Prince Mahmood; the chiefs in glittering suits of armour, some of highly polished plates of steel, and others of finely worked chain, their cloaks of varied colours, and swords girded to their sides, with richly embossed handles. The daggers in their belts were decorated in the same manner. Many carried pistols, and the greater number had also a long rifle slung at their backs, thus mingling the weapons of ancient and modern days.

Their retainers were armed, some with long guns, and others with long bows, and quivers full of arrows, wearing in their belts short double-edged swords, or rather daggers, and straight sabres by their sides.

As Ivan issued from the house, he found a high-mettled steed waiting at the door, held by Achmet Beg’s squire. The Hadji advanced as he appeared, and leading the horse forward, presented it to him, saying:

“Let me be the first, my son, to provide you with a charger of the true Attèghèi breed, who well knows his way among the ranks of the Moscov; and in case you do not like the gift, you can repay me when we have made a foray into their country, and have carried off a rich booty. Till then, accept him from a father who loves you. There are two others, which count as nothing, for the use of your squire and page, though perhaps not to be matched among the Cossacks of the plain.”

Ivan, gratefully thanking him for his well-timed present, vaulted with alacrity into the light saddle, Javis holding his stirrup, and then following his example. Young Conrin also shewed himself no mean horseman, leaping lightly on his small, but well proportioned and active steed.

The whole party were prepared to set forth, when the aged prince himself appeared, tendering to each guest of noble rank a parting stirrup cup of mead; for such is the knightly custom, still adhered to in that primitive country.

“May the blessings of Allah attend you, my sons!” said the aged chieftain; “may your arms be victorious over our enemies, and may death fly from your ranks. Would that I too had strength to lead my followers to the field; but while my gallant sons yet exist to take my place, I must remain to guard our lands from the foe. Should it be the will of Allah that they fall, then I too must gird on my sword, and yield my last breath amid the din of battle. Now Heaven protect you, my sons!”

The venerable Prince, grasping the hand of each chief as in turn they rode by, the cavalcade set forward. As they issued from the court-yard of their konag, the cry of “Ogmaff! ogmaff! farewell! farewell!” resounded on all sides from the assembled retainers and slaves of the chief; and loud shouts of “Vo-ri-va-ka,” rent the air, as a parting salute to the warriors who were sallying forth to defend their country.

They set forward at a brisk pace, Ivan keeping by the side of the Hadji, who pointed out to him each scene of note as they advanced, explaining to him the Circassian style of fighting, and other subjects of interest and importance.

In the rear of their ranks, came the Armenian merchant and his pack horses, light active animals, formed of bone and sinew alone, who continued to keep up with the high-mettled steeds of the warriors, though the ground was rough and hilly. Their route lay across a country, wild as if no other foot had trodden it save the beasts of the forest; now over the edge of dizzy precipices, then descending into savage glens and through dark and frightful defiles, amid gigantic rocks, bared, broken, and distorted into a thousand strange forms.

Then again they had to scale some lofty elevation, amid splendid forest trees, where a platform of rich ground would be found, highly-cultivated, and far removed from the reach of their enemies. Occasionally they saw, amid the almost inaccessible recesses of the mountains, some Alpine cot, whose skin-clad inhabitant was tending his flocks of goats.

As they rode along, game of various sorts, such as wild turkeys, pheasants, hares, and deer, would start up in their path, to which some of the party gave chase, and either ran down or shot with their true-aimed arrows. As they were passing through a rocky defile, an immense wild boar started up in their path.

“A fortunate omen for our next expedition,” shouted the Hadji. “Now, my Deli Khans, let us give chase to the huge monster as we would to the savage Urus.”

Uttering these words, and with the spirit and agility of youth, spurring on his horse, followed by Ivan and the younger men of the party, he rode at the beast, who, gnashing his long tusks in defiance as he turned his head towards them, first endeavoured to escape among the rocks, when he saw the number of his foes. The Hadji was, however, too quick for him; and the boar, seeing escape from his active pursuers was hopeless, stood at bay. Grinning at them with his sharp teeth, and foaming with fury, he prepared to rush at the headmost of his opponents; but, nothing daunted, the aged, but active huntsman rode directly at him, and leaning from his saddle, plunged a short sword deep into the thick neck of the animal, who made a last desperate attempt to rip up the horse of his opponent; but the Hadji, making his steed spring on one side, the fierce beast rolled over, and expired without a struggle.

Shouts of applause, from those of his friends who had come up to the scene of action, followed this dexterous feat of the old warrior.

“Bosh! it is nothing,” he exclaimed. “I did it but to ascertain if my eye had lost its quickness, or my arm its nerve; but, praises be to Allah, neither of them is the worse for my long rest.”

The carcase of the boar was left to feed the beasts of the mountain, less scrupulous than the followers of Mahomet; though in truth, few of the Circassian mountaineers are very strict observers of the tenets of his religion, nor would object, if hard pressed, to a slice of the unclean animal.

“We will soon find more noble game than this,” said the Hadji, turning to Ivan, who had arrived as the boar received his death stroke; “and you will become both a good huntsman and a good warrior. But Inshallah! the first is only fit sport for boys or young men, when there are no enemies to be met with; and I did it but to stretch my sinews a little after my voyage.”

The whole party now proceeded through a deep and romantic glen, where scarcely a breath stirred the light festoons of creeping plants which hung from the rocks above. All seemed solemn and sad; when Achmet Beg’s followers struck into a low chaunting song, describing the actions of some chief who had fallen lately, fighting against the Russians. The whole party joined in a rich and full chorus; the sounds of Ay-a-ri-ra swelling and dying away among the ravines and far distant glades of the mountain forest.

Ascending a lofty eminence, crowned by trees, they emerged from their shelter, when a view was obtained of the sea below them, and of the fort of Ghelendjik, far to the north, built on one side of a deep bay. Stretching far beyond it was a long line of white cliffs. As the party of warriors gazed on it, expressions of execration burst from their lips, and the Hadji looked anxiously down a steep pathway leading to the shore, by which he might have gained the outside of the fort; but feeling the uselessness of the wish, he merely contented himself with muttering—

“The piggish cowards! Let us but meet them beyond their walls and without their cannon, and we will soon teach them better manners than to pay us a visit without an invitation.”

It struck the chiefs as singular, that they had met none of the sentinels, who watch every height along the coast in the neighbourhood of an enemy.

“The men of Hyderbey were not wont to be sluggards at their posts!” exclaimed the Hadji to his brother. “How is it that they do not watch these heights?”

“Perhaps they have gone nearer to our foes,” replied the chief, “to shoot any who may show their faces above the walls of their fort.”

The scene below them seemed calm and quiet. A few white sails of Russian vessels, alone dotted the smooth bosom of the Euxine. In the fort all was so quiet, that it looked like a deserted mound of earth. The roofs of the buildings scarcely peered above the walls; and the proud standard of Russia was hardly distinguishable, as it hung listlessly round its staff.

Not a breath stirred the air, and deep silence reigned on the calm scene, when, in a moment, it was broken by the loud crash of artillery, followed by the continued reports of musketry, far above which rose the loud war shriek of the Attèghèi.

“Allah be praised, here is work for us, my friends, without delay!” exclaimed the gallant Hadji, in a joyous tone, “Bismillah! we will be upon them when they little expect us, and aid our friends, whoever they are. Follow me, brave warriors.”

So saying, he spurred on his charger, with his brother and Ivan by his side, followed by the rest of the band, and galloped, by an almost precipitous path, down the wooded sides of the hill. They passed many a rocky ravine, and dry bed of winter torrents, tearing their way with eager haste through the boughs and thick underwood. Nothing could stop their course.

Volume Two—Chapter Seven.

We have, in a previous chapter, attempted to describe the romantic and pastoral beauty of the coast of Circassia, as viewed from the sea. We must now transport our readers to a scene of even loftier grandeur, and more surpassing loveliness.

On the southern side of a high mountain, thickly clothed with the varied foliage of magnificent trees, some two or three hundred feet from the base, was a broad and extended plateau or terrace, terminating on one side by a steep precipice, while on the other the mountain rose in majestic grandeur, from the side of which, amid the trees, projected rocky crags of fantastic shapes, partly covered with the slender tendrils of creeping plants. Down the mountain’s slope sparkled a bright cascade, leaping from rock to rock, here hidden from sight by some overhanging trees or jutting cliff, and there appearing more clear and joyous than before, till it fell in a spray-wreathed column into a bason, from which it meandered through the small plain of the plateau, fertilising in its course several highly-cultivated fields, till it again fell in a shower of foam over the sides of the precipice, into a beautifully green and broad valley below; there joining the pure waters of a rapid rivulet, which brawled over its rocky bed in its course towards the sea, through the winding gorge of the valley.

Towards the east, as far as the eye could reach, appeared hills and mountains of every form; some swelling in gentle undulations, and covered with fields of corn or green pastures, where grazed numerous flocks and herds; some clothed to their lofty summits with magnificent forests, and others again rising in steep, rugged, and barren abruptness. Above all were seen blue ridges of mountains, rising one beyond the other; first clear and defined, and then growing more indistinct and faint, till lost in the azure tint of the sky. In the same direction, the terrace extended for some way, gradually narrowing till it merged in the steep sides of the mountain. Some well cultivated high ground of no great elevation, rose on the opposite side of the valley, which, in the direction of the sea, narrowed into a deep ravine, taking an abrupt turn, with precipitous and insurmountable sides. The sea face of the mountains which formed it, could be trodden by none but the light-footed goat, or the almost equally active and daring mountain-hunters.

It was, in truth, a situation well calculated to secure a retreat, and to form a fortification against any hostile invader, if protected by a few brave and resolute men; and on that account, it had been selected as a location by the gallant chief of a once numerous tribe, who had been driven by the Russians from his former hereditary possessions.

His residence stood just within sound of the refreshing cascade, whose pure waters flowed before his door. The house was surrounded by farm yards, well-stocked with every species of domestic animal, and every kind of poultry. Well-planted orchards formed part of the homestead; and the trees in them were now loaded with fruit.

The dwelling consisted of several separate buildings, of the usual style of Circassian architecture; but one was arranged with more care and attention than the others. This was the anderoon, or house appropriated to the women; it was separated from the others by a paling, which, however, was not sufficiently high to obscure the prospect. The front looked down the lovely valley, over many a rocky hill and cliff, beyond which, in the distance, was the bright blue sea. Before it extended a verandah, round whose trellised supports many creeping plants had been trained; their slender tendrils bearing sweet-smelling flowers, which hung in graceful festoons from the top.

But it was in the interior that the brightest gem of the casket was to be found. On a cushion of rich silk, was seated, gazing through the open door, a young girl, lovely as one of Eve’s fairest daughters. Her eyes, of the deepest blue and of dazzling lustre, shaded with long dark silky eyelashes, were gazing upon the picturesque view before her; her delicate carnation lips were slightly parted, disclosing her pearly teeth. Her features were perfectly regular; and the fair complexion of her gently rounded cheeks was almost imperceptibly tinged with a roseate hue. Her raven hair fastened by a silken band over her forehead, fell in a long plait behind, and from her head a veil of white gauze scarcely shrouded her graceful and slender figure. The robe she wore was of blue silk, trimmed with silver; her full white muslin trousers were confined with a richly worked girdle, which encircled her waist; and small slippers of coloured leather, beautifully worked in arabesque patterns with silver, completed her attire.

By her side lay an embroidered belt, at which she apparently had been working, as the golden thread still hung, unconsciously, in her slender fingers.

At a short distance from this lovely creature, sat a little girl, busily occupied in spinning; whose small, quick, piercing eyes, and dark irregular features, shewed her to be not of Circassian race; a slave taken, probably in some predatory excursion, from the Calmuck Tartars. As she pursued her occupation, she turned at times her quick glance towards her young mistress, as if with an endeavour to catch her eye, but without avail; and she seemed fearful of arousing her from her meditations, whatever might be their nature.

A tame kid of snowy whiteness was gambolling before the door; till, grown bold by impunity, it bounded into the room. But even the pretty animal’s playful antics did not rouse her; and the little maiden diligently plied her work, despairing of recalling the thoughts of her lady, to the affairs of the present moment.

At length the sound of a distant footstep approaching the dwelling, caught her ear, she started from the reverie. “Run, Buda, run!” she cried, in tones of silvery sweetness, “haste, maiden! and see who approaches; but whoever they may be, stop them from coming here. Say I can see no one to-day; I am ill at ease; I should weep to see strangers. Shew them to the guest room, but not here. Say I would see friends another day, but I cannot now. Go, child.”

The little girl was flying to obey these mandates, when the young beauty stooped for a moment, in the attitude of listening. “Stay, Buda, stay; it is useless. My fears have made me fanciful. Those are my father’s footsteps. Haste, Buda, to usher him to my apartment.”

While she spoke, the subject of her meditations appeared at the entrance of the apartment, ushered in, according to etiquette, by the youthful slave. As he entered, he bowed low, his lofty plumed helmet touching the door-sill, and as his graceful daughter rose from her silken cushions to receive and welcome him, he folded her in a tender embrace.

He was a warrior of commanding and majestic stature, clothed in complete armour. His coat of mail richly inlaid with gold, shone brightly with steel of the highest polish. His curling dark moustache and beard were yet untinged by any of the hues which betoken the approach of age, though his stern and fine features were marked with many furrows, indicating deep thought and numerous cares. He raised from his head his glittering helm, which his daughter respectfully took and placed by her side, as he seated himself on the ottoman and beckoned her to sit near him.

“It is long, my father,” said the fair girl, “since I have rejoiced in the light of your presence; and oh, what pleasure do you bring to me when you come! I was before sad and thoughtful, and now I feel light and happy. Say, what has kept you so long away?”

“My own sweet Ina,” answered the chieftain, “in these times of war and of constant peril, I have many things to attend to; and it does not become a warrior to spare many moments from his duties, even though he spend them in soft intercourse with one so loved as you, my child. I have even but now returned from mustering the small remnant of the faithful followers whom his foes have left to Arslan Gherrei; to see that they are well supplied with arms, horses and food, for a campaign. But why, Ina, were you just now, so sad and thoughtful?”

“Oh do not ask me, my father! now that I am again happy,” replied the daughter. “I did but for a moment feel somewhat ill, and feared that guests were coming whom I did not wish to receive. I am well again, my father, now that you are with me.”

“I have matter of importance to communicate to you,” said the chief, “you know Ina, that I so love you, that for all the riches of the mighty Padishah of the Osmanlis, I would not part from you; but yet, sweet one, the stern necessity of war compels me to leave you, and I must haste to join the hosts of my countrymen to repel our invaders. I may perchance fall, and leave you unprotected.”

“Do not say so, my father,” cried the lovely Ina. “Surely heaven will protect us, as it has done before. But why this sudden haste? Stay but some short time longer with me, and among your fields and retainers. Nothing can have happened to call you so quickly away.”

“It may not be, dear daughter. Now listen to my words. I have already told you that the valiant Khan, the noble Khoros Kaloret, has seen you—that he loves you. He is rich and brave; hundreds of retainers obey his commands and follow him to battle. He has numerous slaves who till his fields; rich pastures on which large herds of cattle graze; innumerable flocks wander over his mountains, while none can boast of finer horses or richer armour. What more can I say of him? He has sent his brother, who has just arrived, as an envoy to demand you in marriage, and I have spoken much to him. He says that he loves you, truly and deeply—that he would sacrifice half his possessions to gain you. Nay, tremble not, loved one. You know that horses, cattle, or the richest armour, are but as nought compared to you—that I would give all I have for your sake; but yet in this time of war, when any moment may lay me low, I would find some gallant protector who would shield you from danger; that when I am in the land of the blessed spirits, I may look down and see my child happy. Many there are who would be to me as a son, and would gladly accept your hand and succeed to my possessions; but none appear to win my Ina’s heart. Say, will my child become the bride of the Khan?”

“Oh my father, indeed, indeed, I feel your kind and generous conduct,” exclaimed Ina, with feeling and animation. “Where other fathers do not consult their daughters’ wishes, you willingly yield to mine. I too have seen the Khan, but I would not be his bride; I cannot dream of love for one like him. For your sake, my father, I would wed whom you wished; but still he should be one whom you too could love, who would obey, and follow you as a son. Ah! that Allah had made me one, that I might follow you to the battle, and share your dangers and your victories. If I were to wed this Khan, I should see you no more; I should be carried far away to his mountain home, distant from the sounds of war and strife, when you would be left alone without a child to attend you, when sick or wounded; or should you return victorious, none would be in your home to offer you a joyous welcome. Oh, my father! let me still remain your daughter; let me remain to tend your household and your flocks, if you will not let me go with you. But oh! how much rather than become the wife of the richest noble, would I follow you to the field, to cheer you in the camp, to dress your food, to be your page and attendant. This I can do.”

“Alas! my daughter, I cannot leave you here, for I must take all the followers that I can muster to the field. I have now so few, that I cannot leave enough to guard our home; and should our invaders gain the entrance of this pass, my house and fields must fall a prey to them. Then, my Ina, would you not be more safe and happy as the wife of a powerful chief, with thousands of warriors to fight under his banner, than to be following me amid the toils of a campaign?”

“No, oh no,” replied the daughter. “I do not, I cannot love the Khan; he is brave, but fierce, noble, and cruel; his followers obey him more through fear than love. His very features bespeak his character; he is no true son of the Attèghèi, and I would wed none but a scion of the true stock. Oh, tell the Khan’s brother, that you cannot part from me; that I am your only child, your successor; that I am not worthy of the Khan’s thoughts; that Circassia has many maidens far more prized than I. Oh! say that you will do so, and restore happiness to your daughter’s heart. It was the thought of this that made me sad and ill.”

The Chieftain gazed at his daughter with a glance of deep affection; yet, for a moment, the customs of his country seemed contending with his love. Nature, however, triumphed over habit.

“I will do as you will, my Ina,” he cried, clasping her in his arms. “I will send word to the proud Khan that even he cannot melt the icy heart of my child. Nay, do not weep, my daughter; you shall not leave me against your will for a stranger’s care.”

“Thanks, thanks, my father,” exclaimed Ina, affectionately returning his embrace. “You have restored peace and joy to my heart, and gladly will I prepare to accompany you to the camp.”

“That cannot be,” replied the chief. “Your delicate frame is but ill prepared to share the hardships of a warrior’s life; but your safety shall be better cared for, and I will bestow you with the family of my kinsman, the noble chief Aitek Tcherei. His lands are far removed from danger, among the rocky fastnesses of the mountains; and yet, so near the camp, that a quick-footed messenger, may reach it on the second day. Thither will I conduct you, Ina, ere I seek the field; and there, with a companion of your own age, you will be safe and happy. To-morrow after the sun has risen, prepare to accompany me, with your women and slaves; I must now away to the guest-house, to give your message to the young Khan Besin Kaloret, who is eagerly expecting an answer; and were it not for his oath of peace, methinks the proud Tartar Khan would ill brook a refusal. And now, Ina, farewell, till to-morrow’s morn, when I will meet you with my retainers to guard you on your way.”

The Chieftain arose, again bestowing an affectionate embrace on his child, as she presented him with his casque. He replaced it on his head, and quitted the chamber, attended by his daughter to the door. She followed him with her eyes, till he reached the entrance of the guest-house; when returning to her couch, she placed her hands before her face, and gave way to her overcharged feelings, in a flood of tears.

The little slave Buda gazed with astonishment, to see her mistress so overcome with distress; she approached her with concern.

“Oh, my dear mistress! why do you weep?” she cried.

Ina looked up at the little girl, with an affectionate and grateful eye. “I weep not through pain, Buda, but that I am a weak, foolish girl, unworthy, some would say, to be a maiden of Circassia, where all ought to be brave and bold. I weep, because I may not share my father’s dangers, and that I may never again see him, or hear his voice. I weep too, for joy, that he so loves me, that he will not part from me. But I must not give way to thoughts like these, or my tears will not cease flowing. I must nerve my soul to bear all that may happen, with the courage of a daughter of the Attèghèi, if I have not the strength of her sons. Now haste, Buda, we have much to do, to prepare for our journey. Summon the women from the fields, tell them that we must leave our home; bid them hasten to prepare our goods and furniture for our journey. Go, good Buda, go.”

As the little slave ran off to obey her mistress’s behests, the pet-kid again gambolled within the door of the room, and ran bleating to its fair guardian, looking up with its soft eyes full of affection, to her face. She bent down, and took it up in her arms. “Ah! my little plaything, and you too, I must see for the last time; perchance, no more shall I look upon your pretty gambols; no more will you come to be fed by my hand. When I am gone, you will wander wild among the mountains, with no roof to shelter you, and miss the care of your mistress, or a more sad fate, perhaps, be driven into the hands of those worse than wolves, our greedy invaders. Farewell, pretty one! give one more look with those soft eyes, and then go, forget me, and be happy among the wild flocks of your kind.”

The little animal, as if understanding her words, or the tone of her voice, ceased its frolicsome play, and seemed unwilling to quit her side.

The whole household was kept the rest of the day in a state of bustle and activity. The women were busily employed in making packages of all the light and easily moved valuables of the family; every one being too well prepared for the necessity of such a movement. Ina herself attended, to see that the tasks were properly performed; for a Circassian maiden, even of the highest rank, does not consider it a degradation to attend to her household affairs, but rather an honour to be so employed.

Volume Two—Chapter Eight.

The chieftain, Arslan Gherrei, was one of the bravest of the nobles of Circassia. He was generous in his behaviour, courteous in his manners, and temperate in the extreme; but there was a melancholy in his countenance, almost approaching to sternness. He kept aloof from his countrymen, except in the council of war or the scene of strife, where his advice was respected, and his standard followed with alacrity. At their banquets and scenes of conviviality and amusement, he was scarcely ever to be found, preferring rather his domestic hearth and the society of his daughter.

Such was the father of the beautiful Ina, the devoted patriot, the champion of Circassia; but as we shall have occasion to refer, at a future time, to the particulars of his history, we will now follow his steps to his guest-house, where the young noble, the brother of the Tartar Khan Khoros Kaloret, was anxiously waiting his return with Ina’s answer to his brother’s proposal of marriage; not dreaming that it was possible any maiden of Circassia could refuse so noble an offer.

The young Khan, who was seated on the divan at the further end of the apartment, attended by his squire, rose as the chieftain entered. He was a tall, hard-featured youth, of herculean frame, clothed from head to foot in chain armour, over which he wore a dark cloak of thick cloth; his head was guarded by a helmet, or rather cap, of iron, trimmed round the edge with a thick fur border, giving to his face rather a ferocious appearance, which his overhanging and scowling brow did not belie. By his side hung a ponderous two-edged sword, the handle richly embossed with gold and ornamented with jewels, as was the poniard at his belt. His other weapons, as well as those of his squire, hung against the wall over his head.

His squire was without armour of any sort; but his cap was of the same coloured fur as his master’s; and his dress of dark cloth fitted closely to his figure. This man was of shorter stature than the Khan, and thick set, with the same disagreeable, forbidding cast of features. The Khan seemed eager for the chieftain’s reply, though he tried to conceal his anxiety; but before either of them spoke, his host, motioning him to resume his seat, took a place on a cushion opposite to him, waiting for his guest to commence the conversation.

“Noble Uzden, what answer does the bright dawn of day send to my gallant brother? Will she be the queen of his anderoon, and the future mother of our noble race? When will she be prepared to meet my brother on her road to his home, and when shall I again come with a large company of our retainers, such as befits her rank and beauty, decked in bridal array to bear her away to the longing arms of her spouse?”

“It cannot be,” answered the chieftain, gravely, “I speak not with disdain of the noble Khan, your brother, but my daughter is to me as my son; and not even to him, for all the riches of Stamboul, will I part with her against her wish. Ina is still young, and loves me as a son would. Tell your noble brother that she will yet remain with her father; that she is the only bright jewel I cherish; that I value her more than the richest armour, or steeds of the purest race. There are other maidens of the Attèghèi, gladly willing to cheer your brother’s home—willing to be the mother of his sons, brave and warlike as their father; may Allah send joy to his house! but my daughter cannot be his bride. It is enough, Khan, I have given my answer.”

The brow of the young Besin Khan grew darker at these words. “Must I then go back to my brother with such an answer as this? Must I go tell the leader of a thousand brave warriors that a weak girl will not bow to his will? Why thus, oh Uzden! do you throw dirt in my face? Must I speak such words as these in my brother’s ear? Think you that he will listen to me? He will say that I am laughing at his beard. He will tell me to return and bring back his bride; you know not my brother, if you suppose that he will hear with calmness such words as these. He will not rest. He will send me back with another message, and will not receive me till I return with his bride. Say then, oh chieftain! that the sweet bird shall quit her bower, that she will come and sing in my brother’s anderoon. She will soon be happy there, though at first she may mourn for her father’s home; and she will become my brother’s pride, his brightest jewel, his sweetest flower. He will send you, Uzden, a coat of armour through which no sword can cleave; four noble steeds of the purest race, fleet as the wind, a fine herd of fat cattle, and flocks of sheep. Do not despise these things.”

“Have I not said, Khan, that my daughter is to me more than armour or steeds?” replied Arslan Gherrei; “why then, talk we like children? My word is spoken—my daughter cannot be the bride of the Khan. Be not foolish, but take my message to your brother; and now Khan, speak no more on the subject. Refreshments are preparing for you ere you return, if you must needs use so much haste; but rather spend this night at my house, and by to-morrow’s dawn you shall depart, for I lead forth my few remaining followers against the foe, and must take my daughter to place her in safety with the family of our kinsman Aitek Tcherei. Stay then, till to-morrow, when you shall go in peace; and perchance the next time we meet, it will be on the battle-field against the Urus; for I have often been witness of your bravery, and many of your foes have I seen bite the dust.”

“I cannot stay; I must away with haste; I want not food, if such is the only answer, oh chief! that you can send my brother,” exclaimed the young noble with vehemence. “He will not brook such words as these. His soul will not tamely submit to this refusal. It is folly to think it. His offer was not made to be refused.”

“You speak words of folly, Khan; your brother is no child, that he should be angered at a thing like this,” replied the chief, gravely. “Your feelings carry away your judgment; wait, and you will think better on the subject to-morrow.”

“You little know my brother. He is now waiting, eager for the answer I must take, and I will not tarry to hear more of such words,” exclaimed the young Khan, still more angry than before. “My horse, Kiru!” turning to his squire. “Reach me my arms. Bring forth my horse. Order my followers to mount, and away.”

His squire, as desired, presented him with his gun and pistols, and hastened from the room to obey his orders, while the young Khan strode angrily and haughtily to the door, where he stood, foaming with rage, till his horse was brought forth. He then mounted, without offering the customary salute at parting to his noble host, who amazed, and vexed, at his want of knightly courtesy, and at his hot, irascible temper, re-entered his house.

Followed by his squire, and the retainers of his family, the enraged young noble galloped furiously along the flat terrace, till he reached the steep path on the mountain’s side, down which he continued his way, and along the bottom of the valley in the direction of the sea, keeping his course towards the north, along the coast.

Volume Two—Chapter Nine.

Among the beetling crags of the high, dark, and rugged mountains, which surround the still more gigantic and terrific Elborous, is a deep glen, more wild and fearful than the many other fissures into which the mountains have been rent by some awful convulsion of nature, forming the only accessible approach to a wide bason, round which precipitous cliffs arise on every side. Their lofty and pointed summits are insurmountable, even by the wild goat or active chamois.

It appeared as if nature had formed the spot expressly to serve as a fortification for outlaws, as a dozen or twenty men could at all times defend the entrance from a host of foes. It was for this reason that the ancestors of the present occupier of the country had selected it as a spot on which to fix his abode, probably on account of his own lawless disposition, that he might sally forth from this strong hold, and commit forays on his neighbours, with a secure place to retire to with his booty, without fear of reprisal. Be that as it may, his descendants had followed constantly the same occupation; rushing down on the unguarded and unsuspecting villagers of the plains, carrying off their cattle, and seizing on themselves as slaves.

The first of the present race who inhabited this wild spot, was a Khan of high rank in Tartary; one of the many who escaped with the exiled King into the mountains of the Caucasus, when driven from his throne by the Russians under the grasping Catharine. There they were hospitably and joyfully received by the brave people from whose blood they had originally sprung; great numbers, therefore, settled in Abasia, and their followers adhering to them through good and evil, they thus formed powerful tribes in their new mountain homes.

From the marauding practices of the ancestor of Khoros Kaloret Khan, he was possessed of large herds of cattle, flocks of sheep, numerous slaves, and a breed of high-mettled steeds, from the stock which they had brought with them from Tartary. Thus possessed of abundance of wealth, he refrained from practices followed in more lawless times. He was at the head also of a numerous band of retainers, who obeyed him implicitly as their hereditary chief and master; so that besides his rank, he was a person of great consideration in the country, though perhaps more feared from his power to do evil, than loved for the benefits he conferred on his neighbours.

His temper, being uncontrolled, was fierce and violent, so that none of his retainers dared to disobey his slightest orders; yet they followed him willingly to battle, for he was, at the same time, a brave and skilful leader, and the Russians had often felt the power of his arm in his tremendous onslaughts. No sooner did they commence hostilities against the tribes of Caucasus, than his father, leading out his clansmen from their fastnesses, proved himself one of their most bitter and unceasing enemies. Deep and fierce was his revenge for the wrongs which Crim Tartary had endured at their hands.

Sending once some of his people to throw themselves in their way, in order to act as guides to them, he drew a large body among the fastnesses of the mountains, where, having lain in ambush, he set upon them with his followers, and slaughtered several hundreds on the spot. The others, attempting to take refuge among the caverns and rocks, were hunted like wild beasts. For several days did the savage chase continue; every avenue for their escape was so guarded, that none returned to tell the tale of their disasters. Those who were not taken and put to the sword, died of starvation among the barren mountains.

The young Khan and his brother had imbibed from their father the same bitter hostility towards their foes; but revenge ruled their breasts more than love for their adopted country; and the ungovernable and fiery temper of the elder, often led him to commit excesses, even among his own followers, of which his father was not guilty.

Such was the suitor for the hand of the gentle Ina; and though Arslan Gherrei loved him not, yet he was not fully acquainted with his real character; nor could he, without giving good reason, refuse his suit without a deadly insult, as he himself was descended, by his mother’s side, from the same race, though of a royal line.

The house of the chief, near which was erected a high watch-tower, was built directly facing the rocky defile leading to the green circular plain or bason before described, thus commanding a view of all who approached.

The Khan was pacing under the verandah in front of his house, in a state of violent excitement.

“See you any one coming?” he shouted to a page stationed on the summit of the watch-tower. “Why tarries my brother thus? Why sends he not messengers to announce the coming of my bride? Surely he would not fail to send, and give me time to meet the beauteous girl, with due honour, on the way. He is not wont to disobey my orders. See you none coming, slave?” he again vociferated. “See you none coming?”

“On my head be it, Khan, I see not one speck moving in the whole of the glen,” answered the page.

“Am I your Khan, that you hasten not?” he cried, to some attendants waiting at a little distance. “Do you, Zand, take the fleetest steed, and fly towards Ghelendjik for three hours, returning without delay; and see that you bring me tidings of my coming bride, or of my brother’s messengers.”

The man hastened to obey the order, the Khan continuing his irregular and agitated walk as before, every now and then turning his glance down the glen, then shouting to his watchman to learn if he had caught sight of any one approaching. The answer was as before. His impatience increased.

“Saddle me a steed, knaves—haste, fly. Am I not your Khan, that you make no better speed?”

A horse was quickly brought him; when, throwing himself into the saddle, he rode furiously down the dark ravine; but he soon returned, on the back of the panting animal, from the fruitless search.

His temper was not assuaged by his headlong and heating ride; as throwing the reins to a slave, who stood trembling to take his horse, he resumed his hurried walk in front of his dwelling.

Another hour passed, when the look-out man, on the watch-tower, gave notice that he saw a horseman coming up the glen. As he approached nearer, he proved to be only one of the messengers despatched in the morning, and he reported that he could gain no intelligence of any of the young Khan’s escort.

The shades of evening were beginning to throw a deep gloom into the glen, when the look-out man again cried that he saw a party of horsemen approaching.

The Khan instantly threw himself on a gaily caparisoned steed, preceded by his banner-bearer. His squire and pages followed, with the principal of his retainers, and galloped down the glen to meet the expected bride. What was his rage and disappointment when he did not see his brother’s towering form, or the white veil of the betrothed; but met, instead, the travel-worn and agitated band of retainers who had set out with him?

“Where is my brother, and where my bride?” he exclaimed, riding furiously towards them with his drawn scimitar uplifted. “Say, caitiffs, ere I slay you.”

“As Allah is great, we dare not say, Khan, where your brother is. We know not—we cannot speak,” answered the foremost of the party. “The fair daughter of the Uzden Arslan Gherrei is with her father.”

“What! does she not come with my brother? Speak, slaves; answer, I charge you,” cried the Khan.

“This only we know, Khan. On my head be it that I say truth,” replied the first speaker:

“The brother of the Khan parted from the Uzden Arslan Gherrei in anger, that he would not let his daughter come to be queen of our chief’s anderoon. We then travelled towards the castle of the Urus at Ghelendjik, where Besin Khan, taking with him only Kiru, ordered us to proceed a day’s journey, and then wait for him. For two days he came not. We waited a third, and we then went to search for him. We heard that there had been a bloody fight between some of the tribes on the coast and the Urus, and we thought our young Khan would not have been absent; but all, of whom we asked for news of him, turned aside, and would not answer. We then went to the shore, where the combat took place, and among heaps of the vile soldiers of the Urus, almost destroyed by the birds of prey and wild beasts, we found the sabre, which was our young master’s, broken, and his iron cap and his corslet, with a deep dent on its centre.”

As he spoke, the horsemen opened their ranks, and discovered between them, on a led horse, the shattered arms of Besin Khan.

“As Allah is great, Khan, this is all we know,” added the man.

The rage of the chief seemed for a moment abated, by the shock he had experienced at the account of his brother’s too probable death. But it as suddenly returned.

“What lies are those you speak, villains?” he exclaimed. “Is it the custom of the chiefs of Abbaseik to leave their companion warriors when slain on the field? Though he had not his own clansmen with him, think you the other nobles would not have brought off his body were he slain? No; those cannot be the arms of my brother. If you have lied, some of you shall suffer for this. Follow me to my house. We will see, when light is brought, if these are truly my brother’s arms.”

And turning his horse’s head, he rode hastily homeward.

Throwing himself on a divan, in his principal apartment, followed by all the newly-arrived troop, he caused torches to be brought, and the arms to be placed before him. He examined them narrowly.

“Alas, my Khan!” said one of his attendants, “the hilt of this sabre I know it too well. Often have I seen it in your noble brother’s hand.”

“Peace, fool!” answered the Khan, furiously. “Think you that I know not my brother’s sword? Yes, those are his arms, and I will make those pay dearly who have cast this indignity on my father’s son. He would not, if living, have left his weapons on the field; and by Allah and his Prophet, I swear that I will have revenge. He may have fallen into the hands of the Urus; but no, Besin Khan would not be taken alive. I will go to the chieftains of the Attèghèi, engaged in this combat, and make them pay dearly for thus deserting my brother, if he was slain. If he were near, and heard the sounds of strife, so assuredly would he have rushed into the thickest of the fight; and if he fell by those hated Urus, doubly will I wreak my vengeance on all of their cursed race who fall into my hands. Yet what is the blood of a whole host of such as they are, to one drop of the blood of my noble brother? He would have died for me, and shall I rest while I live to avenge him? No; his spirit calls to me from the grave.”

He rose, and walked in an excited manner through the chamber, shaking his clenched hand in the air.

“Perchance even yet, my brother, thou art not slain! Wherever thou art, at the hands of that proud Uzden Arslan Gherrei, I will demand thee. He must know where thou art. Why should he refuse me his daughter? Am not I as noble as he? Have I not more faithful followers, more flocks and herds? Then why does he refuse to let the maiden come to my anderoon?”

On the next morning, a fierce and warlike band were ready to follow the Khan, as, clothed in rich and glittering armour, with his banner borne before him, he left his mountain home, nor tarried on his road, but with furious speed galloped on, like some cataract descending from a lofty mountain to the plain.

The band of horsemen issued from the glen, passing along the giddy edge of precipices, fearless of danger, down the steep sides of the rugged mountains, along the dry rocky bed of the winter torrent, never drawing rein.

The inhabitants of the villages and hamlets ran out on hearing the rattling hoofs of the steeds, as the fiery Khan and his followers galloped by; but none greeted him as he passed, and, like a whirlwind, vanished from their sight.

“Ai! ai!” cried the aged villagers. “Is the Khan again on a foray? Woe betide the hapless people of the plain he pounces on; or if he rides against the Urus, many will rue his coming, as he gallops over the slaughtered bodies of their countrymen.”

Volume Two—Chapter Ten.

It has been seen, that young Khan Besin Kaloret had been deputed by his brother, the fierce Khan of the mountains, Khoros Kaloret, according to the custom of the country necessary to be observed on such occasions, to make his proposals to the Uzden Arslan Gherrei, for the hand of his lovely daughter; having several times seen her in his excursions to that part of the country, and being deeply captivated by her beauty, and reputed accomplishments.

The young envoy came, empowered to offer rich presents, which his brother had prepared to her father, in the full confidence that his magnificent overtures would be accepted; for who could doubt that the suit of a powerful and youthful noble would be successful; one, whom a thousand brave warriors obeyed, and followed to war, who possessed large herds of cattle, flocks of sheep, fleet steeds, and rich armour.

Koros was, as we have said, a noble of a violent and revengeful disposition; so that his brother, though he loved him, and was himself equally brave, quailed beneath the fury of his overpowering anger; and well he knew that a defeat in this affair, would raise it to the utmost.

On leaving the Uzden his thoughts were bent on vengeance, or on accomplishing his object; and had it not been for the oath, which he, with many other nobles had entered into, to refrain from all broils amongst each other, on account of the impending danger of the country, he would probably have determined to return immediately with a strong body of his retainers, and carry off the unwilling girl by force. As it was, the tumult of his feelings took away all his judgment, nor knew he how to proceed; when his wily squire divining his thoughts, laid a plan to which he had little doubt his master would accede. When the Khan first drew rein, he began cautiously to unfold a stratagem, which he had thought of, by which the wished for object might be obtained.

“Why does my young master thus give way to anger and despair, at the folly of a wilful pale-faced girl? Why does he think, that it is impossible to succeed in obeying the wishes of his noble brother? Are there not yet many ways left to attain his object?”

“What mean you, Kiru? speak!” exclaimed the Khan. “To what do these words you speak tend?”

“The chieftain Arslan Gherrei, and his fair daughter, with the few retainers he has left, travel this way to-morrow, and will pass near the Russian fort at Ghelendjik,” answered the crafty counsellor. “Could not then my master instigate the Russians to sally forth, from their entrenchments, and capture the chieftain and his daughter, as they pass by? They will give the lovely maiden as a reward to my master, that he may take her to his brother, our chief, to make his home joyful with her presence.”

“What are these words, I hear?” exclaimed the young noble in an angry tone, and frowning at the same time. “Would you have me turn traitor to my country? Would you have me break my oath by dealings with the cursed Urus. No, Kiru, no. Are they not my deadly foes? Have I not slain them, as the mower sweeps down the ripe corn with his sickle? No, Kiru, it cannot be.”

Setting spurs to his horse, he again galloped forward, to avoid the temptations of his attendant. He, however, pondered on the subject as he rode; and his imagination having been once excited by the instigation of his follower, he could not drive the idea from his mind, by the rapidity of his pace. Unfortunately for himself, he again stopped to hear what further arguments his squire might have to urge; who, like the arch instigator to evil, seeing the effect his proposition had already made, ventured to proceed.

“Does the Khan, my master, think that I would persuade him to form a friendship with the hated Urus? No! no! I love them not. My master mistakes my words. I would advise only that he should make use of their assistance to gain his object, and then he may quit them without thanks. He may again bathe his sword in their blood, as if he had never spoken to them. What matters it, if a few men on either side be slain? It is a trifle compared to fulfilling his brother’s commands.”

“That may be, Kiru; but will not men say, that I have stained the name of our family, by holding communication with our enemies?” said the young Khan.

“No one need ever know what you have done,” replied the tempter. “Leave that to the care of your faithful squire. Will not also many of the Urus be slain in the combat, and thus benefit our cause? for the chief Arslan Gherrei is too brave and powerful to let many escape to tell the tale; and while all are engaged, the Khan can rush down and carry off the fair girl, as if to rescue her from her enemies. Has not your servant well spoken, Khan?”

“Your plan is good, Kiru,” he replied, now almost determined to follow the crafty suggestions of his tempter. “Yet, how can I gain admittance to the fort of our enemies?”

“That is easy; for they are always glad to see those whom they may hope to gain over to their side; and we may easily deceive them. Say, but the word, and I will go on, to prepare for your coming,” urged the evil counsellor.

“You persuade me much, Kiru; but yet are not the scouts of the Attèghèi constantly on the watch to mark the movements of the Urus; and will not they assemble a larger force of their people, the moment they see them leave their entrenchments?”

“That, too, shall be my care,” answered the squire. “I will deceive the scouts, and send them in different directions, so as to leave the road clear. On that account there is naught to fear.”

“Your persuasions are powerful, Kiru,” answered the Khan, now scarce hesitating, “and in no other way do I see that I can fulfil my brother’s wishes.”

“We have no time to lose then, Khan,” said the squire. “Let us hasten to put the plot in execution, and we will shew these foolish Russians, how well we can deceive them.”

The young Khan had now been fully persuaded to commit this act of treachery and folly. Waiting, therefore, till his followers came up, he despatched them on their way homeward; while he and his squire proceeded towards the castle of Ghelendjik, keeping as much as possible under the shelter of the rocks and trees, that they might pass unobserved by the Circassian scouts, till, at the close of evening, they arrived under its walls.

The fort of Ghelendjik was built on the eastern side of a deep bay, the calm waters of which were sheltered from nearly all the winds which agitate the Black Sea. Lofty and precipitous hills rose around it, at some distance from the shore, leaving, on the side where the fort was erected, a broad expanse of sand and low ground, reaching beyond musket-range of the hills. Far to the north-west, extended a high range of chalk cliffs; above which the mountains rose in broken ridges, or sunk in deep ravines to the very edge of the cliffs forming an impassable barrier to troops; while on the other side, the land stretched far into the sea in wooded promontories or capes, forming a series of beautiful bays or windings of the shore in the direction of Pchad.

The walls of the fort within which the Russians were cooped up by the vigilance of their foes, were built partly of stone and partly of clay embankments, forming a high parapet, surmounted with palisades; and from the embrasures frowned the muzzles of their guns, in a long line of ordnance of the heaviest calibre, loaded at all times to the mouth with langridge and grape shot. On the outside a deep ditch had been dug, and redoubts thrown out. At intervals of a few yards between the rough hewn timbers forming palisades, bristled the bayonets of the numerous sentinels constantly on the watch, to prevent a surprise from their indefatigable and dreaded enemies. The store-houses and barracks were built of wood; many of them but wretched huts scarcely giving shelter to the miserable garrison, which now consisted of upwards of four thousand men. Even with this strong force, so vigilant and persevering were the Circassians, that the Russians could scarcely venture to shew themselves beyond their walls without being fired at; and their foraging parties to obtain wood and water were escorted by a troop of artillery, to guard them against the attacks of the natives. All the trees in the neighbourhood had been felled by the invaders to build their fort, and to prevent the mountaineers from finding shelter behind them in their advances, in case they should attack it; so that the country for a short distance around, wore a desolate and barren aspect: a sad contrast to the smiling and rich scenery a little further off.

In a hut of better pretensions than the other buildings, within the fort, sat, on his camp sofa, the commander of the Russian castle. The deep frown on his dark brow, showed his mortification at the ill success of the Imperial arms, and he was meditating fierce and sanguinary revenge against the gallant mountaineers for their determined defence of their native land.

He was one with whom our readers are already acquainted; the reputed father of our hero, the Baron Galetzoff.

The governor was interrupted in his meditations by the entrance of an officer, who came to announce that a native chief, as his dress betokened him to be, had with a single attendant arrived at the fort, and seemed to have some communication of importance to make.

“Admit him,” said the Baron. “But let a company with fixed bayonets form round him at the entrance of the fort, and I will go forth to meet him. I cannot trust these mountaineers; some treachery lurks beneath every action. Call my interpreter, and I will hear what this robber chief has to say, and order the troops under arms, that he may see our strength, and report it to his countrymen for he comes here but to act the spy.”

As the Khan and his squire entered the fort, the moon slowly rose above the mountains, throwing her soft clear beams on the calm waters of the bay, and shining on the fixed bayonets of the troops, and on the swords of the officers, who stood grouped in knots around in rich and varied uniforms gazing on the proud and warlike-looking stranger, while the banner displaying Russia’s dark eagle floated vauntingly above their heads.

A troop of Cossacks, in their wild and picturesque garb, were mounted on fleet horses with embroidered housings. Their arms were highly ornamented; and, as they galloped to the spot, they flourished aloft their long spears whose points glittered brightly. On either side the troops were drawn up in long and close lines; the bayonets seeming to form a sharp, pointed wall of bright steel tipped with burnished silver. In different parts of the fort blazed the camp fires of the soldiers; and, in attendance on the governor, came a party of men with torches, throwing a red glare of light on all around. The miserable buildings, and dark irregular fortifications were thrown into shade, leaving only the gaudy and glittering panoply of war exposed to view, mocking the calm splendour of the moon, as she glided in her course through the deep blue sky, amid myriads of bright and shining stars.

As the Russian governor reached the gate of the fort, he perceived the commanding figure of the young Khan Besin Kaloret, and his squire standing close behind him with a cocked pistol in his hand. The mountain warrior stood fearless and unabashed amid the gorgeous and imposing array of the Russian troops forming round him.

“Who are you,” began the Baron, “who have so audaciously ventured to approach my camp? Know you not, that I have the right and power to order you to be instantly shot for the many atrocities committed by you, and your barbarous countrymen? Speak, what brings you here?”

“I fear not your power,” calmly answered the Khan; “nor should I die unrevenged; but I come to you with thoughts of peace, I come to crave your assistance in an affair of import, but I cannot speak when so many are, near who may overhear my words.”

The Russian General, conscious of his own evil intentions, looked at the pistol held by the attendant Kiru. The Khan saw his glance. “Put up your pistol, Kiru. We have nothing here to fear,” he said; and, as his squire obeyed, the Baron ordered the soldiers to fall further back.

“Now tell me your errand,” said the General, “and say who you are.”

“It matters not who I am,” replied the Khan, “but my errand is this; I would possess myself of a fair girl, the daughter of a chieftain, who, with a small band of followers travels this way to-morrow. Though they are brave, they may be easily overpowered if you will follow my suggestions. Now hear me, General of the Moscov. If you will send one hundred of your foot soldiers with me, I will lead them to a spot where they may remain in ambush, till the chief and his band pass that way. They may then rush out and take them prisoners if you will, and as my reward I claim the chieftain’s daughter.”

“The plan might succeed,” answered the Baron, doubtingly. “But how can I know that you mean no treachery? I cannot trust your countrymen.”

“You might know that I would not play you false, by coming here among your troops in your camp. If you doubt me, slay me. I am in your power.”

The unembarrassed manner in which the Khan spoke contributed to allay the Baron’s suspicions, though he still hesitated to trust the stranger.

“Suppose I follow your advice,” said the General, “how can it succeed? for, overlooked as we are by the enemy’s scouts, none can leave the fort without being perceived.”

“I have arranged that also,” answered the Khan. “My squire, whom I can trust as myself, will go forth to lead the scouts astray with false reports, and none shall interrupt our proceedings. The spot too on which I have fixed is near at hand, so that you may send assistance if required. Will you do therefore as I wish?”

“How can I be assured of your fidelity?” again inquired the Baron. “I must have some hostage to prove that you are not deceiving me, you yourself must stay while you send some one to point out the spot; and when the girl you speak of is captured, you shall have your reward.”

“That cannot be,” replied the Khan, equally distrustful; “I must myself lead your fighting men to the place of ambush; and must also be near at hand to carry off the daughter of the chief, that none may know I had aught to do with the surprise. The rest treat as you will; but you still distrust me. It is well. I will send out my squire before day-break to clear the country round of scouts, and when he returns he shall remain as a hostage to prove my truth. Is it not well?”

The Baron at length agreed to the proposed plan, congratulating himself in the hope, that, by the capture of a chieftain, with all his family and women, by retaining them as hostages, he should bring into subjection all his landsmen and followers; and finally, by detaining the young Khan as a prisoner for the same purpose, a justly severe retaliation would be inflicted on the treachery of his countrymen. The Baron therefore ordered double the number of infantry asked for, with some light field-pieces, and a troop of Cossacks to attend, the Khan and to watch the proceedings with orders to kill him should he attempt to escape.

The conference being over, the young traitor was conducted to a hut prepared for him, where refreshments were offered, and every inducement held out, with promises of valuable presents should he quit the Circassian cause, and with his followers join the Russians. But his cupidity could not be excited. Revenge for the insult he considered his family to have received alone ruled his actions. He turned a deaf ear to their most tempting offers, though, to disarm suspicion, he pretended to be influenced by these propositions.

Not so, however, his squire, who hoped to partake of the rich presents and advantages which his master would acquire, if he accepted the Russian’s offers; and he determined to use his utmost persuasions with the Khan for the purpose.

The next morning before the sun had risen, Kiru stealthily sallied forth from the fort, and fully succeeded in misleading the scouts of the Circassians, who dreamed not of such treachery. But on his return, to his great surprise, he found himself detained a prisoner. What was the Khan’s dismay, also, when he found how different were the arrangements made from what he had himself proposed, and that he was completely in the power of his enemies? But he had now advanced too far to retrace his steps, so that at all hazards he determined to attempt the seizure of Ina, hoping at all events to escape with her in the mêlée.

It was clear, however, that he did not at first intend to prove a complete traitor to his countrymen, nor, till driven to desperation by finding himself out-witted, would he have drawn his sword against them. If his countrymen saw him rescue Ina, she would become his fair prize, and he thought that most of her friends would escape by the fleetness of their horses.

Volume Two—Chapter Eleven.

The household of Arslan Gherrei were early astir on the following morning, to be in readiness to commence their journey, whenever their chief should give the order. Several household slaves, Calmucks, and even Russians, who had been taken prisoners, and one or two Poles, deserters from the enemy, but who had not yet proved their fidelity to the Circassians, by wielding their swords against their late masters, were employed in loading the sturdy ponies with the articles which the women had prepared. Lighter steeds were in readiness to carry the females; and one of fine proportions, with sleek skin, and long-flowing mane and tail, as docile as a dog, was destined to bear the graceful and slender form of the chieftain’s daughter. The beautiful animal was decked with rich housings of scarlet cloth trimmed with gold; slender reins of leather entwined with a golden thread, and bunches of wild flowers in his head. And truly he seemed conscious of the care bestowed on him, and proud of the charge he was accustomed to carry.

After the frugal morning meal had been dispatched, the fair Ina, blooming in the fresh morning air, came forth from her dwelling, and the chieftain himself appeared, to conduct her to her steed. In addition to her other dress, she now wore a scarlet mantle worked with gold, and a hat, the rim turned up on one side, in which was placed a white plume fastened by a jewel of price; while a thicker veil hung in ample folds from her head to shroud her features, if she pleased, from the rays of the sun, or the too admiring gaze of strangers.

As soon as their young mistress had mounted, the women and the rest of the party followed her example, her father riding by her side, to guide her palfrey through the more difficult part of the road. The women servants and slaves followed next; the household attendants bringing up the rear with the baggage horses. As the cavalcade proceeded along the plateau or terrace before described, and wound down the steep sides of the mountain, and along the valley towards the sea, it was joined by bands of horsemen, of ten to twenty at a time, arriving from different directions; so that, by the time they had reached the defile which opened on the sea-coast, the party amounted to nearly a hundred warriors.

Some of them were nobles of little consequence or wealth, who were glad to attach themselves to the standard of so gallant a leader as the brave Uzden Arslan Gherrei; and others were yeomen and freemen, who had been followers of his family for ages. Some wore entire suits of armour; others, only breast-plates and helmets; others, were without any defensive armour; but all were completely supplied with weapons: light guns slung at the back, scimitars attached to their sides, pistols in their belts behind, and the cama or dagger at their waists. The rest wore the tight-fitting Circassian coat, the cloth or fur cap, and a large cloak over the shoulder; so that the whole of the party had a bold, martial appearance; the horses curvetting and careering, and the leader’s banner borne at the head, fluttering in the wind.

It was, in truth, a noble and gallant looking little band, worthy to be led by such a chief. And Ina’s eyes flashed with enthusiasm and animation, as she rode by her father’s side, at their head, guarded on each side by a few of the most favoured and honoured.

In order to avoid the more rugged and difficult passage over the mountains, the chieftain had, for his daughter’s sake, chosen a route along the sea-coast, affording a plain and even path for some distance towards the north, before it would be necessary for him to strike inland towards the place of their destination. After riding for some distance by the side of the clear stream, flowing through the valley, they passed the narrow gorge which formed its entrance, emerging from it into the open coast of the blue sea, whose waves rippled on the bright hard sand at their feet.

High on their right, rose lofty mountains, covered with shrubs of every varied form and hue. Sometimes they passed beneath the boughs of wide-spreading trees, whose grateful shade sheltered them from the heat of the sun, now rising high in the heavens; and again where the gentle breath of the sea-breeze came soft and cooling to their cheeks.

The leader kept his small troop together, except a few of the younger men, who galloped about in every direction, both to ascertain whether any enemies were lurking about, and to amuse themselves by martial exercises; now throwing the djereed with unerring aim, now galloping their fiery steeds up the steep sides of the mountain, amid rocks which appeared to afford scarce footing even for the nimble goats; then dashing amid the cooling waters of the clear blue sea, and swimming their well-trained steeds at some distance out in a line with the shore. There some would join in mimic fight, chasing after, or flying from each other along the hard sandy margin of the ocean. Not a few, indeed, were eager to exhibit their feats of horsemanship before their chieftain’s fair daughter, whose bright smile every now and then offered rich reward for any superior display of dexterity or courage.

They were now approaching the neighbourhood of Ghelendjik. Though little danger was to be apprehended from their foes; who scarcely left their entrenchments, and never without a strong force when driven out by famine to forage in the neighbouring country; yet as a good commander, Arslan Gherrei considered it necessary to lead his men more carefully along the Dehli Khans keeping a stricter watch in every direction.

To avoid the fort, it was necessary to leave the sea shore, and to proceed over some rugged paths further into the interior. A rapid and deep stream, however, the Mezi, crossed their path, before they could reach a part of the mountains practicable for their horses and baggage. The nearest ford was close to the mouth of the stream; so that, to enable the women and their goods to pass over secure from wet, it was necessary to return again to the margin of the sea, which they had previously left for a short distance, in order to pass through a shady grove on level ground. The young men, however, at once dashed into the stream, quickly swimming their horses over, and galloped along on the bank of the side they had gained to meet the rest of the party, and assist them in crossing, which, with some difficulty, on account of the depth of the water, they accomplished.

The warlike little band, forming in order, turned again from the sea, to proceed along the bank of the stream, to the entrance of a vast gorge, through which its waters passed.

Few scenes could have more of wild grandeur than the one now before them. The foaming waters of the stream, dashing over its rocky bed, were lined, where the crevices of the rocks afforded root for them, with willow, elder, and other trees and shrubs. On each side of the gorge, were dark and lofty rocks, overhung with bending shrubs and creeping plants, which fell in thick festoons; while the sides of the mountains, rising high above the shore, and crowned to the summit with thick growing trees, were so precipitous, as to afford but a narrow, steep, and winding path, difficult even for the nimble horses of the Circassians.

Ina gazed up the steep sides of the mountain with doubt and hesitation, as to the possibility of crossing it; but finding her father about to proceed to the fort, she prepared to accompany him.

Some horsemen, who were sent in advance to clear a passage among the thick branches of trees and the underwood which impeded their progress, were about to scale the side of the mountain, when a loud shout from the rest of the band, rending the sky, called them back. At the same moment, a terrific crash, and report of cannon, sending forth a death-dealing shower of grape, laid many of the foremost low. Arslan Gherrei turned in the direction from whence the iron shower came; and calling to some of his retainers to follow, galloped furiously up the glen, without a moment’s hesitation, towards a mound rising slightly above the stream, on which now appeared a row of light field-pieces, guarded by a body of Russian troops, who had before been concealed by the ground they now occupied. At the same moment, the sides of the mountain, up which their intended route lay, glittered with hostile bayonets.

Half the Circassian band, raising their terrific war-cry, rushed with headlong speed, led by their gallant chief, against the guns. The heavy discharge of musketry which met their advance, did not check them; and, with irresistible force, they drove the gunners from their posts, causing the troops to recoil before them. The Russians, panic-stricken by their shouts, and the impetuosity of their onset, made slight resistance, as the Circassians, seizing the guns, hurled them with several of their defenders into the torrent; and were about to follow up their success against the party of soldiers who guarded the glen, when they were recalled by a loud shout from their comrades. Turning, they perceived the opposite side of the stream lined by a strong body of troops, who, as they passed down, opened a heavy fire on them; while, from behind every tree which clothed the mountain, appeared more of their enemies. Turning their horse’s heads, they again galloped back, in spite of the bullets which assailed them, to answer the call of their friends.

The party whom they had left to protect their fair charge, seemed not to attract the hostility of their foes, for among that band none had fallen; but, at the moment they were again about to join, a strong troop of Cossacks were seen advancing at full gallop, with loud shouts, to attack them.

“There has been treachery at work, oh! men of Attèghèi! or we should never have been caught in this toil; but, my gallant friends, we must cut our way through them, or die, wreaking due vengeance on their heads. Let us now remember that we fight for the fair ones we are bound to protect. On, my brave followers—on, men of Attèghèi, and shew our dastard foes that we fear not a host such as they. We will hew a way for ourselves through their crowded ranks, and pass the guns of their fort, leaving those who may survive our charge to follow if they will. On, gallant warriors, on!” shouted their noble leader.

Hearing these words, the band again raised their terrific war-cry, overpowering the rattling sound of the musketry, and rushed impetuously to meet the charge which the advancing troops of fierce Cossacks seemed about to make.

On both parties rushed, shrieking in their eagerness; their eyes starting from their sockets; their sabres clenched firmly in their hands; the hoofs of their steeds spurning the soil, and foam flying from their nostrils. The meeting crash of the hostile cavalry was terrific; but many of the first ranks of the Cossacks were overthrown by the superior agility of the Circassian warriors, their active steeds well seconding their riders, as their swords whirled rapidly round their heads, and descended with tremendous force on the unguarded bodies of their foes, whose sabres were shivered against their steel breast-plates and helmets.

So fierce was the onslaught of the mountaineers, that the sturdy horsemen of the plain recoiled at first before their desperate charge. They might have succeeded in cutting their way through the ranks of their opponents, had they not been already weakened, and their numbers thinned by the deadly fire of the infantry, who continued to harass their rear from a distance; part only as yet having reached the spot to which the combat had been removed. These were kept at bay by a few horsemen who wheeled rapidly again and again when they ventured to approach; caring but little for the infantry, whom they despised now that their guns were destroyed; yet the force of the Cossacks was almost overpowering, so that nothing but the most determined and desperate bravery would have excited the Circassians to persist in the unequal combat.

Their movements too were impeded by the women. The young Ina, undaunted amid the scene of desperate strife, endeavoured to urge her palfrey to her father’s side; and was almost surrounded by the enemy, when the chieftain hewed his way towards her, and cleared a passage for her escape. Yet, notwithstanding the most heroic and desperate fighting, the Circassians were at length driven back towards the river, when nothing seemed to remain for them but to sell their lives dearly, or to yield themselves as prisoners to their detested foes. The courage of the chieftain, even then, quailed not before the danger; but he thought of his loved Ina, and what her fate might be should he fall.

Again shouting their war-cry, his clansmen rallied round him, having retreated a short space to renew the charge. On they rushed with a furious shock; but it was only to find the hopelessness of their attempt.

The attacks of the foes seemed principally directed against the chieftain Arslan Gherrei himself, as he was easily distinguished by his lofty plume, his jewelled poniard, his rich shining armour, his impetuous valour, and his noble bearing. The Cossacks pressed round him, though many of their comrades bit the dust beneath his horse’s feet. A spell seemed thrown over himself and his charger, for the shot fell harmlessly around them. The noble animal was equally energetic in the combat, rushing onward, and trampling down his foes, or seizing the advancing horses with his mouth, trying to overthrow them. (A well-known fact. The Arab horses constantly fight in this way, with or without riders.)

Ina, amid the fierce slaughter and loud din of the combat, thought only of her father, following him with her eyes whenever the tide of battle carried him from her. Towards her, also, many desperate attacks were made by the enemy in the attempt apparently to possess themselves of so lovely a prize; but too many gallant hearts were yet beating with life, to allow her assailants to succeed while they could yet wield their weapons.

Among their opponents was one who frequently led the attack, charging impetuously towards Ina, whenever she was separated from her father; but it appeared that he, at all times, avoided meeting the chieftain hand to hand; and once, when he had almost reached Ina, Arslan Gherrei again returned to her side; and the Cossack officer, as he seemed, turned the tide of war in another direction. He was a person of great strength and height, dressed in the Cossack uniform, except that a cap shrouded his face; but in the skirmish, his vest flying open, discovered a coat of chain armour, and his cap at the same moment falling off, exhibited the fierce features of the young Khan Besin Kaloret. A shout of execration arose from the band of his adopted countrymen, as they discovered the traitor, and many an arm sought to cut him down; but, conscious of his shame, he seemed to avoid the strife. Seeing the effect that his conduct had on the Cossacks, and that he might, after all, lose his prize, he again desperately joined the combat, which had become fiercer than ever.

The children of the mountains were still undaunted. Placing the women in the centre, they determined to succeed in cutting their way, or to perish in the attempt. Their war-cry was answered from above their heads; and looking up, they perceived a band of warriors amid the trees on the mountain’s brow, dashing furiously down with headlong speed to join them.

Scarcely had the Russian infantry, posted in the path, time to perceive their danger, when the fresh band of Circassian warriors were upon them, cutting down some with their sharp sabres, trampling over others, and hurling the rest over the precipices, till none remained to impede their furious course.

As the gallant men reached the strand, they were met by a strong party of Russian infantry formed into a hollow square, bristling with bayonets. But, like a wild mountain torrent, broken loose from some Alpine lake, nothing could withstand their overwhelming fury. Concentrating their voices into one loud rending shout, of the most dreadful sound, they galloped with uplifted sabres at the steel formed wall.

The Russian front ranks trembled, wavered, and gave way before their desperate charge, which seemed more like a torrent of wild spirits, than of men, like themselves; unnerving their arms, and causing their blood to run cold. The fierce horsemen who rushed over their prostrate bodies, to succour their hard-pressed countrymen, were led on by a noble looking cavalier, without defensive armour of any sort, and in the simple costume of the country; but whose sword dealt dreadful havoc amid the foe, as he cut his way through their broken ranks.

Among this newly-arrived troop of Circassians, were several chiefs in armour, some of whom joined the young leader, and others with their retainers, turned to follow up their success over the infantry, and prevent their rallying.

Onward flew the young hero, like a flash of lightning, followed by his squire, and by a youthful page, who kept close to his side, with a gallant array of horsemen. They shouted loudly to give their countrymen notice of the succour close at hand, and dashed furiously against the Cossacks with so tremendous a shock, as to drive them bodily back for an instant, and to give Arslan Gherrei, and his followers, breathing time to recover from their exertions.

But the Cossacks, to revenge themselves for the check given to their nearly-won victory, soon recovering from the effects of the last charge, gathered in overwhelming numbers round the chieftain Arslan Gherrei, attacking his followers so furiously, as to separate him from them, and to hem him in completely. His gallant steed wheeled and pranced high, attentive to the rein, till receiving a wound in his neck, he became weak from loss of blood, and began to falter in his movements. Hard pressed by numbers, the chief was nearly overpowered, when the young leader we have spoken of, saw his peril, and galloped to his rescue.

At the same moment, Besin Khan, with a strong body of Cossacks, wheeling round, made a furious charge at the spot, where Ina had been forced by the press of the combatants to move, when separated from her father, with a few Circassians only around her. Seizing her horse’s rein, after a desperate defence by her guards, he was on the point of carrying her off, when the young stranger leader, followed by a small party, rushed towards him, and cutting down all who opposed him, pressed the Khan so hard, that he was obliged to quit his hold, in order to defend himself. The lady Ina, thus restored to momentary safety among the women, and some of her father’s retainers, again hastened to join the combatants.

The traitor Khan, who had recovered from his repulse, now seeing the stranger without armour, singled him out in hopes of making him fall an easy prey. Their swords met: a furious conflict ensued between them: one backed by his adherents, the other by the Cossacks. Victory seemed doubtful, but Besin Khan’s strength prevailed, and the young hero’s sword being beaten down, the weapon of his opponent was about to fall on his unguarded head, when ere it could descend, a shot from the pistol of the youthful page struck the breast of the traitor. He reeled in his saddle. For a moment, he attempted to keep his seat, but in vain. His weapon dropped powerlessly by his side; his knees refused to press his horse’s sides; and his eyes rolling wildly, he fell heavily to the ground, where his body lay trampled on by the prancing steeds of the combatants.

A piercing cry of joy escaped the boy’s lips, as his master was saved; and Arslan Gherrei, at that moment joining him, the two leaders fought side by side, heading their followers in many desperate onslaughts, till the Cossacks, despairing of victory, endeavoured to save themselves by flight. As they galloped off, however, they loaded their short guns, and turned to discharge them at their eager pursuers.

The Chieftain loudly called on his clansmen to desist, for they had still many opponents. Those who heard him, obeyed; but others followed their foes to within range of the guns of fort Ghelendjik.

To complete their victory, the Circassians had still a powerful force of infantry to conquer, who had kept up a galling fire on the horsemen, during the whole time of the combat.

The Circassian chiefs, collecting all their followers, again charged the enemy in a strong body, breaking through their ranks, cutting them down, driving them into the sea, and carrying away as prisoners many who threw down their arms and begged for quarter. A few of the leading ranks of the Russians succeeded in escaping; and those only by a strong force from the fort, with some artillery, sallying out to succour them.

Content with their victory, the Circassian leaders assembled their followers. Some were occupied in collecting their wounded and dead countrymen, and placing them on their horses; others, in collecting the Russian arms and ammunition, most valuable to them at that time; and others, in dragging away the prisoners whom they had captured.

Among the dead, was found the body of the traitor Besin Khan; and every warrior, as he passed, cast a stone at it, with a low, muttered curse, leaving it to rot among the carcases of the hated Urus, or to be devoured by the wild beasts of the forest, and the birds of the air; the greatest indignity they could shew it.

The Russian prisoners willingly followed their new masters, glad to escape the confinement and danger of the camp, for the safety and free range of the country; preferring, to the iron tyranny of the Imperial army, a servitude under the kind-hearted Circassians.

No sooner was the fight over, than Arslan Gherrei hastened to the spot where Ina and her women had been stationed, anxious to learn if either she or her attendants had suffered from the fire of the retreating infantry. All were unhurt; and his lovely daughter, though still pale, had begun to recover from the terror into which his danger had thrown her. Great was her admiration and her gratitude, when she saw the gallant stranger rush so heroically to his aid; and she longed, with feminine eagerness, to express to him her deep thanks; but as she looked round to discover him, he was nowhere to be seen.

“Oh, my father!” exclaimed Ina, as the chieftain rode up, “Heaven be praised, that you have escaped unharmed from this dreadful combat; and that I again see you after the terrible perils to which you have been exposed! I thought never more to have been pressed in your arms!”

“Allah, by the means of that noble young stranger, protected me, my child,” replied the chieftain: “but we must stay no longer here; let us hasten from this scene of death.”

“Gladly will I go,” said Ina. “But first let us thank our gallant preserver; for know you, my father, that when you were separated from me, I was surrounded by those terrible Cossacks, when he came, like a protecting angel, with the speed of lightning, and saved me from the power of that traitorous Khan. Oh! my father, I have much to thank him for!”

“I will seek him, my Ina,” replied the chieftain. “Oh! had heaven but spared me such a son as he, to delight my heart with his noble deeds, I should have been content: but the will of Allah be done—he is great!”

Ordering some of his band to escort Ina and her women up the mountain, he rode round to seek the chiefs of the party who had brought him such timely assistance. He first recognised the aged warrior, Uzden Achmet Beg, and, throwing himself from his horse, he hastened to thank him. The two chiefs warmly grasped each other’s hands; a few manly words sufficing to show the gratitude of one whom the other well knew would have acted in the same way towards him. As he turned, his eye fell on the Hadji Guz Beg, who was advancing to meet him, though he at first scarcely recognised him after his long absence, disfigured as he was with the dust and smoke of the conflict.

“Is it indeed you, my father, my friend?” he exclaimed. “Most welcome, are you to our native land, and well have you shown this day that, among the effeminate nations in whose lands you have journeyed, you have not forgotten the use of your sharp sword. Thanks, brave Hadji, for your timely succour.”

“Oh! it is nothing,” replied the Hadji, laughing; “I will soon show the Urus that I love them not better than of yore. And you, Uzden, glad I am to see you, and to have lost no time in wetting my blade in the blood of the cursed Urus for your sake.”

“Thanks, many thanks, my father,” answered the chief. “But where is that gallant young warrior, who rushed so bravely to my aid when hard pressed by the Cossacks?”

“He is my friend, my adopted son,” replied the Hadji; “a true son of the Attèghèi, as he has this day shown himself to be; but he gives not his name, nor know I even whence he comes. He will first do some deed to win a name for himself, and to show himself worthy of his father and his tribe; and happy will be the father who can own him.”

“Happy will he be, indeed,” replied Arslan Gherrei, sighing; “for he is well worthy to be the son of the bravest of our chiefs. Whither has he gone? Let me hasten to thank him.”

“I saw him last,” replied the Hadji, “closely pursuing the flying troops; I thought he had returned. Perhaps he and his followers have already gone up the mountain’s side.”

“Allah forbid that the brave youth should have been laid low by the fire of the enemy, or fallen into their cursed power; for little mercy would they show him.”

Search was made in every direction for the gallant stranger, but he could nowhere be found; and the chieftains, at length summoning the remainder of their warriors, hastened to overtake the party who had preceded them.

Volume Two—Chapter Twelve.

As our hero was attacking the retiring troops of the Russians, he observed a young officer endeavouring to form his men into squares, and to keep them in close order to repel the desperate charges of the wild mountain cavalry.

Again and again were they broken; and at one time, by a furious charge, Ivan succeeded in riding close up to the officer, in hope of taking him prisoner; when, to his sorrow, he recognised in his opponent his former friend, Thaddeus Stanisloff. Before he had time to summon him to surrender, one of the Circassian horsemen was on the point of cutting him down, when, throwing himself forward, he interposed his own sword, and saved his friend from destruction. A shot directly after killed the Circassian; and Ivan, calling upon Thaddeus by name, entreated him to surrender. But at the moment the young Pole recognised him, the Russians rushed forward with desperation to rescue their officer, and Ivan was himself obliged to retreat with his followers. He had no further opportunity of getting near enough to Thaddeus to speak to him; for the retreat of the defeated infantry was soon after covered by the arrival of a strong body of troops from Ghelendjik; and the Circassian warriors were obliged to quit the pursuit of their prey.

Like the last heavy cloud of a thunder-storm, the mountaineers made a tremendous charge on the remnant of the retreating Russians, almost overwhelming them in their fury; and then, like a whirlwind, they swept by before the arrival of the fresh troops, and galloped off to overtake their companions.

As Ivan was passing the prisoners, he heard a voice calling to him by name. He started, and turned to see whence it came; for he fancied he recognised the tone; and in a miserable object, his dress torn and covered with blood, he saw his former attendant, the faithful Karl, in the hands of a mountaineer, who, on a promise of a slight recompense, consented to give up his prize to his young leader.

As soon as poor Karl was liberated, he rushed to Ivan’s side to express his gratitude. “My honest, my kind friend,” said our hero, “it makes my heart beat quickly to see your old familiar face. Banish all fears, for no one here will ill-treat you. You shall be at liberty to go where you like, or to return to your countrymen in the castle of Ghelendjik.”

“Oh, my dear master,” replied Karl; “don’t, for mercy’s sake, talk of sending me back; for that is the very last place that I know of in the world, that I should wish to return to. Let me be your servant and slave as before, for I would not give a glass of quass for the freedom we gain, by becoming soldiers. Let me follow you wherever you go.”

“Well, my good friend,” replied Ivan; “you shall do as you wish; but we have no time to lose, or we may all fall again into the hands of the Russians. Keep, therefore by my side, till we get beyond the reach of the enemy.”

Saying which, Ivan rode on with his companions, Karl holding by his stirrup.

During the whole of the combat and skirmishing we have described, young Conrin and Javis were by Ivan’s side, charging into the thickest of the enemy; and many a blow did the page ward off from his master, while the squire was as much occupied in protecting him, for he seemed scarcely to think of himself. The boy’s eye burned with an almost unnatural lustre, and his lips were closely pressed, as with sword in hand, he rushed amid the fierce mêlée; but he seemed to bear a charmed life, for neither steel or bullet touched him.

While our hero was proceeding at a fast pace along the sea shore, followed by his two attendants, and a body of mountaineers, who had no little difficulty in dragging on some of their captives, and were besides, heavily laden with arms taken from the enemy, a loud shout made them turn their heads, when they perceived a large body of Cossacks fresh from the fort, coming at full gallop towards them. The horses of all the party were already fatigued with the fight and pursuit; they had small chance of escape by flight, and they were too far outnumbered by the foe, to hope to gain the victory in a second engagement. Yet, what was to be done? It was better to die fighting bravely with their faces to the enemy, than to be cut down in an ignominious flight; and at all hazards, Ivan ordered his men to wheel round, and receive the charge of the coming cavalry, though the odds were dreadfully against them, when one of the Circassian horsemen, calling to his companions to follow, led the way through a steep narrow ravine, thickly overhung with trees.

Here, at all events, they could fight at an advantage, if the Cossacks attempted to follow; but most of the party had enough of fighting for the day. They eagerly followed their guide up the mountain, which appeared almost insurmountable for the animals. Karl, in greater haste than any of the party to escape from his late masters, scrambled up the rocks with the utmost agility, scarcely looking behind, to see if Ivan followed; who, finding; the uselessness of further fighting, rode after the rest; and they had already gained a considerable height, when the Cossacks arrived at the base of the mountain.

Their horses, though fleet, were unable to compete with the goat-like nimbleness of the Circassian steeds; and, as they rode about seeking for a practicable way to follow, many of their number fell beneath the unerring aim of the mountaineers. Vainly returning the shots which told so fearfully among their ranks, they rode up the mountain in desperation; and at last, finding the pathway by which the Circassians had escaped, and attempting to ride up it, they were still more at the mercy of their enemy; till at length, despairing of overtaking them, and having lost many of their number, their officers called them off, and they galloped back to the fort, leaving our hero and his band to pursue their route unmolested.

From the spot they had now reached, it was much more easy to mount than to descend. Continuing, therefore, their upward course among broken crags and stumps of trees, leaping and climbing from rock to rock, after infinite labour, they at last reached the flat ground, which crowned the summit of the mountain; when, striking across the country, they perceived the bands of Arslan Gherrei, and the Hadji, with the chieftain’s daughter and her women.

No sooner did Ivan and his small band appear at the summit of the hill, than the keen eye of the Hadji caught sight of him; and spurring on his steed, he came to meet him, almost lifting him from his horse, as he rode up to his side to embrace him; at the same time, exclaiming with accents of delight: “Welcome to my arms, my son! I feared one of the future heroes of the Attèghèi might have been slain by those rascal Cossacks, as you could nowhere be found after the fight. But my heart leaps with joy, to see you alive; for well have you fought this day, and full worthy are you to be called a son of the Attèghèi! My eye was on you, when you first charged the Cossack horse, and I was then confident you would prove no disgrace to your country; for bravely you fell upon them; and one of the noblest of our Uzdens says, that you gallantly came to his aid, when hard pressed by our foes. His fair daughter seeks to shew you her gratitude, for rescuing her from the hands of Besin Khan, that vile traitor. So, my son, you have lost no time in becoming known as a gallant warrior, and the praise of the chief, whom you rescued, is alone the proudest meed you could gain.”

“Happy, indeed am I, to have won his praise then,” replied Ivan; “and not the less your’s, my kind friend. But I hope, with your guidance, ere long to win more laurels in my country’s cause.”

They waited till Arslan Gherrei and his band came up; when the chieftain, leaping from his horse, Ivan doing the same, advanced to meet him.

“My gallant young hero!” he exclaimed, embracing him, “though a stranger, as I hear, in our land, you have this day shewn yourself as valiant as the bravest of our chiefs; and a deep debt do I owe you, not only for saving my life, but in rescuing my only child from the hands of our enemy. Think not, that if I am wanting in the power of expressing my feelings, my heart thanks you the less. My child too longs to throw herself at your feet, to express her gratitude.”

“Speak not thus noble chieftain, for you owe me nothing,” cried Ivan. “I acted but the duty of a warrior, nor deserve thanks for so doing; and tell your fair daughter, that to have been of service to her, is my greatest happiness. The gratitude of all is, however, due to my father, the Hadji Guz Beg; for he it was, who shewed us the way into action.”

“Do not thank me, my friends,” exclaimed the Hadji; “for I have not been so happy for years. Inshallah! we left not a few of our foes on the field. But we must not delay here, my friends; the day is far spent, and if we lose more time, we shall not reach our konag before dark.”

Mounting their horses, therefore, they overtook the rest of the party, passing the Armenian pedlar and his pack horses. He had remained on the summit of the hill when the Hadji’s band galloped down to join the fight—a distant hearer of the combat, though not venturing to approach near enough to the edge of the cliffs, to see what was going forward below.

“Ah, man of trade!” exclaimed the Hadji, laughingly, as he rode up; “you look fresh and well. As a spectator of our combat, you have managed to keep yourself cleaner than we have done. How think you, your friends the Russians like it? But you will make a rich harvest; for there are few of our followers who have not something to exchange for your goods.”

Ina gazed earnestly at our hero, as he rode past her; for an unaccountable feeling of bashfulness prevented his addressing her, though, bending low to his saddle bow, he respectfully saluted her, and went on to take his place by the Hadji’s side. Not so, however, his page the young Conrin, who gained a situation near her, earnestly stealing glances at her beautiful features, as her veil was occasionally blown aside; but they seemed not to give him that pleasure, which they so highly merited; for a slight frown and a look of dissatisfaction sat on the boy’s countenance, though he seemed so fascinated that he could not withdraw his eyes from her.

The warlike party now gained another height, close above the bay of Ghelendjik, when the report of musketry was heard. Looking down upon the fort, a wreath of smoke ascended to the sky, and they observed a company of the Russian soldiers drawn up, and a man in the dress of the country fall beneath their fire. A feeling of rage and indignation agitated their breasts, as they fancied some friend might have been thus cruelly murdered; and brandishing their weapons they uttered a loud shout of defiance, and a promise of revenge. They were, however, obliged to retreat behind shelter, for their appearance was a signal for the discharge of all the guns in the fort.

“Bismillah! I wish we had some of their powder and shot, if they can afford to expend it in this way upon the rocks and trees,” exclaimed the Hadji. “But whom have the cowards dared thus to murder before our eyes?”

A young mountaineer, who had been stationed as a scout close to the fort, now made his appearance.

“Yonder died the traitor squire of Besin Khan, who this morning deceived us all by false reports,” said the youth; “and now he has paid the penalty of his deceit, for the Russians have vented their rage at their own defeat on him.”

“It is well,” exclaimed the Hadji. “They have saved us a task, for which they are more fitted.”

As it was found impossible to reach the place at which they had originally intended to stop before night, a nearer konag was fixed upon, and a messenger sent forward to warn the host of their near approach.

The shades of evening were fast coming on, as they caught sight of a smiling village, sequestered in a dell amid the mountains, and shaded by lofty trees. The chimneys with their curling wreaths of smoke, and the shepherds driving home their flocks, afforded a scene of rural beauty and peace, in welcome contrast to that in which they had lately been engaged. As our wayfarers reached the dwelling of the chief of the hamlet, the moon rose above the mountains, throwing her pale golden hue on their summits, and shedding her rays in a silvery stream amid the forest glades, and deep into the recesses of the dale. Numerous domestic slaves ran out to take the horses of the chiefs, who were ushered into the guest-house, by the squire of the lord of the mansion; he himself being absent, mounting guard in the passes from Ghelendjik, above which they had lately passed. Ina and her attendants were delivered over to the care of the wife and daughters of the host.

As Ivan was dismounting, he observed the Armenian merchant regarding the Russian prisoners with an uneasy look, which was increased when he saw Karl in close attendance on himself. Javis also regarded the pedlar with a scrutinising glance.

“There is something in that man’s look that I like not,” said he, addressing Ivan. “I will watch him closely, for if I mistake not, he will be found no true friend to Circassia.”

As the man, unsuspicious of what was said of him, moved onward with his pack horses to take up his abode with one of the inhabitants of the village, of equal rank to himself, Karl came up to Ivan who was standing under the verandah of the guest-house admiring the scene of loveliness before him.

“Hist! sir, hist!” he said. “Did you observe yonder travelling merchant? Where did he come from? I am surprised to see him in such worshipful company; for if my eyes deceive me not, I saw him a few nights ago, as I was on guard near the Baron’s quarters, pass by me twice, and each time a light fell upon his features, so that I think I cannot be mistaken. He remained closeted with the governor for an hour, and then took his way towards the mountains.”

“Is it, indeed, so?” said Ivan. “The man must be closely watched; for it will not be advisable to let a spy go at large. Here, Javis, I give it to your charge to watch the pedlar’s movements. My friends seem to have no suspicion of him; but I will speak to the Hadji, and persuade him to send some shrewd person to assist you, and act as your guide if requisite.”

As he spoke the Hadji himself appeared, and Ivan lost no time in mentioning the suspicions which had been raised about the Armenian’s honesty.

“A spy do you think he is?” he replied; “I suspected the fellow was a knave when he tried to persuade the Prince of Pchad that there was no use in contending with Russia. No use, forsooth! We shewed them as much to-day. But this fellow shall be watched, and he shall pay dearly if he proves treacherous.”

“You are silent, my son; of what are you thinking?”

“I am thinking of a dear friend I once had who is in the ranks of the enemy,” replied Ivan. “He is a noble Pole, who, did he know the true state of this country, would, I feel confident, be ready to shed his best blood in our cause instead of against us. I saved his life to-day; and I long to find means to see him and to bring him over to our party. Say, my father, how I can accomplish it?”

“I scarcely know,” replied the Hadji. “We might send some one on some pretext into the fort; but these Russian rascals are grown suspicious of late, and our young men cannot now play them the tricks they were wont to do. It was a bad system; and our elders put a stop to it. It was at one time a common custom for the young men to go to the Urus, and pretend to be great friends, and then to carry off all the presents they could get, and laugh at their beards. You must now, however, bide your time, and perhaps something may happen, before long, to favour your wishes.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the announcement that the evening meal was served, and at the same time their host arrived from his guard. Throwing off his large dark-coloured watch cloak as he entered, he offered his welcome to all his guests, and congratulations on the success of their recent exploit.

Volume Two—Chapter Thirteen.

The rage and fury of the Baron Galetzoff was ungovernable when, instead of his troops returning with a number of prisoners, the Tchernemorskoi Cossacks first arrived in disorder and dismay at the fort, giving news of the entire defeat of his well-laid plan to entrap the chief Arslan Gherrei and his followers, and of the dangerous situation in which the fugitives had left the infantry. He lost no time in ordering out fresh troops to cover their retreat, and he smiled with grim satisfaction when he heard that the instigator of the plan had fallen. He determined to wreak his vengeance on the hostage who remained, as having forfeited his life by the failure of the enterprise.

The traitor Kiru, suspecting that something had gone wrong from the bustle and excitement around, made a desperate and nearly successful attempt to escape, when he was dragged back by the soldiers, manacled, and chained to a stake, with a strong guard placed over him. No sooner did the governor return from succouring his defeated troops than the prisoner was summoned before him.

“Traitor! you have deceived me!” he exclaimed. “Instead of capturing one of your chiefs, my troops have been defeated; and before another hour has passed you shall die.”

The Tartar looked at him fearlessly.

“If I die,” he said, “my master and my tribe will amply revenge me; you dare not slay me.”

“Do you speak, barbarian, of your master?” said the governor. “Your traitorous master now is a rotting corpse among the bodies of my brave fellows whom he betrayed! Expect not help from him.”

The traitor started at these words, and his courage seemed to give way. “Russian, speak you the words of truth? Has my master indeed fallen?” demanded the prisoner.

“I tell you the truth,” replied the general. “Your master has received the reward of his treachery; and you shall soon follow his fate. I give you ten minutes to prepare; after that you die. Lead him away!” he cried to the guards who held the prisoner.

“Since my master has fallen, what have I more to do with life? I spit at you—I laugh at your threats. Do with me as you will, but I will yet be revenged.” And with herculean strength, throwing aside the soldiers who held him, he had nearly reached the throat of the governor when he was felled to the ground. He was again manacled and led off, using every epithet of abuse, to shew his scorn of his executioners.

At the lapse of the specified time, he was led outside the ramparts of the fort, where he was again chained to a stake to prevent any chance of his escape. His shallow grave was dug beneath his feet. His courage was indeed worthy of a better fate and better cause, for he quailed not during the preparations.

A company of soldiers advanced; and as they presented their muskets he shook his manacled and clenched hands at them in an attitude of defiance, and uttering, with a dreadful shriek, the war-cry of his tribe, his body was pierced with innumerable wounds. Ere the yet warm clay had ceased to vibrate with the pulse of life, the corpse was thrown into the shallow hole prepared for it, and instantly covered up; so that in a few minutes from the time a human being had stood there with all the energy and strength of life, he was for ever hidden from the sight of men, and a little new turned up earth alone marked the spot of the tragedy.

None can pity the fate of Kim, which he so richly deserved, though not at the hands of his executioners. But it would be fortunate for the Russian name if it were not stained with atrocities of a much darker hue. The garrison of the fort remained all the rest of the day in a state of watchfulness and alarm, in expectation of an attack from the mountaineers, whom they thought their weakened state might tempt to come down upon them, if a sufficient force could be assembled in the neighbourhood; their fears however were groundless, for the day passed away without any further appearance of the enemy.

Some hours after dark, a figure was perceived by the outer picket stealing cautiously from beneath the shadow of the cliffs towards his post. The person, on being challenged, gave the sign and countersign, and was allowed to pass to the gate of the fort, where, the like caution being employed, he was admitted, and conducted to the quarters of the governor. The Baron looked up on seeing him enter, with an expression of satisfaction.

“Ah! my faithful Armenian,” he exclaimed, “I rejoice to see you return here in safety. What news do you bring me from the enemy’s country? Do the barbarians think of attacking us?”

“I bring you some news which may please you, noble General, though not much of general importance,” replied the seeming Armenian, in very good Russian.

“Let me hear it quickly then; for I require some good news to put me in spirits after the disaster of the morning:” said the governor. “And how came you not to give me warning that so large a body of Circassians were on the move?”

“I knew not of it myself till the moment I saw the troops engaged,” answered the spy.

“Well, well, I believe you: but your news now,” said the General.

“In the first place the barbarians are meditating some exploit—though I yet know not what, but will discover to-morrow—under the guidance of that old rebel Guz Beg, who has just returned from a pilgrimage to Mecca, and has lost no time in inciting his countrymen to fresh outrages against you, their rightful masters. He nearly cut my throat when he heard me trying to persuade old Mahmood, the Prince of Pchad, to send in his allegiance to the Emperor. I was obliged to hold my tongue to save my neck. The Hadji, as he is now called, touched at some place in the north of Turkey, Varna I believe, and there picked up a young Russian, as he seems, though he speaks the Circassian language, and two followers, who act as his squire and page. They at all events are Russian, for I heard them conversing together, and I have my strong suspicions that their master is an officer of the Emperor who has deserted, for I heard him speaking to one of the prisoners, whom he took to-day, as an old acquaintance, calling the man Karl.”

“It is he!” almost shouted the General. “I guessed it from the moment you spoke of him. May curses rest on the traitor’s head! One whom I had adopted as my son! But I will punish him for his vile ingratitude. That knave, who was taken prisoner, or rather deserted, was once in attendance on him, and a slave of mine. Now mark me. I will give a handsome reward to any who delivers them into my power. Are you ready to gain it?”

“I would do any thing to please you, General, much more to gain a reward,” answered the spy. “But I know not how to manage it.”

“It must be done,” said the Baron. “Entice him near the fort, when he may be taken prisoner, or watch his movements, and perchance he may be found sleeping in the neighbourhood, when I will send a strong body to capture him. But mark me, I must have him brought before me a prisoner, and my orders are not to be disobeyed. Follow what plan you will; I would rather have his head than that of a thousand Circassians.”

“Your orders shall be obeyed, General,” answered the spy. “And I will set my wits to work for the purpose.”

“Remember your reward shall be great if you succeed. You may now return, or you may be missed by the barbarians, and fail not to come to-morrow night with the report of your proceedings.”

“I will obey your orders, Baron, without fail,” replied the spy, as, bowing, he retired out of the fort, and returned to the village he had left, without the slightest suspicion that his movements had been observed.

We must now follow the steps of our hero’s faithful squire, Javis, who was keeping a strict watch on the house in which the Armenian merchant had taken up his abode, in company with an active, clever youth, whom the Hadji had sent to act as his guide. They had not long to wait before they saw the Armenian issue from the house, telling his host that he must, before night was over, pay a visit to the chief of the village, to settle about some goods he had sold him, as he might be obliged to start early on his way. To deceive his host he first took the path to the chiefs house of whom he had spoken; then, turning abruptly, he hastened in the direction of the fort of Ghelendjik. Following him at the same speed, over hill and dale, through brake and stream, Javis and his guide traced him till he arrived in the neighbourhood of the fort.

Fortunately for their design, the moon was now obscured by some dark clouds; and, leaving the lad under shelter of some rocks, the Gipsy crept cautiously forward, till he arrived close to the picquet, where he heard the password given, and the Armenian, who addressed a few words to the guard in Russian, was instantly allowed to proceed. Remaining cautiously concealed, Javis waited till he again saw the spy pass from the fort, and heard the officer on guard give him the password for the following night—“The Eagle of Russia”—when the man set off rapidly towards the interior. Dodging his steps, Javis traced him to the house he had left.

Outside the house of the chief, Javis found the Hadji and Ivan anxiously waiting his return, to whom he related what he had seen.

“Let the knave rest to-night,” said the former, “to-morrow we will give him a surprise he little dreams of. He can do us but little harm now.”

“I have thought of a plan,” said Javis, “by which you can communicate with Lieutenant Stanisloff, without danger either to him or to yourself. I heard the password given for to-morrow night, and I propose to personate the treacherous Armenian, and gain admittance to the fort, where I will trust to my own wits to find out your friend, and give him your message, and to escape without seeing the governor, who would probably discover me. What say you, Sir, to my plan? Shall I attempt it?”

“Though I long to see my friend, I would not that you should run so great a risk; for were you discovered, your death would be certain,” said Ivan.

“O fear not for me, Sir,” replied Javis, “my life is of but little value to any one, and the danger is not so great as it appears; for those thick-headed Russians are not likely to distinguish me at night from the Armenian. I shall also, I have no doubt, be able to gain some further information from the man to-morrow.”

The next morning the Armenian appeared with his packs on his horses’ backs, as if prepared for a journey. He smilingly saluted the chiefs who were assembled in front of the guest-house; but alarm took the place of his smiles, when he observed the stern looks which met him on every side; and more so when he found himself surrounded by a number of their armed followers.

“Whither go you so fast, Armenian?” said the Hadji, sternly. “Are you hastening to visit your friends the Urus? What, do you turn pale? Drag the treacherous spy from his horse,” he added, turning to his attendants, “and bring him along. We will judge his case; and if he prove guilty, he knows the punishment of spies.”

The unfortunate pedlar trembled violently as he was dragged along to an open glade surrounded by trees, at a short distance from the village. Here the chiefs soon assembled, as well as several rich Tocavs or yeomen, and other influential men in the neighbourhood, who were summoned to give the criminal the fairest trial.

The judges seated themselves, with due formality and gravity, in a semi-circle, on a grassy bank, when the terror-stricken Armenian was brought before them. The witnesses against him, Javis and his guide, were also summoned into their presence. Javis first gave his evidence, which Ivan interpreted, as also did his guide.

“Said you not, Armenian, that you were a man of peace, and a friend to the Attèghèi?” demanded the chief of the village, who acted as president. “See that you have not spoken lies, and proved that you are a friend of our enemies. Answer this one question: where went you last night?”

“Where went I?” tremblingly echoed the Armenian. “I went forth from the house of my good konag, to cool my brow after the heat of the day. Surely I went no where beyond the hamlet.”

“Oh thou son of the evil one! Think you to elude our vigilance? Answer truly, or you die on the spot. Why went you to the camp of our enemies?”

“Oh! spare my life, noble chiefs!” cried the Armenian, falling on his knees. “I am but a poor trader, and I went but to sell my goods. Oh slay me not, valiant nobles!”

“Do you not know that it is prohibited to have any dealings with the enemy?” said the president. “And of what use are such goods as you carry to the Urus? But you are full of lies. You went without your goods, secretly, and by night. You know the enemy’s password. You were seen to enter their fort, and shortly after to return. Your own words condemn you. What say you, Uzdens?” turning to the other judges, “has the Armenian proved himself to be innocent, or is he guilty?”

The chiefs, all standing up, pronounced the solemn words of the wretch’s doom—

“He is guilty: let him die the death of a spy.”

The miserable being had not a word to plead in his own defence; but loudly crying for mercy, he lifted up his hands in an imploring attitude; for well he knew the dreadful fate prepared for him. The stern warriors relaxed not their features as they motioned to the attendants to lead him away. His crime was of the greatest magnitude, and no mercy could be granted him; not a voice spoke in his favour; not an eye turned with pity towards him.

At some distance from the hamlet was a lofty and perpendicular cliff, at whose base, over a rough rocky bed, roared a foaming and rapid torrent. The wretched Armenian, without any further delay, was dragged up a steep pathway to the summit of the cliff, where, by order of the Hadji, he was stripped of his high Astracan fur cap, his dark robe, and the appurtenances of his trade, and then led, shrieking, forward, to the edge of the precipice. As he thus saw his dreadful fate approaching, he screamed loudly for mercy and pardon; but his cries fell on the ears of those whom a fierce exterminating war had rendered deaf to pity for their cruel foes.

As he stood, shivering with terror, on the very edge of the frightful chasm, in a last fit of desperation, he seized hold of those who stood near, endeavouring to drag them down with him; but his hands were torn from their hold; and two powerful slaves, appointed as his executioners, lifting him from the ground, hurled him, with tremendous exertion, far over the edge of the cliff. A last shriek of despairing agony alone escaped him, as he fell headlong into the dark abyss, grasping at the empty air, and seeking to find some hold to prolong life, even for a few moments. So deep was the chasm, that not a sound was heard, as he struck the shallow and rocky bed of the stream; and its waters whirled the mangled frame far out of sight.

“Thus, let all spies and traitors die!” exclaimed the multitude, as they retired from the scene of execution.

Volume Two—Chapter Fourteen.

Reports were abroad in the neighbourhood of Ghelendjik, that the Russians intended to make some movement from their fortifications; so that, in the hopes of finding occupation for their swords, the Hadji and Achmet Beg determined to remain on the spot to assist their friends; and Ivan gladly availed himself of the opportunity of endeavouring to communicate with Thaddeus. Arslan Gherrei was also persuaded by the Hadji to remain, to lend his powerful aid in repelling their foes, and to give his daughter Ina a longer period to recover from her fatigue.

Ivan anxiously looked forward to the evening, when Javis was to make his attempt to enter the fort, and he determined to accompany him near the walls, in the hope of meeting Thaddeus.

Every body was eager for information respecting the movements of the Russians, some spending the day in anxiously watching the fort, while others were occupied in deep deliberation as to their future proceedings. The Dehli Khans, or young men, employed themselves in those warlike exercises which inure their bodies to fatigue, and make them hardy warriors.

By the Hadji’s direction, the dress of the Armenian was given up to Javis. When the evening drew on, and he appeared habited in it, the bystanders started with amazement, thinking that the pedlar had arisen from the dead, so completely had he disguised himself. As soon as it was dark, he set forward, led by his former guide, and accompanied by Ivan, whose anxiety for the safety of his follower, and desire to see his friend, made him wish to remain as near as possible until the adventure should be terminated.

As Javis arrived at the outer picquet, he gave the right answer to the sentry’s challenge, and was allowed to pass on, while Ivan remained concealed among the rocks.

“Who goes there?” cried the sentinel, at the gates of the fort.

“A friend to Russia,” he answered. “The word, ‘The Eagle of Russia.’”

The drawbridge was lowered. The pretended Armenian entered the fort. The officer of the guard, unsuspicious of any deceit, ordered a soldier to conduct the spy to the quarters of the governor.

As the adventurer and his guard got beyond hearing of the people at the gates—

“My friend,” said the former, addressing the soldier in Russian, and slipping some coin into his hand, “I know my way to the governor’s quarters well enough by this time; here, take this to carouse with. You have a hard life of it here, I suspect. Ah! you thought I could not speak in your own language. Why, man, I come from your part of the country, and would ask a favour of you. I am in no hurry to see the governor, so we will not hasten, as I am before the time appointed, and he loves not irregularity. Now say, how do you like the life you lead here?”

“Why, I do not like it at all,” answered the man; “for we have nothing but hard blows, and get no rest from those infernal mountaineers, as we cannot tell from one moment to another when they may be upon us. If we wander but a few yards beyond the fort, some of our men are certain to be picked off by their rifles. Then there is no booty to be gained, nor amusement of any sort.”

“You do not draw a very pleasant picture of your life here, my friend,” said Javis, “and I suppose that is the reason why so many of your men desert to the enemy, where they are sure to be well treated, and have little work to do. Sometimes, too, they marry the beautiful women of the country; and, as there are plenty of warriors in the land, they are not obliged to fight against their countrymen. For my part, I wonder the General can keep any of his soldiers around him; but I would not breathe such an idea in the camp. Now, my friend, do you know Lieutenant Stanisloff of the 76th regiment?”

“Do I know Lieutenant Stanisloff? Yes, surely,” answered the soldier, “I am his servant, and a kind master he is to me. This night it is his turn for picquet duty, so that he will be in his quarters, if he has not yet started.”

“Will you then, my friend, hasten and call him hither,” said Javis, as they arrived near a row of wretched huts appropriated to the junior officers. “Whisper to him that some one has something of importance to communicate. Remember to tell no one about the happy lives the deserters lead among the Circassians. It might be said that I was persuading you to go over to them, and that would not be acting the part of a friend to Russia.”

Javis retired below the eaves of a storehouse, where, in the dark shade, he could remain free from observation, while in other parts of the fort the scene was one of bustle and animation. Groups of soldiers were seated round their fires, cooking their suppers; others gambling on a drum head for their scanty allowance of pay. Numbers surrounded the suttlers’ booths and huts where spirits were sold, quaffing, as their only resource from misery, huge bickers of quass and glasses of vodka. Here parties were marching and countermarching to relieve guard, their firm regular tread heard above the din and clatter of the camp.

In a few minutes Thaddeus appeared, wrapped in his cloak, prepared for his night guard. On seeing Javis he seemed annoyed, as with a tone of contempt he addressed him.

“What want you with me, Armenian? If you have any of your worthy communications to make, I should have thought that the governor was the fittest person to whom a spy should make his report.”

“Hist, Sir,” said Javis; “draw nearer—you mistake me. I bring a message from one who loves you, and who will not be happy till he has seen you again. Do you not remember the night you passed in the Gipsy’s camp near Tver? There you last saw me.”

“Do my senses deceive me?” exclaimed Thaddeus; “are you not the Armenian spy who has for so long brought us information from the enemy?”

“Outwardly you see that I am; but I would not that my soul should be where his now is. But to my message. Your friend, Ivan Galetzoff, is now waiting for you close to the fort. He has much to say to you. Shall I tell him that you will come; you can have no difficulty, as I can assure you that no attack will be made on the fort to-night.”

Thaddeus scarcely hesitated a moment before he answered, “Yes, yes, say that I will go, at all hazards, to see him. Where shall I find him?”

“Do you remember a peculiar rock jutting out over the sands, its top overhung by a large tree? Close to that rock I will wait for you, and conduct you to him.”

“Go then, my friend; I will trust to you. But how can you leave the fort? Are you not afraid the governor will discover you?” said Thaddeus.

“I have no fear, and may easily deceive him.”

“Fortune favour your hazardous adventure, my friend! I must hasten to my post,” said Thaddeus.

Directing his servant to accompany the pretended Armenian to the Baron’s quarters, he hurried off, and Javis followed the soldier’s steps.

It was a trying moment for Javis when he entered the Baron’s presence; but his eye quailed not before his fierce imperious glance, as, imitating the Armenian’s manner, he bowed before him.

“You have returned in good time, my faithful messenger,” said the Baron. “Have the barbarians yet formed their plans to attack the fort?”

“They have given up all hopes of doing so with success, noble General,” replied Javis undauntedly, “and have begun to disperse to their several homes.”

“That is well,” replied the General. “And tell me, what plan have you formed to entrap the young renegade who bears my name? I must have him in my power by to-morrow night, at furthest.”

“I have thought of several plans, General, which I think may succeed; but I have a difficult game to play, as I fear that I am already suspected by the barbarians, and I should not have ventured to return to-night but that you seemed to wish it. I would not be away longer than possible, so by your leave, General, I will return at once.”

“You may go, man,” said the Baron: “and let me hear from you to-morrow.”

“I will obey your orders without fail,” answered Javis, bowing as he hastened from the hut, at the door of which he found his friend the soldier waiting to conduct him to the gates.

“If a Russian escapes from the fort to the Circassians, you are certain that he is well treated by them?” asked the man.

“O yes, my friend, they receive him with open arms,” answered Javis. “But you must not now speak to me. We may meet again soon:—farewell!”

The adventurer was allowed to go through the gates without question, and passing the picquets, he hastened to the spot he had indicated to Thaddeus, where, sheltered beneath an overhanging rock, he waited his coming for some time, till he began to fear that something might have occurred to prevent his leaving his post. At length his quick ear caught the sound of footsteps, and to his summons in a low voice, Thaddeus himself answered.

Javis then led the way up a small ravine overhung by trees, under the dark shade of which he had left his master. Ivan was anxiously waiting the coming of his friend, and as he caught sight of him he dashed forward, and the two friends were in each others arms.

“You knew not,” said Ivan, “that I was a Circassian; but I am prouder to bear that name than to be the highest rank the Emperor of Russia can bestow. But, Thaddeus, my tried, my earliest friend, it takes away from the happiness I feel at meeting you again, to see you in the garb of the enemies of my country, armed against her liberty and her rights.”

“Oh do not taunt me thus, my friend,” replied Thaddeus, “for, believe me, I do not now willingly follow the standard of your enemies. But how could I do otherwise? My father remains an hostage in their hands, and should I desert from their ranks, they would visit their vengeance upon him.”

“But why draw your sword at all, when against the cause of liberty?” exclaimed Ivan. “Surely your father himself would rather see you follow any other pursuit.”

“Can you speak thus, Ivan, who are a soldier as well as I am? Would you persuade me to lead a life of indolent peace?”

“Then, my dear Thaddeus, quit that hated standard, under which you now serve, and you will be welcomed, by the noble warriors of this country, with open arms,” exclaimed Ivan. “They love the Poles, for they have heard of the wrongs of Poland, and feel for her children the affection of brothers.”

“Ivan, my friend, you wring my heart,” cried Thaddeus passionately. “I feel the justice of your cause; but I have become a soldier of the Emperor. And would you have me, like a traitor, desert my colours? I was wrong to enter his service; but I sought for military glory, regardless of the cause for which I fought. Doubly did I feel how wrong I had been, when yesterday I saw the desperate bravery of your countrymen driving thrice the numbers of the slavish soldiery of Russia before them. To you, Ivan, I owe my life; for had not your sword been raised to shield my head, I should at once have finished my career; and it was at that moment only I first recognised you. Yet do not think me ungrateful if I still remain on the side of your enemies.”

“Speak not of gratitude, Thaddeus,” answered Ivan; “but let me draw you from the ranks of my foes, and from certain destruction.”

“No, Ivan; deeply as I mourn the fate which divides us, I cannot change it while the Emperor claims the services I once tendered to him. That I love you, my coming here stealthily and alone shews; for I have already been guilty of deserting my post; but I did so in the assurance that no surprise would be attempted on the fort, and that I risked not the lives of my companions in arms. That a love of quiet does not prompt my refusal to join you, will be evident from the life we all lead in the fort; and I in particular am subject to every annoyance which the hatred and tyranny of Baron Galetzoff can inflict. But I refuse, Ivan, because, as a soldier, my duty will not allow me to quit my standard, till I am absolved from my oath of allegiance; and also because I would not expose my father to persecution on my account.”

“Thaddeus, my friend, you have convinced me against my wish,” exclaimed Ivan. “I see your just and disinterested reasons, and have but to mourn the hard fate which thus places us on opposing sides. Still let us be joined in heart, and endeavour to mitigate the horrors of this war.”

“That I will do as far as lies in my power,” said Thaddeus. “But now, my friend, I must hasten back to my post, or I may be missed. I have many enemies who would make the utmost of any departure from duty. The Count Erintoff, who has lately arrived here, and who knows I am your friend, is my colonel, and would gladly find an excuse for ruining me.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Ivan, “I long to meet that man in the field, to punish him for his atrocities.”

“He well deserves punishment; but I must not speak of him; and now, farewell. I know not when we may meet again; but believe me, my friendship will ever remain unchanged.”

Saying which, Thaddeus warmly clasped his friend’s hand, and hastened back to resume the post he had quitted.

Javis and the guide, who had retired to a short distance during the conference, now approached; and on their way back to the village, Javis related to his master his adventures in the fort. As Ivan entered the guest-house, the Hadji started up from his couch, eager to hear an account of his adventures, laughing heartily at the success of Javis’s disguise, and of the defeat of the plan to entrap him.

“So the General of the Urus thinks we are prepared to attack him, does he?” he exclaimed. “Bismillah! we will make his fears come true. I shall not sleep all night for thinking of some plan to surprise him.”

Volume Two—Chapter Fifteen.

How often in our lives have we been obliged to quit some delightful abode, or some enchanting scene of pleasure, to visit places and persons we dislike, or to mix in the coarse bustle of the vulgar world! and thus must we once again lead our readers from the beautiful and romantic scenery of Circassia, and from its gallant inhabitants, to the detested castle of Ghelendjik, and into the presence of its fierce governor.

The Baron Galetzoff had just returned from riding round the fortifications, and was about to throw himself on his couch for the night, when his servant entered the room to announce Count Erintoff. Throwing his cloak around him, he angrily arose to receive his guest.

“You come at an unseasonable hour, Count,” he said, with a harsh tone. “Am I to have no rest either from friends or foes? What brings you here?”

“I come with news which may interest you; but for your private ear, General,” returned the Count, looking at the servant who remained.

“Why stay you here? Begone, sirrah,” exclaimed the Baron to the man, who hastily disappeared. “Now, Count, your news,” he continued, turning to his guest, and relaxing his features a little. “It is late, and I would try to seek some rest; so pray no delay.”

“My news is not of much general importance,” returned the Count; “but to you, Baron, it may afford some satisfaction. At length I have found that immaculate officer, Lieutenant Stanisloff, tripping, if indeed I do not succeed in proving him a traitor. As he was to mount one of the outer guards to-night, it occurred to me that he might perhaps communicate with that arch-traitor, your once adopted son, whom, as I told you, I recognised among the horde of the mountain barbarians we were engaged with yesterday. I, therefore, having gone my rounds, waited for some time, and returned to his post; but when summoned, he did not answer: he was nowhere to be found. I, therefore, left my orderly to watch him, enjoining secrecy, and called others to witness that he was absent from his post, in the face of the enemy. My orderly has just come in to say, that after a long absence, he returned from the direction of the mountains. He is, therefore, entirely in your power; but I would not seize him without first consulting your wishes.”

“Then haste, seize him, and bring him here at once,” said the Baron. “To-morrow he shall die.”

The Count hurried off to obey, and during his absence, which lasted some time, the Baron strode up and down the room in an angry mood.

At length the Count returned with Thaddeus Stanisloff, his prisoner, strongly guarded.

“So, Lieutenant Stanisloff,” said the Baron, glaring fiercely at him, “you have been absent from your post when before the enemy. You have held conversation with an arch-traitor to the Emperor, and you are suspected of an intention to desert your colours.”

“Whoever accuses me,” exclaimed Thaddeus, returning the Baron’s look firmly, “speaks a foul and slanderous falsehood, if he says that I am, or ever have been wanting, in my allegiance to the Emperor.”

“I accuse you,” cried the Count stepping forward. “I myself discovered that you were absent from your post.”

“I grant it,” replied Thaddeus firmly; “and I await my punishment; but, beyond that, whoever was your informer is a vile slanderer.”

“Know you not that even for what you acknowledge to have done, your punishment is death?” said the Baron. “Confess therefore where you went, or expect no mercy.”

“I expect no mercy at your hands,” answered Thaddeus. “If I deserve death, I am prepared to meet it.”

“Hear me, obstinate youth,” cried the Baron, “you have held some communication with my once reputed son. You may do so again, but in the company of some trusty guards; and if I can see him safe within the walls of this fort, not only shall you go free, and your crime be overlooked, but your rise shall be rapid in the army, and honours and distinctions shall await you.”

At these words the prisoner seemed to gasp for breath. “Baron Galetzoff, I am in your power,” he exclaimed, “or you should pay dear for such an insult as you have now offered me. Think you that a son of my unhappy and enslaved country can be sunk so low as to hear calmly such vile propositions? No! you have torn us from our homes, you have taken from us our lands, you have ravaged our fields, you have overthrown our kingdom, and ruined our once proud families; but you cannot take from us our honour. I have ever been faithful to your Emperor, our conqueror. I defy your malice. I will speak no more.”

The Baron’s own stern eye sunk before the noble indignation of the prisoner, as standing before him without trembling, he folded his arms on his breast. “Madman,” cried the Baron furiously, “you bring your doom on your own head. No power in heaven or earth shall save you.”

Thaddeus spoke not, but looking towards heaven seemed to implore its aid.

“Colonel Erintoff,” continued the governor, “I commit this prisoner to your charge, and you will take measures that he does not escape.”

“I will strictly obey your orders, General,” said the Count with a significant and sinister look.

Closely guarded, Thaddeus was led out and placed in a miserable hut, built to serve the purpose of a prison for the fort.

He passed a wretched night, heavily ironed. Indignation at the Baron’s base propositions at first smothered all thoughts of his own impending fate. He rejoiced that Ivan had escaped; but he longed to warn him of the danger he ran; and the impossibility of doing so added to the poignancy of his feelings. By degrees the conviction of his own miserable destiny crept on him.

“How dark! How wretched is all around me,” he cried in the agony of his spirit. “Do thus end all my hopes of military glory? Must I die with my once proud name blackened and disgraced; my character as an officer maligned? My father’s last few and sad days hastened by the foul history of his son’s disgrace and untimely death? I cannot bear such thoughts! Oh that Ivan’s unkind sword had rather cut me down on the field of battle, than saved me for this end! Little does he think that my anxiety to see him has been the cause of this misery. No! there is no hope, no glimpse of light left me in the world. Let me prepare then to meet my inevitable fate like a man, and then my comrades in arms may at least say, that I died with courage and firmness. And, oh heaven! give me strength to bear my lot.”

He prayed, and ere the morning broke he slept calmly, even on the hard ground, in sweet forgetfulness of his doom.

He was awakened by the entrance of a soldier with an open letter, sent by his brutal gaoler, in hopes of adding to his misery. It was from his father’s kind friend announcing the death of his parent, his last words being blessings on his son.

“Heaven be praised,” he cried, falling on his knees, “that misery has been spared me. The rest will be easy to bear.” And with a serene countenance he prepared to meet whatever might follow.

Count Erintoff soon after made his appearance; he was received by Thaddeus with the most haughty coldness. “I come to learn,” said the Count, “whether you have thought better of the Governor’s propositions, and are prepared to accede to them, or meet the fate you deserve.”

“Were I tied to the stake, I would spurn the vile offer, as I do now,” replied the prisoner. “I have no more to say.”

“If such is your answer, expect no mercy,” replied the Count fiercely, and he quitted the prison, greatly to the occupant’s relief.

Thaddeus was left for some hours to his meditations, when, his prison doors opening, a file of soldiers appeared to conduct him before the Court Martial assembled to try him.

“I fear that it will go hard with you, Stanisloff,” said the officer in charge of the men, casting a look of pity on the prisoner. “You must be prepared for the worst.”

“Fear not for me, my friend,” answered Thaddeus; “but I trust that neither you nor my brother officers will judge me harshly, though I am fully convinced of the result of my trial.”

“Think not that your character will suffer,” answered the other. “We all feel a warm interest in your fate.”

“That is already settled,” said the prisoner. “I am ready to accompany you.”

When placed before the principal officers of the garrison, his trial proceeded as was to be expected, when the Governor had determined on his condemnation. He was clearly convicted of having left the post he had been placed to guard, by his own colonel as witness; but when there was some demur as to his having communicated with the enemy, two servants of Count Erintoff’s stepped forward, and swore positively to having seen him speaking to one of the chiefs of the Circassians, and having overheard him promise to give them timely notice of any movement among the Russians.

Though great doubt was thrown on the credibility of the men, who were known to be bad characters, yet as their own Colonel swore to their honesty, they were received as witnesses. Notwithstanding the preponderance of the influence against him there was a strong feeling in favour of the prisoner, both in the court and throughout the garrison. So great indeed had the ferment become, when it was reported that he was condemned to die, (most people being convinced that his sentence was unjust), that the Count expressed his fears to the Governor that a general outbreak would be the consequence, if measures were carried to extremities with the prisoner.

“We shall see,” cried the Baron, furiously, “if my authority is not of more avail; however, I will disappoint their hopes, if they think to save the prisoner.”

After sentence of death had been passed on Thaddeus, he was led back to prison, there to await his execution, while the Governor summoned the Count to his private councils.

A fort had been lately erected between Anapa and Ghelendjik, during a time when the greater part of the patriot forces were engaged in another part of the country, some occupied in attending a religious festival, and others in agricultural pursuits, so that the few who remained to guard the coast, were unable to defeat the object of the Russians when first landing; and in a day or so, by the time others arrived to their assistance, the entrenchments had become too strong to attack. The garrison left in it had lately been much reduced by disease, and had also lost many men in a party foraging for wood and water, so that the Baron determined on sending reinforcements thither, and also to despatch the Count there with the culprit, under the plea of inspecting the fortifications.

“He is there, a stranger,” he added, with a hideous smile. “And while those here are left in doubt of his fate, you Count, can take the order for his execution.”

“I shall obey your orders, General, and hope to return in a few days, with an account of their having been fulfilled,” replied the Count, as he left the quarters of the Governor, to make arrangements for his voyage.

Thaddeus was fully prepared for his coming fate, expecting every moment to be dragged forth to execution; and was much astonished, therefore, to find himself at the close of the day, placed on board a brig of war, without any notice having been given him of his destination. For a moment, as he was being conducted down to the shore, his faithful servant found an opportunity of approaching him, for the purpose of uttering his farewell.

“Do not be down-hearted, Sir,” he whispered. “You may be saved ere you expect it. I have discovered where you are going, and I will aid you, or die for it.”

Thaddeus was then hurried on board with four companies of soldiers, under the orders of the Count, when the brig instantly made sail to the northward; but as the winds were light, she made no progress during the night. As she was standing close in shore the next morning, several shot from rifles pierced her sails, and a party of horsemen were seen galloping along the edge of the cliffs. The brig’s guns were instantly discharged, but the balls struck the hard rocks alone, the deep sound echoing along the shore. The horsemen had disappeared; but several other shot from various directions, hit the vessel; and the commander seeing how useless it would be to contend with his scattered and concealed foes, giving a parting salute, stood further out to sea.

Thaddeus all the time was kept below, in a state of the greatest suspense; no one being allowed to hold any communication with him. Very light and variable winds detained them on their voyage; so that it was not till the end of the day, that they reached their destination, though the distance was but short.

The fort, to which Thaddeus was conveyed, was built further from the sea, than that of Ghelendjik, nor could it be so well protected by the guns of a fleet, as that fortress; but, from the nature of its position, it was almost equally strong. There was, however, a securely fortified way from it to the sea, with which a communication could always be kept up, without fear of interruption from the Circassians.

The scenery round it was barren and savage; huge dark rocks rising on all sides from the sandy shore, broken into fantastic forms, appearing like castles towering above the plain. The fortress was built of dark stones quarried, from the neighbouring rocks, on a ledge rising gradually from the shore, and running far inland. It stood on the eastern, or furthest inland point of this ledge; a steep and almost perpendicular cliff protecting it on one side, while in front, there being a smooth green surface, and gradual descent on the plain, its defences depended on its guns, being so placed as to sweep the ground with showers of grape.

A sandy and barren ground extended for some way in front, and on one side, a succession of low rugged rocks formed a considerable protection. The site had been chosen on account of the shelter afforded to the ships of war by a bay in the neighbourhood.

On reaching the shore, the Count ordered Thaddeus to be conducted to a strong prison in the fort; while he himself went round to inspect the fortifications. The reinforcement he had brought with him was gladly welcomed by the commanding officer, who complained much of the small garrison, which was left to protect the fort.

The Count then informed him, that the prisoner he had brought with him was to be shot the next morning at day-break, by command of the Governor of Ghelendjik; producing the Baron’s written order, desiring him to acquaint Lieutenant Stanisloff of the fate which awaited him.

The Governor looked with pity on Thaddeus, as he gave the Count’s message; but he himself received it unmoved, and thus addressed the officer:

“I ask you to defend my fame whenever you hear my name blackened; say then, that I died true to my colours, and to my oath. That is my only request.”

“I will do my utmost to defend your character,” said the officer.

“Farewell!” exclaimed Thaddeus, “till to-morrow’s dawn. Delay the execution, if possible, till the sun rises. I would look once more on that glorious luminary: his beams will aid my strength.”

“It shall be as you wish, if I can possibly so arrange it,” returned the officer, as he hastened from the prison, and left Thaddeus again to meditate in solitude on his impending fate.

The night had at first been serene and beautiful, but towards morning, sudden gusts of wind howled through the rocks and buildings of the fort. The thunder broke in loud peals over head, and flashes of lightning illuminated the gloom of his small and dark prison, through the bars of the only aperture to give light and air. The tumult of the tempest awoke Thaddeus from a slumber into which he had fallen. It seemed to him to rage with greater fury than at first, as he sat up, watching each bright flash. The wind had increased to a hurricane.

The tempest, however, quickly passed over, and all was again silent, except the low sullen roar of the ocean, as its waves dashed on the rocky and caverned shore, or the distant murmur of the passing blast among the trees of the neighbouring mountain.

The dawn was about to break. Thaddeus, whose spirits were exhausted by his mental sufferings, had thrown himself on the rough log, which formed the only seat and couch of his prison, and was falling into a quiet slumber, when he was startled by a fearful shriek, piercing to the inmost recesses of the fort. Again and again it arose from all sides, far louder than the howling of the late tempest, drowning the shouts of the soldiers, as they rushed to their posts at the walls. Soon the roar of artillery, and the rattle of musketry seemed endeavouring to overpower the sound of that war-cry; but it triumphed over all, and sounded nearer and nearer. Thaddeus felt that he could not be mistaken; he had heard that tremendous shout but a few days before, when attacked by the mountain cavalry.

The cannon had ceased its roar, when next arose the shouts of the Russian soldiery; succeeded by thrilling cries for mercy and agonised groans of despair, answered by the loud, overwhelming huzzas of “Allah! Allah!” from all sides. A momentary silence ensued; and then a tramping of feet, as of men engaged in desperate strife. Even he, from whom the fear of death had passed away, felt his heart beat quick, and his breath almost stopped. The cries passed close to him; the bullets rattled against his prison walls; and the flashes of the guns lighted up the gloom of the chamber. The strange unearthly noises grew more confused; the reports of the firing ceased, except a few straggling shots, and the shouts of the combatants passed on.

Knowing little of the localities of the fort, Thaddeus could not discover in what direction the combatants had gone, when he again heard the sound of the rapid steps of a body of men passing close to his prison. Presently, loud and quick reports of musketry were heard, and he concluded that a body of Russians, cut off from their retreat to the shore, had thrown themselves into some strong building, and were making a last desperate defence. They seemed to be successful, as the firing increased, when an awful pause ensued, a tremendous deafening explosion took place, as if an earthquake had rent the earth; the prison walls were shaken to their foundation; the door flew open, and the roof fell in, overwhelming the prisoner in its ruins.

Volume Two—Chapter Sixteen.

We must now relate several circumstances, which had occurred while Thaddeus was being transported from Ghelendjik to the fort in which we left him. The words addressed to his servant by Javis, when he visited the fort in disguise, had sunk deep into the man’s mind. His imagination had been excited by the picture placed before him of rural happiness, contrasted so greatly with the wretched life he led in the camp. Like his master, he too was a Pole; though not like him, impeded by any scruples from deserting. Having heard that his former friend was among the Circassians, he determined to fly to him for protection, and to urge him to find some means of rescuing the prisoner; for it was well-known in the fort whither Thaddeus was to be conveyed.

That night, being on the outer guard, he threw aside his musket and cloak, and hastily sought his way to the mountains, among which he was soon seized by some of the many watchful guards placed there.

The Hadji was seated in the guest-house with Ivan, earnestly discussing various plans for driving their foes from their shores, when their host arrived with a prisoner. No sooner did the captive soldier hear Ivan speak to him, than he shouted with joy, and ran to throw himself at his feet.

“Oh, Sir,” he cried, “it was to find you that I escaped from the fortress. My poor master, Lieutenant Stanisloff, has been seized, by the Governor’s orders, because it is said he went out to meet you, and he is now going to be shot; but every body loved him so much in the camp, that the Governor is afraid to have him executed there, lest there should be a mutiny, for which many are fully ready; and he has consequently sent him to a fort a short distance to the north. It is said not to be a very strong place, so you may probably rescue him, if you take it in time. I thought this would be the only chance of saving my poor master’s life; and being very wretched at the fort myself, I ran off to tell you all about it.”

“My friend, I am deeply indebted to you,” answered Ivan; and he then explained the man’s story to the assembled chiefs.

“Bismillah!” exclaimed the Hadji, jumping up. “The very thing for us! We will set forth without delay; and, by the blessing of Allah, we will take that cursed fort before the sun has risen in the heavens.”

“Thanks, my noble father, for your promptitude,” cried Ivan. “No other leader would I rather follow in rescuing my friend. I doubt not of success.”

“Stay!” said the Hadji’s more cautious brother, Achmet Beg. “We must consider the subject. We have scarce men enough for the enterprise, and look at the sky. The light wind that blows comes direct from the place: the vessel will take some time to reach it, and if we arrive before it, our object would be lost.”

“True,” answered Ivan; “you speak well. In my eagerness to rescue my friend, I overlooked that point.”

“And I too!” added the Hadji. “Mashallah! when there’s fighting in the case, I am as forgetful of every thing else as the wildest Dehli Khan among them.”

“Then,” said Achmet Beg, “I propose that we send forward some trusty scouts to watch the vessel along the coast, and give notice when she arrives in the harbour. In the mean time, we will collect as many warriors as possible for the enterprise. What say you, Uzdens?”

“The advice is good,” said Arslan Gherrei. “And I will gladly lead my few remaining followers to the assault.”

“Well, then, that point is settled,” cried the eager Hadji; and turning to their host: “Now, Uzden, will you send out some of your trusty followers to fasten along the coast to watch the vessel? And you, my brother, despatch some of yours to summon all the warriors they can collect in the neighbourhood. There is no time to be lost on an occasion of this sort.”

The host hastened to fulfil his part of the arrangement, as did Achmet Beg also.

Far and near the messengers hastened, in every direction, on their fleet steeds, giving the word at every hamlet and mountain cot. The news flew like lightning, that Hadji Guz Beg had returned from abroad, and had lost no time in keeping up his old reputation by leading an expedition against the enemy. Wherever the messengers passed, the young men seized their weapons, either rifles or bows, from the walls, girding their swords to their sides, filling their wallets with meal for their provision, and throwing their cloaks over their backs. Thus, fully equipped at a moment’s notice, they hastened to the appointed rendezvous. None knew for what exact object the expedition was intended; but it was enough to know, that it was against the detested Urus, and that the renowned Guz Beg was to be the leader.

Those nearest to the spot repaired to one of the points of rendezvous fixed on in a deep valley, about two miles distant from the fort to be attacked.

Before the sun had attained its greatest height in the heavens, on the following morning, the Hadji found full six hundred fighting men assembled under his standard. Many were chiefs themselves of note, attracted by the prospect of renown to be gained under the well-known guidance of so brave a leader. They came clothed in mail, and attended by a retinue of horsemen. Others were sturdy yeomen of good repute in arms, also on horseback, (with their serfs on foot) anxious to vie with the knights themselves in gallant deeds. Some were independent freemen, coming from their solitary mountain homes, acknowledging no specific leader, each man fighting for himself, as his inclinations prompted him: these were armed with rifle, sword and dagger. Whatever was their rank or calling, they were all animated with one feeling—the deepest hatred of the common foe.

While they were preparing to march, a loud shout among the multitude proclaimed a new arrival; and dashing among the trees, a noble young cavalier appeared, attended by a band of horsemen of his own age. The youth rode forward, as room was made for him; and leaping from his horse, he threw himself at the Hadji’s feet.

“My son! my son! joy of my heart!” exclaimed the Hadji, folding the slight form of the youth in his gauntleted arms. “Welcome, thrice welcome, are you to me at this moment! Alp, my son, you have not disappointed my hopes; and may you prove yourself as gallant a warrior as your appearance would promise!”

Then, as if ashamed of giving vent to his feelings before the assembled warriors, though still holding the young man’s hand, and gazing fondly at him, he added—

“Alp, you have now become a warrior, and these are no times for rest. Prove, then, to your countrymen, that you are equal to the bravest.”

“I have but to follow your steps, my father, and I fear not that I shall gain renown.”

“Now, my friends,” cried the Hadji, tearing himself from his son’s side; “let all men on foot advance, under the guidance of the Uzden Achmet Beg. The cavaliers will quickly follow.”

Under shelter of the trees, the maidens of the hamlet had assembled to witness the departure of the warriors, and to encourage them with their prayers. Among them was the lovely Ina; her bright eyes regarding not the youthful cavaliers who careered before her, to win her smiles, but following her father’s lofty crest as he moved about the field.

As he caught sight of his daughter among the women, Arslan Gherrei sought Ivan’s side.

“Young warrior stranger,” he said, “I have myself endeavoured to thank you for your timely rescue, when so hard set by our foes: but my daughter would do so likewise.”

Saying which, he conducted Ivan to the side of Ina; and while they were speaking, he himself stood for some time entranced, gazing on them earnestly.

“I would thank you, noble stranger,” said Ina, in a faltering voice, “for the inestimable blessing you afforded me in saving my noble father from the hands of his foes. To your bravery, I owe also my own safety, when I was near falling into the power of our invaders. I can only repay you with prayers to heaven for your safety; these shall be offered up to Allah.”

“Lady,” answered Ivan, “prayers from those sweet lips will add courage to my heart; but I pray you, do not think any gratitude is due to me. I was but fulfilling a vow I have made to heaven, to strike our foes wherever I can meet them; and I am yet unworthy to be ranked among the warriors of Attèghèi.”

“O yes, surely you are well worthy to be called one of the bravest,” answered Ina; “for who could have fought more nobly than you did?”

“No, lady, I cannot yet claim that honour; but your prayers will nerve my arm to gain it,” answered our hero. “I must now away; for, see, the knights are mounting their steeds. Lady, farewell!”

“Farewell!” answered Ina. “And may heaven prosper you and shield you from danger.”

“And may Allah, too, protect my child,” added her father, rousing himself from his trance. “I was thinking, my Ina, how great a blessing would be such a son as yonder gallant youth; but Allah’s will be done! I, too, must hasten to lead my followers. Farewell, my child.”

Leaping on his charger, the chieftain galloped to join the cavalcade, while his daughter gazed on him with a fond and anxious glance.

As Ivan hastened to mount his steed, Conrin, who had been watching him anxiously at a distance while conversing with Ina, came forward. A blush was on the boy’s brow, as if he had been discovered in a fault; and there was an uneasy look in his eye.

“Ah, my faithful Conrin,” said Ivan, “I must leave you here for a time; you are too young to go on so hazardous an expedition. I must not again expose your life to the dangers of such fierce warfare.”

“Oh! do not despise my services, Sir,” said the boy, with an imploring look. “Have I been backward at any time in obeying you? Have I done anything to displease you, that you would now leave me among strangers while you are exposed to peril? Did I show fear when you attacked the Cossack cavalry?”

“No, boy, you did not indeed,” answered Ivan, with energy. “That day I owed my life to you; and I should be ungrateful did I not endeavour to protect your’s; for that reason, I would leave you in safety here.”

“But I care not for my life when your’s is perilled,” answered Conrin. “Think you, Sir, that I would survive if you were slain?”

“You speak thus almost foolishly, boy,” answered Ivan. “I am grateful for your attachment; but you would find all kind to you, and many to love and follow. I know that Javis loves you, and would protect you with his own life, till you grow strong enough to protect yourself.”

“Javis loves me!” said the boy, gloomily; “but what is his love to yours? Let me implore you to allow me to accompany you.”

“It cannot be,” returned Ivan, soothingly. “I doubt not your courage, and that you will some day become a gallant warrior; but your arm has not yet gained sufficient strength to compete with men. If I am wounded, Javis will attend me; and if I fall, Heaven will find you some other protector.”

“If you fall, I shall not need Heaven’s protection in this world,” returned the page, with a despairing look.

“You speak strangely, boy,” said Ivan. “I have thought of your welfare.”

As he spoke, Arslan Gherrei rode up.

“Uzden,” said Ivan, addressing him, (for, as it is customary to address a person by his title alone, Ivan had not yet learned the name of the chieftain), “I have a faithful page who has followed me from far lands, and I would not lead him to the dangers of warfare, though he is urgent in his prayers to be allowed to accompany me. I would bestow him in safety; and if I fall, will you grant me a boon, and be his protector?”

“I would do all you ask me, my noble friend,” answered the chief. “I will, if it is your pleasure, place him with my daughter.”

“He could not have a fairer or kinder mistress,” answered Ivan, who, desiring Conrin to follow, returned with the chieftain to the spot were the women were still standing.

“I have returned, lady,” said Ivan, addressing Ina, “to bring you an attendant, who would fain be employed in more warlike services. He is a brave youth, and I owe him much. I leave him, therefore, by your father’s permission, to your gentle care, and he will serve you as faithfully as he has done me.”

“Gladly will I follow your wishes, noble stranger,” replied Ina; “for he is a gallant boy, and I will treat him rather as a brother than as a servant.”

“Thanks, lady, for your kindness,” answered Ivan. “Here, Conrin,” he added, calling to the boy, “I leave you, during my absence, to serve this lady; and you will find it a more pleasing task than following me to the field. Farewell! may you be as happy under her kind care as you deserve.”

Two pages missing from the scan

“Lynx. We will here leave our horses and our guns; and let us see if Circassian steel is not better than Russian lead.”

Another shout proclaimed the approbation of the band to this proposal. The most renowned and most active were then divided into four parties, of about one hundred and fifty men each, who, throwing aside all incumbrances, retained only their swords and long broad daggers. The Hadji put himself at the head of one band, and his son Alp led the most daring and active of the Dehli Khans, who willingly followed him in consideration of his father’s renown. Arslan Gherrei led a third party of the bravest warriors, with whom Ivan was about to volunteer, when he was unanimously elected to lead the fourth band. A few were destined for the less glorious, but necessary, service of guarding the horses and such arms as had been laid aside; and the remainder, under Achmet Beg, were to form a cordon round the fort, to cut off any stragglers of the enemy who should attempt to escape.

The scouts, who had been sent to watch the vessel, brought word that she had just arrived in the bay, and that troops had been landing from her; but this did not damp the ardour of the mountaineers, though Ivan remained in a state of alarm, lest his friend might be ordered out for execution before they could attack the fort.

The night had been far spent before all the arrangements were made; and, at a signal given by their leader, the army advanced cautiously and in deep silence towards the fort. A storm with terrific fury now broke over their heads, when the Hadji proposed to delay no longer; but (their footsteps being unheard amid the tempest) to rush on at once to the assault. The plan was, however, over-ruled by the advice of Achmet Beg.

“Stay, my brother,” he said; “though the foe hear not the sound of our footsteps, the flashes of lightning would betray our approach.” And as they arrived at the skirts of the forest nearest the sea, with the fort below them, he added: “See the lightning plays round the bayonets of the sentinels at their posts. Wait, till they grow weary of the storm, and then perchance they may endeavour to seek shelter beneath their walls, and their eyes may not be turned this way.”

“Your advice is good,” answered the Hadji. “Let it be so.”

Attentive to their chief leader, all the bands therefore halted; watching, in eager expectation, for the order to advance again.

While our hero was waiting for the command to proceed, he fancied that he observed a small light figure, which now advanced, moving among the dark masses of human beings surrounding him. He looked earnestly through the obscurity to catch a glimpse of the object as the lightning flashed brightest. All was again obscure, when he heard a low sigh near him. He turned: his page Conrin stood by his side.

He spoke rather angrily. “How is this, boy? I left you under the Lady Ina’s care. Do you thus so soon disobey my orders?”

A low sob was the answer. At length the boy found words to speak. “And do you thus so soon forget your promise, Sir? Did you not say that I might follow you through all dangers and hardships? and am I to be left at home in safety, while you are thus exposed to peril? Let me now accompany you, and no harm can happen to me. My life is charmed when near you.”

Before Ivan had time to answer, the rain poured down in torrents from the dark clouds, and the lightning ceased.

“Now is our time to advance,” cried the Hadji to the leaders assembled around him. “To you, my son Alp, with your fiery Dehli Khans, shall be given in charge to scale the steep rocks which form the side of the fort to the right. Do you, Uzden Arslan Gherrei, form your band on my left, and we will rush up the smooth ground in front. We have often fought side by side, and can best face danger together, while our armour will protect us in the most exposed situation. You, stranger, with your light-clad followers, must storm on the left, and as far round towards the sea as they can reach over the rough and rocky ground; while do you, my brother, be ready to strengthen any of us who may require aid. And now, chiefs, in the name of Allah! lead on your followers.”

The leaders hastened to the head of their bands, and, amidst the loud roaring of the tempest, and the dashing of the rain, they stole in deep darkness close beneath the walls of the doomed fort.

The sentinels at their posts, with their heads muffled in their cloaks, did not suspect the danger that surrounded them; or, when they looked beyond the walls, were blinded by the rain, and saw nothing besides the dark veil which shrouded them.

Our hero, with a guide, whom he kept close to him, reached the very trench of the fort, on the south-western angle, at the very moment that the other bands gained their destined posts. Then crouching down, they could scarcely have been distinguished from the rocks and coarse herbage which covered the ground, even had the clouds cleared off, and allowed the stars to give their light.

There the hardy mountaineers waited, scarcely daring to breathe, for the Hadji’s preconcerted signal to commence the attack. Silent, as tenants of the grave, they watched, while not a human being within the fort perceived the thick clustering foe, or dreamed that danger was nigh.

The rain had ceased, and the tempest had passed away, when the pale cold light of dawn began, by imperceptible degrees, to appear; yet, before it had thrown a gleam of brightness on the scene, the deep sonorous voice of the Hadji, uttering the cry of “Allah! Allah!” broke the stillness of the air, and was taken up on all sides by the eager warriors, as they rushed impetuously to the assault. They had gained the summit of the ramparts, before the sentinels could recover from their panic. Vain was the slight resistance they could offer, as they sunk beneath the powerful arms of their assailants.

Wherever the Russian soldiers turned, as they rushed in disordered affright from their huts, they found themselves surrounded by foes. Even on the side they considered impracticable, Alp Beg, with his youthful and active followers, assaulted them; while on the sea-side, Ivan and his band had sprung over the entrenchments, and had driven those who attempted to withstand him from the walls. A few of the most determined of the garrison made a desperate rush towards the guns, which vomited forth a shower of grape; but in a few minutes, the men who fired them were cut down by the mountaineers.

On every side arose those tremendous cries which quailed the stoutest hearts. Innumerable foes seemed to be hurled from out of the obscurity of the sky among the Russians, as the Circassians leaped over the trenches. Arslan Gherrei and the Hadji had met with the greatest opposition in front; but the latter, fighting his way, had joined his son Alp, on the right, while the brave commander of the fortress, rallying a strong body of troops, met the former chieftain in his victorious course. The Russians opened a tremendous fire, beneath which many of their assailants fell, as encouraged by their officer’s example, they advanced to meet them, the Circassians rushing to their very bayonets’ points.

So bravely did the former fight, that many of the Circassians were for a time driven back; and Arslan Gherrei found himself surrounded by Russians. Many of the most daring advanced to seize him, but his sword kept them at bay; yet they seemed determined to overwhelm him: when our hero, on seeing so large a body of defenders still keeping together, led on some of his men, and fought his way towards the spot. There was just sufficient daylight to distinguish objects at no great distance; when, catching sight of the heroic Arslan Gherrei, hard pressed, and defending himself singly against a host of foes, he shouted loudly his name, and strained every nerve to reach him. He almost shrieked with eagerness, as he fell, like a tiger, on the intervening combatants, till he hewed a way to the rescue of the noble chieftain. And, once again, those two brave warriors fought side by side, their foes giving way before them: none could withstand their arms. Then as their followers united, the enemy retreated to a building in their rear, into which some found entrance, and opened a heavy fire on the assailants, while the rest remained without, fighting with their backs to the walls.

The firing lasted but a few minutes; when a terrific explosion took place. The earth shook with violence; and the combatants, interrupted in their deadly strife, were covered with the falling ruins, and obscured by smoke and dust.

Ivan looked around. Arslan Gherrei stood unharmed near him. Around them, and amid the fallen building, lay strewed the bodies of their late opponents, and of many of their own party, killed by the descending ruins.

Wherever Ivan moved, the daring young page was by his side, fearless of the strife. Unharmed by the swords of the foe, and the falling ruins, he pursued his way, fighting as bravely as the boldest warrior, and regarding only his master’s safety.

By the light of the burning rafters, which blazed furiously, Ivan eagerly hastened in search of his friend; and as the smoke and dust cleared off, he caught sight of a human being, endeavouring to extricate himself from the ruins of a small building. He leaped over the smoking ruins, towards the spot, followed by some of his men. In a few minutes he had the happiness of lifting his friend Stanisloff in his arms, and seeing his fetters knocked off, while loud shouts proclaimed the satisfaction of his liberators.

In the mean time, the venerable Hadji and his gallant son had cleared the fort of all who opposed them. Young Alp drove the Russians to the water’s edge, so that at the time the magazine blew up, all opposition had ceased. As the victors hurried through the fort, the sound of cannon from the ship of war in the harbour, proclaimed that some of their enemies had reached the shore, and were being protected in their embarkation. A party, therefore, hurried off to assist Alp in capturing the remainder of their defeated foes, or in utterly destroying them.

As the sun rose in majestic splendour over the mountains, what a scene of havoc and destruction it revealed! On every side were the bodies of the slaughtered Russians, ghastly with the terrific wounds of the broad bladed cama, which had pierced home to the breasts of the victims, doing its work surely. Their countenances were livid, and their limbs distorted into every frightful attitude. Among them, near the walls, lay many bodies of the mountaineers, their sabres firmly clasped in their clenched hands, scarcely shewing the small death wound caused by the bullet. Some lay pierced by the bayonets of the defenders of the castle, as they leaped from the parapet among them.

Farther in the centre, amid their slain husbands and fathers, were the bodies of several women and children, who, rushing from their huts, at the first terrific sound of the onslaught, had been, in the darkness and confusion, overthrown, unknowingly slain, and trampled upon, by the fierce combatants of either side. Round the smoking ruins of the magazine which had exploded, were the blackened remains of the gallant commander of the fort, and of the few faithful soldiers who had taken refuge with him in the building attached to it; and, crushed amid the heaps of earth and stones, were the bodies of several of the fierce mountaineers who were attacking it.

Some of the store-houses and barracks had likewise caught fire, and were blazing up furiously, to add to the destruction and confusion. Parties of the victors were hurrying over the fort, some ransacking the quarters of the officers, others piling the arms of the conquered, and others collecting the prisoners who had lain down their arms. The cannonading soon ceased, and the brig of war was seen standing out of the harbour, carrying away the poor remains of the garrison, who had first escaped to the shore, though the greater part had either been slain, or made prisoners.

None of the chiefs of note had fallen, they being well protected for this species of fighting, by the coats of chain armour they wore under their dress; but it was a dearly-bought victory to their followers, three score of whom had perished by the bullets of the Russians, and by the explosion of the magazine.

Achmet Beg, notwithstanding his advanced age, had not been able to restrain his ardour; but with somewhat of the fiery valour of his brother the Hadji, when the shouts of the combatants arose, had quitted his post outside, and, scaling the ramparts, with many of his followers, joined in the fray. Overcome with fatigue he stood like the statue of an aged Mars, leaning on his sword reeking with the blood of his foes, and covered with the dust and smoke of the combat.

Alp Beg now returned from the pursuit of the enemy, whom he had almost cut to pieces before the remnant succeeded in escaping to the boats of the brig. Among the latter, was probably the Count Erintoff; as when Ivan and Thaddeus went in search of his corpse, it was no where to be found. The chieftains then assembled in the centre of the fort; when our hero led forth his rescued friend, who was received with warm and sincere congratulations by his gallant liberators. Few words passed between them; for there was still much to be done, and all were anxious to return to give assurance to their friends of their success.

By Ivan’s side stood young Conrin, amid the fierce and bearded warriors; one bright and glowing spot alone remained on his otherwise pale cheek, and his eyes burned with the same unearthly lustre which they had shewn after the former combat. His lip at times quivered, and his arm still trembled with the exertion he had undergone, as his hand grasped a weapon marked with many a red stain. Alas! that one so young, and seemingly of so gentle a nature, should engage in scenes of bloodshed like this! The boy gazed up in his master’s face with a look expressive of such satisfaction and joy, that he had escaped the dangers of the attack, that Ivan relented from the displeasure he had felt at the youth’s rashness, and, placing his hand on his shoulder, said:

“It was for your safety, my brave, but rash, Conrin, that I forbade you to accompany me on this expedition; and for my own sake also. For my grief would have been, indeed, great, and I should never have ceased blaming myself, had you fallen, or received any injury. Therefore, if you love me, venture not again into such danger.”

The boy burst into tears. “It would be my greatest joy to die at your feet, if I thought you loved me as I would be loved!” exclaimed he passionately. “And I am amply rewarded for all the horrors of this scene, now that the moment has arrived in which I know that you are safe.”

“Boy, you will wear that gallant young spirit out, if you thus exert it before its time. For my sake, if not for your own, play me not thus false again,” said Ivan. “And, now as a truant, I must return you to your mistress.”

“Am I then forgiven, Sir?” asked the boy.

“Yes, Conrin, yes, you are forgiven; and gladly, as you have not suffered. But see, the chiefs are moving on, and I must join them.”

The chiefs had been holding a consultation, in which it was agreed to destroy the fort completely. Achmet Beg volunteering to remain with a party of his followers, to superintend its entire demolition. The rest quitted the fort, the drawbridge being lowered for their exit. They were received with shouts of congratulation by the party outside the walls, each man laden with the arms and other booty which they had found in the fort, and carefully guarding the few prisoners they had taken.

A more mournful procession followed, conveying on quickly-formed biers, the bodies of their slain comrades, the bearers changing, at intervals, the triumphant songs of victory into cries of lamentation for their early fate. The victorious little army first repaired to the secluded vale where they had left their horses, their rifles, their cloaks, and provisions, and where the last sad obsequies were to be performed to the slain. But it was a consolation to all the true believers in Mahomet, that, falling in defence of their country, their souls would find a quick passage to Paradise. Short, consequently, was the burial service of the brave warriors, though the grief of the survivors was not the less for the friends who had fallen.

The chieftains, therefore, leaving a party to commit the bodies to their last resting-place in that quiet spot, hastened back to defend the passes of Ghelendjik, lest the garrison, taking advantage of the absence of many of the inhabitants, should attempt to ravage the country.

Volume Two—Chapter Seventeen.

Scarce a whole day had passed since the band of gallant warriors had left the neighbourhood of Ghelendjik, when they returned crowned with victory. One of the detested forts of the foe was levelled to the ground, and thus one of the first links of the chain, the fana Moscov were striving to throw around the land was burst asunder at a single blow. This showed them what they might still do; it raised their courage; it inflamed their ardour. Again and again they vowed never to yield while an arm remained to strike.

The noble Hadji was in high spirits at the success of this the first enterprise he had engaged in since his return to his native land; nor the less so at the gallantry which his son had displayed. He careered along, at the head of the party, gay as the most youthful warrior among them. The heroic Arslan Gherrei, on his magnificent black charger, his plume towering above the others, rode sedately near him, his features, except when excited amid the combat, ever wearing the same grave stern expression.

In each of the small secluded hamlets through which they passed, the women came forth to welcome them, throwing flowers in their path, and singing triumphant hymns of praise for their victory. Some made eager inquiries for husbands, and fathers, or brothers; and sad was the wail raised in lieu of songs of triumph, when the death of any loved one was announced to them.

By the side of our hero rode his friend Thaddeus, for whom he had procured a horse, and who now related the events which had lately occurred to him, and the attempted revenge of the Count Erintoff.

“You are now then, my dear Thaddeus, surely absolved from all allegiance to the Emperor?” said Ivan. “And you may join, without scruple of conscience, the only cause for which a man is justified in fighting, when not for the protection of his own country, the defence of a gallant people’s dearest liberties, their homes, their families, against the power of tyrants who would enslave them.”

“True, my friend,” answered Thaddeus, “such I now feel is a righteous cause, sanctified by Heaven; such the true cause in which the pure spirit of chivalry delights to engage; far different from the hireling service which would place a tyrant or an usurper on the throne, and aid him in oppressing a people whom it is his office to govern.”

“I am rejoiced to hear you speak sentiments so like my own,” exclaimed Ivan, “and of which you, of all men, have just reason to feel the truth.”

“Since we parted, I have thought much on the subject, even though death was hanging over me,” returned the young Pole. “One of the causes, which then made me refuse to join your party, has been removed. My father is no more. The thraldom under which his noble spirit groaned, and grief for his country’s overthrow, have at length brought his life to a close.”

“Then, surely,” said Ivan, “you can no longer, with reason, consider yourself bound to Russia.”

“I do not; I consider myself justly absolved from my oath of service to the Emperor,” answered Thaddeus. “But can you blame me, when I hesitate to turn my sword against my former brothers in arms, many bound to me by the ties of friendship?”

“That you need never do,” answered Ivan; “and henceforth, I shall hail you as my brother in arms; for Circassia has foes enough without numbering the few you can claim as friends. The fierce and daring Cossacks shall be your opponents, and along the banks of the Kouban, they will afford you abundance of opportunities of gaining credit and renown among us.”

“Press me not further on the subject, my friend,” returned the Pole. “I have scarcely yet learned to consider myself as numbered among the living, so rapid and stunning has been my delivery from death. I have much to give me serious reflection.”

The two friends relapsed into silence for some time; for Ivan’s thoughts were also deeply occupied with conjectures, vague, uncertain, yet full of hope, as to who was the brave chieftain, whose name he had heard, and whose noble bearing, heroic valour, stern and melancholy, yet courteous deportment had inspired him with feelings of love and admiration, such as his heart was unaccustomed to accord to others; but he could not yet bring himself to address him.

As the party approached the beautiful village they had left the previous day, a group of bright and graceful forms was seen between the trees, waving garlands of flowers; their sweet voices singing songs of welcome and congratulation to the victorious warriors. The chiefs, throwing their reins to the squires, leaped from their steeds, as they reached the woodland glade, already mentioned as the romantic hall of assembly for the neighbourhood.

The maidens advanced to meet the warriors, each anxious to welcome the most beloved of their gallant defenders; and still more lovely than all, came Ina, rushing with joy into the arms of her father. That one affectionate embrace of his child, was a full recompense to the heart of the noble hero, for all the risks and dangers of war. The wife and daughters of the chief of the hamlet came forward also to welcome him and his sons; and many a bashful maiden betrayed her hitherto concealed love for some gallant youth, in her joy at his safe return from battle.

It was a highly interesting scene. Diana-like forms of women, clothed in coloured and richly ornamented robes, with long white veils floating gracefully from their heads; the shining and embossed armour, jewelled weapons, and tall plumes of the noble chiefs; the groups of high-mettled steeds, and bands of retainers, assembled on the verdant lawn, surrounded by the bright foliage of lofty trees and canopied by the blue vault of heaven; formed a picture, such as Titian or Rubens might have loved to paint. It reminded one of the romantic days of chivalry, now long since faded from all other lands but that of the heroic Attèghèi.

Near Ivan stood Thaddeus, enraptured by the beautiful and noble scene; but, more than all, by the loveliness of Ina, as his glance first fell on her, clinging to her father’s arm. His very soul became entranced as he gazed, nor could he withdraw his admiring eyes; never had he seen a being more lovely, more graceful. It was to him, as if, after arriving from the dark regions of death, he had entered a glorious paradise.

Scarcely were the first greetings over, when the Hadji advanced towards Ivan, and taking his hand, led him forward into the midst of the assembled chiefs, exclaiming, “To you, my noble friend Arslan Gherrei, and to you, chieftains all, I speak. I have this day a pleasing duty to perform. Here stands one whom I am proud to call my friend; with me he came to these, our native shores; but to this moment, I know not his name. He was under an oath, and none could disapprove it, not to tell his name or lineage, until he had gained for himself a warlike and noble title, and proved himself worthy to belong to the pure race of the Attèghèi. I call on you all, who have been spectators of his deeds of arms; who have seen his heroic bravery, when combating against the foes of our country; to bear witness, that he is worthy to be called one of the noblest of the children of the Attèghèi; I call on you all, to declare, if you will welcome him as a brother, the bravest of the brave among us?”

“We do! we do!” was shouted from all sides; “he is a true son of the Attèghèi. We welcome him as a gallant brother in arms.”

Uttering similar expressions, each chieftain advanced to grasp his hand, in token of approval. The heart of our hero beat quickly, as the blood tumultuously rushed through his veins, with a glow of noble pride, at the applause of his countrymen; but more than all, at the hope that the consummation of his most anxious wishes was about to draw near.

“I knew, my friends, that you could have but one opinion,” said the Hadji. “But to you, Arslan Gherrei, I more particularly speak, for twice have you been witness of the bravery of the stranger warrior; twice has he rescued from peril, that life so prized by our country.”

“Truly do I know how brave and noble he is,” answered the chieftain advancing; “and gladly do I hail him as a son of the Attèghèi.”

“Young warrior, you hear what has been spoken of you by some of the most gallant chiefs of Circassia. What more would you have to absolve you from your oath?” exclaimed the Hadji with animation.

“I am overwhelmed with the proud feelings of my heart,” cried our hero. “No greater praise can I ever hope to gain. I will keep my secret no longer. The name I bore at my birth was Selem Gherrei!”

“What! speak that name again,” cried Arslan Gherrei, springing forward. Seizing his hand he held it in his grasp, while he gazed earnestly into his face.

“Noble youth, whence come you? can a blessed spirit rise from the dead? Speak, ere my heart burst with impatience; say who gave you that name?”

“My mother,” answered our hero. “When a child, I was carried away with her by a Russian commander; she continued to watch over my youth till death tore her from me.”

“It is enough; you are—you are my son, my long mourned son. I need no more to convince me,” cried the chieftain, clasping the youth in his arms, while manly tears of joy burst from the long dried up fountains of his eagle eye.

“Am I! am I, noble chief, your son?” cried the youth, no less overcome, and falling on his knees while returning his new-found father’s embrace. “Has heaven, indeed, granted me so proud a blessing? See, I have borne this amulet from childhood, and have ever religiously guarded it. This may prove my birth.”

“I need no mark to convince me that you are my son. Nature speaks loudly for you, though well do I remember that amulet,” cried the chieftain. “You are, indeed, my son, and Allah be praised for his bounty. I felt it when first I saw you, like a guardian angel, fighting by my side, and rescuing me from death; I felt it when first I heard the rich manly tones of your voice inciting your followers to the fight. Yes, my heart beat with joy that another warrior should be added to the cause of the Attèghèi; and now how proud and grateful I am, let Heaven witness. See, chiefs, I here present to you my son. Great Heaven has granted me the only boon I craved,” he added, lifting up his son. “After the witness you have borne of his bravery you all must know how proud I am of him.”

“Have I not a sister, too, my father? Let her also participate in our joy,” cried his son, hastening to embrace Ina, who, trembling with agitation, had advanced to the spot. “My sister, my sweet sister!”

“Oh, my brother! Allah be praised that I may pronounce that dear name. Now can my father’s heart rejoice that he has found his long-wished-for son. Already does my heart give some of the love our father once claimed, to you, my brother,” she said with a sweet smile beaming through her fast falling tears of joy.

The chieftains had courteously retired to some distance, so as not to restrain the indulgence of Arslan Gherrei’s feelings of happiness; but they gazed with deep interest, as the once stern and gloomy champion of their country melted into softness, as he looked on his newly-found gallant son.

The Hadji also was delighted. “I knew, my friend,” he cried, “that none but a noble father could have owned a son brave as my young friend, Selem Gherrei. Say, warriors, are they not worthy of each other?”

“Yes, yes! may Allah grant a long and prosperous life to our gallant champion, Arslan Gherrei, and to his brave son, the young Selem,” was shouted by the assembled warriors. “Long live Selem Gherrei!” was echoed through the grove, as they advanced in gallant and martial array, each grasping Selem’s hand as they passed him and his proud and happy father; nor could they refrain from giving an admiring but respectful glance at the fair Ina, as she stood clinging to her newly-found brother’s arm.

Then arose the song of a wandering minstrel, who, attracted by the fast flying news of the storming of the fort, had repaired hither to commemorate the victory with his muse; and here was a theme well worthy of his martial strains. First tuning his lyre he broke forth into a loud triumphant hymn of victory; then, changing his theme, he described the fierce attack of the Russians, when the noble chief Arslan Gherrei was deprived of his wife and son; then it sunk into a low strain of grief, worked into rage against the ravishers. He next enumerated the many bloody combats in which the chief had fought to revenge himself on his foes, the coming of the youthful stranger, his fighting by his father’s side and rescuing him and his sister from the enemy. Finally, as he pictured their surprise and joy at meeting, his notes were melting and pathetic, till, by degrees swelling high to triumphant strains of joy, he was joined by numerous other minstrels of scarcely less note, who had followed him to the scene.

A band of maidens then, taking the word from the bard, advanced, and surrounding the group with their wreaths of flowers, joining their sweet, rich voices to the melody as the cadence rose and fell with the subject.

Then the bard changed his theme to the rescue of the Polish stranger; and as he sang, all eyes were turned towards Thaddeus; and as Ina caught his gaze drinking in with enraptured delight the beauty of her form and features, she cast her look on the ground, blushing she knew not why; while he, the brave soldier, seemed seized with the same bashful feeling.

The bard had ceased his strains when a party of musicians struck up light and cheerful airs, and some of the youthful mountaineers, in spite of the fatigue of the fight and march, led forth the village maidens, nothing loath, to the dance; the nobles looked on to applaud, until messengers arrived from the house of the Tocav to say that a banquet was prepared to welcome the warriors.

Our hero, whom we must in future designate by his true name of Selem Gherrei, now took the hand of Thaddeus. “My sweet sister,” he said, “I will lose no time in making known to you one, who has been my friend under various circumstances, and will, I trust, always continue so.”

“My brother’s friend is welcome to me,” she answered in Turkish, a language Thaddeus was also slightly acquainted with. “But I cannot perform the courtesies you have been accustomed to in Frangistan. I have but few words to express my feelings in the tongue in which I now speak.”

“Think not so meanly of yourself, Ina,” said Selem. “My friend is one of those noble Poles, whose country you have doubtless heard the Russians have treated as they would ours; and yet he hesitates to draw his sword against such foes. But I must leave him to your soft persuasions to supply him with excuses for joining us.”

“I fear that I could scarce disobey your wishes, sweet lady,” said Thaddeus; “then pray do not bid me act against my conscience.”

“I would not do as you fear,” answered Ina. “But among the sons of the Attèghèi the claims of friendship are paramount to every other. Surely you would not quit my brother’s side in the battle-field. His foes should be your foes, and his friends your friends.”

“Cease, lady, cease,” exclaimed Thaddeus earnestly; “or you will gain too quick a victory. The sweet tones of your voice alone are too eloquent to be withstood.”

“Silence, my friend,” interrupted Selem, in Russian smiling. “You bring, indeed, the courtly style of St. Petersburg with you, when you commence by paying compliments. I must assert a brother’s privilege to stop such language, or you may turn my gentle sister’s head. Remember that she is unaccustomed to phrases of flattery.”

“Her looks bespeak her to be far too sensible to be influenced by terms of compliment,” answered Thaddeus.

“There breathes no woman of any clime, and but few of the nobler sex even, who are uninfluenced by flattery,” returned Selem. Then speaking again in his own language, “Pardon me, my sister, for speaking in a language you understand not. I was but scolding my friend for paying the empty compliments which the fair ones of the cities of Frangistan receive as of sterling value.”

“Your friend, my brother, would not surely use phrases unbecoming a mountain girl to hear. He looks too wise, too good,” said Ina, blushing as she spoke.

Another messenger now approached to summon the hero of the day, the young Circassian Chief, and his Polish friend, to the feast, where the other chieftains were waiting their arrival. Great however was the disappointment of both, when they found that the chief ornaments would be wanting; for though the most chivalrous devotion is paid to the fair sex, such is the custom of the country, that no woman may be present at the festive board, except on private occasions when in attendance on their lords.

Most unwillingly, therefore, Selem was obliged to part from his newly-found beautiful sister, and many an enraptured glance did the young Pole cast towards her as she retired with her women and the daughters of the host; while the two friends followed the gallant chief, Arslan Gherrei (his heart beating with happiness at the restoration of his son), as he led the way to the scene of festivity.

End of Volume Two.

Volume Three—Chapter One.

A romantic and chivalrous scene was presented to the eye, as a cavalcade of warriors wound their way along the richly clad mountains of Ghelendjik.

The fresh dews of the night still moistened the green herbage; the crystal drops sprinkling the grass, shone in the early sun-beams like the precious diamonds of Golconda; while the air which played round their heads, came laden with the fragrance of the mountain herbs and sweet scented flowers. The pure and elastic atmosphere seemed to sparkle with life and light: all nature, rejoicing in the bright new-born day, breathed an air of contentment and happiness; how sadly belied by the scenes of devastation and misery the country was doomed to suffer!

The chiefs were clad in rich and polished armour; their spear-points and swords glittering in the sun-beams, and their gay banners fluttering in the breeze. At their head, on his noble black charger, rode Arslan Gherrei and the gallant Hadji Guz Beg, followed by many chiefs of note and consequence. In the centre came Ina, more fresh and lovely than the bright morn itself, followed by her damsels, and tended with the utmost care; on one side, by her brother Selem, who guided her palfrey over the uneven ground, while Thaddeus guarded her on the other, as she listened earnestly to the description of his own loved land, comparing it to the one in which he now was destined to live. Every now and then she would turn her eyes from her brother, stealing a glance at him, which was as quickly withdrawn.

Young Alp Beg, and other gallant youths, dressed in their gayest attire, on high mettled steeds, curvetted in every direction, in hopes of catching a glance from her bright eyes, or of hearing the sweet tones of her voice. Close to them followed the young page Conrin, and, though rejoicing in his master’s happiness, every now and then a deep shade of melancholy would steal across his features; nor would he, on these occasions, listen to the words of consolation which Javis vainly endeavoured to offer. The squires of the knights, their pages, and other attendants followed, bringing up the cortège.

As they rode on, they were shrouded by the thick autumnal-tinted foliage of the lofty trees; and the mountain’s side, covered with flowering heaths, when trampled on by their horses’ hoofs, gave out a sweet odour. In the vale below, flowed a blue sparkling stream, between rich pastures, bounded by sloping banks; while on the opposite side, rose jagged and fantastic cliffs, and in the extreme distance, a sea of azure-tinted and swelling hills.

Messengers had arrived on the previous evening from the warriors already encamped on the banks of the Ubin, a rapid stream falling into the Kouban; summoning the chiefs from all parts of Circassia to meet them there without delay. Some grand object was in contemplation, either to attack the Russians before they should retire into their winter quarters, or to prevent them in their turn from making any inroad among their own mountain-homes. The Hadji was all fire and eagerness to set forward, in the hopes of some engagement taking place; in which, under his guidance, his darling son might gain victorious laurels, he looked on the storming of the fort as an action of no note to try his mettle. Arslan Gherrei had also determined to proceed onward to the same destination, leaving Ina—who was now fully able to undertake the journey—with the family of a noble kinsman, the Chief of the Demorghoi, the venerable Prince Aitek Tcherei.

Their host, Shamiz Bey, with most of the warlike inhabitants of the neighbourhood, was compelled to remain to guard that part of the country threatened by the garrison of Ghelendjik, it being considered a point of honour for every district to protect itself against the foe, except from an overwhelming force.

A large body of horsemen were, however, collected, many chiefs having come to greet the renowned Hadji on his return from his pilgrimage, to congratulate Arslan Gherrei on the recovery of his long lost son, and to welcome Selem to his native land.

Their journey was like a triumphant procession. From every hamlet through which they passed, the inhabitants rushed out to congratulate the warriors on their victory; the fame of their exploit having already preceded them. The villagers made their admiring comments, not less on the dignified and noble Arslan Gherrei and his son, than on his lovely daughter; and the stranger Pole was hailed as another champion added to their country’s cause. The minstrels struck their harps to strains of triumph, joined by the voices of the maidens. The wild youths, galloping on before, fired off salvos from their rifles, which were answered by others from the hamlets discharging theirs in return, as they threw themselves on their ready-saddled steeds, and flew to join the festive cortège. The green banks, sloping down from the villages, were covered with old men, women, and children, joining their voices to the general shout which welcomed the party, wherever they appeared. The Hadji’s name sounding above all.

Sometimes the cavalcade would halt to salute some aged chieftain, unable longer to join in the hardships of war, who had caused himself to be carried out to meet them, and to hear from their own mouths, an account of their late exploit. The eye of the now decrepit warrior would kindle, and his cheek burn with enthusiasm, as he listened to the tale; or his voice would tremble, and a tear of regret roll down his furrowed cheek, that he was no longer capable of participating in the glories and dangers of war. So often had they to stop, and so many questions had they to answer, that it was late in the day before they could reach their resting-place for the night; and happy was the chief, whom they had chosen as their Tocav, to receive such distinguished guests.

Their route on the next day’s journey, lay along the base of the far-extended line of the black mountains; when towering high above his brethren, appeared the lofty Elborous, dark, rugged, and precipitous. The cavalcade traversed a savage glen, overhung by beetling cliffs, seeming ready to fall on their heads. The light was subdued and gloomy; and the air was moist and heavy from the water which trickled down over the moss-covered rocks. An oppressive feeling overcame all the party—a foreboding of coming evil. Dangers in unknown shapes seemed to threaten them. Even the Hadji’s joyful tone was quelled; a chill fell on his spirits. He cast a fond and anxious glance at his son Alp, as, for a moment, the dangers to which he was about to expose him, crossed his mind.

“Why are you so silent, my sister?” said Selem, as he rode by Ina’s side; “why does that shade of sadness steal over a face, but now so bright with smiles?”

“I scarce know, Selem, why I am sad,” returned the fair girl; “but I thought of the dangers our noble father is constantly exposed to; that you, my newly found brother, may again be torn from me; that you must live a life of constant hardship and warfare. I thought of the miseries of our country—our homes and fields burned, our fathers and brothers slain, and that Allah should have created men wicked enough to do these things. Tell me, my brother, why do the Urus attack our country? why do they try to possess themselves of our humble cots and rocky mountains, when they have abundance of land covered with mighty cities?”

“The lust of power, of conquest, such as you can have no conception of,” replied Selem. “They care little to possess our mountain-homes, and nothing for the noble hearts, whose blood they spill. What, to their deaf ears, are the cries of the orphan, the moans of the bereaved widow? There are rich and fair lands beyond our’s, in which they would set their grasp, could they reach them, to add to their already vast territories, peopled by slaves. But they fear to advance, leaving behind them one spot of unconquered ground, such as our own land, lest we might impede them on their return home, laden with booty. We are like a castle in a plain, overrun with marauders, which, as long as provisions last, may withstand a host of such foes; so shall we, as long as true and brave hearts beat in Circassia. But now, Ina, banish such sad thoughts; see, we have gained a bright and joyous scene.”

As Selem spoke, they emerged from the dark ravine, into a broad and extensive valley; so broad, indeed, as almost to be called a plain. It was surrounded by mountains, rising gradually in slopes or bosomy swells, to form the sides of the vast amphitheatre. Green pastures and corn fields, interspersed with clumps of fine trees, enriched its surface, which was further adorned by cottages, surrounded by orchards, farm-yards, paddocks, and granaries.

“See, Ina,” exclaimed her brother, enthusiastically; “let not your spirits sink with forebodings, for we have passed in safety through that savage glen: and now what a lovely scene has opened to our view! So may it be with our country. We yet may see bright and glorious days shine on Circassia, when freed from the dark wing of the Russian eagle.”

The country through which they were passing, had the appearance of a magnificent park, or the estate of some rich noble of Frangistan; the fields were separated by high well clipped hedge-rows, and irrigated by canals filled from a stream, meandering through the centre. The hill sides were covered with flocks of sheep; and fine cattle fed in the fertile pastures.

Leaving the valley, the cavalcade mounted the sides of one of the hills, by which it is entirely encompassed, traversing the summit of a narrow ridge, looking down on each side into a deep ravine. Wherever the eye could reach, appeared a country impracticable to any foes, when guarded by even a handful of brave inhabitants.

The cavalcade did not keep in the same order as described in the commencement of the journey; sometimes, the chieftain Arslan Gherrei would ride to his daughter’s side, and address words of affection and encouragement to her; then he would enter into converse with his son, on subjects of deep interest and importance. But there was one who never left Ina’s side. Each moment that Thaddeus passed in her company, he became more and more enchained, without being conscious of it.

As the mighty Elborous appeared in view, with numerous other wild and rugged mountains at its base, “Know you,” said the Hadji to Selem, “that the brother of that traitor Besin Kaloret Khan has his dwelling among yonder rugged mountains, though they prove not so wild and barren, as at this distance they appear? He is rich in flocks, herds and noble horses, and many fierce followers are at his beck. I think he will prove a dire foe to you and your’s, if he discovers that his traitor brother fell by your hand; or worse still, by that of your youthful page. But, Mashallah! fear him not. He knows himself in the wrong, and will dread to take vengeance.”

Ina turned pale, as she heard this account. “Does, indeed, that dreadful Khan dwell so near us?” said she. “I always feared to look on him: he seems so fierce, so cruel, so unlike our father or you. Oh, avoid him, for his presence can bring nothing but harm.”

“Fear him not, fear him not, maiden,” exclaimed the Hadji. “What harm can he do? His followers cannot compete with us. Till he washes out the stain of his brother’s dishonour in the blood of our foes, he cannot again appear in the company of the chiefs of Abasia.”

“I fear not for myself,” answered Ina; “but I fear him for the evil he may work to my father and brother: I know that to meet him in open fight they would have nought to dread; but he is subtle as well as fierce, and may seek secret means to injure them.”

“Do not let such thoughts alarm you for our father or for me, dear Ina,” said her brother. “The Khan could not harm us, if he wished.”

“Mashallah! if he were as cunning as the fox,” exclaimed the Hadji, “we would rout him out of his den, should he attempt any revenge for that young traitor’s just punishment.”

The travellers were now approaching the residence of the venerable Prince Aitek Tcherei, the kinsman of Arslan Gherrei, with whom Ina was to remain during his and her brother’s absence. The whole party, also, were invited to sojourn there that day, ere they proceeded to the camp of the allied princes and chiefs on the Ubin.

The party were descending a hill bounding another beautiful and romantic vale, on the side of which stood the residence of the aged chief, and had just arrived in sight of a grove of lofty trees surrounding the house, when being perceived from the watch-tower in the neighbourhood, a band of gaily caparisoned youths on horseback, galloped out to meet the chiefs, uttering loud shouts of welcome, and firing off their rifles and pistols as they came on at full speed. Halting at the moment they arrived abreast of the leaders of the party, they respectfully saluted them, exchanging greetings with their younger friends as they passed, and then joined the rear of the cortège.

Along avenue of fine trees led up to the gate of the house, where the aged Prince, clothed in a long robe and turban, (the garb of peace), was standing to receive them, attended by his squire, armed more for state than protection, and by his dependants and household serfs, who hastened to take the horses of the chieftains, as they dismounted.

Folding Arslan Gherrei in his arms, “My noble kinsman,” he said, “welcome are you to my home, for gladly do my old eyes once more look on you; and how did my heart beat with joy when I heard that you had recovered your long lost son. Allah is great, who has shielded him from so many perils in the land of the Giaour, to restore him once more to your bosom. Is yonder noble youth he? Worthy he seems to be a Circassian chief. Let me embrace him,” he added, as Selem, dismounting from his horse, advanced towards the old man.

“Come hither, my son, and let your father’s oldest friend embrace you. Ah! I see in his eye and bearing that he is worthy of you, Uzden. And your other child? your daughter? Come hither, Ina; let my old eyes gaze on thee, too. My own Zara will rejoice to see you. Go to her, Ina; she longs to embrace you, but she fears to quit her anderoon before so many strangers. Ah! my gallant friend, Hadji Guz Beg! rejoiced am I to see the Lion of the Attèghèi returned from his pilgrimage, to spread terror among the hearts of the Urus. And you, Achmet Beg, and you, Alp, who will one day be a hero like your father; and you, chieftains, welcome all.”

Thus he addressed them, as each chief advanced to pay his respects to the old man. “My heart,” exclaimed he, “has not beat so joyfully since the cursed Urus slew the last prop of my age, my only son. Chieftains, I have ordered a banquet to be prepared to do honour to your coming, and it will soon be the hour for feasting.”

Saying which, the venerable noble led the way to a grove of lofty trees in the neighbourhood of the house, under which a fresh green arbour had been erected by his retainers, forming a grateful shade from the yet burning rays of the sun. Divans and carpets had been spread under the leafy bower, the front of which opened on a gentle slope, falling to, a green plot of turf, surrounded by groups of trees. Thither the chiefs were ushered, and when all were seated, according to their rank, their venerable host took his place among them.

Many of the neighbouring nobles had assembled to do honour to the guests of their chief, their numerous attendants forming groups with the villagers and retainers of the host collected before the arbour. The Dehli Khans, or young men, amusing themselves in the mean time, in various athletic sports.

Troops of servants soon appeared hastening to the arbour, bearing tables laden with various dishes of richly dressed meats and fruits, which might well vie in taste with the sumptuous fare of less primitive countries. Bowls of mead and boza were handed round to the guests; for even those professing the Mahomedan faith did not hesitate to drink of the former delicious beverage, nor were spirits and wine wanting, to add to the conviviality of those whose scruples did not prevent their indulging in them.

Minstrels, also, came from far and near to add to the festivity of the occasion; for what feast would be complete without the masters of song? The aged Hassein Shahin, the famed bard of the Attèghèi, he who sang of a hundred fights, which he had himself witnessed, and in some of which he had been engaged, now turned his lyre to a high and martial strain. All voices were silent, every ear intent to catch his words which were as follows:

From Liberty’s harp are the strains you now hear;

Men of Attèghèi rise at the call;

Hark! hark! to its sounds, for the foemen are near,

It summons us warriors all

To fight for the land of our ancestors’ graves,

Who died that their children might never be slaves.

The Russ marches onward with chains in his hand,

To bind our free arms will he try.

His banner’s dark eagle o’ershadows our land,

But we’ve sworn or to conquer or die,

For we fight o’er the sod of our ancestors’ graves,

Whose valiant hearts ne’er would have yielded to slaves.

’Tis Poland’s enslaver with foul bloody hand,

Remember her story of woe!

Her brave sons are captives, or fled their lov’d land,

Beware, or her fate we may know!

Let us swear on the earth of our forefathers’ graves,

That we ne’er will be conquered or yield to those slaves.

Remember we fight for our mountains so green,

For our vales, for our streams’ sparkling tide,

For those fields which our father’s for ages have been,

And where, ever unconquer’d, they died.

Then let not their bones be disturbed in their graves,

By the tread of a Muscovite army of slaves.

See the glorious banner of freedom unfurl’d.

It waves o’er our lov’d native land.

Muster round it, and valiantly prove to the world,

That alone we are able to stand.

As our fathers who lie in their warrior graves,

Fighting died, that their children might never be slaves.

Then curs’d be the traitors who yield to the foe,

And curs’d be the cowards who fly!

May they ne’er while they live, peace or happiness know,

And hated, and scorn’d, may they die!

In lands far away may they rot in their graves,

And their children bear ever the foul mark of slaves!

Now sharpen our spears, well prove each tough bow,

And the swords of our forefathers wield.

Don the armour so often they wore ’gainst the foe,

Seize each rifle and glittering shield,

And their shadows yet hovering over their graves,

Will guard us from foes who would make us their slaves.

Then to arms, then to arms, and this harp shall proclaim

The proud deeds that your valour has done;

And the world shall resound with the praise of your name,

To be handed from sire to son;

And tell of the heroes who lie in their graves,

Who died that the Attèghèi ne’er should be slaves.

The warriors grasped their swords, their eyes kindled, their breasts heaved at the minstrel’s tones, the effect was such as would be difficult to understand from the above meagre translation, without the accompaniment of the bard’s rich and animated voice, and the high loud tones of his instrument.

Several other baras succeeded, taking various themes for their song. When describing the heroic deeds of their warriors, their tones were lofty and inspiring. When singing of their untimely deaths, cut off by the foe, their voices would sink to a low and plaintive wail. When picturing the beauty of some maiden more lovely still than her companions, the air would be soft, sweet, and melting.

When the banquet was concluded, the gallant Hadji and his brother, Achmet Beg, rose to depart, for their home was at no great distance, and the Hadji’s wife was anxiously expecting the return of her lord, though the old warrior dreamed not of giving himself a day’s rest, but had engaged to be ready on the following morning, to accompany the other chiefs to the banks of the Ubin.

When search was made for young Alp, he was nowhere to be found, for he had early stolen from the feast.

“Your gallant son has been a constant visitor here, of late,” said the venerable host to the Hadji. “The youth loves to listen to my tales of our wars with the Urus. He will follow closely in your steps, noble Hadji, and I love him much. I know not if it is so; but I sometimes think he casts an eye of affection towards my Zara; and if it please you, my friend, he may have her.”

“It is no time for the youth to take to himself a wife, when his thoughts ought to be alone of war,” answered the Hadji; “but Mashallah! he would be happy to possess so sweet a partner.”

The aged chieftain’s suspicion was correct, for Alp was at last discovered, coming from the direction of the anderoon; and he set off with his father to their home.

The next morning a large band of warriors, amounting almost to a small army, assembled in the valley, prepared to set off for the camp on the Ubin. Headed by the aged chief, they repaired to a sacred grove in the neighbourhood, in which stood an ancient stone cross, a relic of the former religion of the country, round which the chieftains and their followers knelt, while supplications were addressed to the One all-powerful being, to aid their arms in driving the Urus from their country. Each warrior bore a chaplet in his hand, which he hung up as a votive offering to the Divinity—a heathen custom handed down from the remotest times.

This ceremony being performed, the chiefs mounted their war-steeds, and commenced their journey; the aged chief raising his hands towards Heaven, bestowing blessings on them as they passed.

Selem had much difficulty in compelling young Conrin to remain behind; but at last he succeeded in drawing a reluctant promise from the boy that he would not quit the valley without permission, but would remain as the page of Ina, and obey her behests. He did not attempt to persuade Thaddeus to accompany him, and the young Pole had found attractions, stronger even than those of friendship, to detain him in the valley. It would also have been against the usual custom to allow one, who had so lately quitted the enemy, to appear in arms on the side of the patriots; a degree of suspicion existing among the chiefs against all strangers, until their fidelity to the cause had been proved. He therefore remained, with Karl as his attendant—a life the honest serf seemed wonderfully to enjoy.

Volume Three—Chapter Two.

Deep was the grief of Ina when she saw her beloved father and brother depart for the scene of conflict, nor could her heart refrain from sad forebodings when she thought of the dangers to which they must be exposed. Too often had she been witness to the misery and heart-rending wailing of her countrywomen, when anxiously expecting a father, a husband, or a brother, as they met in lieu the mangled remains of the loved one brought home on a bloody bier by his comrades. Such grief she herself had never known; but she felt too clearly that horrors like those might be in store, too, for her; nor could the fierce blast of war, which raged round the land, steel her heart.

Zara did all in her power to tranquillise and cheer her friend under her affliction; but too well could she also enter into and share her fears, for she had seen her gallant father brought home stiff and cold on his shield, slaughtered by the foe in repelling an inroad into his country. That father was the last prop of her grandsire’s declining years; and hopelessly for him had the old man mourned, for he had now no warrior descendant to succeed to his name and possessions, and none to guard his child from danger. At his death the disposal of Zara in marriage would devolve on the eldest of his tribe, and they would not inquire if her heart could be given with her person. Her destiny, therefore, might be a cruel one. A new chief would be chosen to lead the clan to battle, and, in peace, to preside at their councils, and poor Zara might be neglected.

Such was the fair girl’s account of herself; and thus the two friends, by pouring their griefs into each other’s bosom, found mutual consolation. She confessed, indeed, that there was one whom she hoped might win her, and whom she thought loved her; but he had no wealth, and as yet had little renown in arms. Yet she whispered to her friend’s ear, that she fondly loved the gallant young Alp, though she had enjoyed but few opportunities of meeting him.

The aged Prince, Aitek Tcherei, having warmly embraced the tenets of Mahomet, the two maidens were more strictly secluded than Ina had been accustomed to; the old Ana, or nurse, who presided over the domestic arrangements of the anderoon, keeping a constant and vigilant watch upon them. Though the custom of the country would not allow of their being limited to the same strict seclusion as in a Turkish harem, the nurse was, nevertheless, horrified at the idea of Ina’s appealing in public without her face being entirely shrouded by a thick veil, nor did she at all approve of her propensity to ramble through the groves, or amid the shadowy cliffs.

The old Kahija’s ideas of female happiness did not extend beyond the acquisition of a new veil or robe, or, more than all, the enjoyment of a gossip. What pleasure could the girls find in scrambling over the dirty mountains and damp grass? or why should they dance or sing, except to please their lords and masters, when other persons are paid to dance and sing to them?

Her parents had sold her, when young and promising great beauty, to a Turkish slave-merchant; and it was with unalloyed pleasure, in anticipation of the novelty and magnificence of the great Stamboul, that she leaped on board the vessel which was to convey her from her friends and country. At first she herself felt the irksomeness of constraint; but soon became reconciled to her self-chosen lot, and learned to approve of all the regulations of the harem to which she was consigned. Her notions, therefore, on her return, at the death of her master, to her own country, were much scandalised at the freedom and what she considered the levity of her young countrywomen; and she loved to expatiate on the superior manners and customs of the fair captives in the seclusions of Stamboul. Like other dames, who find that their charms can no longer captivate, her temper at times became rather cross and crabbed, though she always tried to treat her young motherless charge with kindness.

Such was the old Ana, Kahija, who, wrapped in her feridji, now entered the anderoon to interrupt with her gossip the conversation of the two maidens. She delighted in gossiping—what old nurse does not? particularly a Turkish one. She now came out of breath, with her exertion of walking from a neighbouring cottage, to say with great eagerness, that the chief shepherd had just come in from the distant mountains, where he had seen the dark mountain khan, Khoros Kaloret, whose brother had turned traitor, and been killed by the young chief Selem, galloping by with a long train of savage followers, who were riding furiously in the direction of the Ubin.

“Oh, Allah, grant that he meet not my father or Selem there!” exclaimed Ina, in accents of terror.

“I know not what may happen, child,” said the old nurse. “They say he is a fierce chief. I hear, too, that he sought your hand. Mashallah! but you might have been proud to wed so rich a Khan; and yet, Bosh! what is he even to a merchant of Stamboul?”

“Why could you not love him?” asked Zara; “they say he is of gallant appearance.”

“Ah, Zara! love him? you know not what love is, to ask such a question. Love him! No! I could only fear him, he looks so stern and fierce; so unlike the calm and grave features of my father,” said Ina.

“What is all this stuff the girls are talking about love?” chimed in the old nurse. “Bosh! what nonsense is this? Love! What is love? it is nothing; it is worse than nothing; it is folly—it is Bosh! What should maidens know about love? Let them be married, and then it is time to love their lords and masters.”

Ina and Zara were in despair; for it was hopeless to carry on any interesting conversation on their own feelings, with the constant observations and interruptions of old Kahija; who could be very entertaining at times, when she had the whole of the conversation to herself, with her wonderful stories about Turkey and Stamboul. They were relieved, however, from the dulness their constrained silence threw over them, by the entrance of Conrin, with a small packet from his master to Ina.

We have said that Arslan Gherrei had been educated in Turkey, and held a high post in the army of the Sultan, where he acquired many accomplishments very unusual to the generality of his countrymen. In the calm retreat of his daughter’s anderoon, when no strangers were by to witness his occupation, he had endeavoured to cultivate her youthful mind by the aid of the few books he had brought with him; and he had taught her not only to speak, but to read and write Turkish, accomplishments possessed probably by no other maiden in Circassia; for few were blessed with fathers equally heroic in war, and capable of enjoying the blessings of peace.

Zara, ignorant of her friend’s accomplishments, looked with mute surprise when Ina, taking the note from the page’s hand, hastily broke the thread which tied it, and read an account of the safety of her father and brother, as far as they had as yet proceeded in their warlike operations. The page was equally eager.

“Tell me, lady, tell me is my dear master in safety?” he said.

“Yes he is. Allah be praised! he and my father are well; and he tells me not to forget my care of you, Conrin.”

“Heaven be praised that he is safe. That he remembers me, brings joy to my heart!” exclaimed the youth, clasping his hands.

The venerable Prince was kind and courteous in the extreme to his Polish guest; yet Thaddeus found, to his great disappointment, that the anderoon was, to him, forbidden ground; and instead of the constant communication he had delighted in the prospect of enjoying with Ina, he could never approach her, except to offer a few words of courtesy when she was taking the air. Those short sentences were understood by Kahija, who was scandalised that the young lady should be addressed, even in the ordinary terms of greeting; and more so on perceiving that Ina tolerated them. All his attempts at any further conversation were fruitless, owing to the constant vigilance of the old woman; and Ina’s native modesty forbade her making any advances herself, however she might have received them on his part.

At last he bethought him of gaining the confidence of young Conrin; but the boy constantly avoided him, though he would now and then stop to listen if he began to speak of his master, and to make any observations in his praise. He thus felt the time hang heavily daring the absence of his friend; for he had few to converse with, except the old Prince, who spoke Turkish, and some of the Polish prisoners, or rather deserters, from the Russian army; his only satisfaction being the occasional glimpses he caught of Ina, and the delight of hearing the musical tones of her voice as she returned his salutations.

His great resource was the chase. With a light rifle in his hand, and attended by Karl and his former Polish servant, who enjoyed their life of freedom and independence, so different from the abject servitude to which they had hitherto been accustomed, he roamed the woods and mountains. In these excursions he was also accompanied by several of the youths of the valley, too young to go to war, who guided his steps along the precipices, and shewed him where same abounded. At other times he would mount a steed, appropriated to his use, galloping along the green valleys, and up the mountain’s sides, and vieing with the young mountaineers in their equestrian exercises, till he became as expert a horseman as they. He would often, with his rifle, bring down a bird on the wing which they could not hit; thus winning their hearts by his proficiency in what they most admired.

He, however, began to regret not having accompanied his friend to the camp; and accused himself of want of friendship towards him.

We have said that Ina longed to breathe the free air of the mountains, unrestrained in her liberty by the slow-moving steps of old Kahija. Though she could not persuade the timid Zara to accompany her, she frequently asserted her independence by sallying forth attended only by her page. On her return, she listened, with composure, to the severe lectures she received for these transgressions of decorum; and still determined to renew them at every opportunity. How delighted she felt as, bounding like a young fawn, whose fleetness she rivalled, she flew through the shady groves. Then she would climb the mountain’s brow, inhaling the fresh pure air, and almost forgetting, as she gazed over the fair land of mountain, vale, and stream, the miseries which threatened it.

Towards the end of one lovely day, she left the confines of the anderoon, attended by her page, who had now learned to love her, not more from his affection for her brother than for her own endearing qualities; looking around from the open wicket and seeing none to impede her progress, she took her way through the grove towards a valley she had long wished to explore, at some distance from the house. It was a lovely place, originally formed from a fissure in the mountains, increased by the constant wear of winter floods. Under the summer heat, the torrent had dwindled into a tiny and clear rivulet, in one part leaping in a bright cascade, then flowing in a gentle current, and next rushing over a ledge of rocks, and falling into the larger valley, where it expanded into a tiny lake.

The lady and her attendant walked on by its side over the soft velvet herbage which the receding waters had left, and began to climb the rocky sides of the glen, the summits of which were now blooming with various sweet scented shrubs and herbs. A soft and mellow sky cast a soothing influence over the scene, and the air was laden with fragrant odours. Thoughtless of the difficulties they had passed, and fearless of the steep and rocky paths, they clambered on, leaping lightly from ledge to ledge, and holding by the shrubs and plants to aid their steps, till at length they reached a platform, where they rested to view the broad and beautiful valley into which the little ravine opened.

Below them was the smiling village amid its groves of stately trees, its farm-yards, granaries, orchards, and cattle-pens. At a little distance, at the side of the stream, was the rustic and unpretending Mosque, from the platform of whose primitive minaret the Muezzin was calling all true believers to the evening prayer. Here were shepherds driving their flocks from the mountain’s side to their pens, to shelter them from the wild beasts. The kine were lowing on their way to their sheds, while the village maidens carolled gaily as they milked their cows. The birds were singing from every rock and spray; and all living nature seemed calm and contented—

The page roused Ina from her contemplation of the scene.

“Lady,” said he, “we ought ere this to have sought our homeward way: the path is steep and difficult, and the shades of evening will overtake us, ere we can reach the valley.”

“Fear not, Conrin. There are no dangers we need dread,” returned Ina. “Old Kahija’s scolding is the worst that can happen to us. We mountain maids are sure of foot, and fearless as you seem, on the edge of the steepest precipice. But, as you say, it is full time we should return home; for, as it is, we shall be missed from the anderoon, and old Kahija will think that we have fled for ever from her grave rule.”

But as they looked round, doubtful on what part of the steep cliff to begin their descent, they found that to return was not so easy an achievement as Ina had pronounced it to be; for so many turnings had they taken, that they could not discover the path by which they had attained the spot where they stood.

It was difficult to say how they could have reached their present position, as in vain they searched for the path. At length, Conrin hazarded a spring to a lower ledge, from which it appeared that practicable footing was to be found, when he was startled by a scream from above; and, gazing upward, he beheld the Lady Ina in the grasp of a ferocious, wild-looking man, who was endeavouring to drag her up the steep cliff, while she resisted with all her power, calling her page to her assistance. Conrin fruitlessly attempted to reach the upper ledge, for the slender shrubs and herbage gave way in his hands as he clutched them. Trembling with agitation, he fell back to the spot from which he was strenuously trying to climb.

The man’s appearance was, in truth, ferocious. Of gigantic height, his face was almost covered with tangled dark locks hanging down from his head, on which he wore a cap of undyed brown and white goat-skin, the long hair of which, falling in front over his neck, added to the wildness of his features. His body was clothed in a tunic of the same material, and a long black cloak of goat’s hair fell from his shoulders. Rough sandals of bark were on his feet, fastened to his ankles by thongs of leather. At his back hung a bow and quiver, and in one hand he grasped a thick spear or club and a round black shield of bull’s hide; while in the other he held the slender form of Ina.

“Set me at freedom! How dare you thus insult me?” she cried. “I would seek my way homeward.”

“Not so, fair maiden,” answered the man with rough harsh tones, in a strange dialect, though Ina could comprehend it sufficiently to understand the tenor of his words. “Not so; you are a prize of too much value to be allowed to escape so easily.”

“Begone, barbarian, and loose your hold,” cried Ina, though fearful and trembling in his rude grasp, yet retaining her native dignity. “Think you to escape the vengeance of my tribe, if you should wrong me?”

“Vengeance! say you?” exclaimed the man scornfully. “Think you I fear the vengeance of any?”

“You will have cause to fear it, if you do not release me,” she answered. “Know you not what chieftain’s child I am?”

“I know full well,” said the savage. “You are the daughter of the chief who wronged my master; who slew my master’s brother; and you are the timid maid who would not be his bride. But now you’ll not again refuse to obey his will.”

“I know not of whom you speak,” cried Ina. “My father never slew a chief of Attèghèi.”

“I know your father well,” answered the ruffian. “He is the Chieftain Arslan Gherrei, and you refused to be the bride of the brave Khan, my master, Khoros Kaloret.”

“Your master Kaloret Khan?” cried Ina, still more terrified than before, at the sound of that name. “Yet he would never dare to rob a noble Uzden of his daughter. Release me, ruffian!”

“My master fears not any chief of Attèghèi,” answered the man, fiercely. “I’ll waste no more speech; so cease your cries, and come willingly. My noble master waits your coming.”

Ina shrieked with fear. “Oh, Allah, protect me!” she cried, as the savage endeavoured to drag her away. “Barbarian, release me, I pray you, let me go.”

“No, no, girl, your prayers are useless,” answered the man. “Let my master hear them. On me, they are thrown away.”

“Haste, haste, Conrin,” she cried, in Turkish; “fly to our home. Send messengers to Selem, to my father, and rouse the villagers.”

As the barbarian saw the page hastening to obey, he said to Ina: “Stay that boy, till we are out of sight. If he moves hence, I’ll send an arrow through his breast.”

Conrin, who understood not his words—Ina being too terrified to interpret them—was hurrying from rock to rock, fearless of the peril which a single false step might cause, or of the cruel death which threatened him; when the barbarian prepared to put his threat into execution. For an instant, he loosened his hold of Ina, unslinging his bow from his back, and drawing a shaft to its head, with a hand which never missed its aim. In vain, Ina shrieked to Conrin to stop, and implored the monster to hold his hand. Neither of them heard her voice.

The last moment of the poor boy’s life seemed to have arrived, as the arrow flew from the string; but ere the hand which drew it reached the ear, it was struck by a violent blow, and the shaft wavering in its aim, flew high above the page’s head. The fierce mountaineer, taking a second arrow, turned to his aggressor, when he found his arm held by a powerful and firm grasp.

Ina shrieked with fear for her preserver’s life—for in him she beheld the stranger Thaddeus—as the follower of the Khan attempted to seize his heavy spear, and to fell him to the ground. But the young Pole, grappling with him, prevented his raising it high enough to strike. Though Thaddeus was strong and active, his fierce opponent was heavier and more powerful. Releasing his arm with a sudden exertion, he sought his dagger in his girdle; but the Pole throwing himself upon him with his whole force, the two combatants fell to the ground.

“Fear not for me, dearest Ina,” cried he; “save yourself. Hasten down the cliffs, and fly homewards. I will hold this robber, until you are safe.”

Ina scarcely heard his words, or, if she did, thought not of following his advice; but trembling for his life, she watched the combat, so as, if possible, to lend her aid. For an instant, Thaddeus was uppermost; but endeavouring to grasp his opponent’s throat, he was obliged to release one arm; when, drawing his dagger from his belt, the mountaineer, by a violent effort, threw himself round, grasping the fatal weapon in his hand, and bringing the unfortunate youth below him. He was about to stab the young Pole, when another, though a feeble hand, directed its aim, and it struck deeply into the earth, in a cleft of the rock.

Thaddeus seized the dagger; when his opponent, with tremendous exertion, arose and attempted to hurl him over the cliff; but as the mountaineer approached the edge, his foot slipped. Seizing the fortunate moment, and mustering all his strength, Thaddeus struck the dagger deep into his breast. The huge barbarian fell heavily, still clasping Thaddeus in his arms, who, nevertheless, forced him to the edge of the platform, when the body rolled over to a jutting craig, some feet below where they stood.

Recovering himself, Thaddeus turned to Ina, “Lady,” he said, “I owe my life to your courage: your timely aid saved me.”

“Oh, no,” she cried; “it was you who saved my life, and more than life, for which you bravely risked your own. Allah be praised, who guarded yours, and brought you to my rescue! You also saved poor Conrin’s life. But let us not stay here. The comrades of the man may come and revenge his death on you. Oh, let us hasten home.”

“I will bear you safely down these steep cliffs, lady,” said Thaddeus; “you are weak, and scarce able to walk from terror.”

Lifting her gently (and Ina thought not of resisting his offer), with firm and fearless steps, he sought a path amid the craigs; and as he bore her slight form in his arms, he felt her hand unconsciously press his. Her bright beaming eyes betrayed the ardent gratitude, which her lips feared to utter. She looked anxiously into his face, to learn if he felt oppressed by fatigue; but there she read alone his love and pride, at having saved her; nor could she bring herself to entreat him to set her down, till they reached in safety the bottom of the glen.

“I am stronger now, and will fatigue your arms no longer, noble Sir,” she said. Thaddeus at last, unwillingly obeyed her repeated requests, though she still consented to lean on his arm, as he accompanied her homeward.

“Whence came that robber, who so terrified you?” asked Thaddeus.

“Oh he was no robber,” answered Ina. “But a follower of the fierce Khan, whose brother the young Conrin slew and who seeks to wed me.”

“Wed you, lady? Can such as he be worthy of you?” exclaimed the young Pole with enthusiasm.

“I know not; but I never loved him,” answered Ina; “and now I doubly fear his vengeance for your sake. When he hears that you have slain his follower, he will not rest till he has had satisfaction for his blood. I would that you were safe beyond his reach!”

“I do not dread any injury he can do me,” cried Thaddeus. “To have saved you from danger is so great a joy that I would die to gain it.”

Ina felt her heart beat quickly as he spoke; for the tone of his voice said more even than the words themselves.

It was a moment of delight—of pure bliss to both those young beings; notwithstanding the wildness of the scene, the danger they had passed through and which might be still pursuing them. They knew that they mutually loved. They attempted not to speak; for they felt that words would not adequately convey their love. They looked into each other’s eyes, and there they read all each could wish to know. Ina thought of her preserver, and the danger he was yet in; and, as she hastened through the glen, she cast many an anxious glance to see if any followed. She thought that she heard a footstep; it was but the rushing of the stream across a rock; she tried to increase her speed; again she turned with fear—it was but the echo of their tread among the cliffs.

Thaddeus endeavoured to tranquillise her alarms; and partially succeeded, by assuring her that he had himself descended the ravine, and had encountered no one. As they emerged from the narrow gorge, loud shouts saluted their ears, and they met a band of villagers led on by Conrin, who, overcome by his exertions, sunk down at his mistress’s feet on seeing she was safe. Ina stooped over the poor boy with deep solicitude, endeavouring to unloose his vest; but he strenuously resisted her offers, declaring that he was fast recovering.

The party, composed of old and young, armed with weapons, shouted loudly for joy when they saw Ina in safety; she thanked them for their promptitude in coming to her rescue, and presented Thaddeus as her preserver. The villagers complimented him on his bravery and success, as with shouts and songs, they followed her homeward. The aged chief had left his house to encourage the people in their pursuit of the ravisher; but, when he saw his young kinswoman in safety, he felt a strong inclination to scold her for wandering. As, however, she appeared overcome with fatigue, he forbore, and left her to the lectures he knew she would be certain to receive from the old Kahija.

Thaddeus would not quit her side until he had conducted her to the gate of the anderoon, to commit her to the gentle care of Zara who was anxiously awaiting her.

Volume Three—Chapter Three.

The Circassian chieftains had chosen for the encampment of their irregular but numerous army, a picturesque spot, of which the beauty was much encreased by the wild and warlike bands now filling it. It was in a rich and verdant valley watered by the streams of the Aphibs and the Ubin.

By the banks of the latter river the greater part of the tents were pitched beneath the lofty trees; some growing in clumps and others scattered over the meadows as in a highly cultivated park. The ground rose in gentle grassy undulations from the banks of the river, swelling into round hills covered with the richest verdure, on which fed numerous flocks and herds; while, further off, men, women, and children were employed in the agricultural labour of the fields, unimpeded by the presence of the warriors. In the far distance were seen the lofty pinnacles of the Black Mountains.

Each chief had selected some spot on which to pitch his tent, as his taste dictated, while their respective clansmen and followers were stationed around them.

Here some stalwart chief reposed on the turf in front of his tent, smoking the long chibouque, while looking at his followers engaged in every description of warlike exercise. Some selected a mark on a tree, and, retreating to a distance, fixed their hatchets in it with unerring aim; others hurled the heavy javelin; some the light dart; while numbers, with their bows in hand, were taking sure aim at a greater distance. Some, too, were practising wrestling and running.

In one place, the sound of the smith’s anvil and hammer was heard repairing fire-arms for the coming fight. In the river the young men were engaged in teaching their horses to swim across rivers so as to be ready for any sudden excursion into the enemy’s country. Here a troop of gallant young nobles, on their long-tailed swift steeds, were seen scouring along the valleys, and up the sides of the hills. The many coloured and richly-silvered trappings of their horses, and their own jewelled weapons and armour, shone brightly as they appeared amid the trees. It was, in truth, a brilliant, warlike, and exciting scene.

The chiefs and nobles were dressed in their complete war array; some in superbly embossed and ornamented armour, of polished steel; others in beautifully wrought chain armour fitting closely to the body, and being pliable to every movement, shewed off their graceful figures to advantage. The lofty plumes of their helms towered far above the heads of their followers, as they moved through the crowd; their jewelled poniards (the insignia of their rank) were placed in girdles richly worked in gold; and all their other arms were also highly ornamented. Some of the venerable elders appeared in turbans and long robes, the garb of peace; and a few nobles wore the simple and elegant tight-fitting coat, richly trimmed with silver lace, and embroidered belts to hold their arms.

The army was composed of people of many different tribes and races from all parts of the Caucasus, speaking various languages, having many different customs, with great variations in costume. First, in numbers and bravery, were the tribes of the Attèghèi, consisting of the Abzeki, Khapsoukhi, Nothakhaitze, the Demirghoi, and many others. Bands of the disciplined Lesghians had come from the far off plains bordering on the Caspian, to war with the oppressors of their own country, with whom they there could not venture to compete. There were bands, also, of the nomadic tribes, the short broad-faced Calmuck and the Nogai Tartars. Many warriors, also, had come from Georgia, Mingrelia, and Immeritia, which countries have succumbed to the Russian power, but still bear her the most deadly hatred. Some bands had descended from the wild Alpine retreats of the snowy mountains, wild as the regions they inhabited or the beasts they rode, a small, uncouth, though hardy and active race. These were dark-visaged men, with projecting jaws, and black shaggy beards, mostly clothed in skins, with fur caps, and garments of the roughest materials. Though addicted to roving and predatory habits, they were now animated with the common feeling of hatred to the Urus.

There were the tribes of the Tubi and the Ubick; who fought on foot, owing to the inaccessible nature of their mountain-homes, where no horse can find a safe footing, and none can venture but the nimble-footed inhabitants, and the active goats and chamois. They are mostly of gigantic height, with handsome countenances, but fierce in appearance even to wildness, which was not a little increased by their sheep skin turbans, the long white wool of which curled over their face and shoulders. They wore the tight-fitting tunic of the Circassians, over which was thrown a black mantle of goat and sheep skin hair, platted together; while their sandals were formed of the bark of the linden tree. Each man was armed with a hatchet and poniard in his belt, a light gun on his shoulder, while in his hand he carried a weighty and knotted club, furnished at the end with a long steel barb to assist him in crossing streams, or springing from cliff to cliff. It served also as a rest to his gun to take more deadly aim, and as a weapon in the chase, or in his hours of amusement as a toy, to hurl with fearful exactness at a mark.

Besides these, came another tribe of foot warriors, of ferocious appearance, from the upper regions of the Black Mountains, bearing large, black, round shields made of wood, strengthened with bands of iron or yew, covered with the hide of the buffalo. These people were armed chiefly with the primitive bow and arrow, with which they can take the most certain aim.

There were also some of the fierce Tartar tribes, the most deadly foes to Russia, owing to her usurpation of their country. When driven as exiles and wanderers from their native land, they settled in the before uninhabited and almost inaccessible regions of the Caucasian range. They also wore jackets of skins and fur turbans, adding to the natural ferocity of their countenances. Their arms were broad curving scymitars, and long heavy Greek guns, with pistols and hatchets stuck in their belts, and embroidered with silver.

Even Europe furnished many warriors from ill-fated and ruined Poland, who had found refuge and sympathy among the generous mountaineers, to try their swords against the hated Moscov.

Among the infantry, the only bands which had any pretension to regular discipline were the Lesghians, who manoeuvre in compact bodies on their own plains, though their style of fighting is not well adapted to the mountain warfare of the Circassians.

The followers of the princes and nobles of the Attèghèi were habited much alike, in the tight-fitting elegant tunic, without collar to confine the neck, which was left bare; large trowsers, ornamented girdles, embroidered slippers, or low boots of coloured leather, and the broad-crowned low cap, either of hair, or cloth, or leather, trimmed with fur. All had sabres by their sides and the cama in their belts; but many carried the bow and arrow without fire-arms. The greater number were provided with horses, which they had decked with all the ornaments they could collect.

The elders and judges, who had repaired to the camp to give their advice and counsel, wore large white turbans and long vests, and might be seen sedately seated beneath the shade of wide spreading trees, in circles, holding grave debates, their white beards flowing over their breasts, and giving them a grave and venerable appearance. Many of them, who had served in Turkey, retained the costume of that country; adding to the picturesque variety of dress to be found among this congregation of brave warriors.

No regular arrangement had been preserved in the formation of the camp; the different bands pitching their tents, or building their leafy shelters where they pleased. Many of the warriors had been followed to the camp by their wives, to attend to their tents and to dress their food: their tall and graceful forms were dressed in flowing robes of varied tints, embroidered with gold and silver, and long white veils falling from their heads as they were seen gliding among the trees.

The camp was unfortified; but though a short distance only from the Russian posts, there was no chance of a surprise, as scouts and advanced parties were constantly watching their foes, who could not make the slightest movement without due notice being given. This was the principal camp of the Abasians; but there were others under experienced leaders, along their frontiers towards Anapa, watching the enemy’s castles in that direction.

Such was the magnificent spectacle which greeted Selem’s eyes as, in company with his father and Hadji Guz Beg, they descended from a mountain-ridge into the valley of the Ubin, the refulgence of the evening sun throwing a lustre over the animated and exciting scene. As their squires discharged their rifles, numerous chiefs hastened forth from their tents, or from among the thickets and trees, mounting their chargers and galloping to meet their brothers in arms. While they rode on, others came from all directions, greeting with warm congratulations the arrival of the Hadji and Arslan Gherrei; nor were the younger nobles less pleased to see young Alp, who was a favourite with all.

The chiefs cast inquiring looks at Selem, and when Arslan Gherrei proudly introduced him as his son, relating his romantic history and recent exploits, loud shouts hailed him as a chief of Circassia. His heart beat with pride at having acquired that glorious appellation, as his brother warriors came forward to grasp his hand in welcome.

Their followers assembled under a grove of lofty trees near the river; a few minutes only elapsed since their arrival at the spot, before their tents were erected and every arrangement made for their accommodation.

Selem then accompanied his father through the encampment, to learn the proceedings and intentions of the leaders. Various plans of operations had been discussed; but, unfortunately, unanimity did not reign in their councils as to the best mode of proceeding.—The most sagacious were, however, for preventing the large Russian army, which threatened them, from advancing into the interior, without expending their strength in minor exploits: but others were for making excursions into the country of the Cossacks at unguarded posts, while the enemy were elsewhere engaged, and some were for at once storming the Russian forts. Selem saw with grief and pain the sad want of organisation in an army capable, if well directed, of driving back their foes to their own bleak steppes. But they were destitute of artillery and ammunition; and he saw too clearly that no great object could be attained beyond the strict defence of their native mountains. Yet, without some object in view, that vast multitude, unaccustomed to any combined movement, would soon be weary of restraint, and might, in a few hours, melt away like snow before the rays of the sun, and return to their own homes. They required some chief of superior talents, whom all would acknowledge as their commander, to lead them to war; and they would then become invincible. This want their invaders well knew, and reckoned on accordingly.

The next morning the sun rose with unclouded splendour over the beautiful valley of the Ubin, cheering the hearts of the assembled warriors with an omen of success. It was the day appointed for a solemn ceremony to take place, namely, the administering an oath, which all the princes, nobles, and leaders of Circassia had agreed to take, never to sheathe their swords, or make terms with the enemy, till he had retired from the neighbourhood of their country; and to sink in oblivion all ancient feuds and animosities among themselves. Many chiefs had already bound themselves by this agreement; but the majority had hitherto kept aloof from taking the oath, as it not only forbade them ever making terms with their foes, but involved the necessity of restoring all property unjustly retained from their countrymen.

Contiguous to the camp was a quiet and sequestered dell, with green hills rising close around it, and filled by a grove of lofty and venerable trees: a spot looked upon as sacred from time immemorial. In an open glade, in the centre of the grove, stood the mouldering remains of a stone cross, near which, where the lofty trees threw their cool shadows, now assembled hundreds of noble warrior chiefs. One sentiment, one soul, animated the breasts of all—the most deadly hatred to their foes, and a determination to resist to the very last gasp. Every one of the various tribes and bands, which composed the patriot army, here sent a representative to swear in their name, and to confer on measures for the general advantage.

As the princes, nobles, and leaders arrived, they took their seats on the green turf, when, all being assembled, a chief arose from the circle, and advanced towards the centre. His white turban, his long robes, his hoary locks and flowing beard, bespoke his sacred character. In his hands he held a book, which he raised aloft, as he knelt before the cross, and offered up to the all-potent and all-omniscient Being, whom every one present worshipped—whatever their other differences of creed might be—a prayer for the success of the sacred cause of liberty, and for the confusion of their tyrannical foes. Every warrior, bowing his head, reverently responded “Amen!” as the venerable sage ceased his prayer. Still holding the book before him, he rose, and, with a voice, yet deep and sonorous, though at times trembling with age, he exclaimed:—

“Noble warriors, chiefs of Circassia—we have this day assembled for a great, for a righteous purpose. It is to bind ourselves, by a solemn compact, to exert all the energies of our souls and bodies to drive hence the fell invaders of our country. Never to sheathe our swords while a foe to Circassia exists near her borders; to sink all private feelings of animosity, and to offer the hand of love and fellowship to all who will join us in this sacred cause. I call on all present to come forward, and to swear on the sacred book I hold, to conquer or die for our country, and to shew the world, what a brave band of brothers, though few in numbers compared to the vast hordes of our opponents, can do for the cause of liberty.”

As he finished his address, one of the most influential of the Princes of the Attèghèi advanced, and, reverently kneeling, kissed the book, and took the required oath. His example was followed by others, till the enthusiasm became general, and all rushed eagerly forward to sign the compact. As they took the oath, they formed in circles, grasping each other’s hands, in token of their brotherhood. Those who had never before met, except with their hands on the hilts of their swords, now joined them in the pressure of love and fellowship; and the ardent wish of all, was to be led at once against the common foe.

Many, who had arrived too late for the opening of the ceremony, hastened forward from all directions to swear eternal enmity to the Russians. The aged judge again knelt, when all had subscribed the oath, to return thanks to heaven for the concord which reigned throughout the band of patriots; and, as the sacred ceremony concluded, loud shouts rent the air, from the vast concourse of warriors who covered the sides of the hills, and every woodland glade. Had any Russian spy been present, he might have warned his countrymen of the hopelessness of success, in their nefarious attempt to subjugate so resolute a people.

Volume Three—Chapter Four.

Our hero and his friends had spent two days at the camp of the patriot army on the Ubin, without devising any plan of operation, or without any movement taking place among the Russians, when three horsemen were seen riding at headlong speed down the sides of the mountains, towards the camp. The energies of the horses seemed taxed beyond their power. One noble animal fell, throwing his rider stunned before him. The horse of the second came down with tremendous force, after giving three or four bounds, and making fruitless efforts to continue his course; but the third, not stopping to see what had become of his companions, rode furiously on to the camp, whence many chieftains and warriors rushed out to hear the news he brought.

The messenger leaped from his steed as he came among them, the gallant beast trembling in every limb, and scarcely able to continue on his legs as he panted with exertion.

“Noble chieftains!” cried the messenger, “I bring you dire news from Ghelendjik. Three days ago, a numerous fleet of Russian ships was seen to approach our coasts, from which a mighty army disembarked. It is hoped they will remain some days within their fort to rest from their voyage; but, after that, there can be no doubt they will advance to ravage the country, if a stronger force than is there collected, is not opposed to them. The men of Ghelendjik will do their utmost to stop the invaders; but what can they hope to do against an overpowering force? Our Seraskier, therefore, sent us here with haste to summon some of his friends to join his army.”

Among the foremost of the chiefs, who had hastened to meet the messenger, was the gallant Hadji. “Bismillah! not a moment is to be lost then,” he cried, seizing his standard from before his tent, waving it aloft, and again plunging the staff into the ground. “I will hasten with joy to your chieftain’s aid, and we will stop these Urus on their march. Gallant nobles and warriors, whoever among you will bear me company to the aid of our hard-pressed countrymen, let them assemble round this banner within three minutes, and we will away; for, perhaps, before this the Russians may have begun their march. Let those who will, follow.”

Saying which, the brave old chief hastened to don his helmet, his squire leading forth his steed; and in less time than he had indicated, he was on horseback by the side of his banner. Alp soon galloped up, followed by Selem, who directly volunteered to accompany his venerable friend, after taking leave of his father, who was obliged to remain. Before the time for starting had arrived, numerous warriors came up from all directions; the news, that an expedition was on foot, having flown like lightning through the camp; so that, within five minutes of the arrival of the messenger, several hundred horsemen had assembled, fully equipped, to follow the Hadji. Again seizing his standard, the Hadji waved it aloft as a signal to march; when giving a loud shout, the band of warriors set off at a quick speed, many others promising to follow.

The Hadji led on his followers as fast as they could proceed without exhausting their horses, stopping only at night to rest for a few hours; and before sun-rise they were again in their saddles. Their anxiety to hear some news of the enemy was extreme, for they were now approaching the neighbourhood of the Russian fort; though it was impossible to say in what part of the country they might sally out to commit their depredations.

They drew rein on the summit of a mountain, from which they obtained a far-off view of the sea, in the direction of Ghelendjik, and of the intervening hills and valleys, from which, with their glasses, they could perceive wreaths of smoke curling upwards to the clear sky in every direction. Alas! they told a sad tale of destruction going forward! As the Hadji gazed with an anxious eye to discover the cause—

“Curses on the fell Giaour!” he exclaimed. “Yonder flames and smoke are their hellish work! See how the burning cottages, and farms, and ripe corn fields of our countrymen, mark the course of our foes. See, they take the passes towards Anapa. Ha! we may yet be in time to stop them before they reach that castle. They will no doubt attempt the passage of the valley of the Zemes; and there the brave Seraskier Manjour Bey will be found in waiting for them. Onward, my friends, we will see what these Moscov are about.”

Saying which, the whole party urged their horses down the dizzy mountain’s side, crossing valleys, streams, rocks and hills, in their eagerness to arrive at the scene of action. It was nearly sun-set when they came within hearing of distant and straggling shots; and, surmounting a hill, they perceived in the broad valley below them, the vast Russian force winding its way by the side of a clear stream, which protected one flank.

The long and close columns advanced in regular and steady order; their colours waving above their heads, their bands playing animating and lively airs, and their artillery guarding their van and rear. Trains of baggage and ammunition waggons were in the centre, furnished with all the “materiel” for war; while troops of Cossacks scoured the fields on each side, to protect their flanks, and to guard them from a surprise. Here and there might be seen hovering around them, parties of the patriot horsemen, every now and then charging the Cossacks, grappling with their opponents, bearing them off, or cutting them down, ere the Russians could point their howitzers at the assailants.

A messenger now arrived who had been sent in search of the Hadji’s party from the Seraskier, then commanding the main body of the Circassians assembled to impede the Russian’s progress. He informed them that this chief had determined to hazard no engagement till the enemy had entered the valley of the Zemes, which they would probably do on the following morning; calling in all stragglers to form an ambuscade, except a few scouts to watch the movements of the foe. The Hadji and his party directly determined to obey the wishes of the General, as did most of the parties who had been engaged in harassing the enemy’s advance; though a few still continued hovering on his flanks.

The Hadji and his followers, therefore, turned their horses’ heads in the direction of the spot where their friends were assembled; riding over the summit of the hills, which bounded the valley, till they arrived at the edge of the lofty cliffs forming the sides of the pass or glen of the Zemes. The Seraskier Manjour Bey came forward to welcome the friends who had so opportunely arrived; and led them round to the places where he had posted his men, who were to sleep that night on their arms ready for any sudden movement of the enemy, should they attempt to pass through the gorge under cover of the night; the Hadji placing his followers in other advantageous positions. Behind every rock and bush, on every projecting craig where footing was to be found, were to be seen the athletic forms of the highland warriors, their rifles and bows ready for action, and their ears intent to catch the first notes of the Russian horns in their advance. Many also, in places to which they could lead their horses, were crouching down by the side of the well-trained animals, hidden by the thick brushwood and broken rocks.

It was but a small body of mountaineers whom the Hadji and Selem found assembled; they were entirely destitute of artillery, and there was a scarcity of ammunition. They could, therefore, depend alone on their sharp broad swords to contend with the well-trained bands of Europe supplied with all the “materiel” of war. The Hadji was deeply disappointed when he discovered the hopelessness of entirely annihilating the Russian army, as he at first expected; but he determined to gall them, as much as possible, in their march.

Here the brave patriot band continued the live-long night in eager expectation; not a word above a whisper being uttered to disturb the dead silence which reigned around. Young Alp remained by his father’s side, as did Selem, for they well knew that where the fight was thickest, there would the gallant old warrior be found. Seated on the soft heather, on a bank rising but a little way above the bottom of the glen, they passed the night, listening to his long tales of war, and his adventures. Our hero, unaccustomed as yet to the night watch, and the bivouac, was worked up to the highest pitch of excitement and expectation; the night seemed interminably protracted; but to the other hardy warriors it was an affair of constant occurrence, though they were, perhaps, no less eager for the issue of the approaching combat, which might be of such vital importance to the liberty of the province of Khapsoukhi.

At length, as reclined on the turf, he gazed up into the pure calm sky, dotted with myriads of stars, they seemed to grow fainter and fainter, until he could scarcely distinguish them, amid the blue void. He sprung to his feet; not a sound was heard; the first faint streaks of dawn appeared in the east, yet no one moved from the leafy shelter. The sun rose, a vast globe of living fire, glowing as if in anger at the scene of blood on which his beams were so soon to shine; now throwing a glowing red flame on the dew-besprinkled trees above their heads, soon to be followed by one of still deeper hue.

So calm and quiet was the scene, that a traveller might have passed through the glen, unconscious that he was surrounded by hundreds of warriors and their steeds. All were on the tiptoe of expectation; for every moment might bring up the Russian army; when the interest was increased tenfold as the scouts, breaking through the brushwood, spurred their horses up the sides of the glen.

“The Urus are advancing! The Urus are advancing!” they cried, as they passed to make their report to the Seraskier, and to take their station within the shelter of the thickets. All things wore again the silence of the grave; then the cheering sounds of drums and fifes came faintly on the breeze, through the windings of the valley; next, the firm tread of the approaching host might be heard; and then appeared the advance guard of the Russian army. Onward they came, regardless of danger. Each of the highland warriors held his breath with eagerness, and more firmly grasped his sword to spring forward on the foe; or kept his finger on the lock of his rifle, or drew his arrow to his ear, prepared for the word of command to commence the work of death.

Not a leaf moved, not a whisper was heard, when the advancing column of the Russian force appeared in sight. The leading file came directly below the ambuscade. At this moment, a terrific cry arose from the sides of the glen, reverberating from rock to rock, from craig to craig, down the whole extent of the savage pass.

“Come, my sons, now is the moment; we’ll up and be at them. Follow, those who will. Wa Allah! Allah! Allah!” cried the gallant Hadji, springing to his horse. His example was followed by Alp, Selem, and about twenty other warriors, who drew their scymitars as they rushed from the leafy cover; shrieking, rather than shouting their war cry, and dashing among the foremost ranks of the Russians, giving them not a moment to defend themselves.

It is necessary to go back a little in our narrative, and explain the cause of this sudden incursion on the part of the Russians. When the brig of war returned to Ghelendjik, bringing the remnant of the garrison, and an account of the loss of the fort, the rage of Baron Galetzoff knew no bounds; especially when he heard that our hero had been one of the most daring leaders, and that Lieutenant Stanisloff had escaped. Again, and again, he renewed his vows of wreaking vengeance on the Circassians, and expressed his determination to capture the two friends at all hazards. Count Erintoff confessed that he had, at first, the intention of putting the Baron’s warrant into execution himself, and dispatching Thaddeus in prison, with his own hands; but the surprise of the mountaineers had been so sudden, that he had barely time to escape with his life. Some time after these events, a fleet arrived with fresh troops to garrison Ghelendjik; and the Baron received orders from the general-in-chief to proceed with a large body of troops by land, to Anapa, through the defiles of the Zemes, from thence to take up his position, and erect a new fort near the Kouban, at no great distance from the spot where the Ubin falls into that river.

The Baron marched out of the fort with four or five thousand men under his command, well supplied with all the munitions of war, and was allowed to proceed unmolested through the broader valleys, where his cannon had range enough to play, leaving, as he advanced through the smiling vales, dotted with hamlets, and spread with verdant fields, a long track of ruin and desolation behind him. So suddenly, indeed, had the Russian army sallied out, that the inhabitants had scarce time to drive off their flocks and herds, and remove their valuables, as from a distance they mournfully beheld, but with a keen hope of vengeance, their habitations wantonly committed to the flames. The Russians continued to advance through the open valleys, and through the first part of the defiles of the Zemes, without meeting a foe; the country throughout appealing to be some land of enchantment, so calm and beautiful did it look. They began to congratulate themselves on having awed the natives into peace, and on the hope of being allowed to perform their march without molestation. Towards the evening, indeed, a few Circassians appeared, attacking their flanks, at intervals, like hornets on some huge animal, and flying off, before there was time to send any of their own cavalry to pursue them. The General had ordered the Cossacks to scour the sides of the hills, to prevent the main body from being taken by surprise—a most hazardous service; for, one by one, those who took the outer range disappeared, and their comrades, who went in search of them, shared the same fate; but there was no time to make inquiries.

That night the army slept on their arms; before the sun arose on the following morning, they were again on their march. They advanced cautiously through many serpentine windings of a deep gorge; at their feet rushed the surge of a mountain torrent, in whose bright waters the soldiers eagerly slaked their thirst. Not a foe had been seen as onward they marched, the cool morning air refreshing their cheeks, and a deep and solemn silence reigning through the glen.

In a moment that scene of quiet and repose was changed into one of carnage and confusion. The foremost ranks fell back, trembling at the sound of the war shout of the mountaineers, as from behind every craig, shrub, and tree, a destructive shower of bullets and arrows fell thick among them. At that instant, a troop of fierce horsemen leaped from amid the rocks, hewing down all who crossed their path; and, ere the cannon could be brought to bear, vanishing on the opposite side.

It was the daring band of Guz Beg.

“Ya Allah! well done, my sons!” cried the veteran. “My brave Alp, you will not disgrace your father. You cut down those vile Urus as a mower cuts corn with his sickle. Ask what you will of me, my son, and it shall be granted for that one charge. What say you, my friends, shall we be at them again?”

Saying which, before there was time to think of the great danger they ran, the Hadji’s band were once more upon the amazed and confused ranks of the foe, scarce recovered from their first panic. They were not this time so fortunate; one of their number fell by the fire which the Russians now opened upon them; and Selem was nearly suffering the same fate, for, as he swept by, he perceived the Count Erintoff in the advance, who spurred on his horse to meet him; but too many men intervened for them to exchange blows; and Selem was obliged to follow his friends, being the last Circassian horseman who reached the covert of the wood.

“That will do for the present,” said the Hadji. “But, mashallah! I should like to be among them again. A few charges like that would annihilate their army.”

Selem, however, urged him not to attempt the manoeuvre, which involved too great a risk, without advantage, to his valuable life. However, the Hadji and Selem were every where to be seen dashing at the foe, then galloping up the steep sides of the glen.

The Russians, stunned with the terrific cries knew not which way to turn. Where they least expected an attack, they found themselves grappled by the active mountaineers, who seemed to leap from the cliffs above their heads, dealing death around them with their sharp broad daggers, then rapidly disappearing among the rocks, leaping from craig to craig, where none could follow. Hundreds were shot down by the silent arrows of their invisible foe; nor, as they gazed with fear around, could they tell whence the shafts proceeded. The soldiers saw their comrades next to them sink down, struck by those winged messengers of death. Their ranks were thinning fast, nor could they defend themselves, nor attack their aggressors; but in these trying moments, the stern discipline, even of slaves, triumphed over their fears, and rescued them from the hands of the most daring and courageous warriors. The officers shewed courage worthy of a nobler and better cause: exerting themselves to the utmost, with calm voices, keeping up the men’s spirits, closing their ranks, and leading them on in order.

But could it have been real courage which enabled the men to endure this terrific storm? It was rather a dull and heartless apathy. They saw their fellows fall; and knew that they were released from a life of privation and tyrannical suffering; and cared not if it should be their fate to be the next victims. It mattered but little whether death should come by famine, the sword, or by pestilence; too certainly would they fall by one or the other.

The army, with thinned ranks, continued to advance, protected, as they defiled into more open ground, by their light howitzers carried on the backs of horses; every now and then keeping the slender force of their daring assailants at a distance, as they could bring their guns to bear on them. They marched as fast as they were capable of doing; but they were not yet secure; for the Seraskier of the Circassians, a brave, but a sagacious and cautious leader; though he would not allow his followers to attempt competing with the Russians on the plain; attacked their rear and flank incessantly, until, when near Anapa, he was joined by another larger body of the patriots.

The whole army of the enemy might now have been destroyed, had the mountaineers possessed artillery. As it was, they escaped destruction solely through the garrison of Anapa making a sortie to their rescue, with artillery and a strong body of Cossacks. The harassed remnant at length reached that fortress.

“Mashallah!” cried the old warrior, as he looked angrily towards their retiring columns when they entered the fort; “We’ve repaid them for the surprise they attempted to give your noble father. They will not forget this day’s work, for a long time to come. Allah! if we had some of their light guns, they would not have escaped as they have done. But fear not, my sons, we will meet them again before long.”

There seemed every probability that the campaign in this part of the Caucasus would be soon finished for that year. The Hadji, therefore, with his followers, returned to the camp on the Ubin to wait further events.

The preceding is a faithful account of the style of warfare the Russians have to engage in with the mountaineers of the Caucasus, in which thousands of their soldiers annually fall victims. But what matters such a loss to the government of St. Petersburg? They have millions of slaves to replace those who fall; and they have resolved to subdue the barbarians in spite of the rivers of innocent blood which may flow. May Heaven grant that the bravery and patriotism of the high-minded and gallant Circassians may be completely triumphant over all the efforts of their slavish and despotic oppressors!

Volume Three—Chapter Five.

Thaddeus Stanisloff was now perfectly happy. No longer did he hesitate to approach the anderoon, and no longer did Ina fear to meet him; her ear was ever intent to catch his approaching footstep, when, in spite of old Kahija’s frowns, she would start up, and hasten to the gate of the enclosure, for within those sacred precincts, no man dares venture to approach.

She did not, however, stop to analyse very clearly her own feelings; but they were so novel, so delightful, so pure, she could not help indulging in them. Thaddeus loved Ina, with the most ardent, tender attachment; and often did he anticipate a life of happiness, passed in her society, amidst the vales and mountains of Circassian when he would teach her the love, religion, and the customs of civilised Europe, and eagerly did she listen to these discourses of her gallant preserver.

Still they had not yet talked of love; yet, much did he long to speak in the language of confidence, unrestrained by the presence of the gentle Zara, or the young Conrin.

Early one morning, he met his mistress at the gate of the anderoon, fortunately before old Kahija had made her appearance; seizing the opportunity—

“Ina,” said he, “I have much of deep and earnest import to communicate; and I would not, that other ears than yours, should listen. Will you deign to meet me then, and hear my words, for here I cannot speak them? Ere the sun has set this evening, will you meet me, Ina, in the sacred grove, near the ruins, over whose shattered fragments the Cross still rears its head triumphant?”

“Stranger,” answered Ina, “you are my brother’s trusted friend. I know too from your brave and generous nature, that you would not seek aught from me, that is unbecoming a maiden’s modesty.”

“Believe me, you will do no wrong in trusting me. I’ll wait until you can steal from old Kahija’s vigilance. Your page can see you safe, and watch the while we speak, that none intrude. Do you consent, lady?”

“I will meet you, noble stranger,” answered Ina, with timidity, and blushing as she spoke. “I know that you will guard me from danger.”

“Thanks, Ina, thanks, for your confidence; my life shall answer for your safety!”

Thaddeus might, perhaps, at that time have found an opportunity of letting Ina fully understand his devoted love for her; when they were interrupted by the coming of the discreet old Kahija, who considered that the conversation had already endured beyond the bounds of decorum. He was most unwillingly, therefore, obliged to retire, and to pass away the hours in thinking of his mistress; until the old nurse should have gone to the Mosque for evening prayer, when Ina would meet him.

The spot Thaddeus had selected, was a beautiful grove situated a little way up the mountain side, which, from time immemorial, had been looked on with veneration, by the inhabitants; because there, according to tradition, their ancestors had formerly worshipped the Great Spirit, and his Son who once visited earth. In his wanderings, Thaddeus had discovered the ruins he mentioned, which were those of a church of considerable size, as appeared by the fragments, still remaining scattered here and there, among the herbage; but many years must have passed since it was reduced to its present state, from the large trees growing amidst the stones.

The foot of the cross itself, formed from two large blocks, had been deeply imbedded in a rock, projecting from the mountain’s side. Over the sacred emblem, the trees had formed a sheltering arbour, its existence there being a fit symbol of the Christian religion, standing on the rock amid the ruin and decay even of its own temples and rites.

To this spot resorted those, who would ask some special favour of the mighty spirit they worshipped; but, ignorant of him who had chosen it as his emblem, they would fall down in adoration before it; many believing that the spirit himself dwelt within it, and that the stone retained hidden virtues. It was also considered as a sanctuary, which none would dare to violate. Any one followed by his most deadly enemy, who could reach it, might cling to its support and there be safe from vengeance. Even those professing Islamism still held it in veneration. Chaplets of flowers, the votive offerings of the worshippers, were hung on the surrounding trees until they withered away.

Thaddeus eagerly hastened to the spot, long ere the time he might expect the coming of his mistress; but he wished to be alone in that sacred place to commune with himself, to dwell upon the anticipation of his bliss should his hopes of her answer be fulfilled. He wandered round the ruins of the once sacred pile; sometimes he feared she could not really love him, and a moment afterwards he felt confident of winning her. Then he threw himself beneath the shade of some tree, and anxiously watched the lengthening shadows; and next he would rise and hasten through the grove, towards the direction whence his mistress should come; but he saw her not. The sun had not yet sunk low enough in the heavens, and he regretted that he had not persuaded her to come at an earlier hour. He again returned, lest, perhaps, she might have passed some other way.

Inspired by the solemnity of the spot, he threw himself down before the cross, and offered up his thanksgiving to heaven for his own preservation, and his prayers for future blessings. Deeply absorbed in his devotions, he thought not of the lapse of time; and, as he rose and gazed eagerly around to see if Ina was near, the sun had reached the edge of the mountain, tinging its sides with a saffron hue, and throwing a deep shade at its base. The minutes now passed like hours; he feared something might have prevented her coming; some accident might have befallen her; he thought of the revenge of the Khan and trembled for her safety.

As despair was about taking possession of him, at length, his heart bounded as he caught sight of her, moving amid the trees like some benign spirit of the groves. At a little distance from her, followed Conrin, slowly and mournfully; who, on seeing Thaddeus, turned aside.

The young lover hastened forward to meet his mistress; he gently took her hand, which she did not withdraw, as he led her to a seat, formed of a broken architrave, beneath the cross. For some minutes neither spoke, as they sat gazing on the rich and smiling valley below them, which was clothed with a soft mellow light; a serene and solemn silence reigned over the whole scene. The lovers felt perfect happiness; they feared to speak, lest a word might break the soft enchantment.

Thaddeus turned to Ina, and, gazing on her eyes, so liquid and tender, yet so lustrous, he saw an expression there which gave him courage to speak. “Ina,” he said, “I came to this land a stranger among your people. All my hopes in life were blighted. I had been an imprisoned felon, condemned to death, every instant expecting to die by the hands of my comrades, but was rescued by your brother’s bravery. To him I owe all I now possess: I owe him my life, and—more far more than life—the happiness of seeing you. From the moment I saw you, I loved you; from that moment your image has never been absent from my thoughts. In the ardour of the chase, in the solitude of the night, I have thought alone of you; and oh! the rapture, when I found you were saved from the ruffian who would have torn you from me! Sweetest Ina, I love you!”

Ina gazed at him. A sweet smile irradiated her features; her eyes sparkled with animation.

“Is it possible?” she said, with an inquiring look. “That you, Thaddeus, accustomed to the magnificence of the cities, and the accomplished beauties of Frangistan, can think of a mountain maid like me, who has never passed her native shores? Perhaps, you spoke but in sport; but no, you would not tamper thus with my heart.”

“Ina, could words alone convince you how ardently I love you, I would speak them,” answered Thaddeus; “but no language has fitting words to express my feelings. I would die to save you from harm. Dearest Ina, can you love me?”

“Love you? Blessed joy! oh yes! Perhaps, I do not love you as I ought; still I would not that any arm but yours should have saved me from him that would have torn me from you. Do you think I love you now?”

“Yes, dearest,” said her lover, folding her in his arms as her head sank upon his neck. “Yes, Ina, by yonder cross I swear to guard you with my life; to love no other but you.”

“Indeed ’tis bliss to hear you speak such words,” answered the maid. “A short time ago I thought I loved but one—my honoured father; and then, my brother coming, shared my love; but now I feel my heart too small to hold the love I bear for you. The feelings which I bear for those dear ones I would tell to all the world; but what I feel for you is a treasured secret I would tell to none but you.”

“Ina, you are my own,” exclaimed Thaddeus. “Oh never deem that I could share my love for you with any other: the very thought were sacrilege. How ardently have I longed before to say this to you—to learn from your own sweet lips, if you could feel the same for me! But still I feared that I could not be worthy of such love as yours.”

We must no longer attempt to describe the words with which the young Pole told the deep feelings of his heart to the pure and gentle Ina. Side by side they sat, nor thought how fast the hours sped. The sun had long gone down, the stars came out glittering in the dark clear blue sky, and the moon arose in pure and tranquil majesty to witness their guiltless love, throwing her silvery beams through the dark trees of the grove. Yet still they lingered, pouring into each other’s ears the words of soft endearment.

At length they rose from the spot hallowed for ever in their memory, when a gentle step approached, and young Conrin stood before them. Ina thought she heard a sob. He spoke at last in low and hurried tones—

“I came to warn you that night approaches,” he said. “You’ll be sought for anxiously in the hamlet, and great alarm will be felt when you are missed.”

“Ah, is it indeed so late?” said Ina. “I thought we had passed but a few minutes here. We will hasten home.”

“I will guard you to your home, dear Ina!” said Thaddeus, as he supported her steps.

Though both knew that they ought to hasten, yet neither felt any inclination to quicken their pace, as they passed through the sacred grove, and chose, they knew it not, the longest road to the village. They had yet much to say, when they found themselves at the gate of the anderoon. Young Conrin followed slowly, and again they heard that half-stifled sob; but he sought to avoid their observation.

They stopped at the gate to whisper many more endearing words; and perhaps they might have spent another hour, fancying it but a minute, had they not been startled by the harsh sounds of Kahija’s voice, who had bustled out in no sweet temper at the long absence of her young charge.

“Truly, these are pretty doings for a maiden, to be staying from home at this late hour. What would have been said, had any of the inmates of old Mustapha’s harem, at Stamboul, taken it into their silly heads to wander about in this way? They would soon have found themselves at the bottom of the Bosphorus, I warrant. That is the way young ladies are treated, who misbehave themselves in the only civilised country in the world—and a very proper way too. A pretty example you set my young lady, Zara. I suppose that she, who has always been so correct—thanks to my instructions—will take it into her head next, to go gadding about in the same way. But, I’ll take care she does no such thing I’ll promise her. I hope to see the free manners of the girls, of this country, reformed before I die. It’s quite dreadful, scandalous, to see them wandering about in this independent manner, with their veils thrown off their faces to let everybody stare at them who likes. Come, Sir,” she said, turning to Thaddeus; “I wonder you stay here. I thought you knew that the anderoon was forbidden ground to any man but my lord. I should think you had enough of my lady’s company already.”

But Thaddeus felt no inclination to move without speaking a word more of farewell; and old Kahija, having vented some of her wrath; and not being, in reality, ill-natured; saw it was useless opposing an affair, which was, indeed, no business of hers. She therefore turned away for a few minutes, during which time Thaddeus snatched a parting embrace from his mistress, drawing a promise from her to meet him again on the next day.

When the old nurse returned, the intruder, much to her satisfaction, was gone. Ina then entered the anderoon, when Zara, throwing aside the embroidery she was engaged on, sprang forward to meet her.

“Dear Ina,” she exclaimed, “I feared some other danger had befallen you, that you returned not before.”

“No danger could happen to me where I went,” answered Ina; “I was safe from every harm. So lovely an evening to wander out!” she added, with a little pardonable deceit. “I wonder you can bear to be so shut up.”

“I, too, should like to wander out to breathe the air of evening,” answered Zara; “but old Kahija will not hear of it.”

“What is that you say?” said the old nurse entering. “What! are you trying to teach Zara to follow your own wild customs? But you will not succeed; she is too good a girl to wish to do any thing of the sort. When she marries young Alp Beg, she may do what she can; but she will be shut up close enough then; and so will you, Ina, if you marry a true believer, instead of one of these heathen countrymen of ours.”

Happy were the slumbers of Ina that night as she laid her face upon her pillow. She dreamed that again she trod the sacred grove with him she loved—that again she heard his voice speaking those magic words which changed her very being—she felt the pressure of his hand in hers—and she saw the moon rise amidst the trees, the witness of their love.

Volume Three—Chapter Six.

Perfect tranquillity reigned in the valley of Abran Bashi, far removed from the loud tocsin of war which hung round the borders, though news occasionally arrived of skirmishes with the Moscov, and sometimes a wounded warrior would come to be recovered by the care of his family.

At times, too, wailing and weeping was heard, when a family received intelligence of some dear relation having fallen in the fight; or a sad train would pass through the valley, accompanying the corpse of some noble, borne on his war-steed, who had lost his life in one of the many useless attacks which were at that time made on the Russian lines; more for bravado, and for the sake of exhibiting bravery and fearlessness of consequences—the characteristic of the Circassian warrior—than for any advantage to be gained.

Notwithstanding the predictions of the old chief, Thaddeus began to hope that the Khan, Khoros Kaloret, had foregone all farther attempts to carry off Ina; and, being ignorant by what hand his clansman had fallen, he would be unable to fix his revenge on any one. Thus all dread of evil consequences left his mind; and even Ina no longer feared to renew her rambles under his protection beyond even her former limits, though sure of receiving a severe lecture from old Kahija after each transgression.

We have as yet given but a slight sketch of her beautiful friend, the young Zara: she was like a sweet rose-bud, fresh and blooming, ere the first rays of the morning sun have dissipated the crystal dew; a complete child of nature. Brought up in that secluded valley, she knew nought of the world beyond the lofty mountains that surrounded it. Within that spot all her thoughts and hopes had been concentrated; she loved her pure streams, her verdant fields, and her shady groves, and grateful to the kind nature who placed her there; she was happy and contented, and would have felt miserable at the idea of leaving them, undazzled even by old Kahija’s descriptions of the gorgeous Stamboul. Her character was pure as her own sweet face; she seemed formed for love and tenderness alone, unfit to buffet with the cares and troubles of the world. Like a delicate plant, requiring some strong tree round which to entwine its slender tendrils, to gain strength and support from it. Her temper was sweet and amiable to all; and even old Kahija’s lectures failed to ruffle her. Dutiful and obedient to her only remaining parent, she tended him in sickness with the most gentle and unremitting care; and dearly in return did the old chief love his little Zara.

Her features were soft and feminine as her character; she was beautifully fair; her delicate auburn locks hung over her swan-like neck in rich profusion, her large eyes of purest blue were shaded by dark lashes, adding to their tender and languishing glance, while a smile playing round her ruby lips, betokened a happy and contented heart. Her figure, though equally graceful, was shorter and fuller than her friend’s; but none could deem it otherwise than perfect.

Such seemed the fair young being who had bestowed all her pure and warm affections on the gallant and youthful warrior, Alp Beg, and truly did he prize the treasured girl he had won.

He had been loved from his childhood by her grandfather for his courage and activity in all manly sports, and now gladly did the old chief accord his sanction to their union, which he had arranged with the Hadji before his departure for the camp. As yet the fair girl knew not that her hopes were to be fulfilled, for though Alp had found time to whisper his love, neither knew that their parents would give their sanction to their marriage; and often would sad forebodings for the future cross her otherwise tranquil mind, fears that their union might be forbid, or that he might be snatched from her by the cruel Urus.

The two fair girls were seated on an ottoman in the anderoon, while Ina worked a belt with golden thread, her first gift to Thaddeus. Zara struck the cords of her lute.

How sweet and thrilling was her voice, as she sang the following simple ballad:—

The sun shone like glittering gold on the lake,

While softly the breeze through the green forest play’d;

The birds sang their gay notes from rock and from brake,

And sweet odours sprung from each flowery glade;

There was heard too a fountain’s light murmuring voice,

And nature in smiles seemed with glee to rejoice.

Though nature was smiling, yet sorrow was nigh,

For near a pure stream, ’neath a green willow’s shade,

With her quick panting bosom, a bright weeping eye,

There stood, trembling with fear, a fair Attèghèi maid,

As a gallant youth, pressing her form in his arms,

Sought, with love’s parting kisses, to calm her alarms.

Mid the clustering forest his charger stood near.

And, his streaming mane tossing, was stamping the ground;

His squire was holding his buckler and spear,

While from far off came booming the cannon’s deep sound.

One more agonised pang, and he tore him away,

And mounted his war-steed to join the affray,

But as slowly he rode through the green leafy wood,

With a lingering pace he oft turned his fond gaze,

To cast one more glance where his lov’d maiden stood,

Till soon she was hid by the thick forest maze;

Then, spurring his charger with speed o’er the lee,

Soon with fear did the foemen his dancing crest see.

Like the willow which gracefully bent o’er the stream.

The maiden stood tremb’ling and drooping with grief,

Like the dew of the morn did those precious drops seem,

When the bright sun-beams play on the spark’ling green leaf.

Ah! cruel the war that could make her thus mourn!

Ah! sad ’twas to leave that sweet maiden forlorn!

Then rising, she clomb o’er the mountain so high,

And she look’d o’er the hill and she look’d down the vale;

Saw joyous in fancy his gay banner fly,

When her ear caught the sound of a funeral wail.

Through the glen, as advancing with mournful slow tread,

A train bore the bier of a warrior dead.

Then fearful and fleet as the chas’d deer she flew,

Down the steep mountain’s side, over chasm and brake.

For well the bright arms of her hero she knew;

Not the whirlwind’s swift course could her flight overtake.

Then she threw herself down her slain lover beside;

She sigh’d not, she wept not, but heart-broken died.

As she finished, tears stood in her eyes, and her voice trembled at the last lines.

“Why sing you that mournful ditty, dear Zara?” said her friend. “It is too sad for one, whose eye sorrow has not dimmed, to sing.”

“I know not why I sing it,” answered Zara; “but I could not help it, the words came flowing to my lips.”

“Who taught you so sad an air?” asked Ina.

“A venerable bard who travelled once this way. His steps were feeble, and his locks were blanched with years, and, as he rested at our house he sang this air, gazing sorrowfully at my face, and made me learn these words, I know not why. He went his way, nor ever have I seen him since: but still, at times, a sadness comes upon me, and I sing this song.”

A deep-drawn sob was heard from the corner of the apartment where the young Conrin had thrown himself on a divan.

“Come hither, Conrin,” said Ina, in tones of kindness. He had been weeping; for his eyes were red and his features wore an air of sadness.

“Why do you weep, dear Conrin? What makes you thus sorrowful?”

“Sad thoughts and feelings,” answered the page. “I have much to make me weep: but it was that song overcame me. I wept for the sad forebodings that it brought upon my soul, for myself I care not, but for those I have learned to love.”

“What causes have you for grief, dear boy?” said Ina. “Are you not happy here, where all so love you?”

“I cannot tell you, lady,” answered the page.

“Why not tell me your grief? Perchance, confiding it to me, I may aid to mitigate it,” said Ina.

“Oh no, it is impossible; my grief is too deep for consolation; it is a secret I shall never tell,” answered the page.

“But, I may find a means to soothe it,” urged Ina.

“Lady, pray deem me not ungrateful; but again, I beseech you, let me leave you,” exclaimed Conrin. “I love you much; but yet, I love your noble brother more. The only balm you can give to soothe me is to let me go to him.”

“But, why would you leave this calm retreat to hasten amidst scenes of war and bloodshed?” said Ina.

“I would go to my master, wherever he may be, lady,” answered Conrin. “I fear some danger threatens him; I know not what, but dark forebodings steal across my soul. I cannot look upon the future as I used to do, hoping for days of brightness and joy; my heart no longer bounds as it was wont, with thoughts of happiness. Oh let me seek my master, that I may guard him from the threatened harm, if still I may! I would too, gaze upon his loved features once again before I die, for too surely do I feel the troubled inward spirit preparing for its flight to quit this world. I feel that nothing can avert my death, come how it may.”

“Boy, you speak of strange, mysterious things,” exclaimed Ina, in an alarmed tone. “Why think you danger threatens my dear brother? and why these sad forebodings of your own fate?”

“Lady, I come of a race who oft see things hidden from duller eyes; and once, it is said, our ancestors could foretell either the death of mortals, or their destiny; but the power has passed away, as we have mixed our blood with other tribes. Yet, even now, we often see the shadow of a coming evil; and it is a curse upon our race, that we cannot guard against it when it threatens ourselves. For others yet we may, and thus I would attempt to guard my master.”

“Conrin, you persuade me strongly to let you go; and for my dear brother’s sake I will, though I should be loath to part from you. Oh, shield him, if you can, from danger, and may Allah bless you!”

“Thanks, lady, thanks! Even now my spirits lighten of their load,” exclaimed Conrin. “I would set off this day; another may be too late.”

“You cannot journey alone, on that road, dear page,” said Ina; “you shall accompany the first band of warriors who set forward for the camp.”

“Oh, I would find my way alone, through every obstacle, to meet your noble brother,” said the boy, eagerly.

“Conrin, that cannot be; you know not half the dangers which would beset you on the road. To-morrow, perhaps, some warriors may go forth. You said you had a secret that you would not tell; but let me hear it; for much do I love you, for the affection which you bear my brother; and much it pains my heart to think that yours must bleed without a sympathising friend, to soothe your pain. Ah! how blind I have been! a thought has opened now my eyes. Come hither; let me whisper to your ear.”

The gentle Ina bent over her page’s head. A deep blush suffused the boy’s cheeks; his eyes filled with tears.

“Ah! it is so? Let me weep with you,” she cried. “But, be of good hope, all may yet be well. Such love as yours cannot go unrequited.”

Old Kahija was certain to intrude when she was least wanted; and at that instant she made her appearance, hobbling in, for she was somewhat unwieldy in her gait. Her cheeks almost burst with impatience to communicate some important information.

“Here’s news for you, young ladies, from the camp,” she exclaimed. “Ah, Zara, my pretty maid, you’ll not have to sigh much longer, I am thinking, for the young Alp. Now, girls, what would you give to have the information? Your best earrings, I warrant; but I am not cruel, and will keep you no longer in suspense,” she added, as eager to communicate the news, as the fair inmates of the harem were to hear it. “Know then, my pretty Zara, that our noble chief, your grandfather, has given his sanction for your marriage with young Alp Beg, and in a short time, he will be here to bear you from us.”

“Speak you the words of truth, Kahija?” exclaimed Zara, blushing, but looking perfectly happy, as she threw herself upon Ina’s neck. “Oh, say when he will come?”

“He has sent some one to deliver a message to you; therefore wrap your features closely in a veil, and go out to the gate of the anderoon. And that reminds me there is some one to see you, Conrin, from your master.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the page, hastening to the door. “What joy to hear of him.”

“A messenger from my brother!” cried Ina. “I too, must learn what news he brings.”

At the gates of the anderoon, Conrin found Javis waiting his coming.

“I bring news from our master, for his sister,” said the squire. “In a few days he will be here, and then I must quit his service, if I can return to Russia. I have fulfilled my oath, I have obeyed your wish; no mortal, with a spirit that could feel, would do more.”

“Javis, I owe you much;” exclaimed the page. “I would repay you with my life; but the only reward you prize, alas! I cannot give.”

“I ask for no reward,” answered Javis; “the only one I prize, alas! I cannot gain; and after that, death will be the most welcome. But I would see my people first, and breathe my spirit out amongst them. I have done your bidding. I vowed to do what you wished, nor stipulated for reward. I rescued the young chief from the power of the Russians; I have striven to wash away my thought of crime almost perpetrated; I saw him safely landed on his native shores; I have seen him take his place among his people, as a chieftain of Circassia: I even learned to love him for himself, but more I cannot do. I could not bear to see him again at your side; I must go even from you.”

The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Ina and Zara.

“Say, when will my brother come?” exclaimed Ina. “Oh, ’twill be joy to see him.”

“In three days hence, if the Russians move not from their encampments,” answered Javis.

“Bring you any message for me?” said Zara, timidly addressing a young warrior, who respectfully saluted her at her approach.

“Yes, lady, I bear a message from my friend, the gallant Alp Beg. Before two days have passed, and ere the shade of yonder lofty tree has reached the stream which flows a short distance from its base, he will be here.”

“You bring me grateful news, indeed. Oh, many thanks!” returned Zara. “Say, is your friend well?”

“Yes, lady, he is well; and bears himself bravely against the foe,” answered the messenger.

“Come, come, maidens,” exclaimed Kahija, bustling up. “It is very incorrect to stop chattering longer than is necessary at the gate of the anderoon. If you have received your messages, come into the house, and let the young men go their way.”

Having no further excuse for remaining, the fair girls were obliged to do as desired, though they would fain have heard more of those so dear to them.

Volume Three—Chapter Seven.

We must return again to take a glance at the patriot camp on the Ubin. Except the slight skirmishes already described, nothing of importance had been effected, and as the winter was now fast approaching, the Russians appeared to contemplate no further movement.

A council of war was one day held in a grove, away from the din and bustle of the camp, at which were present, among many of the Princes and nobles of Circassia; Arslan Gherrei, his son and the Hadji, when shots were heard announcing the arrival of some other chief, and presently a band of wild horsemen were seen approaching, dressed in skins and furs, of some of the mountain Tartar tribes.

At their head, rode the Khan Khoros Kaloret; who, after dismounting, singly approached the council ring. The chiefs stood up as he stepped boldly amongst them. His looks were fierce and angry, as his glance passed round on the assembled nobles, who could ill brook his haughty mien. At length, one of the most ancient addressed him—

“Why come you here, Khan, to interrupt our conference? Have you any tidings of importance to communicate?”

“Why come I here?” echoed the Khan, furiously. “Think you, I come for idle sport? No, I come to claim my brother’s blood at your hands. Say, where he is, or I may not continue to be a friend to any here. Say, where is my brother?”

“We know not of your brother, Khan; we have spoken our answer.”

“Does my brother, live? I ask you,” said the Khan.

“We know not of your brother,” answered the former speaker.

“To you then, Uzden Arslan Gherrei, I appeal,” said the Khan. “I sent him to you, to bring back your daughter as my bride; and since he left your house, none of my clansmen know aught of him. At your hands, I require him.”

“Your brother, Khan, quitted my house free to go where he willed. I cannot tell you of him more,” answered the chieftain—

The Khan glanced fiercely around him for a few seconds, without speaking; during which, the members of the council moved to a farther distance, and resumed their seats; leaving the enraged Khan, standing alone; a customary ana sufficient signal, that his presence was not required. The Khan stood irresolute for a few minutes; then, against all rules of established ceremony, again approached them.

“Chieftain,” he cried, addressing Arslan Gherrei; “again, I ask you, where is my brother? If dead, say who slew him, that I may know my enemy; or, if he fell before the foe, why brought you not away his corpse, and arms?”

“Khan,” answered the chief; “is it not enough to say, that I cannot tell you of your brother? then ask me no more.”

Saying which, the whole body returned to their former position, leaving the Khan alone. He again followed them, when the council slowly rising, the aged chief, who had before spoken, again addressed him:

“Twice have we warned you, Khan, not to question us of your brother. Now learn his fate; he died a traitor’s death—fighting in our foemen’s ranks, he fell, attempting treachery. He lies now amongst a heap of cursed Urus; his name disgraced and blotted from our memories. Now go, and ask no more of him. His name is foul.”

“Chieftain, whoever says my brother died a traitor’s death, lies black as Eblis. Back in his mouth, I’ll throw the calumny,” cried the Khan. “My brother was ever a foe to Russia, and deeply will I avenge his slandered honour.”

At these words, the chiefs half drew their swords; but, recollecting that he stood one among many, and having compassion upon him for his grief, and his brother’s crime and death, they returned them to their scabbards, and spoke not.

“Uzden Arslan Gherrei, from henceforth know me as your deadly foe,” cried the Khan; “whatever death my brother died, ’twas you that caused it, and I will have revenge, if I die to gain it.”

Uttering which, with a fierce tone and aspect, he strode from the spot, mounting his war horse, rode furiously from the camp, followed by the troop of his wild clansmen, without waiting to salute any of the chiefs he met.

We must leave the Khan to pursue his headlong course, while we follow the movements of the Baron Galetzoff, and the small army under his command. After marching from Anapa, they proceeded to the newly erected fort, we have described on the south side of the Kouban, which was built on slightly elevated ground, at no great distance; though beyond gun shot of the range of mountains, which girt the territories to which the tribes of the Attèghèi are now confined. On the other side extended a broad plain, formed of the marshes of the Kouban, from which the heats of summer draw forth the noxious miasma, so prejudicial to the health of the soldiers; but the flat marshy nature of the country, added to the security of the position, lessens the chance of a surprise, and gives full scope for the deadly fire of grape and rockets.

The fort had been commenced under the protection of a large force; and the Baron was now employed in forming fresh entrenchments, and taking every means to strengthen his position; waiting in hopes of some opportunity occurring to revenge himself for the losses he had sustained. No houses had as yet been built; the troops living in wretched huts hastily constructed of mud and boughs, and the officers in their tents.

Towards the close of the day, the Baron was seated in his tent, when his aide-de-camp announced to him that one of the chiefs of the enemy, with a flag of truce, desired an audience immediately.

“Let him be admitted,” said the General. “We may at length have awed some of these barbarians into subjection.”

The Baron rose to receive his guest as the officer returned, ushering in a tall ferocious looking warrior, his heavy sword clashing against his armour, as with a fearless step he entered the tent. The General started when he saw him; for he thought of the young Khan to whose death he had been instrumental, and of his squire whom he had unjustly shot, as gazing earnestly at the stranger, he almost fancied the dead stood before him. For a few moments neither spoke, as the civilised European commander confronted the wild warrior of the mountains, who returned his glance with a haughty and seemingly contemptuous stare. At length, banishing his superstitious fears, he spoke.

“Who are you, chief, that thus venture into the camp of the Russians?”

“I am Kaloret Khan,” answered the chief in a fierce tone.

At the sound of that name the Baron started, laying his hand upon his sword to prepare himself for the expected attack.

“Fear not,” said the Khan in a contemptuous tone, “I come not to do you harm. Did I wish to kill you, I could have done so ere this. See!” he added, pointing to the opening of the tent, before which one of his wild clansmen was holding his war horse. “I could have struck you dead, and mounted my fleet steed, leaping your paltry entrenchments, before one of your slow-moving soldiers could have stopped me. No, Russian, I come not to harm you.”

“For what purpose do you come here? What ask you?” said the General.

“I come,” answered the Khan, frowning darkly, and clenching his gauntleted hand, “I come to seek revenge.”

“A goodly feeling, and one that should be encouraged by all brave men,” answered the Baron. “And on whom do you seek it?”

“On those who have injured me. On a chieftain, Arslan Gherrei, who refused to let his daughter be my wife; and shall I tamely brook such an insult? I would bear the girl away, in spite of her refusal; I would revenge myself upon him for my brother’s death; who is said to have come to ask your aid to carry off the chieftain’s daughter, when he died by the hand of Selem, his newly found son.”

“You have heard truly, Khan,” answered the General. “Say, how can I assist you in your wishes, and I will gladly hold the hand of friendship forth to you.”

“I would bring hither the daughter of the chieftain, for I must quit my mountain home, my flocks and herds, and come to join you with my followers.”

“You speak wisely, Khan,” said the Baron. “You shall be received with open arms; but you must also bring this son of Arslan Gherrei, and his youthful page, and also a Russian officer, who lately escaped when under sentence of death. I will, in return, promise you lands, flocks, and herds to supply those you have left.”

“You speak of Selem Gherrei, Russian,” exclaimed the Khan. “It were easier far to entrap the savage boar, and bring him willingly along, than to bring alive before you any of the chiefs of the Attèghèi. But I will try; and, if I fail, it shall not be for want of hatred and revenge to prompt me.”

“Bring him alive, if possible; if not, bring me his corpse, and you will be welcome. There are others I would secure—his squire, and a slow, heavy slave, who is probably about his person.”

“I have already said I will do my best to please you,” said the Khan haughtily, “and now I must depart.”

“Farewell, until you return with your prisoners,” rejoined the Russian.

“Chieftain of Russia,” responded the Khan, “you will see me soon again. I tarry not in my revenge.”

Saying which Khoros Kaloret strode from the tent with the same haughty air with which he had entered, and, mounting his horse, galloped off.

“There goes a traitor,” said the Baron, following him with his eye as he rode off; “and if there were a few more like him, we might soon rightly call the fair lands of Circassia our own. I think I can trust that barbarian, with revenge for his motive of action; and if he brings Arslan Gherrei’s daughter, I shall have a hold upon him he cannot easily break through.”

He then summoned Count Erintoff to his presence.

“Ah! Colonel,” he said, as the Count entered, “I have at length a hope of punishing those who have hitherto escaped my vengeance.”

“I am rejoiced to hear it, General,” said the Count. “We owe it as a duty to our country to punish those vile deserters, not to mention the indulgence of a little private revenge. But how is it that you hope to succeed?”

“Why it appears that the fierce Khan, Khoros Khaloret, has taken umbrage that the Chief Arslan Gherrei refuses him his daughter—the same of whom we heard so much, and who so narrowly escaped us at the fords of the Mezi, when the Khan’s brother led you into that desperate scrape. He now wishes to run off with the lady, and take refuge with us: so I have made it a condition of his being; well received, that he brings off those deserters, Ivan Galetzoff, his page, Lieutenant Stanisloff, and others. I fear he may not succeed in capturing Ivan Galetzoff, who, now I hear, bears the name of Selem Gherrei; indeed, I have no doubt he is the son of Arslan Gherrei, as I captured the boy myself, and well remember that was the name of the chief whose village I attacked and burned. I carried off his wife with this boy, who I knew not was her own son, little thinking what a viper I was cherishing. I intended him to prove a bitter enemy to this rebellious country, but I find this woman counteracted all my intentions, by instilling into his bosom an absurd love of country and liberty. I would give worlds to get him into my power; and though the Khan may not succeed in entrapping him, he may secure his page, whom he brought with him from Russia, and to whom it seems he is much attached. I propose to work upon the boy, either by kindness or threats of his life, to induce him to assist in some plot to betray his master. At all events I have hopes that this young Gherrei, when he finds we have possession of his sister and page, will attempt to rescue them. We will be on the watch to ensure his capture, and I will promise a reward to whoever makes him a prisoner. What say you, Count, to my plans?”

“It is an excellent plot, and cannot fail,” said his worthy officer; “but we must also endeavour to re-capture Lieutenant Stanisloff. I have a little private grudge against him, which I would fain indulge.”

“Oh! there is but little chance of missing him,” answered his superior; “he will probably accompany Selem Gherrei into the field, and fall into the same toil as his friend. You, Colonel, shall have the lady as your share.”

“I cannot refuse so generous an offer,” said the Count. “I suppose she must be beautiful, or she would not have inflamed the heart of the savage Khan. I require some fair mistress to drive the Gipsy Azila out of my head; for I could never gain any further trace of her after it was discovered that she was implicated in that miserable conspiracy.”

“A great disappointment, Colonel; but I dare say this wild mountain beauty will recompense you for her loss,” said the Baron.

“Perchance she may,” answered the Count, “for it is said these Circassian beauties may vie with the most lovely in the world. But we must be cautious. If we deprive the fiery Khan of the lady, he may give us some trouble. He does not appear a person who would quietly submit to have his mistress taken from him, after the risk and danger he must undergo to win her.”

“That matters little,” answered the Baron; “he will give us but slight trouble, for we must put him out of the way on the first convenient opportunity. I never contemplated allowing him to remain alive. I love not these intractable mountaineers; and can never trust them. We can let him fall into the hands of his countrymen, and they will take good care to ease us of any further thought concerning him.”

“A very good idea, General,” answered the Count. “I agree with you that these barbarians are equally troublesome whether as friends or enemies; and I confess I did not like the scowl he cast on me and all around, as he passed, bearing himself as proudly as if he were some conqueror riding amidst his slaves.”

“They are a detested race,” exclaimed the General, grinning through his thick-mustachioed lips; “but we will soon humble their pride, and drag them in chains to St. Petersburg, where they shall be exhibited as a specimen of the knights of old and we may then build our château, and lay out our parks amidst these green hills and fertile valleys, without the fear of being molested.”

“You are facetious, General, at the expense of the savages,” said the Count. “But, according to my taste, this is rather too far from the capital to build a country house. I should like, however, to transfer a few of their fair beauties from these wilds to people my domain near Moscow; and as for the men who have given us so much trouble, I would shoot them all as traitors, or send them to work in the mines of Siberia. They are too fierce to be tamed; for, like hyaenas, they would never be at rest, and would spring upon us when we least expected it. But, badinage aside, what do you, Baron, intend to do with the prisoners the Khan is to bring us? They deserve severe punishment.”

“Shoot them as flagrant deserters taken in arms against the Emperor,” answered the Baron, clenching his hand, and frowning darkly. “It is too mild a punishment for them.”

“This page of Ivan Galetzoff, or Selem Gherrei, or whatever name he now goes by, deserves punishment richly for that affair of the Mezi,” said the Count. “I saw him fighting as furiously as the oldest hands among them. The fiery young villain shot the Khan’s brother and one of our own Cossacks, who was about to cut down his master. I fear we shall not succeed in getting much service out of him.”

“Then he must die. We must make an example of all deserters,” said the General, “or we shall find our ranks completely empty before long. What with the desertion of these rascally slaves we have sent there as soldiers, these cursed fevers which sweep off so many, and the atrocious daring of these barbarous mountaineers, we have lost more men already than we can spare. Had I my own way, I would overwhelm these Circassians at one fell swoop, and exterminate them from the face of the earth.”

“I agree with you, General, this is the only way to treat them,” answered the Count.

Volume Three—Chapter Eight.

With light and bounding heart, young Alp urged on his steed towards the smiling valley of Abran Bashi, as from the summit of the last mountain he espied amid the trees the habitation of his young and beloved Zara. He wore a Persian suit of the finest chain armour, a gift from his uncle, Achmet Beg, over which was thrown a cloak of blue cloth, trimmed with gold. A belt of Turkish leather, richly embroidered in gold, (the prized gift of his mistress, worked by her own fair hand), bound his waist, holding his jewelled dagger; and at his side hung a well tempered Damascus blade. Boots also of Turkish leather, and worked by the same loved one, covered his feet. On his head, instead of the warlike helmet, he wore a cap of cloth, trimmed with a narrow border of dark fur, overshadowed by a plume of white feathers. He looked indeed a noble bridegroom, worthy of the love of Circassia’s lovely daughters, the pride of his gallant old father.

By his side rode his tried and sworn friend, the son of the brave and sturdy chief, Ali Beg, his companion in many a wild and daring adventure, when they were boys together; and lately, in the sterner and sanguinary scenes of warfare. He too was in his most gallant array, his arms furbished to their utmost polish, his coat and steel almost concealed by a gay-coloured vest, and by the cloak which hung from his shoulders. He had been selected by his friend for the honourable and important post of bridesman, to escort the bride to the house of her destined lord.

In the meantime, young Zara was counting the hours, as they seemed to crawl by, ere he came; and in spite of all old Kahija’s notions of propriety, stole often and furtively to the wicket of the enclosure surrounding the anderoon, to throw many a searching glance up the valley to the summit of the hill, over which she knew her knight must pass. Then she would run back again, and pretend to be busily engaged in her work, her ear anxiously intent to catch the sounds of his horse’s hoofs, as her eye was to search for his graceful figure. Then she would persuade herself and her friend that she had a head-ache, and that a little more fresh air would wonderfully benefit her; and she would seize Ina’s arm, and hurry off. Her friend fully comprehended the reasons of her constant visits to the gate.

“Why comes he not, Ina?” at length she said. “What think you could have delayed him on the road? He said he would come ere the shadows of yonder tree had reached the waters of the rivulet, and see it already touches the edge of the bank. Oh, Allah! can any harm have befallen him? I never think of those dreadful Urus without shuddering, and Alp is always on some hazardous expedition against them; their very name frightens me.”

“Nay,” said Ina, “let not your thoughts dwell on such fears. See the shadow has not yet reached the water, and ere it does, perhaps Alp will be here.”

“Tell me, Ina, how is it that some women of our country can be so courageous as to rush into battle, fearing not the Urus, and bear themselves as bravely as the men? For my part, I tremble at the report only of a rifle, and could not fire a pistol to defend my life,” said Zara.

“Because, dearest,” answered her friend, “you have been removed from the scenes of havoc and bloodshed, which steel their hearts from all feelings of compassion for our foes, and which nerve their arms, and inspire them with courage to avenge their wrongs.”

“It is dreadful to think of it,” exclaimed Zara, shuddering. “I would rather die at once than look on blood. The foe might kill me, but I could not fight.”

“Oh, let us pray, Allah, that the dread foe may never come near this valley, and then you need have no cause to fear them,” answered her friend.

“I almost wish that Alp was not so great a warrior; but yet I love to hear of his brave deeds. They say he will be equal to his father, and he is one of the bravest heroes of Attèghèi. Ina, I will tell you a secret. I have loved Alp for a very long time—ever since I first saw him—when he once came home, bringing two Russian prisoners. Hearing every body praise so much, I ventured to look at him, and then I saw what a gallant and noble youth he was. Then he danced with me at the marriage of one of my grandfather’s followers. Oh, how my heart leaped as he pressed my hand, and led me out on the green. I did not care for all old Kahija’s frowns. And then the soft and sweet things he said to me! I never heard words like them, and when I looked at him again, I thought him one of the handsomest of all the youths of the Attèghèi—not in the least like his father, as people said he was. I was always happy when he came, and used to play so many tricks to avoid old Kahija, who makes me so obedient at other times, though I never ventured away so far from the house as you do. Then, when he told me how much he loved me, and that he would die, or win me, I was so happy! I did not think he would have to die.”

“Yes, dear Zara, Alp is indeed a noble youth, well worthy a lady’s love,” answered Ina.

“Ah!” said Zara, clasping her friend’s arm tighter, “see, Ina, see, he comes! I see his glittering armour. I see his white plume. Ah, he hastens onward—he looks this way, to catch a glimpse of me. Now he looks at the shadow of the tall tree, to see if he have kept his promised time. See the shadow scarcely yet touches the water! He flies faster than the sun. He will be here in a few minutes. Oh, Ina, how my heart beats! I must run away—I must hide. He will think I have been looking for him. I ought not to stay here. What will Kahija say?”

Whatever Zara ought to have done, she showed not the slightest inclination to move, but continued waiting the approach of Alp, who certainly proved himself to be no dilatory lover, by the rate he galloped on. So fast indeed did he approach, that she had not time to retire if she would, before, leaping from his horse, he clasped her in his arms, spite of her blushes, and the presence of Ina, whom he seemed to have quite overlooked. He, however, now made his courtesies to her in proper form.

“See, Zara,” he said, “I sent word I would come ere the shadow of yon tall tree had reached the stream, and it but now touches the wet grass on its borders. I come, sweet one;” and he whispered a few magic words in her ear which made the roses glow more brightly in her cheeks.

“My father gives me but a few days ere he will call me back to the camp, so that we have but a short time. He will arrange all things with your grandfather, and to-morrow my home will await your coming.”

We will not dwell any longer on the interview of the lovers; nor need we describe their words of tender endearment; for love, we believe, to be much the same in all parts of the globe, influencing in the same way the thoughts and feelings of all those, whose young hearts have not been blighted and seared by the world, which too soon works a woeful change in all that is tender, pure, and lovely. These mountain lovers might not perhaps have used the courtly phrases of the cities of Frangistan; but they spoke a language which both perfectly understood, and, looking into each other’s eyes, they found words unnecessary.

They did not even perceive that Ina had long left them; and were somewhat startled in finding old Kahija standing in her place, after an interval whose duration they had not calculated. Her appearance drove many things, they were about to communicate to each other, out of their heads; and so pertinaciously did the nurse keep her ground, that Alp, who had never fled before the Russian fire, was now obliged to beat a most unwilling retreat.

From far and near came guests to grace the bridal festival of the fair young Zara and the gallant Alp. From the mountain villages, and neighbouring dells, all assembled whom war had not called from their homes, and all ranks and classes were equally welcomed by the venerable and hospitable old chief. Parties of youths and maidens came in their gayest attire, streaming over the hills and down the valleys; their embroidered cloaks fluttering in the breeze, and glittering with silver fringe, singing, as they wended their way, songs in praise of the young couple. Here some noble gallant might be seen on his gaily caparisoned charger, scouring along the valley to join the throng; others came in attendance on their fair partners for the coming dance; their gallantry more sincere, and scarcely less refined than in the civilised countries of Europe.

The vests of the maidens were ornamented in front with silver studs, and closed by clasps of the same metal; while a jewelled broach confined the bands which bound their slender waists. White veils or scarfs, nearly reaching the ground, fell from amid their braided tresses, confined at the ends by a silver cord. They wore muslin trousers, fastened round their ankles; their petticoats reaching to the knee, and embroidered slippers encased their small feet. The lower ranks were dressed in less elegant attire, though of much the same fashion; but all had done their utmost to deck their persons to the best advantage, to add to the brilliancy of the scene.

The feast was held in the grove close to the habitation of the Prince, where arbours had been erected for the fairer portion of the guests. In the principal one Zara, with Ina and old Kahija, were stationed to receive them. Numerous bands of slaves were in attendance, bearing tables to the green glade, from which, through an opening in the trees, was seen the lower part of the valley; and here the old chief stood with Alp and his friends, to receive the male guests as they quickly assembled. The tables were spread in long rows on the grassy lawn; the chiefs, and those of higher rank, being seated round their venerable host, while those not of noble birth and the freemen, were placed at the other end.

In the neighbouring thicket were numerous fires, at each of which was suspended a nobly charged spit, or a kettle tended by female slaves busily employed in preparing viands for the large party assembled. At a distance stood in eager and hungry expectation, the serfs and those not of rank sufficiently high to enjoy the privilege of sitting at table; but to whom the remainder of the banquet was to be served when the nobles had finished. There were minstrels also to chaunt forth the praise of the bridegroom and his fair Zara, one taking up the strain from the other, and each endeavouring to outdo the first in praise and delicacy of compliment.

In the meantime, Zara and her fair companions were entertained in the arbours, whence their light ringing laughter reached the spot where the nobles were seated. Though many of the party where Mahometans, the cup of sparkling wine often passed round to the sound of music; but they remained not long seated, for eager were the youths to join the dance, when they saw the troops of lovely maidens tripping gaily along the verdant glade, entwining round their graceful forms wreaths of bright flowers. The youths spiling quickly from the tables in pursuit of their fair partners; and vain were their laughing efforts to escape from the quick footed, active mountaineers, who soon overtook them, leading them back no unwilling prisoners to the smoothest and most level spot for dancing.

Then did the musicians strike up their gayest airs; the dancers moving first to slow and measured time, in circles alternately of youths and maids, now lifting their arms in graceful undulations aloft and now joining their hands in the centre. Then, as the music quickened, pursuing each other round and round; the maids wreathing their flowers and circling the heads of the youth as they knelt at their feet. Then springing up, they pursued their giddy course.

Alp led forth his bride elect, the last time he could thus appear with her in public; Thaddeus, following his example with Ina; and many a closely veiled and hooded matron of high rank conducted to the dance their daughters to receive the hands of partners. Gracefully they moved through the forest glades. The minstrels exerted their talents to the utmost, and were joined, at times, by the sweet voices of the fair dancers; while, occasionally, laughter resounded on all sides. The elders and matrons, seated on divans and carpets in the arbours or beneath the shade of the trees, looked on with approbation, applauding the graceful movements and activity of their children.

The time was now approaching when Zara must leave the gay scene to be attired in her thick veil in preparation for her journey, old Ivahija being in waiting to carry her off to the house.

All present seemed full of happiness, except the young page, Conrin. The joyousness of the scene grated on his feelings; and forsaking the throng, he sought to calm his troubled thoughts at a distance in solitude and quiet. He earnestly longed to see his master again; he was disappointed at Selem’s not arriving as he expected, and feared that the danger he fancied was approaching, might already have overtaken him. Javis, on perceiving his departure from the feast, followed at a distance, in hopes of offering consolation; but Conrin seemed to avoid him. At length, Javis came up with him.

“Have I done aught to offend you?” he said, “know you not, that I would die an hundred deaths for your sake? Then, why do you thus shun me?”

“Oh, speak not thus,” answered Conrin. “Yes, you are good, you are kind, you are brave; and grateful, deeply grateful, am I, for all that you have done for me; but I can give you no reward.”

“I seek for no reward, but would comfort you,” said Javis.

“You cannot comfort me. I have brought my misery upon myself; and on you, my kind friend, I have brought danger and hardship; nor know I how you may escape from them. For myself, I care not; my grief has no cure.”

“Quit this vain hope. You still may have happiness with one, who loves you truly,” answered Javis.

“While my life endures, never will I quit the country that holds the young chief Selem. Think you, I would leave him when a career of glory is opening out before him? I love to gaze upon his noble form, to hear his words, though spoken to others. If he fall, I shall not survive him. Now leave me, kind Javis, and forget the wrong I’ve done you. Hark, what loud shout is that?”

The revelry still continued with unabated ardour. The green was covered with gay and happy dancers. Alp was to lead the last round with his sweet Zara, and then they must part, though soon to meet again. The song, the laugh, and the cheerful sounds of the musician’s strains, filling the forest glade, gladdened the hearts of all; when a shriek arose from the women, and a terrific yell like the cry of demons resounded through the woods. Before the youths could draw their swords, a fierce band of savage horsemen were upon them. Some of the affrighted maidens fled, shrieking through the groves; others stood paralysed with fear, clinging to the arms of their protectors. The banqueting tables were overturned, as the pursued and the pursuers rushed across the glade; the bright sparkling wine flowed on the grass, mingled with the red blood of the combatants, as the young warriors bravely rallied to withstand the overpowering attack of the fierce followers of the Khan Khoros Kaloret; for he it was who led the band of marauders.

His eye had singled out one fair object for his prey, as he fought his way to the spot; she was struggling to escape from the grasp of one of his followers, who had seized her round the waist, to lift her on his horse; when Thaddeus, escaping from those who had attacked him, rushed forward, cleaving the savage’s shoulder to the arm. He had scarcely time to save his mistress from being crushed by the weight of the falling body, ere the Khan fiercely set on him, endeavouring to regain possession of his prize.

Alp had thrown himself before Zara, at the first onset of the foe, repelling all who attacked him. He bore her in safety towards a party of their friends, assembled round the aged chief, who were keeping the horsemen at a distance to protect the women. Leaving his bride under protection, he collected a few men, and hastened to assist a small party fiercely beset by the Tartars, on whom he set with such energy, that they were compelled to fly; but only to return with fresh fury to the attack.

In the mean time, the Khan, finding Ina snatched from his very grasp, threw himself on Thaddeus, with his whole force, hoping to bear him to the ground. Thaddeus eluded his first onset, placing Ina on his left side, and parrying with the greatest difficulty, the repeated and furious strokes aimed at him by the Khan. He retreated fighting, as he bore his mistress to a place of safety; when a heavy blow from the Khan’s sword brought him on his knee to the ground, though he saved his head by a timely guard. A second stroke from his opponent’s sabre would have cut him down; but Ina threw herself before him, arresting the Khan’s arm, ere his sword descended, giving Thaddeus time to recover his feet.

“Foolish maiden, you shall not save your lover a second time,” exclaimed the Khan, attempting to seize her, though the movement was nearly fatal to himself; for so furious a blow did Thaddeus make at him, that he was obliged to relinquish his hold, to parry it.

“Fly, Ina, fly! now that you are safe,” exclaimed her lover. “I will keep the savage chief at bay.”

But Ina moved not from his side. At that moment, a fresh troop of Tartars galloped to their chief’s assistance. Thaddeus began to fear that his defence had been futile; when Alp, with a few other youths, bravely threw themselves in their way.

In a different division of the grove, many of the festive party had been overthrown at the first surprise; but others, drawing their weapons, and placing themselves back to back, fought so bravely, that they gave time to their fair partners to escape; and so well did they hold their ground, that they fully occupied the greater part of the Khan’s followers; thus preventing them from going to their chiefs assistance; pursuing them so actively whenever they attempted to answer his reiterated summons, that the Tartars were again obliged to turn and defend themselves.

Yet the youths, however brave, wearing only a light gala costume, and having no weapon of defence but their short swords, could scarcely withstand the furious attacks of their fully equipped enemies, for whom victory, at first wavering, was now about to declare, when the war shout of the Attèghèi was heard; and a small body of fully-armed warriors broke through the grove, led on by Selem, who fiercely attacked the first body of Tartars he met, and drove them before him. His arrival turned the fortune of the day. Several of the young men flew to the house to seize their arms, and to mount their steeds tethered in the neighbouring thickets.

Selem, fighting his way up to the spot where Thaddeus was still defending Ina, compelled the Khan to retreat, foaming with rage.

The events we have here described took place in a few minutes, ere the revellers, scattered in all directions, could assemble; when the old chief, having collected them, as also his serfs, and other retainers who panted with indignation at the audacious outrage committed on his territories, and at being unable to reach the perpetrators, led them against the enemy in so determined an array, that he compelled the Tartars to desist from the attack, and to seek their own safety in flight. At the same moment, a party of the young warriors returned on horseback, to fight on more equal terms; when the Khan, seeing that any further attempt to gain possession of those he hoped to capture was hopeless, called to his followers to retreat, leaving several of his band dead on the field; for so flagrant was this attack, that, as any fell, they were cut down without mercy by the Circassians.

The defeated Tartars, furious with their disappointment and disgrace, hastily retreated, hotly pursued by the active Circassian youths on foot, and by Selem and a few others, who were mounted; but it was hopeless for the pedestrians to overtake them, and the horsemen were too few in number to be able to retaliate with success. The horses of Selem and his followers were fatigued; he, therefore, with Alp, urged their friends to return to arm completely, and mounting fresh steeds, to follow after the daring Khan, and take ample vengeance for the outrage he had committed.

A few, already mounted on fleet horses, now set off to follow at a distance, tracking his course to bring back word what route he had taken. When at a little distance, the scouts saw the Khan’s party rein in their steeds for an instant, and seize two persons on foot, and carry them away. They were traced towards the Kouban, in the direction of the newly erected Russian fort; one of the scouts returning to give the information. The young warriors hastened to their homes to arm, and to follow Kaloret Khan. Alp, who was one of the first prepared, took a tender farewell of the weeping Zara, and instead of then making her his bride, was compelled to pursue the foe.

When Selem called for Javis, he was nowhere to be found; and as he passed Ina, now with the other women assembled together, and recovering from their terror, he also missed Conrin. No one had seen the boy. He called for him through the grove. He answered not.

“Oh my brother!” cried Ina, “Allah forbid that he has fallen among the slaughtered ones! For worlds I would not that poor boy should be slain.”

They searched among the dead throughout the wood, expecting every moment to see his pallid features; but he was not to be found. There was wailing and weeping through the grove, which had late resounded with the sounds of merriment and song. The soft green turf, where the feet of the young and beautiful had a short time previously so joyously trodden in the dance, was now defiled with dark red pools of blood. Several youths had fallen, cut down by the Tartars on their first onset; and their female friends and relations were mourning with loud cries and lamentations over the loved ones so barbarously murdered by those whom they had ever looked upon as countrymen.

As Selem and Thaddeus were prepared to start, one of the scouts returned and reported what he had seen.

“It must have been Conrin then,” cried Ina. “His sad forebodings have been fulfilled, and both he and Javis have been carried off by the Khan. Oh haste, Selem, haste, my brother! Follow that cruel chief, for he bears away one who loves you more than life itself, who has sacrificed all for you. I may not say more; but for your own sake recover poor Conrin at all risks.”

“Fear not, dear Ina. We will overtake the Khan, and wreak our vengeance on him,” answered Selem.

Several other horsemen now coming up, he and Thaddeus took a fond, but hasty, farewell of Ina, and set off in pursuit of the Khan. Though some of their horses were of good blood and speed, yet every one of the Khan’s were picked from the fleetest he possessed, having fully calculated on the necessity of a rapid flight; so that he kept a head of his pursuers. None of the villagers of the hamlets, through which he passed, were prepared to offer him any impediment, ignorant also of his errand. Furiously and desperately he rode along, for he well knew that he had not the remotest hope of mercy should any party of the Circassians, outnumbering his own, succeed in overtaking him, and with equal eagerness was he pursued.

Nothing stopped his savage band in their course; they swam their horses across the most rapid streams, leaped terrific chasms, galloped down the steepest hills, and urged their steeds up almost precipitous rocks. All the remainder of that day, did they continue their headlong course. The night stopped them not; for a few minutes, they sought repose for their horses; but the sound of their pursuer’s feet struck their ears: Again they urged on their almost falling steeds; blood streamed from their flanks; foam covered their mouths; their eye balls started wildly; but still on they went. It was death to tarry.

Their pursuers caught sight of them—it was a race for life and death, captivity, perhaps death; or freedom for the poor page. They gained the forest which clothed the mountain, looking down upon the Russian fort; they dashed through it, they flew along the plain; and, as Selem and his friends gained the brow of the hill, they saw the traitor and his band enter the gates, at which they were received as friends.

“Alas, my poor page and faithful follower,” exclaimed Selem; “captivity or death, will be your lot, if we cannot rescue you; but that we will do, or perish in the attempt. What say you, Thaddeus? Will yonder Russians attempt to inflict any injury on my two followers? They cannot be such barbarians.”

“I fear they will,” answered Thaddeus. “Remember the fate I so narrowly escaped; I know well the Baron seeks to make some terrible example of all whom he can claim as deserters.”

“But he cannot surely call those youths, deserters, who have never born arms for Russia,” answered Selem.

“He will call them whatever he pleases, now that they are in his power,” said Thaddeus.

“We must, at all hazards, endeavour to recover them,” exclaimed Selem. “I know not scarcely how, but that young boy has so entwined himself round my heart, that I would not lose him for worlds. He is a truly noble youth, full of warm and ardent feelings. Should his strength of body prove equal to his spirit, he will one day shew himself capable of great deeds; but one will wear out the other, I fear. The subtle essence will overcome the grosser matter.”

Anxiously did the small band of warriors look down upon the Russian fort, but it would have been worse than madness to attack it with their fatigued party. Keeping, therefore, within shelter of the trees, they watched until the lights twinkled in the camp, and the watch-fires blazed around. Some proposed making an attack, endeavouring to take the enemy by surprise, and so to carry off the prisoners in the confusion; but, though Alp was eager to lead it, even Selem opposed the plan as too rash. The only feasible scheme seemed to be to hasten to the camp on the Ubin, and there raise a sufficient force to attack the fort with some chance of success.

Without waiting to consult further, the young warriors turned the heads of their weary horses towards the Ubin, where, on their arrival, they excited the indignation of the assembled chiefs at the atrocious outrage committed by the Khan. The Hadji, on seeing his son, embraced him.

“What, my brave Alp, have you left your pretty Zara, ere you made her your bride to assist your friends, and for the chance of a little fighting? Mashallah! you are well worthy of her, and she will love you all the better for it. I am proud of you, my boy.”

The old warrior was himself delighted at an excuse for attacking the enemy, as he had begun to fear that there would be no more fighting that year; and he eagerly exerted himself in gaining volunteers for the enterprise. Arslan Gherrei, for his son’s sake, persuaded many knights to join him, besides his own immediate followers. Nor was Alp idle in collecting his friends among the wild sons of the chiefs, always ready for any daring exploit; so that, in a few hours, more than two thousand horsemen were ready to depart. Selem strongly urged that no delay should take place, for fear of the cruelty which the Russian general might inflict on his prisoners.

Procuring fresh horses, therefore, the band of gallant cavaliers set out for their exploit; one that it would have been madness to attempt, except for the known incomplete state of the fortifications, which gave them hope, by a sudden onset, of leaping the unfinished trenches, and taking the garrison by surprise.

Volume Three—Chapter Nine.

Three days had passed since the Baron Galetzoff had received the visit from the treacherous Khan Khoros Kaloret; and he was now eagerly expecting his return, with his clansmen and prisoners, when he began to suspect that the chief had played him falsely. As each successive hour passed by without his coming, his anger proportionably arose. He was also under constant dread of an attack from the mountaineers, though, as yet, he had seen few signs of them.

The troops were busily employed in digging trenches, throwing up embankments, and finishing the fortifications. Oxen were dragging in cartloads of provisions, or fodder for their horses. Officers were riding about, and superintending the men. A strong detachment were sent out, flanked with cannon, and a body of Cossacks to cut down timber for the palisadoes. Others also were employed in cutting grass, and bringing in wood for fuel. Sentinels were posted in every direction, advanced guards were sent out, and the soldiers worked at all times with their arms by their sides, for they knew not at what moment the dreaded mountaineers might break through the covert of the wooded height, and, with a cloud of cavalry, might come sweeping by them like a whirlwind, ere they had time to form their ranks. Their heavy artillery, loaded to the muzzles with grape shot, were pointed in every direction; and many an anxious eye was cast towards the mountains, in expectation of seeing the glittering arms of the foes about to rush down upon them.

Towards the close of the day, as the sun was sinking low on the marshes of the Kouban, throwing a bright warm gleam of light on the rich brown-tinted foliage of the trees, the outer guards rushed in with the intelligence, that the enemy were upon them. The drums beat, the bugles sounded, and the whole force flew to arms, as the sun-beams glittered on the armour and swords of a band of mountaineers, who were seen issuing from the woods, and galloping at full speed towards them. They were about to receive the new comers with a shower of grape, when Count Erintoff stopped them, as the band seemed to consist of but a small number.

“They are friends,” he cried; “harm them not.” And as he saw the Khan, he galloped out to meet him. Before him on his horse, the Khan bore a light form, wrapped in a cloak; when the Count, eagerly expecting to behold the beautiful features of the Circassian maid, was much disappointed, and enraged to find only the young page, Conrin.

“How comes this, Khan?” he exclaimed; “why, you have left your chief prize behind! Where are the other prisoners you promised to bring with you? The General will have but little cause to thank you for your zeal.”

“I could bring only these,” answered the Khan fiercely. “I have been baffled and defeated in all my attempts, but I will yet have my revenge. Take these two prisoners; they are Giaours, by their looks. Kill them if you will, but ask me no questions.”

“We must be content then with the prize you bring us; and may soon find more occupation for you,” replied the Count. “But how did you not succeed in bringing off the lady?”

“I have before said, ask me no questions,” replied the Khan, angrily. “Take these prisoners, and kill them if you will.”

“We are not likely to disappoint you, Khan, for if we do not get their master by their means into our power, they will be shot to-morrow;” said the Count.

“I care not. Their friends have given me trouble enough; and had not your General insisted on having them, I should have killed them myself, as I did many others,” replied the Khan.

The Baron being informed of the Khan’s arrival, was expecting him in his tent. The barbarian was therefore at once conducted thither by the Count.

“Where are the prisoners you promised to bring?” said the Baron, looking sternly at him.

“I have brought but two, who are in the hands of my followers;” answered the Khan.

“Who are they?” asked the Baron, eagerly.

“The page, and a Frank follower of Selem Gherrei,” answered the Khan.

“Ah, I must see them immediately,” exclaimed the General. “Khan, you have not fulfilled my expectations; but you shall be welcome. You and your followers shall be cared for here at present, until I can assign you lands in whatever part of the neighbouring country you may choose.”

With a haughty salutation, and a discontented look, the Khan left the tent.

“Let that proud chief be well watched,” continued the Baron, as he departed. “See, that none of his followers quit the camp. I do not trust him, even now. Had he brought off the chieftain’s daughter, we should have had a hold upon him; but he may now again escape us. Colonel Erintoff, you have lost your mistress.”

“I owe the barbarian a grudge for the disappointment,” answered the Count.

“You may soon have an opportunity of revenging yourself on him,” said the Baron. “But, now to business. Let the prisoners be brought in, and I will see what I can make of them. Stay, and assist me.”

In a few minutes, a file of soldiers conducted Javis and the young Conrin to the door of the tent, with their arms bound. The Baron ordered them to be brought in, when the soldiers retired. Javis looked round him with a firm and determined air, fearless of the presence in which he stood.

The poor page was wearied, and bruised with his rapid journey, and attempts at escape; but a fire glowed in his eyes, as he gazed at the Baron and the Count Erintoff, while a smile of scorn and defiance played round his lips.

“Stand forward, boy,” said the Baron, addressing him sternly. “What induced you to leave your native land, and join the hordes of these barbarians?”

“My own good pleasure,” answered Conrin.

“Know you not, mad boy, that, by so doing you have broken your allegiance to the Emperor, and are guilty of treason?” said the Baron.

“I owe allegiance to no man,” returned Conrin, firmly and proudly. “I have full right to go where I will.”

“You are a subject of the Emperor, boy; and as such, I find you living among his enemies,” said the Baron. “Know you not, that I have power to treat you as a traitor?”

“I am a subject of no ruler under Heaven,” answered the page; “but full well do I know your power.”

“You speak foolishly; but I pity your youth, and would be lenient with you,” answered the Baron.

“If you would be merciful, then,” said Conrin, still with a curl on his lip, and in a slight tone of irony, “let me go free. I am but a youth, and what harm can I do to the mighty power of Russia?”

“What say you, Count, shall I let this innocent boy go free?” said the Baron, sneeringly. “Well you seem to agree with me! Now, listen, boy; you shall be at liberty to go where you will, even to return to the mountains, if you wish; but on one condition. You follow a master, it seems, who led you among those barbarous hordes of savages, for which you need owe him but little gratitude, as he has been the means of placing you in your present danger. I will not conceal from you, that your master is an arch-villain and traitor to Russia; and that I am anxious to get him into my power. Now, boy, you may be instrumental in forwarding my views; and if you will undertake to obey my orders, you yourself shall not only be pardoned, but shall be richly rewarded. What say you to my proposition? Do you consent?”

It was difficult at first to determine what emotions filled the boy’s heart, at hearing this proposition. The brightness of his eyes increased, and a bitter smile played over his features. For a minute he stood confronting the General, and appearing to seek for words to give expression to his feelings.

“Man,” said he, “Commander of thousands! go seek, among the slaves who obey you, one who has betrayed his master, and send him to me, that I may learn a lesson from him, and know, in future, how to mark the features of a villain. Compare his with mine, and see if they are alike; and then say if I am likely to accept your noble offer, if such is to be the price of my liberty. It is useless speaking more.”

“Boy, you are foolish,” said the Baron, endeavouring to soften his rough voice to a tone of kindness, and to bend his features into a look of benignity. “What I ask of you, hundreds in like position would be found to do for slight reward. It is not a difficult task that I wish you to perform; and if you do it not, others will be found who will, and your master cannot escape me. All I desire of you is to entice this young Selem Gherrei near the fort, where I will place an ambush to capture him. Think you I would injure him? No!—it will be but for his own benefit, as it will rescue him from those barbarians, and restore him to civilised life. And for yourself, I promise you a rich reward. You may stay and join the army, or I will find you a safe conveyance to your own country and home. Think well upon the offer which I make you.”

Young Conrin threw a look of scorn at the General, turning his eyes slowly towards the Count, and with almost a laugh of derision, he answered—

“A noble offer, truly; could you but read my heart, you would see how great is the chance that I should accept it. Think you that to gain wealth, all people would become villains? that all men have a price, to be bought and sold? I pity the wretch with such philosophy. None but those with bad hearts could think so. No, no; such base offers are thrown away if made to me. Give me but liberty, and I shall be grateful.”

“Once again, boy, I make an offer such as is not my wont,” said the Baron. “I know not how it is, but I feel compassion for your youth, and would not harm you if you would obey my wishes. You shall go free, free as the air we breathe; on this condition, you must persuade your master to come, and I will promise you he shall receive no harm; for, in spite of all his offences, I would wean him from the cause he advocates, and bring him over to the side of Russia.”

“No!” answered the page firmly. “Were you to offer boundless riches, honours—such honours as you can bestow—were it even to place him on a throne propped up by tyranny, I would not draw him from the path of glory he follows now, fighting for his country’s cause, though his home is but a humble cot on the mountain’s side.”

“But suppose, boy, I offer to gain for him rank and fortune, and to restore him to a civilised life far from these scenes of war and bloodshed. Will not that promise tempt you?”

The page seemed to penetrate to the inmost recess of the Baron’s mind, so piercing a glance did he cast at him, as with scorn, still dwelling on his lip, he answered, “No; I have said before, my master values such things less, far less than honour. Did I think he would accept your offer—and well I know he will not—I could not trust you, General! You would impose upon my youth and innocence; but you are mistaken.”

The Baron’s brow grew dark as night; his voice almost trembled with rage as he became convinced that his attempts to persuade the youth to obey his wishes would be fruitless. “Hear me, mad boy!” he exclaimed. “You ask for liberty. Do you hope to gain it? Never! Obey my orders, or death and torture alone await you. You talk of leading a peaceful life; Count Erintoff, before whom you stand, observed you at the Mezi, following your master in the strife. Twice were you seen to slay the Emperor’s soldiers; you fought in the ranks of the rebels. That is enough alone to condemn you to death as a traitor to Russia. Think not to escape by a specious tale of innocence, nor hope for pardon on account of your youth. You were old enough to wield your weapons well. You will be condemned to die to-morrow.”

“I have said before that I would not do the deed you ask; no, not for all the riches of the East,” answered Conrin firmly. “And for my life, I do not value that so much but that I can laugh your threats to scorn. Then do your worst upon me; I am prepared to meet your vengeance.”

“Mad obstinate boy!” cried the Baron furiously, “your doom is sealed. I will examine the other prisoner. Remove the youth.”

At these words Javis, who had stood with a stern glance regarding the Baron, sprang forward in spite of his fettered hands. “Stay, General,” he cried earnestly; “you know not what you do. Be not thus cruel. This seeming page is—”

“Javis!” exclaimed Conrin, “speak not a word of me, I charge you. Swear to me that you will not, for I can soon escape their tyranny. I would die unknown to all, but to you, my true and faithful friend. As I have lived, I am prepared to die. Swear that you will not betray me to mortal soul;” he hesitated. “I command you swear, or, even now, as you well know, I have the means; you shall see me this moment die at your feet.”

“I swear to obey your wishes; but oh, save yourself. A word would do it,” cried Javis.

“Never! I fear not death half, half as much as life within the power of these men,” exclaimed Conrin.

“Boy, I give you still another chance. Let not sleep o’ercome you till you have weighed the offer I have made, or it may prove your last,” said the Baron, as Conrin was led off.

As may be supposed, the General could not elicit a word of information from Javis, who evaded every question which was asked of him, until the Baron grew furious. The same tempting offers were made to him as to Conrin, but he repelled them indignantly.

“I will not turn a traitor to my master,” he said; “but I will serve you faithfully if you will save that boy’s life; or if you will take mine, I will give it joyfully for his. You know not whom you kill.”

“If you will obey my wishes,” said the Baron, “not only will I pardon the boy, but I will load you with wealth, such as you never thought before to have.”

“Oh mighty spirit of my fathers, guard my heart!” ejaculated Javis. “No, it cannot be; not all the offers that you make me can cause my purpose to alter. Yet you cannot be so base, so cruel a tyrant, as to slay that young and harmless boy.”

“Slave, do you speak thus to me?” exclaimed the Baron. “Think you that you have any hopes of escaping death? If so, you are deceived. You, too, shall die. Think well upon my words, and mark me. The boy dies first while you are standing by. To the last moment, his life shall be in your hands. If you would save him, consent to obey my wishes. Ere mid-day comes to-morrow he shall die, and your death shall follow. Think well on what I say. Obey me, or never hope again to see the sun go down. Lead him away,” he cried to the guards without, “and keep him separate from the other prisoner. Well, Count,” he said, turning to that officer, “how think you I have managed with these traitors?”

“Admirably, Baron,” answered Count Erintoff. “Yet I never saw so much obstinacy displayed. I think you have worked upon them to comply with your wishes; and, by their aid, I still have hopes of capturing young Selem Gherrei.”

“I know not,” said the Baron; “there was a fierce stubborn look in that boy’s eye I scarce could have expected from one so young; but perhaps the Gipsy, who seems to have a most romantic affection for him, may, for the sake of saving him, obey my wishes. But if he does not, I swear no power shall save them. To-morrow morning early, they must be tried: we know the verdict. Go, Count, and make arrangements for their trial. I would be alone.”

We must hope, for the sake of human nature, that the General would, in his cooler moments, have altered the determination he had expressed; though the atrocious barbarities which that man was guilty of towards his Circassian prisoners, when any, faint or senseless from their wounds, fell into his hands, would repress any charitable construction of his motives, and ensure only our hatred.

Conrin was removed to a rough small hut of logs, which had lately been erected to serve the purpose of a prison; but it had, as yet, no occupants, owing to the constant employment of the soldiers which kept them from committing any faults. The ground was unbeaten, ends of branches projecting from the sides, and a log being left at one end to serve the purpose of a couch or seat for the prisoners; but as yet it was not even hewn smooth. Conrin was thrust in by his guards, and then left to his solitary meditations, with some black bread and almost stagnant water; not worse fare, perhaps, than the soldiers themselves were obliged to submit to. He threw himself on the rough log, deep sobs breaking at times from his breast; while, with hands clasped in agony, he turned his eyes towards Heaven, as if imploring aid.

“No! no! hopeless is my lot! I am forsaken by the mighty Spirit! and thus to die without the slightest chance of one fond look on him for whom I have sacrificed all on earth! Then the bitter anguish to feel he knows me not; or, if he knew, perchance would spurn my love. Death—annihilation would be better far. No, he shall never learn the truth. And yet I would that he should know how true and firm a heart mine was; and then, when I am reduced to the ashes from whence I sprung, perchance he would cast some fond regret upon my memory. Oh! did I think that he would love me, the very joy would make me laugh at death. But thus to die!” The sobs of the supposed page were renewed. He started, and strove to suppress his agitation, for he heard steps approaching.

It was now midnight—that time when the feelings are the acutest, the nerves most easily excited; when the thoughts strive to wander o’er the regions of boundless space to search out things mysterious and inscrutable; when the spirit often seems to quit the bonds of this our living mortal frame, to visit ideal regions. It is not the spirits of the dead, which long have flown to other realms we wot not of, which mortals fancy oft they see, but their own yet earthly souls are worked into fever by some potent and subtle influence when the vivifying power of the sun has been withdrawn.

Conrin listened earnestly.

“Ah! well I know that foot-fall! Oh! mine enemy, hast thou found me? Even now I feel his baneful influence, like that dark spirit who roves about to seek for prey. The bigot fools need not have decked him with other attributes than those of mortal man, when foul passions gain the mastery over him.”

“Who goes there?” shouted the sentry at the door of the hut.

“Your Colonel,” answered the deep tones of Count Erintoff’s voice. “Stand there, and turn not till I call you.”

After which words, Conrin heard the door of his prison open, and, by the light which faintly streamed in, he beheld the tall form of the Count, who, closing the door, placed a lanthorn he carried in his hand on the ground, so as to throw its rays on the features of the prisoner. The page rose not, spoke not, but remained in the attitude in which he had been sitting, with his hands clasped together, and his head bent down.

The visitor surveyed him earnestly ere he addressed him, meditating apparently on what he should say.

“I am come to give you liberty and life, instead of the death you so madly seem to seek. Think you I know you not? When yon dull sottish bear, the General, was questioning you, I knew you by the glance of those expressive features, that haughty brow, that lip curling in proud disdain. Think you a boy would have stood undaunted before the furious rage of yonder overbearing Baron, or would have returned him word for word and glance for glance? You played your part but ill just now, whatever you may have done before to deceive (if so you have) the youth you followed to Circassia. Can he be so dull, so hard of heart, as not to recognise the maid who loves him? By Heavens, I do believe his wits so dull, his heart so careless of those charms which drove me near distracted at their loss, that he has not yet discovered you; and loves you not, basking, as you humbly look on in the senile character of a page, in the bright smiles of some of those mountain beauties.”

With an hysterical cry, the girl, finding further disguise was useless, exclaimed—

“Begone, base villain. What demon prompts you to come hither to torment me?”

“Nay, nay, my pretty page,” said the Count, approaching her, “I would not wound your feelings for the universe. I merely spoke what I know to be most true. I ask you why, for one who loves you not, you would sacrifice your life, and throw away all the bright offers that I have made you, and which I would fulfil? Oh! it would be a cruel thing to let those charms, which have enchained my heart, mingle with the dust, to leave this bright and joyous world so full of pleasures, (to those who have the sense to find them) to go you know not where. I do not ask you to betray the man you loved. I am not fool enough to think you would do so, until you should be convinced that he despises you; though I believe that haughty rebel, young Selem Gherrei, as he is called, cares not for you. But fly hence with me, and I can easily deceive this brutish General. I offer you wealth and happiness, a bright and glorious future, where such charms as yours will far eclipse the proudest beauties of the capital. Believe me, I am not so dull a fool as not to appreciate that bright and soaring spirit—that proud undaunted soul—which raises you above your sex. I am not scrupulous as fools would be. I love you more myself, now that I know your heart is capable of so much feeling; and I would make it all my own. Then come, loved girl. This instant you shall be free. A few days more will see you on your road to Russia, where wealth, luxury, and happiness, await you.”

The Count approached yet nearer, and attempted to take the girl’s hand.

“Man!” she exclaimed—“if you are not rather the incarnation of the evil one, begone. Come not to torment my heart, already almost broken. Know, then, that luxury and wealth are things I despise almost as much as him who offers them; and as for happiness, I never in this world shall know it again, nor have you the power to give it me. Begone, and leave me to myself. You stir not. Then if you will not obey my commands, but still have a soul that can be influenced by prayer, oh! hear my earnest supplication, and leave me to myself.”

“What madness makes you utter words like these?” said the Count. “Think well of what you throw away, and of the dark fate which awaits you. The Baron vows—and well I know he keeps his oaths when prompted by cruelty and revenge—that you must die to-morrow; and no mortal power but mine can save you. A word from me would rescue you. Fly with me. Ah! If you refuse, think not the man you love will benefit by your sacrifice; for here I swear that I will pursue him with the utmost rancour to avenge your death, of which he has been the cause. He has crossed my path before, and ere long I trust to see him in my power.”

“You move me not by fear of any harm you can do him,” answered the girl calmly. “He is above your malice, and would despise your vows of vengeance.”

“If not for his sake then, save yourself for your own,” exclaimed the Count. “Think how you will die, disgraced, unknown till after you have ceased to breathe; and then you will be a thing for savage soldiers to pass their brutal jest upon. Oh, why this madness? Let me save you from yourself, and fly with me.”

The proud Count knelt at her feet, and again endeavoured to take her hand. “See,” he exclaimed, “I kneel to you to beseech that you will let me save you from cruel death and contumely.”

The girl then shrinking back, “Begone, I say, again,” she cried. “Believe me, I despise you far too much even to seek your pity.”

The Count sprang to his feet. “Know then, wilful girl,” he exclaimed, “that nothing shall save you. Your cruelty will change my love to hate; and though I still might save your life, I shall not rest until I see you die. None shall know that Count Erintoff has humbled himself in vain. There are yet some hours to dawn. Think on my vows, and promise to obey my wishes. A word of yours would win my love again; else, before the sun mounts highest in the sky, you will have become a cold and senseless clod. I leave you now.”

The girl answered not, but looked disdainfully on the Count as he retired. Then, sinking on the hard log, she placed her hands before her eyes—to shut out something dreadful from her sight. A terrific struggle seemed to take place in that tender, that loving, bosom, as if the agitated spirit were about to burst its tabernacle; but it passed, and she was calm—so calm that it seemed she slept.

Volume Three—Chapter Ten.

The morning came, the glorious sun rose undimmed by clouds, and nature wore a face of gladness; the birds sung sweetly from their leafy coverts, the refreshing dew which sprinkled the herbage, and the autumnal-tinted leaves, sparkled brightly. A light mist, rising from the lowlands, faded away, and left the landscape more clear and lovely from the contrast.

The prisoners were led forth from their places of confinement. Their trial commenced. Undauntedly they stood before all the highest officers of the garrison.

Several soldiers declared that they had seen them fighting on the side of the enemy. Neither of the prisoners would answer a word to the interrogations made to them. Their sentence was passed. Death was recorded. Their guilt was clear, nor did they deign to sue for pardon. As their sentence was pronounced, Javis sprang forward with an imploring look towards the president, and was again about to utter some exclamation; but a glance from the supposed page stopped him, and, dejectedly he stepped back, turning a troubled and anxious eye towards his companion, though he seemed perfectly resigned to his own fate. The Baron hurried over the proceedings with brutal haste; and the prisoners were ordered forthwith to be led from the camp and shot as traitors to Russia.

They were conducted from the tent where the court martial was held, between a file of soldiers, walking as firmly and composed as if they had forgotten that a few minutes more were to be their last.

The fort, as we have before said, was erected on some elevated ground, at a short distance from the mountains, rising like an island from the plains and marshes of the Kouban. The intervening space between the fort and the mountain, was one uninterrupted meadow, unbroken by rocks or inclosures. The spot selected for the cruel execution, was on a green slope reaching from the entrenchments to the plain facing the mountains; and here a body of the troops were now drawn up while the remainder continued at their labours digging the entrenchments, and erecting the requisite buildings for barracks and store houses, in preparation for the coming winter.

At a short distance from the fort, a foraging party in compact order, accompanied by artillery and cavalry were seen marching along the plain, from the direction of the Kouban, unaware of the execution about to take place.

The Baron had sternly commanded the Count Erintoff to lead the troops destined for the execution, though it seemed that he would willingly have escaped the office; but he was compelled to obey: and he now stood at the head of his regiment, drawn up in line on the green slope we have described, the firing party a little in advance of the other troops. The General himself stood at some distance on the newly raised embankments of the fort, pacing to and fro, with a dark frown on his brow, and his eyes glancing restlessly around. As the young prisoners were led out from the fort, they passed the spot where he stood. He commanded the party who guarded them to halt, and bring them before him.

The disguised page wore the same stern look as on the previous day; but a brighter almost supernatural foe burned in her eye as she met that of the General. Javis advanced boldly with a firm tread and perfect composure; but as he turned his looks towards his companion, his features would become convulsed as if some pang of agony passed through his frame.

“Prisoners,” said the Baron, “you have but a few short moments to live; but, even now, I give you a chance of escape. Obey my orders, and I promise to pardon you. To you, boy, I speak first. Will you do as I wish?”

“Never!” answered the page in a deep firm voice. “I am prepared to die.”

“Then lead him on,” cried the Baron furiously. “You, perchance, may have more wisdom,” he continued, addressing Javis, “than yonder obstinate boy, who brings his own fate on himself. Will you save, not only your own life, but his?”

“I would save his life on any terms,” exclaimed Javis; “but he would be the first to blame me. For my own, I value it not. But, Oh! spare him, General, spare him for his youth alone. Ask him not to do that to which he cannot consent. You know not what you do in slaying him. Spare him, as you hope for mercy!”

“Lead off the audacious rebel,” cried the Baron furiously. “Let the boy be shot first,” he added, addressing an officer who waited his commands. “I can gain nought from him; and let his companion witness his fate: perchance it will bring him to reason.”

There was not an officer in the camp who would not, if he could, have saved the lives of those youths at this moment; but none dared speak; even the dull soldiers felt tears spring to their eyes. The wild Khan, who was on horseback in company with a troop of cavalry, looked on with astonishment; and, as he witnessed the noble bearing and bravery of the prisoners, even he repented that he had brought this untimely fate upon them, until he remembered that it was by the hand of one of them that his brother fell. But of all the party the Count Erintoff seemed the most affected. His countenance was as pale as death; he dared not turn his eye towards the prisoners. He felt himself to be a wretch cursed by heaven; a cold-blooded murderer, instigated by the basest, the blackest revenge. The prisoners had reached the fatal spot, and the youngest was placed upon the ground, while Javis was led aside: they exchanged glances, but neither spoke. The supposed page heaved a deep-drawn sigh as she saw the glance of agony which the faithful Javis—of whose death she was too truly the cause—cast towards her.

A soldier advanced to bind her eyes.

“No,” she cried, putting the handkerchief aside. “I would look my last upon the bright blue heavens, to which my spirit so soon must fly. I can face death as fearlessly as the oldest-soldier present. Let my eyes at least be at liberty, to the last.”

The soldier looked towards his officer, who ordered him to follow the prisoner’s wishes, and he returned to the ranks.

All was prepared. The girl stood undaunted; but her eyes wandered towards the mountains with an anxious glance. What does she see there? Is it the sun which sparkles on the shining leaves of the forest? She stands entranced, regardless of her executioners; for a band of steel-clad warriors, their swords flashing in the sun like a foaming torrent, sweep downward from the mountain’s brow. The wood is full of them. On every side they pour forth from amid the trees. At their head rides one urging on his steed at its utmost speed, and waving aloft his sabre. The eye of love distinguishes him from afar, before the Russians, intent on the scene of execution, have perceived their danger. The prisoner uttered a cry of joy. “Thank thee, Great Spirit, that I see that loved one ere I die!” she exclaimed. “Yes! yes! I’ll join you, in spite of these tyrants!”

Forgetful of her situation, forgetful of all but that he whom she loved was approaching to her rescue, she lifted up her arms to rush to meet him. It was the signal of her death; and Javis, breaking from his guards, sprang forward and threw himself before her.

At that moment the foraging party reached the fort, when a soldier rushed forward from the ranks to where the Baron stood.

“Hold! hold!” he cried with fierce excitement. “Stay the execution. Barbarous chief! you know not what you do! Stay, or you will murder your own daughter, who was carried off from you by the dwarf Ladislau; she was placed in my hands for her mother’s sake, a daughter of my tribe. Know me as the Gipsy Conrad.”

The Baron seemed as one who heard him not; he was astounded, and gazed wildly at the speaker. His faculties were paralysed; his limbs trembled. The precious moments flew by. He lifted his arm.

“Stay the execution!” he shrieked. But ere the words were uttered, the rattle of musketry was heard. The smoke hung like a funeral pall over the spot, as, rushing towards it, the fierce Baron fell senseless near the slaughtered form of his daughter, the Gipsy girl, Azila; and by her side lay the body of her humble, devoted, and despised lover, Javis.

The alarm was given that the enemy were upon them. There was no time to retreat to their entrenchments. Fast and furious came the mountain horsemen. The drums beat to arms, the soldiers rushed to man the guns, and to seize their weapons. The troops drawn up outside wheeled to receive the shock from the furious charge of the foe, the cavalry advanced to meet them; but they were like reeds bent beneath the tiger’s spring. Men and horses trembled at the wild war shriek. None could withstand that desperate onset; and the first, the foremost who fell, was the traitor Khan, cut down by the sword of Thaddeus.

“A well-timed blow, brave Pole,” cried the Hadji, as he swept by to charge the Russians. “Thus die all traitors to Circassia!”

Close to him was Selem, encountering the sword of Count Erintoff, who shouted, “Ah! we have met at length? Traitor to Russia, yield!”

“Heaven defend the right!” cried Selem, parrying his blow. Their swords flashed quickly round, and in a moment the Count fell mortally wounded from his horse.

The Hadji, Alp, and many other chiefs, and their followers rushed on the bayonets of the infantry. “Ah! Allah!” shouted the old warrior, “we’ll cut through that wall of steel. Onward, men of Attèghèi!” So terrific was the onset that the two foremost ranks of the Russians trembled, wavered, and fell back on the rear, as the dauntless warriors approached them, driving the others in hopeless confusion, cut down by the Circassian sabres, and trampled under foot by their war-steeds.

“Ah! Allah!” again shouted the Hadji. “Follow me, my son, and we shall soon be within their trenches!” and attacking those who alone stood their ground, followed by a dense cloud of horsemen, sweeping over their prostrate foes.

The remnant of the Russian cavalry had turned, and fled towards the entrance of their fort; but none succeeded in reaching it: the drawbridge was drawn up, the gates were closed.

Why does Selem stay in his career of victory, his cheek blanched even amid the excitement of the combat? On the ground weltering in blood, he sees the slaughtered form of his faithful, loving page; he bends low from his horse, and lifts it in his arms.

Onward, onward rushed the mountaineers towards their hoped for prize; but as they mingled among the confused mass of flying infantry close to the trenches, a tremendous discharge of cannon saluted them. On friend and foe fell alike the crashing showers of deadly grape; and the ramparts were lined with bristling rows of bayonets. Many of the gallant patriots fell beneath the devastating fire in their career of victory.

“Turn, turn, my noble friends!” cried the brave Chief Arslan Gherrei. “It is madness to be exposed to this iron storm. We can never take the fort on horseback.”

At the word, the dense troop swept round. A horseman, in the uniform of Russia, seized Selem’s rein, and urged on his horse, while Thaddeus, on the other side, joined the retreating Circassians. Before the guns could be reloaded, they were beyond their range.

The mountaineers halted in the confines of the forest. Selem sprang to the ground, endeavouring to staunch the blood which flowed from many wounds in the breast of his page. He tore open his vest; his heart turned sick with horror and grief as he discovered a woman’s form. He leant over it with deep grief. The veil which so long had obscured them was torn from his eyes. He knew the features of Azila. In a moment he read the history of her deep unswerving love, constant to the last through trials, hardships, and neglect. He felt her heart to discover if it yet beat. He tried to persuade himself that her yet warm breath fanned his cheeks; but it was in vain. A faint smile still lingered on her features; but no throb answered to his touch. The dark blood flowed slowly from the wounds; her heroic, her loving, spirit had fled; Azila was dead!

None of the chiefs, not even Selem’s father, approached him. They had witnessed the scene, and read the sad story at a glance. Long did he bend, in deep agony, over that inanimate form.

He was aroused by the Russian deserter.

“Think you not, young chief, that I, too, have cause for grief? Remember you not how I loved that fair and noble girl? Do you not know me?”

“Yes, yes, I know you now, my friend,” answered Selem, recognising in the stranger the Gipsy chief who had aided his escape from Russia, the reputed father of Azila. “You have, indeed, deep cause to grieve for your daughter.”

“Except that she sprung from my race, she is not my daughter, though I loved her more than one. See, two of my race I have lost today most cruelly murdered;” and he pointed to the body of Javis, which he had also brought off on the horse of one of the slain troopers. “She, too, murdered by her own father, though he knew it not till too late, when madness seized his brain; and yon poor youth, he also deserves our pity, for I know his deep, yet hopeless, love for Azila, for whose sake he followed you.”

“What say you, my old friend?” said Selem, rising from the ground whereon he had been kneeling. “By what strange fortune came you to learn so horrid a tale? and what wonderful chance conducted you hither at this moment?”

“It may seem extraordinary that I am here; and yet such was the decree of fate, when first we met beneath my tent in Russia. You were the unconscious instrument of bringing me hither; and yet, from the remotest period of time, this event was destined. The latest cause was this: It was discovered that I had aided in your escape from Russia, when I and all my tribe, who could be found, were seized and condemned to serve in the ranks of the Russian army of the Caucasus. Azila’s history, I alone, with the dwarf Ladislau, have known from her birth. He was another cause of these events. As you remember well, the Baron always made him his butt, treating him with contumely, little thinking what deep feelings of hatred and revenge rankled in the bosom of the diminutive being. A lovely girl of our race, whose sweet voice enraptured the proudest nobles of Moscow, won the haughty Baron’s heart; and, dazzled by his rank and wealth, she consented, at an unhappy moment, to exchange her liberty to become the slavish wife of a tyrannical master. She soon pined for her freedom, regretting the miserable lot she had madly chosen; and, as her husband’s admiration of her charms wore away, he treated her with cruelty and neglect. Yet jealous feelings, at the same time, possessed the tyrant’s breast; and he began to look with an eye of suspicion on an innocent daughter she had just borne him.

“The broken-hearted wife of the Baron died; and Ladislau, to revenge himself on his tyrant, brought away his child, and delivered her to me, making me swear never to reveal her history till his death, and that I heard of ere I left Russia. To rescue her from a life of thraldom and neglect, I determined to keep her as my own daughter, bringing her up with all the accomplishments I could well find means to bestow. She became all I could wish in mind and person, wreathing herself round my heart as much as any child of my own could do; and when she once visited my tents, she seemed so to enjoy the wild freedom of our lives, that I could not again part from her, intending, however, on Ladislau’s death, to make her father recognise her, and restore her to her proper rank and fortune. When you came to my tents, knowing that you were not her brother, I hoped in some way, through your means, to accomplish my purpose; little thinking how deep was the love which had sprung up in the sweet girl’s bosom for you.”

“Blind and dull have I been!” exclaimed Selem in a tone of anguish, “not to have seen through her disguise before; for now, when lost to me for ever, I feel how fondly I could have returned her love.”

He knelt again over her, and took her cold lifeless hand:—“My true Azila, faithful to death! A hundred fold has your murder added to the debt of retribution I owe our tyrannical invaders. Yes, sweet one, I again swear to avenge your death on every one of that cursed race who sets foot on the shores of Circassia. Bear witness, my friend, I sign my vow before as fair an image as nature ever formed! Let this be the token! Where the battle is thickest, there will I bear this silken lock.”

He kissed her pallid brow, and severed with his dagger one of her long black tresses, which he entwined through the links of his chain armour. He knelt over the bleeding form for some moments more in silence: he then rose, and extended his hand to the Gipsy chief.

“Welcome, my friend, to the land I call my own. I may now hope to repay your hospitality.”

“If my services will be accepted, I have come to offer my hand and heart to the cause of the patriots. I should have remained a good subject of Russia, if she had allowed me; but she will now find me and my tribe her mortal enemies; for I doubt not that all my people will take the first opportunity of escaping, when they hear that I am on the side of the Circassians; and heartily will they all join in avenging that poor girl’s death.”

“It was a barbarous deed,” cried Selem, casting an agonised glance on the pale features of Azila, beautiful, even in death.

Arslan Gherrei now approached his son; “Let not sorrow take possession of your soul, my son, for the loss of that faithful girl. I, I too well can share your feelings; but shew yourself stern as a warrior among our countrymen. Think not of grief, while we have swords in our hands to avenge our friends. That poor maiden shall have a befitting funeral, she shall be consigned to the care of Ina, who, with her friends, will mourn over their lost sister.”

“You speak truly, my father,” exclaimed Selem, “no one henceforth shall see me shed a tear of joy or grief, till every hallowed spot of our loved country shall be freed from the defiling tread of the Russian foot, or till the death-wound comes to send me to a warrior’s grave.”

“My son, your words make your father’s heart beat proudly,” said the chieftain; “and worthy are you of our royal race. See, is not yonder sight enough to rejoice the breast of every foe to Russia?”

Selem turned his eyes in the direction his father indicated, where the ground, in front of the Russian entrenchments, was strewn with the slain; so rapidly and surely had the Circassian sabres done their work among the panic-stricken ranks. Few, if any, had reached the gates of the fort; for of those who escaped the first fierce onset, most had been mowed down by the showers of grape and rockets fired by their own countrymen. Many of the Circassians had fallen; but not one had been left on the field; every horseman seizing his comrade as he was wounded or slain, and bearing him on his steed from the ground.

The band of warriors, assembled in the forest overlooking the fort, kept the garrison in a constant state of alarm; their swords and armour being seen amid the trees, when any of them approached the skirts of the wood.

A council of war was now held. The Hadji proposed attacking the fort again at once, rushing from their concealments, without a moment’s warning to the enemy, and leaping the trenches on their chargers, in spite of the shower of grape they might expect.

“Mashallah!” he cried, “they should soon learn how little use their big guns would be, when we got at their tails, for they cannot kick as well as bite.”

Even Selem, generally cautious, as well as bold, eagerly seconded his old friend’s proposition; and Alp was employed in persuading most of his companions to accompany him. But the proposition was overruled by Arslan Gherrei, and the more prudent leaders, who considered the attempt would be madness; as, to their cost, they had already found the fort so strongly guarded with cannon; not one of their warriors having fallen, except by the destructive fire from the guns. It was at last agreed to storm the fort at a future day, when the garrison would be unprepared to receive them.

Selem, rousing himself from his grief, introduced the Gipsy chief as the foster father of the slaughtered maiden, explaining to them his history. As there was now no further cause for delay, the band of warriors prepared to leave the scene of their exploit; the Dehli Khans rushing forward, and waving their swords as a parting salute of defiance to their foes.

Selem stood by the side of Azila’s corpse. The Gipsy approached him.

“Let me take the office of bearing those remains,” he said; “to you it would be too severe a task.”

Selem offered no resistance, as the Gipsy enveloped the body in his horseman’s cloak, and placed it before him on his saddle. A follower of Arslan Gherrei carried the body of Javis, in like manner; while Thaddeus rode by Selem’s side, offering vain consolation to a heart so deeply wounded.

After riding some distance, the party separated; some to return to the camp, and a few, among whom was Alp, to accompany Selem to the valley of Abran Bashi.

Volume Three—Chapter Eleven.

It was a sad and mournful train which returned to the valley of Abran Bashi, the scene but a few days before of the bridal festival and of joy. Selem had sent to announce his return to his sister, with an account of the sad catastrophe which had occurred. As the cortège approached the house of the chief, she, her woman, and the other females of the hamlet, came out to meet them; and into their hands the remains of the slaughtered Azila were committed.

The Gipsy approached Selem, who, after embracing his sister, had sauntered through the grove to indulge in his grief unseen.

“Young chief,” he said, “where shall my poor child be buried?”

How sadly, how harshly did those words grate on Selem’s ears! How many unutterable thoughts of anguish and regret do they summon to the mind of all! The closing for ever of some loved object from our view—the sad reality of death, before only looked on as a remote object!

“Would she not wish to lie in some secluded spot, where her spirit, that had been sorely troubled in this life, might be at rest?”

“My friend,” answered Selem, “there is near here a grove sacred to the one Great Spirit we all adore, whatever may be our religious creeds. None approach that spot with irreverent or light feelings, and there shall Azila rest.”

“Such would have been the spot she would have chosen,” answered the Gipsy. “And by her side we will place poor Javis. He well deserves to be near her, for he might yet be alive, had he not thrown himself before her to receive the shot.”

“He was truly faithful to the last,” said Selem. “And yet it was a happier fate for him to die. But, my friend, speak no more on the subject. We must soon again haste to the exciting scenes of war, which, as men, befit us most. Know you where the people of your tribe are stationed, that we may endeavour to assist them in escaping from the foe? They will be received by my countrymen with open arms, and you may resume your former habits of independence, and your free mode of life. You will find here no tyrannical laws to restrict you, if you conform to the simple habits and customs of my people; and you may again become the chief of your tribe.”

“That can never be,” answered the Gipsy. “My tribe are broken and dispersed; though the few who may escape from Russian thraldom, will obey me as of yore. But where are our women and children? Where our cattle and our tents? I and my people will serve under you. Where you go, we will go; and we will be faithful and true to you, until death.”

“I could not wish for a more faithful follower than poor Javis proved,” answered Selem. “And I fear not but you will be equally true to me. Thus, gladly do I agree to the compact you propose.”

After walking some way, side by side, a low and plaintive melody, wafted through the grove, reached their ears, and, returning, they found a a group of veiled maidens standing round an open bier, on which lay, as if reposing in a calm sleep, the body of Azila. Once more, ere the earth closed over her for ever, she was clothed in the garments of her sex. A white veil was fastened to her hair, and lay on each side of her pale face that looked like some beautiful piece of sculptured marble. Her hands were joined on her breast, on which a rose was placed; a white robe enveloped her form, while flowers, fresh picked from the groves and meadows, strewed the bier.

The maidens, with Ina weeping at their head, bore the body along, singing, in plaintive tones, a low dirge; while an aged minstrel, who preceded the train, chaunted, at intervals, to the sound of his wild harp, an account of her death. A band of young men followed, carrying the body of Javis, wrapped in his winding-sheet, on an open bier; and at the end of each verse, they joined their voices in chorus to those of the females. Next followed Selem, Thaddeus, and many others of the youths and maidens of the village, who had the day before been performing the same sad office to those who had fallen in the conflict with the Khan.

When the mourning train reached the sacred grove, where the graves had been already dug, they found the most venerable elder of the valley waiting their arrival; and, as the bodies of the two young beings were placed in their last resting-place, he offered up prayers to the Great Spirit for a quick translation of their souls to the realms of bliss, and a happy immortality; in which pious supplication the assembly all reverently joined.

The graves of the deceased were placed side by side beneath the shelter of an overhanging rock that projected from the steep slope of the mountain. Two trees bent over the spot, entwining their boughs above. A small slab of stone was placed at the head of each grave; and on the trees the maidens hung chaplets of wild flowers.

The stranger girl sleeps calmly in her early and bloody grave; nor has her name departed from the memory of the mountaineers. Her romantic history and sad fate are recorded in their songs, and chaunted among their many wild and melancholy ballads, for which, alas! they have but too many subjects.

Those who came to perform the funeral ceremony were gone, and our hero remained. He thought alone, by the grave-side of her who had so deeply adored him, and whom he, too late, had learned to love. He heard a gentle sob; he looked up, his sister was beside him; he took her hand, but did not speak. The last time he had attended a funeral was when their mother was buried; and her dying injunctions recurred to him more forcibly now that his heart was softened with sorrow.

Selem hitherto had felt that he was wanting in one of the great requisites, enthusiasm in the cause of religion. He had never indeed thought deeply on the subject; and how could he, when engaged in a bloody and revengeful war, be a follower of a creed which indicated peace and good-will towards all men? Had he not sworn never to sheathe his sword while a Russian remained in arms near them? How could he indeed hold up to the example of his countrymen a religion professed by foes, who were engaged in openly breaking every precept it commanded, by the unjust and exterminating war on the liberties of their country? He knew that they would laugh his lessons to scorn, when he had no better reasons to give them than those he could advance; and that they would despise him for his infatuation in proposing a creed which allowed its professors to act as their enemies did towards them.

He felt, however, that his sister would not be swayed by these considerations, when she heard that it was the faith in which their mother died; and that it had been the last wish of her heart, that her daughter should adopt it; so that he had strong hopes, with such a foundation, of convincing her of its truth and beauty. He knew not, indeed, how powerful an advocate of his cause he had in Thaddeus. His only hope, with regard to his countrymen at large, rested on the fact that Christianity had been at some period, however remote, the faith of their forefathers; that its emblem still remained venerated by them in the land, and that they were imbued universally with a strong feeling of respect for their ancient customs. Its great opponent, Islamism, had gained but a weak footing in their minds; and they were more likely to adopt a faith which they would consider better founded, if they could be convinced that it was the belief of their ancestors, and that its very symbols still existed among them.

Selem took Ina’s hand, and walked some way in silence. At length he said—

“I have much to communicate to you, and may have but a short time for the purpose; for I know not how soon I may be called upon to offer up my blood as a sacrifice to the liberties of our country; and gladly would I suffer death if one so dear as you were to be benefited by it.”

“Oh! talk not of death, dear Selem; the very thought breaks my heart,” cried Ina. “Have I but just found you to lose you? The noble spirit of our father would sink beneath so great a blow.”

“Do not grieve, dear sister! Thoughts of death will not bring the dreaded tyrant nearer; nor, if we persuade ourselves that he cannot reach us, will the vain hope shield us more securely from his unfailing dart. I spoke but as every warrior must feel, when he sees each day his friends cut down at his side; but it makes him not the less brave or daring, though he knows that it may be his turn to fall the next. But I wish not to die; and for your sake, my sister, may Heaven grant me a long life, and reserve my humble efforts for our country’s cause! But, Ina, the subject on which I would speak to you is not of death, but of life. I bring you a message from our lost mother, which I have too long delayed delivering. You, her unknown babe, whom she confided to my care, if I could succeed in discovering you, were in her thoughts to the last.”

They had reached the cross before described, in the grove towards which Selem now pointed.

“Know you, Ina, why, and by whom, yon cross was placed there?”

“I have scarce thought why,” she answered. “Perchance by our fathers, before Allah and his prophet were known in our land.”

“Yes, it was placed there by our fathers, doubtlessly,” answered Selem; “but as a symbol of a pure and holy faith, from which their children have widely departed. It is the symbol of a faith in which our mother died, in which I was nurtured, and in which she charged me to instruct you.”

“What!” cried Ina. “Are there more faiths than that which, a short time ago, all in the land believed and the faith of Mahomet—by which I thought we could alone gain Paradise?”

“Indeed, Ina, there are many strange creeds in the world,” answered Selem; “but one only is pure and true. It was established long before Mahomet promulgated his doctrines; and far, far different are its tenets from his. He, indeed, took truth for the foundation of his religion, acknowledging the great, the immutable, all-powerful, all-seeing Being, whom our countrymen also worship with a belief in a hereafter. But on that foundation, he built up a superstructure, composed of falsehoods as gross as they were improbable, forming his tenets to please the wild hordes over whom he sought to gain power. His aim was conquest. He promised a quick translation to the realms of bliss, to those who fell fighting for him; and his Paradise he pictured as the utmost enjoyment of sensual pleasures, such as his followers most prized on earth, awarding to you, the fairer portion of the human race, the same place of abject subjection which he would make you submit to in this world. To forward his great aim, personal aggrandisement, he preached extermination to all who would not embrace his faith, or, in other words, obey his rule. He found that women did not assist him in his aims; and he, therefore, pretended that they were formed to be the abject slaves of man’s will.

“This, dear sister, is the religion which the Turks have sought to introduce into our country; and already have its baneful effects been felt. Now mark the difference of the religion of the cross. It inculcates peace and love to all men. It pictures a heaven of bliss, unutterable, free from all the base and sensual passions of this life, pure, eternal. It makes woman man’s helpmate, his companion, his adviser, his equal. It gives birth to all the nobler feelings of our nature. It purifies love, it sanctifies marriage, it exalts courage, and it produces friendship unselfish and firm.”

“All! what a beautiful religion must that be, my brother!” cried Ina, her eyes beaming with fervour, and the colour of her cheeks heightening with animation. “I have often wondered that a Great Spirit, whom men call just and good, should have formed one half of his people to be the slaves of the other; but now I see that it is not that He is unjust, but that man has become usurping and bad. Oh! I can never again believe that Mahomet was a true prophet!”

“Ina, your words delight me,” cried her brother. “I find my task almost accomplished when you speak thus. Man is, indeed, wicked; and the Great Spirit, seeing this, sent one from heaven to teach him a pure and holy code of morals. Christ so loved mankind, and grieved for their sins, that, notwithstanding his power, he allowed himself to be slain on the cross, by those whose wicked customs he came to overthrow. His worshippers have, therefore, made use of that sign to remind them of Him who died for their sake; and in this very grove, on the spot on which we now stand, have our fathers bowed the knee in adoration of that benignant Being.”

“Oh, my brother,” said Ina. “How I love to hear you speak thus, for I feel and know that your words are those of truth!”

“I believe them,” answered Selem. “And much I wish that not only you, but that all our countrymen, would adopt the same creed. It would prove a surer and more trusty bulwark against our foes than all foreign aid. Knowing our cause to be just, they would have a firmer trust in the God of justice. It would make them cease from inflicting injuries on each other; for it teaches us to treat others as we would ourselves be treated. It will enlighten and add firmness to their minds, for it will banish superstition or dread of evil omens. It will give combination and strength to their councils, for they will have confidence in each other, being bound together in one brotherhood as they would be. It will enable them to bear reverses with fortitude; for they will consider them as inflictions kindly sent from above as a punishment for their sins; and it will temper victory with moderation, as a boon granted from heaven to be received with thanksgivings and praise to the great Giver.”

Ina was thoughtful for a few minutes. “But tell me, Selem,” she said at length, “how is it that the cruel Urus, from whom you have learnt this religion, act as they do? How is it that they attack our country, murdering and destroying those who have never done them any harm?”

“You have urged an objection, which I anticipated,” replied Selem; “but it does not follow that a religion is false, because its mere professors do not act according to its injunctions. It has a far, very far, different influence on its true believers. The religion of the cross is not the less true, because men, calling themselves its followers, are wicked. Among the Russians it has been so debased and altered, so overwhelmed with superstition and priestcraft, that it has sunk into a contemptible and absurd idolatry. The gospel inculcates a simple, pure, and moral rule of life, easy to be understood and followed. Such, Ina, is the religion I would teach you, and in which I was myself instructed by a good and enlightened man, who had kept his own mind free from the gross errors and superstition of those who surrounded him. The injustice of this war, which the Russians are waging against us, is indeed no argument against the religion I speak of; for it has too frequently happened, that men in power act in direct opposition to its tenets. They send armies to ravage countries, destroy cities, and commit atrocities of every kind, without the slightest compunction; nor think themselves at all the worse worshippers of a mild and forgiving faith; each individual holding himself irresponsible for the acts of the whole. Thus a people, who consider themselves the most civilised and religious in the world, may be guilty of crimes to be equalled only by those perpetrated by the wildest hordes of barbarism when their interests or passions are excited.”

In that calm retreat did the young Circassian Chief unfold to his fair sister the truths of his religion; and, as her artless mind began to comprehend them, she clasped her hands with gratitude, that so beautiful an institution had been formed for the benefit of the human race.

“Oh my brother,” she exclaimed, “little did I think, when my heart beat with joy at your return, that you would also bring me so precious a gift. What a new, what an extended view of happiness, you have opened to my thoughts! Oh, do not leave me, Selem, till you have taught me all I can learn, as I would not, for worlds, now lose that religion. It seems like some valued jewel of price, which, till secured to me, I should every moment be in fear of having snatched from my grasp. And does Thaddeus, does your friend also believe in this religion?”

“Indeed, I trust he does, dearest,” answered Selem. “But it is long since I have spoken to him on the subject. Ah! here he comes to answer for himself, I see him wandering through the grove, lost in meditation.”

The growing darkness prevented the speaker from seeing the deep blush which this announcement called up on his sister’s cheek. Thaddeus started with pleasure, as he beheld his friend approaching, and saw by whom he was accompanied. “Here, my friend,” said Selem to him, “I have begun a task, in which I trust you will aid me (avoiding all the intricate and foolishly disputed points) by teaching our faith to my sister.”

“Gladly I accept the office, and deeply interested I am in the success of my instruction,” replied Thaddeus. “But, my friend, I have been longing to unbosom myself to you of a secret, lest you should accuse me of deceit or treachery.”

Ina felt her heart beat quickly, from guessing the words which would follow.

“Speak, Thaddeus, what is it you would say,” said Selem, taking his sister’s hand.

“Selem, my friend,” replied Thaddeus, “to you I owe my life and all I now possess; but, though deeply grateful, I would ask still more of you. I have your sister’s leave to speak.” Selem felt Ina’s hand press his. “From the first moment I saw her, I felt I would die rather than cease to love, or learn that she no longer loves me. Will you sanction and aid us in our hopes? or, if not, deliver me again into the hands of the Russians, from whom you rescued me.”

“My friend! my brother! your words give me joy indeed,” exclaimed Selem, “Believe me, that I will aid to the utmost the wishes of the two beings most dear to me on earth. But, remember, we have a father to consult; though he, I doubt not, will give his daughter to one, without whose aid he would have lost her entirely.”

“Oh, I know he will,” cried Ina. “For he dearly loves me.”

“Our father, Ina, is as good as he is brave; and it shall be my grateful charge to plead your cause with him. I will tell him, that my friend is of a noble and princely race, who were chiefs in their own country before Russian swords overwhelmed them. As for wealth, we want it not here. We have abundance for all.”

Thus conversing, those three young beings sat beneath the trees of the sacred grove, till the rising moon warned them to return home.

In the fervid climes of the East, smiles and laughter succeed tears and grief, as rapidly as sunshine follows the showers of spring. Life is more full of excitement and danger; the pulse beats quicker; the passions are more easily aroused, whether of sorrow or pleasure. There is, perhaps, more to enjoy in life; but it is held by even a more frail tenure than in the colder regions of the north.

On the following morning the inhabitants of the anderoon were in a state of great agitation, while old Kahija bustled about to array Zara in her bridal vestments; for her betrothed was anxiously waiting her arrival at his father’s house. The old nurse, with tears streaming from her eyes, was busily employed in enveloping her in a long white robe, fastened at her head; which, when drawn round, completely concealed her figure.

“My dear Ina,” said the blushing girl, “Alp yesterday evening was persuading me to leave you. He says that he must soon return to that horrid warfare, and that his mother is anxiously waiting me at his home. He will be alarmed if I do not come; he used many other arguments, till I consented at last, in spite of all my kind nurse’s persuasions to the contrary.”

“It will make me sad to lose you, dear one; but it would be wrong to disappoint your brave Alp’s mother,” said Ina, smiling and kissing her cheek. “So you must yield to your fate: a dreadful one, indeed, to become the wife of so wild and handsome a youth as Alp!”

“I wonder when young Ali Bey will be here. Alp said that he would come early; but I dread that terrible gallop to his home.”

“We will go to the gate and see if he is coming,” said Ina. “Are you ready, dear one?”

Zara signified that she was prepared for the worst that could happen; so the two maidens sallied forth followed by old Kahija. They had not long to wait when the young bridegroom galloped up, attired in his bravest suit, followed by a gay and gallant train. They reined in their steeds at a short distance; when, all dismounting, he alone respectfully advanced, and courteously saluted the two fair girls, drawing his sword as he knelt at Zara’s feet, and swearing solemnly to protect her, for his friend’s sake, with his life. Then, after she had bestowed an affectionate kiss on Ina and on old Kahija, he lifted her, with the tenderest care, before him on his steed, and galloped off towards the domain of Hadji Guz Beg.

“Ah me! she is a sweet flower,” sighed old Kahija; “I shall long mourn her loss. But what makes me most sad is the thought of the interruption to the marriage feast. It is a bad omen, and I like it not. Ah me! ah me! I never knew good come of such things. And so melancholy a funeral but yesterday! And then the brave youths who were killed at the wedding feast by the fierce Khan and his followers! Mark me, there is something more dreadful coming still;” and she retired into the anderoon to indulge in a flood of tears.

Perhaps Ina might have followed her, had she not promised to meet Thaddeus and her brother, about that time, and she trusted soon to enjoy the same happiness which she hoped would be Zara’s lot.

Volume Three—Chapter Twelve.

The vast concourse, which we have described as assembled on the banks of the Ubin, had long since dispersed to their homes, disappointed at having performed no great exploit, though they had made several daring attacks on the Russian troops, with severe loss on both sides.

The short, but rigorous, winter had now thrown its hoary mantle over the northern provinces of Abasia: the plains of the Kouban appeared one vast sheet of dazzling whiteness, here and there dotted, in the far distance, by the dark forts of the Russians. The trees, so lately covered with the rich and varied leaves of autumn, now seemed like some fabled grove of silver, in a scene of enchantment, decked with strange and fantastic splendour, crystallised by the frost. A deep and solemn silence reigned on the wooded heights which overlooked the plain. Not a bird was heard to sing in the groves. Here and there might be seen the footmarks of some beasts of prey, as they crossed the mountains to seek for food in the marshes. The Kouban, whose waters in summer afforded the chief defence of the Russians against the well-provoked aggressions of the mountaineers, had now become an even and clear sheet of ice, every day, gaining consistency and strength.

The invading army, suffering from the inclemency of the weather, had retired into their winter quarters; and the Circassians, trusting also to the imprisonment of their enemies by the cold, had withdrawn the greater number of their guards and scouts. They had determined not to be the aggressors, but to endeavour to convince their enemies that they fought only for liberty and peace. A general calm seemed to pervade the whole country, which had so lately been startled by the fierce storm of war. The warriors enjoyed their short repose till the returning spring should again let loose the swarms of their now pent-up foes. They passed their time among their families, in tending their farms, or in the invigorating sports of the chase.

Selem was enjoying some days of relaxation from the toils of war, at the house of his aged kinsman, in company with Thaddeus and his sister. He was delighted more and more with the unsophisticated, but quick and varied powers of her pure mind, which every day was enlightened by the conversation of her lover. How delightful was the task to the young Pole, to instruct the fair creature he soon hoped to call his own!

Many of the inhabitants of the valley, indeed, wondered that two such gallant and daring warriors as Selem and his friend had proved themselves, could find pleasure in passing their time with a mere girl. “Allah!” they exclaimed, “what odd customs they must have learned among the Giaours!”

They were interrupted from their studies by the entrance of the little slave, Buda, announcing the arrival of the Hadji Guz Beg. Hastening to the guest-room, they found the old warrior, clothed in complete warlike costume, and attended by his son Alp, who had torn himself from the arms of Zara, to accompany his father—

“Rouse up, my son,” he cried. “Gird on your sword, and let your heart rejoice, for we have in hand work that may be worthy of us. Those cursed Urus are not content with our remaining quiet, but they must enter the country, and burn and destroy our villages. Mashallah! we will repay them with a vengeance. I have messengers from many chiefs, who are assembling their followers, and now that the ice affords us a bridge, which the enemy cannot easily destroy, we will make a foray into their territories, which will give them a lesson to respect ours.”

“Wherever you lead, my friend, I am ready to follow,” answered Selem.

“Mashallah! I doubted you not,” cried the Hadji; “for see, we have no child’s work on hand now. There will be no drawing back this time.”

“What do you propose doing, then?” asked Selem.

“No less than an attack on the town of Kislavosk,” rubbing his hands with the glee of a youth at the thought of a foray. “These Russians, we hear, have collected whole herds of cattle in the neighbourhood, for provisioning their fortresses along the Valdi Caucasse, and think that they have them secure enough; but we will deprive them of their dinners, if I mistake not.”

“I would rather have some more noble work than merely carrying off a few head of cattle,” said our hero.

“Ah, when you have lived longer among us, you will not despise such work,” cried the Hadji. “What do armies in general fight for? To get gold and silver! Are not cattle, to hungry people, of much more value, and more difficult to carry off? Men are too fond of making absurd distinctions where none exist. The Russians call us robbers, because we take a gallop into the country they have usurped, and carry off all we can meet; and they affirm that they themselves are engaged in lawful warfare when they burn and destroy our villages and fields, because they possess a regular army, with cannon and ammunition, while we have only our good steeds and sharp swords. Such ideas are absurd. The Giaours will some day become more enlightened and civilised. We shall, however, have fighting enough to please you, my young friend, for think not that these Urus will lose their food quietly. No, no, they will fight hard enough for that; but we will be too quick for them. And, my friends, we have no time to expend in talking.”

“I will soon be ready to attend you,” answered Selem, taking his arms from the walls, and ordering Karl to prepare his horse for the expedition. Thaddeus followed his example, though much loath to leave his mistress; but he had so completely leagued himself with his Circassian friends, that he had no further excuse for holding back. He himself was also excited by the prospect of gaining the further applause and confidence of those, in the success of whose cause he had become so deeply interested.

Alp was in the most extravagant spirits, notwithstanding his regret at leaving Zara at the thoughts of a foray, on a more extended scale than any in which he had hitherto been engaged. The prospect of the renown he should acquire under his father, and also the hope of gaining wealth for his fair bride, were further incitements.

“Mashallah!” cried the Hadji; “we shall carry off cattle enough to supply the whole of Abasia for a year to come.”

Ina trembled with alarm when she heard that her brother and her lover were to leave her, on so hazardous an expedition; having cherished the fond hope that they would remain in safety all the winter. But she remembered that she was a Circassian maiden; and, recommending them to the care of Heaven, she parted from them with a tearful smile, and a prayer for their speedy and victorious return. They repaired, before they set out, to pay their adieus to their old host, who had, for some time, been confined to his couch through age and infirmities.

“Farewell, my son,” he said, addressing Selem. “Before you return, I may be gathered to my fathers; for I feel that I have not long to remain among my people, though I had hoped to have seen my country restored to peace ere I died. But I commend to your guidance a body of my choicest youths, whom I have ordered to be ready to attend you. I am now alone the last chief of my race; my sons have offered up their spirits as martyrs to their country’s cause. I, too, would have thanked Allah for the glorious privilege of dying on the field of battle as becomes a warrior-chieftain; but that blessing I can now never hope for. When I am gone, you, my son Alp, will be chosen by the elders of my people, as the husband of my only child, to succeed me as their leader; that is, when you have gained sufficient age and experience. Till then, the noble chief, Arslan Gherrei, will lead them to battle; and you, Selem, as a son of our race, I charge to watch over and guard their interests; for on you, next to Alp, would have devolved my possessions. Rule them justly and firmly, and they will faithfully obey you.”

The young men promised religiously to obey the old chief’s injunctions.

“Farewell, my sons,” he said; “I feel that you will not betray the trust. And now my only hope is, that I may live long enough to see you return victorious from this expedition; and may Allah guard you in it!”

As the chief had promised, our hero found, on leaving the house, a gallant troop of fifty young and hardy horsemen, fully equipped, ready to obey his commands. Every man carried provisions at his saddle-bow, sufficient for several days, considering their abstemious habits when engaged in warfare. They were clothed in coats and caps of skin, wearing over their shoulders thick large cloaks, impenetrable to wet or cold. Their rifles and pistols were well protected from the rain at their back, and they had daggers and long sabres at the waist. Both the Hadji and Alp were clothed much in the same manner over their chain armour, and with Selem and Thaddeus, who were also arrayed in their winter gear, they set forward at the head of the troop.

The appointed place of meeting was in a valley within the last ridge of mountains before the Caucasian range descends into the plains, near where the Kara River, rushing through a narrow and rocky defile, finds its way into the Kouban. In that direction they turned their horses’ heads, proceeding steadily and slowly forward, so as not to fatigue their steeds, and to keep them in the finest possible condition for the exploit. At the end of each day’s journey, they received a warm and cordial welcome at the house of some chief. Through every village and hamlet they passed, their band was increased by numerous volunteers, all eager to share the promised spoils of the foe.

On reaching the heights, commanding the valley appointed for their place of rendezvous, a warlike spectacle broke on their sight. From every quarter, bands of warriors were seen emerging from the forests, troop after troop following each other in gallant array, winding in long lines, amid the rocks and trees, down the steep sides of the mountain, and uniting in the valley in a close body. Their banners gaily fluttered in the breeze; their weapons shone brilliantly in the rays of the sun, and increased in lustre as they were reflected in the snow; their loud and joyous shouts resounded through the air.

As the Hadji and his party rode to the ground, he was received with loud acclamations of welcome, and his standard was planted as one of the chief leaders. Other bands, during the remainder of the day, continued to pour in on all sides; and soon after, Arslan Gherrei, at the head of a fine and warlike troop, arrived in the valley, and Selem hastened to greet his father. As the champion rode up, mounted on a superb and powerful black charger, he was welcomed on all sides by enthusiastic acclamations, most of the independent bands arraying themselves under his especial banner.

The Hadji seldom aspired to the entire command of an army; preferring his own desultory and impetuous style of fighting to the responsible and arduous duties of a general. He prided himself most as a leader of bands engaged in a kind of guerilla warfare.

The Seraskier, or Commander-in-Chief, who had been chosen as the leader of this republican army, was a chieftain far advanced in years, though still retaining all the vigour and activity of youth. Of renowned courage and sagacious conduct, and trained to arms in Egypt from his boyhood, he had, since the commencement of hostilities, been engaged in constant warfare with the enemy, by whom he was much dreaded. He was of commanding height and sinewy frame nerved by violent and unremitting exercise; his features were bronzed by exposure on the burning sands of Africa, his white locks escaped from beneath his plumed helm. He rode in the midst of a group of chieftains, who eagerly gathered round him for instruction and advice. It was with a glance of proud satisfaction, that the veteran leader looked round on the bands of warriors drawn up in the valley, who had so promptly obeyed his summons, issued only a few days previously, and thus so nobly answered. It was, in truth, a fine sight, as the aged hero reined up his steed, waving his hand to request silence. Surrounded by all the chiefs and leaders of this little army, he thus addressed them—

“My noble friends, chieftains of the Attèghèi, we have this day again assembled in arms, roused by the reiterated, and unprovoked attacks of the Urus. Seeking alone to enjoy peace and the undisturbed possession of our country and of our liberties, we have refrained from acting as the aggressors on those territories claimed by our foes, though unjustly wrenched from our hands. Who, among us here, has not suffered innumerable wrongs and unbearable injuries at their hands, since their dark eagles first hovered over the confines of our lands? They have burned our hamlets—they have cut down our corn—they have trampled over our rich pastures—they have carried off our cattle; and yet those are injuries which may be replaced. But how many of our bravest warriors have fallen in defence of our country and our liberty! Who, among us here assembled, but has lost a father, a brother, or a son? Still do the cries of our women ring in our ears for their loss. Where can we replace them? Can our enemies restore the lost ones? How often have those among us, whose homes are in the neighbouring lands, been aroused in the darkness of night by the roar of their cannon, and, with scarcely time to save their lives, and those still dearer to them, have been driven to the mountain fastnesses, whence they have seen their habitations and their goods committed to the flames! What redress have we but deep, deep revenge? Are we slaves, are we Armenian Kaffirs, to submit to these insults? No, my countrymen, we are gallant warriors, descended from a long line of Princes, and of nobles; who have never bowed their necks to the yoke of slavery, who were chiefs and conquerors long ere the wolf-like flocks of the Urus broke through the regions of the north, to seize the rich and smiling lands which surround us. Shall we then allow them for a moment to suppose, that weary with our protracted struggle, we also are prepared to swell their list of conquests? Shall we act like the weak and effeminate Georgians, and tamely submit to be dragged in chains to the foot-stool of their Czar? Shall we consent to see our children led to slaughter, among the slavish ranks of their army? Shall we see our wives and daughters carried off as worse than slaves? Shall castles and towers be built on every mountain’s brow, throughout the country, to awe the people into subjection; for thus only could they hold the lands of the Attèghèi? We have set them lately an example of moderation, but they would not profit by it. Let us now give them a lesson, that may not easily escape their memory. Let us remind them that we have not forgotten how to offer a severe retaliation for injuries; and let us shew them that we are a nation of warriors, who fear not their force, mighty as it might be, and that we despise their innumerable hosts of slaves. Then onward, my countrymen, onward men of Attèghèi, and may Allah prosper our arms!”

This oration of their veteran leader was received with sincere expressions of approbation by the chiefs, and with acclamations of applause by the dense mass of their followers who formed an outer circle round the orator.

“Remember, my countrymen,” he resumed; “that the Urus call us uncivilised barbarians and robbers. Let us shew them that we have more humanity than they; that we know ‘the native rights man claims from man;’ and that never will we defile our arms with cruelty. Let us treat their women, as hitherto, with courtesy and kindness, to shew them that we war not against them. Let us not stop to plunder the defenceless inhabitants of their stores except their cattle which we will drive away to deprive them of the means of remaining in our neighbourhood. Let us confine our further efforts to capturing their cannon, their arms, and ammunition; for it is those we alone require to make our country impregnable to their attacks. Follow these rules, strictly obey your commanders, and victory will be ours. I have done. By to-morrow’s dawn, we will begin our march; and before the Russians awake from their slumbers, we will be beyond their forts.”

Again repeated shouts arose, and all promised to obey his injunctions.

The Seraskier then explained to the chiefs his proposed plan of operations. First, that the infantry who were composed chiefly of the peasants of the hamlets, nearest the Kouban—sturdy fellows inured to border warfare—should be left on the further bank of that river to cover their retreat, if hard-pressed, and to secure the herds of cattle they might capture. That they should advance as far as the town of Kislavosk, take it by surprise, with the greater number of the cavalry; or, at all events, endeavour to give full occupation to the Russian troops, while the rest might drive off the cattle from the neighbouring country; and then, if victorious, and not pursued on their return, make a wide extended sweep, clearing everything before them.

The sagacious General himself, as well as Arslan Gherrei, and a few others, would have preferred confining their efforts entirely to taking the Russian forts, and endeavouring to carry off their cannon and powder; but they knew too well, that many of their followers would not exert themselves to the utmost without their holding out some prospect of a rich booty; and we must remember, that every man in the host fought without pay of any sort, finding his own arms, ammunition, and food; so that it was but natural they should wish for some recompense for leaving their occupations and farms at that inclement season of the year, besides the mere satisfaction of annoying the enemy. They all understood the necessity of defending their own territories when attacked; but to make a forage into the enemy’s country without carrying off booty was in their ideas a folly: with the prospect of booty, all were ready to fight.

Upwards of six thousand horsemen were now collected, chiefly from one province alone; but among that vast concourse of wild warriors, at this exciting moment, the utmost order and decorum prevailed, owing to the courtesy of the chiefs, and the habitual sedateness of the men; though there was an entire absence of discipline and subordination throughout the whole host.

Having; received the directions and advice of the Seraskier, the chiefs separated to put themselves at the head of their respective followers; to advance towards the Kouban; and, bivouacking close to its banks, to give time to other fresh reinforcements of cavalry from the further points to assemble; while the infantry were to advance at once to the station they were to occupy, and be in readiness to assist the cavalry in the morning.

At a given signal, the whole body then advanced a few miles towards the place they had agreed on for a bivouac; entirely dispensing with tents or covering of any sort, except their thick cloaks. As each troop arrived, they piquetted their horses to the low shrubs which grew about the plain, lighting their watch-fires, which blazed up in the darkness of night. For a long time fresh bands continued to arrive every instant, increasing the widely extended circle of flames, until the plain seemed dotted with fires as from some volcanic ground. The hardy warriors, wrapt in their cloaks, assembled round them listening to the songs of their minstrels, who never on such occasions failed to join their bands, and cheer their spirits.

Round one fire, wrapped in thick horse-cloaks, sat the champion, Arslan Gherrei, with Selem, Thaddeus, the Hadji, and several other chiefs.

“Now, my son,” said the old warrior, Hadji, “to-morrow you will have a field worthy of your bravery, and honour your father by your deeds. Where the thickest of the fight is, there let your sword be waving amid the ranks of the foe. By example alone, can we expect our followers to be brave; and those nations quickly become slaves to their neighbours, whose chiefs hang back in the combat. It is only by being ready to sacrifice our own lives, that we can secure the liberty of our country; and how much better is it to be sent to the realms of paradise, than to eke out a few more years of existence, with the galling chains of the slave! But I fear not for you, my son.”

Alp rose and took his father’s hand. The act was unpremeditated, and scarce consciously performed; he knelt by his side. “Father your son shall not disgrace you.”

The words were simple, but there was a deep tone of feeling, which showed that he would keep his word. He took no oath, nor called the gods to witness his words; and his father was satisfied.

At length, one by one, the party sought a few hours’ repose, wrapped in their cloaks with their feet towards the fire, and their heads pillowed on their saddles. The clear sky was densely spangled with myriads of brilliant stars. Ere Selem slept he looked round on the scene. Far as the eye could reach, the wide heath was covered with the recumbent figures of the warriors; yet a moment would call them all into fierce activity, should the Russians draw nigh. Yet though they seemed so calm to the eye, who could know the fiery thoughts and passions working in the brain of the sleeping thousands? Even now, many in imagination were engaging in the onslaught of the morrow.

Oft did the image of Ina return to Thaddeus, as he slept. His thoughts then flew to his far distant home, the abode of his childhood, the proud castle of his fathers, now laid low by the hands of his country’s oppressors. He saw the Eagle of Russia hovering over the slaughtered bodies of his countrymen, while captives knelt in chains, bound to the staff of her standard. In the midst of them appeared a warrior of majestic front and noble bearing, one who had never bent the knee to despotism. As he waved his sword, the chains fell from the captives’ necks, the dead arose, and the Eagles fled shrieking from the land before the resuscitated band. Again the scene changed. He stood once more before his paternal castle, with Ina by his side. His faithful dependants welcomed him with shouts of joy. He brought them glorious news. Russia had been stopped in her headlong career of victory. She had retreated before the gallantry of a mountain nation. Poland might again be free!

Volume Three—Chapter Thirteen.

“To horse! to horse!” was shouted about two hours before dawn, and, in the course of a few minutes, all the warriors of that little army were in their saddles, formed in close array under their respective leaders, and advancing steadily forward. The ground over which they rode was broken and rough, offering many impediments to their progress; as in darkness and silence they crossed the Kouban.

“Onward, men of Attèghèi,” cried the Seraskier, waving his sword; and at the signal the whole band dashed down the steep, passing a broad belt of lofty reeds ere they emerged on the now smooth and hard surface of the stream. The infantry, who were already posted on the other side among the thick cover of reeds, reported that none of the enemy had appeared, or seemed at all prepared for their approach. The cavalry, in condensed bodies, then rode boldly forward at a quick trot, encountering for a long distance merely a few peasants with their cattle, who were quickly sent to the rear, some light bodies being thrown out on each side to see that none escaped and to give notice of their approach to the enemy.

The hearts of all beat high, and their eyes flashed with excitement and pleasure, as the walls and houses of Kislavosk, seen by the pale light of dawn, met their view. A cry of joy escaped them, as they urged on their steeds at full gallop towards the devoted town. The outer picquets had no time to give the alarm, ere they were cut down; and onward dashed the band through the streets, the guards at the entrance making but a feeble resistance to their furious onset. The inhabitants, roused from their slumbers, looked amazed and trembling at the wild horsemen. On all sides the Russian troops were called to arms; but before they could assemble in sufficient numbers to repel the assault, the cattle, which the Circassians found assembled in great numbers, were driven off, and a magazine of powder and arms was stormed and ransacked. Then, like a whirlwind, the whole force again swept through the town. The inhabitants were spared; but little mercy was shewn to the soldiers who attempted to form their ranks.

The town, which a few minutes before was wrapped in fancied security, was now a scene of tumult and bloodshed, as the mountaineers fought their way through the broad streets, affording slight shelter to the Russians, who, ere they could bring their guns to bear, found their assailants beyond their reach; though they saluted them with a heavy fire from the fortifications.

As the Circassian rear-guard were emerging from the town, the Russian infantry formed and charged them in line; but the horsemen, wheeling on a sudden, rushed on them, sabre in hand, with such fury that they were glad to retreat, losing many of their number on the field. The Circassians, also, lost several men; but, as they were struck, they were lifted on their comrades’ horses and carried away.

The town might have been theirs, but they knew that they could not keep it for any length of time; and all the lower ranks of the Circassian army were eager to advance for greater booty, notwithstanding the counsel of the coolest and most sagacious chiefs. However, they encountered no cavalry in the town from whom to fear pursuit; and they had nothing to dread from the infantry. Onward pushed the band of mountaineers, passing through several villages, and sweeping all before them.

Their Seraskier then urged them to return; as now, that the Russians were alarmed, they might collect an almost overwhelming force from the neighbouring fortified towns to impede their progress; for, carried away with the ardour of the foray, the greater number thought of nothing less than pillaging every Russian settlement on the borders. Very unwillingly, therefore, they wheeled to make a circuit towards that part of the Kouban they had already passed.

Alp Beg had, during the day, constantly accompanied our hero and his friend, at the head of his troop, making, with them, several desperate charges on the Russian lines as they had formed, and never failing in breaking them with his furious onset. At their return, as the main body, with whom at the time were Selem and Alp, were passing at some little distance from Kislavosk, the Hadji, who brought up the rear to the left nearer the town, heard from some peasants that they had missed securing several head of cattle, which were still at a short distance outside the walls.

“Mashallah! what say you, my friends?” cried the old warrior. “Shall we let the Giaours still have any beef for their dinners? Let us shew them that they must not cheat us in this way. What say you, my friends; shall we pay them another visit? It will take us but few minutes.”

The proposition was too much to the taste of all parties not to be warmly seconded. Sending, therefore, to the Seraskier to intimate his purpose, and being followed by about five hundred horse, he made a headlong dash at the place the peasants indicated. The Russians saluted them as they advanced with showers of shot and grape, while the troops sallied out to meet them; but nothing could stop the impetuosity of their onset, and they quickly liberated the cattle, driving them off at a greater speed than the animals had ever before accomplished.

“Well done, my friends,” cried the Hadji. “I told you we would spoil these unbelievers’ dinners; and now, Bismillah! let us charge them again,” he added, as a large body of infantry met them.

Uttering loud cries, they charged the Russians, driving the cattle among their ranks. The troops gave way, when they were again saluted with a tremendous flanking fire of grape; and, ere they had got clear from the range of the guns, a large body of Cossack horse, who had that moment arrived from the neighbouring towns, met them at full charge. Already had many of their number fallen under the fire from the town; but the old warrior Hadji, undaunted by the overwhelming force of their new opponents, shouting his war cry, called to his followers to charge them.

Tremendous was the shock of the two fierce bodies of hostile cavalry, animated with the most bitter hatred, and excited by the fiercest rage; but the superior skill, agility, and courage of the Circassians compensated partly for their inferiority in numbers. The Cossacks were arrested in their course; while the mountaineers literally hewed themselves a road through their ranks. They discovered, however, when too late, that they had committed a dreadful error in so doing; for a fresh body of Cossacks arriving from the same direction, they found themselves completely surrounded. The ground they fought on was a broad open heath, in front of the town, which gave full scope for the larger body of their assailants to bring their whole force against them.

The main body of the Circassians, with whom was Alp and Selem, on receiving the Hadji’s message, and on hearing the firing, wheeled to support him. The first of the band was the brave young Alp, eager to join the affray, and assist his father.

The Hadji, with scarcely three hundred followers, was bravely defending himself against several thousand Cossacks, shouting his war cry, cheering on his men to the attack, who wheeled and charged in every direction, keeping a complete circle in the midst of their foes, and placing their horses back to back in such close order that few of the enemy could get within the brave troop; or if they did, they were cut down by the inner ranks. At length, however, the Cossacks seemed ashamed at being held at bay by so small a body, and charged them with renewed vigour, hoping to destroy them before the main body came up. Great numbers of the Circassians fell beneath this fresh attack; though the remainder fought on with yet undaunted courage. But even their gallant old leader looked out anxiously for the succour of their friends. They made many fresh, desperate, but unavailing, attempts to cut their way through, still the Hadji fought on, shouting to his brave companions, and never for a moment thinking of yielding.

“Ah! Allah! well done, my sons!” he cried. “Well done, men of Attèghèi! See, the vile Cossacks are thinning fast around us. We shall soon have a hill of their bodies to ride over. Fight on, my men! our friends will be here anon; and then we shall see how fast these Giaours can fly. Charge, my sons! charge! Ah! Allah! here comes my noble son, my own Alp. I knew that he would be the first to rescue his father.”

While shouting these cries, the old warrior had made such desperate charges with one or two followers, that the Cossacks, partly opening their ranks, again closed before the rest could get up to them, thus completely hemming him in. His enemies, who recognised him as one of the most daring chiefs, pressed hard upon him, endeavouring either to make him prisoner, or to cut him down on the spot; when Alp, the foremost of the advanced guard of the main body of the Circassians, beheld his father’s imminent danger.

Not waiting even to see who followed, the young warrior shouted his war cry, and dashed boldly at the foe, the foremost of whom gave way as they saw the gallant youth approaching. But a young Cossack officer, seeing him advance unsupported, spurred on his charger, and fired his light rifle at the same time. For this movement Alp was prepared; and throwing himself on his horse’s side, the ball passed over him. In a moment his own gun was in his hand; he fired, but the Cossack imitating his manoeuvre, escaped his aim. Urging on their steeds their swords met, fast whirling round their heads as they were wheeling: and backing their horses. Alp, seeing an opportunity, threw up the Cossack’s guard, endeavouring to seize him and plunge his dagger in his heart; but ere he could effect his purpose, a ball from his antagonist’s pistol entered his horse’s neck, and the noble animal fell mortally wounded to the ground. But Alp was not overcome; disengaging himself from his horse in a moment, he sprung like a tiger on his opponent; and, striking him with his dagger, hurled him to the ground. Then springing on his steed’s back, and waving his sword, he stayed not an instant to cast a parting glance at his conquered foe, but led on his friends who had just come up.

The father and son recognised each other amid the turmoil of the fight; when, again shouting loudly his war cry, Alp urged on his steed amidst the thickest of the foe, followed by the few who owned the fastest horses, and fought his way up to his father’s side, shielding him from the many blows aimed at him, and regardless of those he himself received. Desperately did he strive to keep his foes at bay until his friends could come to his relief.

The old chief was saved; but at what a sacrifice! The blood flowed from Alp’s side; his eyes grew dim; his head giddy; he could not see longer to guard off the blows of his enemies.

Selem, at the head of his brave troop, as he saw the predicament of his friends, charged the foe furiously, cutting down all who opposed him, or drove them off till he reached the Hadji, who shouted his thanks as the last Cossack disappeared between him and his rescuers. But why does Alp not advance? Oh! Allah! where is he? Alas! behold him now weltering in his blood beneath his horse’s hoofs. Gasping out his last breath, he thanks Allah that he has saved his father. He pronounced, too, his loved Zara’s name. He is lifted on his horse; but his pulse has ceased to beat. The young warrior is no more. The old Hadji seems like some aged oak scathed by lightning. He hears not the shouts of the combatants. His own voice is stilled. He knows not where they lead him. One thing alone he sees—his noble, gallant boy a corpse by his side. He mourns that he yet lives while the young and the brave have fallen.

The main body of the Circassians, now arriving, set furiously on the Cossacks, whom they drove before them; but, pursuing them too eagerly, they again found themselves exposed to the deadly fire from the town, showers of grape falling among them, and cutting through their ranks with deadly effect. Thus once more they were compelled to retreat. The Russian infantry then marched out to support the cavalry, now again following the Circassians, who, whenever the Russians approached near enough, would suddenly wheel and charge them, thinning their ranks, and driving them to a distance.

In this hazardous style of fighting, Thaddeus had much distinguished himself, as well as in the principal charge, which he had made by the side of Selem to the rescue of the Hadji. As they approached the Kouban, their own infantry coming up, the Cossacks took to flight, and were pursued with considerable slaughter; but though it had been a day of victory, it had been a disastrous and dearly bought one to the Circassians; many of their chiefs, and a great number of their followers having fallen by the destructive fire of grape, which had played on them from the batteries; though, in comparison, they had lost but few men in their encounter with the Cossacks; so superior are they in horsemanship and the use of their arms.

Arslan Gherrei rode up to the side of his brother chieftain and old friend, to endeavour to offer some consolation.

“Nay, nay, my friend,” said the veteran warrior, “I mourn not for my son. Allah is merciful, and has sent him to Paradise in the midst of victory. And what nobler fate could I wish for him? I would that I too had died with him! For what was he born? For what have I bred him up a warrior, but to die for his country? There will be weeping and wailing enough among the women when he is brought home. Alas! for his bride! her heart will break. And his mother! It is a sad day for them. But I!—no, I cannot mourn! My heart’s feelings have long since been dried up. I grieve not for his loss.”

The low husky voice, the contracted brow, and expanded, but tearless eye of the old chief, sadly belied his words. He spoke no more as he rode on, except to issue some short orders to those of his followers who remained alive. His thoughts were hidden in his own breast; but there was an expression of concentrated agony in his stern features, which shewed too well that a father’s feelings were working strongly within him. Near him rode his squire, guiding the horse which bore the young warrior’s body and arms; and every now and then the father would cast a glance full of deep meaning towards it.

The army encamped that night on the same spot they had occupied on the previous one; stationing, however, picquets to give timely warning in case their enemies should attempt to follow. The Russians, however, had received that day a sufficient lesson to learn that the Circassians were foes not to be trifled with.

That night, no minstrels tuned their harps round the watch-fires; nor did the warriors indulge in tales of their exploits; but, as soon as the horses were sheltered and fed, and they had partaken of their own frugal fare, wrapping themselves in their cloaks, they snatched a few hours’ repose after the fatigues of the day.

As Selem, who took his place at the fire near which the Hadji had thrown himself on the ground, watched the old warrior, he saw many a convulsive throb pass over his frame. Then he would start up, and sit gazing on the burning embers, his thoughts doubtlessly resting on his slaughtered son, his white hair streaming over his stern and wrinkled brow, with mouth firmly set, and his hands clutching his snowy and flowing beard. He might have been compared to some aged oak, whose trunk had been scorched and riven by the lightning’s forked flash, yet refusing to bend beneath the tempest’s power. A true patriot’s motto is, “I may break, but bend not.”

Volume Three—Chapter Fourteen.

The next morning, as soon as the first streaks of light appeared in the east, the whole assemblage were on foot, all anxious to return to their homes. The division of the booty, an important affair, was first adjusted; the leaders of the different bands shared according to the number of their followers, among whom it was again to be divided; and, as the cattle were driven off by those to whom they were awarded, by degrees the whole of the force melted away.

A curious spectacle was presented, as the different bands wended their way in warlike guise in every direction along the valleys, and up the mountain’s sides, driving the untractable cattle before them.

To some, also, were awarded arms and powder, according to their necessities. The various other objects of booty, (and among them, a few Cossack prisoners, who were destined for slaves), had been thrown into the common stock, to be equally distributed.

The Seraskier, though still treated with the deepest respect by all, was now left without an army, except of his own immediate followers, every man who had composed it considering himself perfectly at liberty to take his departure when he wished, though equally ready to return, for any fresh expedition.

The chiefs parted from their leader with a respectful and affectionate farewell; he returning to his cottage and his farm, like another Cincinnatus, to till his land with his own hands.

A considerable share of the spoils was awarded to Thaddeus, much to his surprise and satisfaction; and the partition being arranged, he, with Selem, and Arslan Gherrei, prepared to accompany the Hadji in his mournful procession towards his home. Their sad journey was, of necessity, as rapid as possible, waiting only at night, to snatch a few hours’ repose, and borrowing fresh horses to proceed. The Hadji’s nature seemed changed by the blow he had sustained; before lively, and full of anecdote and conversation, he now spoke not, nor smiled, and seemed to be dreading the burst of grief and agony, which his arrival with the dead body of his son, would cause among those most dear to him.

As they approached his grounds, the body was taken from the horse, and laid out on a bier, formed of branches cut from the neighbouring trees, over which a cloak was thrown, and the arms of the deceased placed by his side. No sooner did the cavalcade appear at a distance, slowly winding their way down the valley, than the women rushed out to meet and welcome them on their return from victory. Among the foremost came Zara, eager to clasp her young hero to her arms. The chaplet she had woven to crown him fell from her hands; a sad foreboding seized her, and as she saw at a distance, that they bore a bier, her eye wandered anxiously round for Alp. She missed him from among the horsemen. She sprang wildly forward.

“Where is he?” she cried. “Where is my Alp? Why comes he not with you, warriors?” She caught sight of the bier. “Do you bear him there wounded? Oh, speak! Tell me, is he there?”

“Daughter,” said the Hadji, “Allah has taken my son.”

She seemed to hear him not, as she rushed forward. She lifted the cloak from the face, before any one could prevent her. She shrieked not; she did not swoon; but, with a fixed gaze of despair, she stood like a monumental statue, bending over the corpse of her slaughtered husband, as cold and inanimate as he.

At length, she seized a hand; it fell heavily down. She pressed her lips to those cold and lifeless ones, as if to find that breath still animated them. She seemed scarcely conscious what death was. It was long ere she was convinced of the reality; yet no tear escaped her eye, no sob, her heart. Her soft and gentle nature was fearfully changing.

“Who did this?” she cried. “The savage Urus! well I know their work! Alp, you shall be avenged!” Again she stood silently over the corpse, rigid and immovable. None could find it in their hearts to disturb her, until the mother of the slain youth arrived to bewail, with frantic grief, her loss, joined by the other women of their household. Their cries and shrieks rent the air.

“My son! my son!” cried the distracted mother, “why hast thou been torn from me? Could not some more aged warrior have satisfied our foes? Why hast thou been cut off in the prime of thy youth? Wai! wai! wai! Was it for this that thou wast reared, the boldest, the bravest, the most beautiful? No more shall I hear thy joyous laugh resounding through the groves, or see thy graceful form bounding on thy steed, across the green meadows. My son! my son! Curses on the foes who have slain thee! May they, like me, be made childless! Can they give me another son like thee? Bear him along,” she cried to the attendants, “bear my son to our home, that I may mourn over him. Wai! wai!”

The followers of the Hadji carried the bier of their young lord as ordered; the women leading Zara, who seemed like one in a trance, her eye resting alone on the bier; yet she faltered not in her steps, nor did a word escape her. Her grief was too deep for words or cries. Her heart was not broken; gentle and soft, as she seemed, it was of too tough a texture for that; though none, not even she herself, would have deemed it so.

We know not of what nature we are, until we are tried. She would have thought that she could not have borne the sight of blood, or the slightest misery, without sinking beneath the blow: but now, alas! she knew herself. Her heart, in a moment, was seared and blighted, as by the breath of the dark simoon, in an instant, the traveller is overwhelmed and scorched. Her breast was now hardened to feelings of pity, and burnt with vengeance against those who had deprived her of her loved one.

Such are the cursed effects of war. Let the victorious conqueror look around beyond the dazzling scene, and the gorgeous pageant which attends his triumph, and he would shudder, were he to see the agony, the hopeless despair, of one alone out of the thousands, of whose misery he is the cause. The heaps of slain are as nothing; the eye soon grows accustomed to gaze on them: the feelings become familiarised with the sight of blood, which first sickened at the thought. The slain have played their game of life, and are at rest; but it is those who watch anxiously for their return, who suffer: the fond parents, the doting wife, or mistress, the affectionate sister—it is their loving hearts which are wrung with anguish—it is their curses which blast the laurel-crowned brow of ambition!

The Hadji accompanied his son’s body to the door of his home, where he saw it committed to the charge of the youth’s weeping mother; ushering his friends into the guest-house, he insisted on performing the duties of hospitality. After these had been accomplished, he called for his horse, and rode hastily away into the neighbouring forest. There, unseen by the eye of any, he gave way to the grief and torment of his breast. “The boy died for me! Oh! Allah! that I might have been in his place!” he cried, in a burst of agony.

Selem with his father and several other chiefs remained to pay the last sad respects to the gallant young hero. The funeral cry sounded through the woods with a deep and thrilling solemnity; all the women of the neighbouring hamlet assembling to increase the melancholy wail.

In about two hours before the sun sunk low, the Hadji returned; the body of Alp was then brought out from the house, round which a large concourse of people had assembled, to accompany it to its last resting-place.

The cemetery was on a terrace, on the side of the hill; a beautiful spot, where grew the Cyprus and the plane-tree, shading the tombs of the brave warriors who there lay at rest. A venerable bard, with sightless orbs, was led up by his attendants, at the moment the bier, borne by six youths, the companions of the deceased, was brought out. He took his station at the head of the procession. His mother and other women followed weeping; and Zara, in a trance-like state, neither weeping nor speaking, walked on mechanically; her eye not for an instant withdrawn from the body of her betrothed. The Hadji next followed, with a firm step and erect posture; a slight movement of the mouth, and a contracted brow, alone betokening his mental agony. Arslan Gherrei and the other chiefs supported him on either side, followed by the inhabitants of the hamlet.

As the procession moved slowly on, the aged minstrel tuned his lyre to a low and plaintive strain, his voice trembling as he sung: at the end of each verse, the mourners joining in chorus with a melancholy cadence. As they approached the place of sepulture the words were to the following effect, continuing to be chaunted as the mourners stood round the grave:—

Mourn, children of Attèghèi, mourn for the brave,

Whose heart with true glory beat high.

Weep, weep, as ye lower him into his grave,

No more to the charge will he cry.

His father to rescue, amid the thick foe,

He flew as they hemmed him around;

When a treacherous shot from afar laid him low,

And bleeding he fell to the ground.

Weep, weep, for the hero, the pride of our land,

Who ne’er from the foemen would fly,

As he fought ’mid a host who outnumber’d his band,

His falchion was waving on high.

And his battle cry raising, he charged them so well,

As the dastardly foe pressed around.

His sword drank their blood, and e’er bravely he fell,

Full many had bitten the ground.

Lay the hero to rest who so bravely hath died.

’Mid the clust’ring ranks of the foe,

“And his glittering falchion part not from his side,

As calmly he slumbers below.”

He was found where he fell, ’mid the heaps of the slain,

His weapon still grasp’d in his hand,

Which faithfully serv’d him, and there shall remain,

For who is more worthy that brand?

Weep, weep, for the hero who rests in his grave,

And ever be sacred the ground,

Nor let it be trod by the foot of a slave,

While his spirit still wanders around.

And fondly shall ever be cherished his name,

As his deeds by our minstrels are sung,

With the martyrs who won the bright chaplet of fame,

O’er his fate shall a halo be flung.

The warrior maidens of Attèghèi mourn.

Ah sad was the grief of his bride!

When home on his war-steed from fight he was borne,

As fainting she fell by his side.

Wreathe fair chaplets of flowers to hang round his tomb,

Weep, weep, for the youth’s early fate,

And when to bewail him, as yearly you come,

The deeds of the hero relate.

(Note) Vide Poems by T. Moore.

There was a deep and solemn silence as all that remained of the young, the brave, and the truly-loving Alp was lowered into the narrow grave yawning to receive him. As the body reached its final resting-place, this silence was broken by the sobs which burst from his mother’s breast and from the women who accompanied her. Even hardy warriors, who never thought or dreamed of fear, and seemed steeled to all the softer sympathies of our nature, were moved to tears. As the first handful of earth was thrown on the uncoffined body, all present knelt down circling the grave; and the aged bard, his hands raised on high, offered up prayers for the soul of the deceased young warrior. Then, joining their voices, the assembly petitioned heaven for its quick passage to the realms of bliss. The venerable sire now arose from his knees, and in a deep and solemn tone thus addressed the company:

“Men of Attèghèi, another victim has been offered up to the enmity of our hated foes; a sacrifice well worthy of the altars of Liberty; for who more brave, who more noble than he? Gentle as a lamb in peace, daring as a lion in war, loved by his friends, dreaded by his foe, who is here that loved him not? Who would not have been ready to shelter his life with his own? Why then was he taken from us, cut off in the flower of his youth? Why, my countrymen? Because the most noble altar demands the noblest sacrifice; and what altar is more noble than that of Liberty, and where a fitter victim than he for whom we mourn?

“His fate is glorious and happy. Even now his spirit is ascending to the realms of bliss, while we, still loaded with our mortal chains, mourn his loss. Yet still, many, many more sacrifices must be made, before our country can be free from our detested foes; but think not that our warriors will die in vain. Even now I see dimly and indistinctly, an era approaching, when our enemies shall be driven from the confines of our territories, far back to the barren lands whence they came; and our country, freed from oppression, shall rise above her former state and take her place among the nations of the earth.”

The oration being concluded, again they knelt in prayer, while the earth hid the heroic Alp for ever from the sight of those who loved him. A slab of stone was placed on his grave, over which was erected a light building of wood, sufficiently large to shelter those who would come on the anniversary of his death to offer up prayers, and to commemorate the gallant actions of the young warrior.

The bereaved Zara was led to her home; and, for many live-long days, she sat, motionless, regardless of all around her. Stunned and bewildered by her grief, she constantly brooded over her loss.

The Hadji appeared to have recovered from the shock sooner than the rest of his family: but many observed that the elastic spirits of the old man had flown for ever. A change had come over him. His whole thoughts and attention were given to forming plans for defeating the Russians, and defending the country against their attacks in the coming spring.

So different is man’s grief, for a loved lost object, to that of a woman! He has resources whereupon to employ his mind and his energies. The fierce excitement of war, the ardour of the chase, the banquet, the council, and a hundred other objects offer opportunities to distract his thoughts; while she has alone the remembrance of her loss. If she applies herself to her domestic duties, still the thought of her bereavement will intrude; and oft will she stop amid her occupations, a convulsive sob bursting from her heart, as the image of the lost one appears to her mind, and she thinks of that which was, but which now no longer exists.

Volume Three—Chapter Fifteen.

Our life is full of sunshine and clouds, smiles and tears; and it is as foolish to expect at all times to possess the one, as it is to repine that our lot in life must be sprinkled with the other. Thus, how great a contrast did the reception awaiting the warriors in the valley of Abran Bashi form to that which they had experienced in the vale of Gazlan; when Ina, blooming as the roses of Gul, flew across the lawn, as she caught sight of her father’s gallant train winding down the vale. She was now followed by all the wives and maidens of the hamlet, eager to welcome the return of their husbands, their fathers, and brothers, and to recompense them for the toils of war, and the dangers they had incurred for their sakes.

Throwing himself from his horse, Arslan Gherrei folded his daughter in his arms, as she flew to meet him; tears, how precious, of pure joy filling her bright eyes, that he was again restored to her in safety. We will not attempt to describe the meeting of Thaddeus and his fair mistress; but well did he feel himself recompensed for having espoused the cause of her country.

Death had not been idle in the valley since their absence. The forebodings of the venerable Prince, Aitek Tcherei, had been fulfilled; full of years and honour, he had been gathered to his fathers the day after their departure. He had been buried with all the ceremonies prescribed by custom; and his clansmen were now about to select one as a successor worthy to lead them to war, or to preside at their councils in time of peace. By the aged chieftain’s dying will, delivered to the elders of his tribe, Alp was to succeed to his possessions; or, failing him, they were to descend to Selem, so that, by the sad death of his friend, our hero found himself possessed of considerable wealth.

The elders and principal men of the tribe assembled to discuss the important subject, when the eyes of all were turned on Selem. His bravery in the field and his courteous manners had won even their hearts; and by choosing him, they would not only have a gallant and sagacious chief to command them, but it would prevent any of those jealous feelings which would too probably spring up, should they elect any one of those actually living among them. Without a dissentient voice, therefore, Selem Gherrei was elected to command their brave and numerous tribe. Our hero was now, in every sense of the word, a Circassian Chief; and a truly brave and noble one did he prove himself.

We must now draw rapidly to the conclusion of our story.

The trees once again put forth their leaves; the fields were enamelled with flowers; the birds sang in the groves; and all nature wore an air of renewed life and activity. The winter had passed away. The Circassian husbandmen on the borders, girded on their swords, and slung their rifles on their backs, as they toiled in their fields—prepared at a moment’s notice to resist any inroad of their foes—to sow corn, although ’twas doubtful whether they might ever reap the harvest. Bands of warriors were moving; towards the frontiers, to be in readiness to repulse the Russians, at whatever quarter they should make their first attack: and in every direction, messengers were galloping across the country, to carry information from one chief to another of their own plans, or of the enemy’s movements. Great stir had been observed among the troops on the Kouban, and the number of all the Russian garrisons was increased; but it was impossible to say what were their intentions.

The early spring also saw the happiness of Ina and Thaddeus completed; the chieftain no longer withholding his consent, on Selem’s making over to his friend sufficient property to maintain his bride as became her rank. A Polish priest also was found to perform the ceremony, according to the rules of the Christian church; this exile with many of his countrymen had lately made their way to Circassia, where they were certain of a friendly welcome from those who could so well appreciate their wrongs and sufferings.

Selem therefore had the satisfaction of seeing his sister married according to the forms he considered essential, when he committed her into the hands of his friend. The religion of Arslan Gherrei was too tolerant to object to his daughter embracing that of her husband, particularly when Selem undertook to explain to him the sacred bonds it enforced, and in how superior a state it placed her, than would have been her lot had she become the wife of one of the native chiefs. The chieftain much admired this in theory, though he confessed it was what his countrymen in general would not approve; for it gave far too much power into the hands of those whom they looked upon in the light of property, and which their lords and masters would lose, should the fair sex once learn to consider themselves as having equal liberty and rights.

The youthful couple enjoyed, for a short time, the utmost felicity which is allowed to the most fortunate on earth. They were truly happy in themselves, and their present lot; for they did not—they would not—think of what change the future might bring forth. Each day they thought that they had discovered some new charm in each other, something more to love. On their marriage, they had returned to the house near the sea, where we first introduced Ina to our readers; and often would they wander together down the valley, to the very edge of the deep blue main, which lay calm and lovely at their feet. As they gazed on its translucent wave, they little thought that its treacherous surface might bring whole hordes of their foes upon them.

Selem, whenever he could tear himself away from his important occupations, came to be witness of their happiness; but he was mostly occupied in accompanying his father in excursions through every part of the country to rouse the lagging, to animate the weak-hearted, and to induce all to take the oath of amity to the patriots, and eternal enmity to their foes. Where ever they moved, they were accompanied by other influential chiefs and elders, and were received with respect by all.

Those, who formerly thought themselves free from the danger of attacks by the Russians, were roused to join their country men in more exposed districts; and others, who might have been induced by despair to sue for peace with their overwhelming foes, were excited to renewed exertions, to defend their country to the last. Many made voluntary promises to muster under the standard of Arslan Gherrei, the moment it should be raised for whatever expedition he should think advisable.

Hadji Guz Beg constantly accompanied his friends in these expeditions; his enthusiastic exhortations adding considerably to the excitement of the people. At his own home, he scarcely ever remained, for he could not bear to hear the loud and constant repinings of his wife for her lost son; nor to look on the grief stricken Zara.

She, poor girl, continued incapable of exertion, and unexcited by aught around her; her thoughts dwelling alone on her lost Alp. It was at length thought, that change of scene, the novelty of the sea, near which she had never been, and the affectionate embraces of her early friend, might arouse her from her stupor. Ina received the youthful widow with an affectionate greeting, but could not refrain from tears as she contrasted the time they parted, when she was borne away from her a joyous bride, with the melancholy of the present; her young hopes blighted, and he, whom she loved, lying in his early and ensanguined grave.

The tender endeavours of Ina, could scarcely rouse her from her apathetic indifference to all terrestrial affairs; Zara could only return her kindness with a faint smile of thanks.

Arslan Gherrei was now less reluctant to be absent from home, knowing that he left his daughter with one able to protect her; and, at this time, Selem had just arrived to pay his sister and friend a visit, before they moved to a habitation further inland; for, as the spring advanced, it was feared the Russians might attempt a landing on the coast. The numerical strength of the tribe beneath the sway of Arslan Gherrei had been dreadfully reduced by war and plague, so that when he led forth his warriors to battle, scarcely enough remained to protect his territory; on which account, the preceding year, he had removed his daughter to the house of his kinsman, the late Prince Aitek Tcherei.

Volume Three—Chapter Sixteen.

A lovely and bright spring morning had induced Selem and his friend to seize their guns and sally forth at dawn of day, in search of game. They had wandered long over the sweet scented heathery hills, fresh and pure with the sparkling dew; when they heard loud shouts behind them, and saw Karl running to overtake them.

With a face of consternation, he said that he had just seen from the highest mountain in the neighbourhood, where he had been to cut wood, a large fleet standing, towards the coast, which his fears told him, must be that of his much dreaded countrymen.

“It will be a day of fighting, my friends,” exclaimed Selem, as with Thaddeus he flew rapidly towards the house. “We must die, rather than let our foes set foot upon our strand, where, if they once get footing, it will cost us dear to drive them off.”

They did not even venture to enter the anderoon; but, seizing their arms, and summoning as many warriors as they could collect on the moment, they rushed to the shore, thoughtless of the overwhelming force of the foe, and determined to defend it to the last gasp. As they emerged from the valley to the sands, a sight met their view, sufficient to appal the stoutest heart among the brave mountaineers. As far as the eye could reach, the smooth sparkling sea appeared covered with the lofty and wide spreading canvas of the Russian ships of war and transports, advancing slowly and proudly towards the devoted coast.

The Circassians gazed with deep anxiety at the hostile flotilla, feeling how small was their chance of successfully opposing the landing of their foes with the small force they had collected. Selem, however, sword in hand, flew amongst the small band, encouraging and urging them boldly to withstand their enemies.

“My countrymen, my brave friends,” he cried, “if we allow our foes to land, our destruction, and that of all those dear to us, will be certain. Let us, then, heap our dead bodies, to impede their progress, until our countrymen can assemble to fill our places; and let us rejoice that we can make an offering of our blood for the liberty of Circassia.”

“We will follow you to the death, noble chief. Wherever you go we will go. Allah will protect the right!” was exclaimed on all sides by men, who, as they drew their sabres, swore never to yield.

The fleet approached in a crescent form. The smaller vessels, leading and running in, anchored as close to the land as the depth of the water would allow, presenting the frowning battery of their broadsides to shore. The largest ships followed, while the transports formed in line outside; and, no sooner were the sails furled, than hundreds of boats issued from among them, advancing steadily forward in close line.

Even the heroic Selem felt that it was an act almost of madness to oppose so overwhelming a force; and, for a moment, he hesitated to sacrifice his people’s lives in so hopeless an attempt. But his resolution returned, and he determined to risk all, rather than fly.

At that instant shouts were heard in the woods above them; and a band of chiefs—on their journey to the north, at the head of whom came the Hadji and his brother—were seen galloping towards them. There was scarcely time to exchange the warriors’ brief greeting with their welcome friends—the number of the whole amounting to a few hundreds only, while the approaching boats contained several thousands—ere the fierce combat commenced.

The band of Circassians, mostly chiefs and renowned warriors, remained sheltered behind the trees, until the boats came near enough to enable them to take certain aim, when they opened a rapid and deadly fire from their rifles, taking the Russians by surprise, and throwing them into some disorder; but, notwithstanding numbers fell wounded in the boats, they soon rallied and again advanced. As the keel of the headmost boat grated on the beach, Selem and the Hadji, calling to their comrades, drew their sabres, and, with a furious onset, rushed towards the enemy. Before the first Russian had time to set his foot on dry land, he was hurled bleeding into the sea.

As each of the headmost boats came on, they were received with the same desperate valour; and as, with their lifeless crews, they were thrown on shore, they served as ramparts to the defenders to shelter themselves from the fire of the aftermost ones. Still the enemy advanced in constant succession, like wave upon wave, towards the beach; but with such heroic bravery did Selem and his friends meet them, that the first part of the detachment was completely destroyed, the rest keeping off until more boats should arrive from the ships.

For the Circassians, however, it was a fearful struggle, to oppose their small band to so overwhelming a force; and more so, when those on board the ships of war, seeing the powerful opposition offered, commenced firing on friends and foes alike. Yet, though several of the patriots had fallen, they fought on undaunted. In a short time, however, all the boats came up, extending their line, when a body of troops effected a landing before they could be opposed.

As the Hadji caught sight of them, “Allah! Allah!” he cried, “down with the foes of Circassia. None such may place foot here. Allah! Allah!” And, calling to several of his companions, he furiously charged them; but, notwithstanding his utmost bravery, he and his followers were again driven back to the chief scene of conflict, closely pressed by the enemy. In the mean time also, on the other side, another body of troops had landed. The Circassians found themselves almost hemmed in; but they did not give much time for their enemies to form; for a party attacked them with almost despairing fury, and kept them from approaching to aid the disembarkation of the other boats.

The patriot band was thinning fast; the most determined spirits among them, hoping only to sell their lives dearly; the strand was already strewed with their bodies; a dark red line of human gore fringing the pure ocean. Still in desperation they fought on. They thought of their wives, and of their children, and they strove not to die unavenged.

The image of his young wife presented itself to Thaddeus; and, commending her to the care of heaven, he bravely fought with renewed courage by the side of her brother. Yet now all hope had fled, when a shout was heard from the mountains rising high above the rattle of the musketry, the roar of cannon, and the clash of steel. Issuing from the grove, a numerous party was seen rushing with speed to the spot, headed by a female, brandishing in her hand a glittering sabre. It was the widowed Zara leading on her band of peasants against the Russians, who retreated before the fury of the onset, her followers hewing down their foes on all sides. Her life seemed charmed; for she guarded not herself, as she rushed into the thickest of the desperate fight, shouting to her followers, and with her slender arm dealing death-bearing blows around her.

For a considerable distance along the coast, many separate engagements took place where-ever any boats attempted to throw the troops on shore; those who were left, while the boats returned for reinforcements, were cut to pieces; for the defenders were too few to attempt making prisoners. Seeing that affairs were in this desperate state, the Russians sent every boat they could launch from their ships of war and transports, filled with troops, to the assistance of those already engaged; the brigs at the same time running so close in, that their keels touched the ground. These vessels opened a galling fire, aiming over the heads of their own people, at the defenders of the soil. But the Circassians were by far too eager to allow the manoeuvre to be of much avail. Closing and grappling with their enemies the moment they came on, and fighting up to their waists in the sea, as they rushed forward to meet them, the shot from the ships, made equal havoc among both parties.

The Russians now saw that it would have been better policy to wait, until all their foes had collected on the beach, before they commenced firing; when, after playing on the crowds of Circassians, they might under cover of their guns, have sent in their boats without molestation. As it was they had been dreadfully cut up without making good their landing. They now attempted to repair their error at the sacrifice of their own people; but that signified nothing if they could ultimately be successful.

Selem, the moment he could turn his eyes to see what was going forward, after defeating those directly opposed to him, observed Zara amid the thickest of the fight, encouraging, and leading on her followers to the attack; he hastened towards her, fearful for her safety, and endeavoured to withdraw her from the bloody scene.

“Think you that the life of my husband does not require some sacrifice at my hands?” she cried. “The blood of all these base slaves would not repay one drop of that which flowed in his veins. Who is more bound to avenge his death, than his wife? I have nothing to fear. Hinder me not from the holy work.”

Breaking from him, she rushed again towards the enemy. Karl, however, who had followed her, and who did not like to fight against his own countrymen, remained by her side, merely warding off the blows aimed at her; till at length, his choler rising, he returned the blows himself, with interest. Selem saw that it was hopeless to hinder her; and the utmost energies of all were now required to repel the fresh attack. As the boats pulled rapidly towards the shore, the enemy’s soldiers, urged to desperation by the fate of their comrades, and by the instigation of their officers, threw themselves into the water with bayonets ready fixed, and charged the Circassians. But, as before, the active mountaineers grappled with them, leaping between their bayonets, and stabbing them with their short swords.

The termination of the contest, however, still remained doubtful, for at one spot, less obstinately defended, several boats made a dash at once, and succeeded in throwing their troops on shore, where, forming, they charged the Circassians on their flank with so much courage, that Selem began to fear their heroic defence would have been of no avail. At this critical moment, a loud shout was again raised behind them; and, turning, Selem beheld his father, at the head of a band of warriors, breaking through the wood, and galloping over the sand. A fresh and desperate charge was now made against the Russians, who were driven with great loss, to their boats.

The boats that were already afloat pulled off, the most desperate fighting now ensuing; the Russians, attempting to shove off their boats, while the Circassians, surrounding them, hauled their crews into the water, cutting down the soldiers who offered further resistance; but the foemen, at length when they found themselves left to their fate, ceased fighting, and sued for mercy.

A great number of prisoners were taken, the Russians losing more than half the number of troops they attempted to land. Many of their boats were also left wrecked on the shore. No sooner did those from the ships see that their troops were completely defeated, than they again commenced a tremendous cannonade on the Circassians, who, collecting their dead and wounded, retired within shelter of the woods, where they could watch the enemy with less exposure of their lives.

Selem looked round anxiously for Zara. She had escaped unscathed. Her sword—it had been Alp’s—was grasped in her hands, yet reeking with the blood of the enemy, as slowly she retired, unheeding the shot then falling thick around and laying many low in the hour of victory.

The patriots watched their enemies with lynx eyed vigilance, lest they might make a second attempt at landing. A constant firing was kept up from the wood, in all directions, at the retiring boats, and on the vessels, which they could reach with their rifles, making them glad to get beyond their deadly aim. The enemy had learned a sufficient lesson. In a short time, the boats were hoisted in, and that vast flotilla, which seemed capable of overwhelming the Circassian territories, stood out to sea, defeated and discomfited, by a mere handful of determined mountaineers. So truly will patriotic courage withstand tyranny and injustice!

Loud shouts arose from the gallant victors as the dark eagles were seen flying far out to sea; and all that part of the country was, for the present, relieved from the baneful shadow of their wings. But, like the destroying angel of the Egyptians, wherever they had passed, they left grief and mourning in their track, for many of the brave patriots had fallen.

Selem, with a party of the most humane, as soon as the ships had got under weigh, repaired to the beach, where he found, mingled with the wounded Circassians, several of his late opponents still lingering. Deep was the gratitude of the poor fellows, when they heard themselves addressed in their own tongue; and when he ordered them to be conveyed to the hamlet, and tended with care.

None of our friends among the chiefs had fallen; but Thaddeus had received a wound sufficiently severe to require the whole of Ina’s attention and fond care. Many months elapsed before he could again take the field; and Ina might be excused if she scarcely regretted his confinement. He has since proved himself a true champion of his adopted country; and we trust that his gallant sons may, in a few years, follow his noble example.

No sooner had the tumult of the fight ceased, than Zara’s excitement also vanished; and, overcome by the unnatural exertion she had undergone, she sank to the ground, her hand relaxing the grasp of her weapon, which she would not before quit. In this state she was borne to the house of Arslan Gherrei. She recovered; and sank no more into her apathetic state. But her nature, her very appearance had changed; though her eye was even brighter than ever. A hectic flush—one crimson spot—grew on her thin and wan cheek: her lip was pale, and her voice lost its soft, sweet melody. Like the warlike brides of her ancestors, wherever the foe approached, there was the bereaved young widow to be seen amid the thickest of the fight, her heroic courage animating her countrymen, and spreading terror among the ranks of the Urus. Where the carnage has been most dreadful, blood flowing like water from the pent-up fountains of winter when let loose by the warmth of spring, there has oft the young Amazon been seen rushing on amid the slain unscathed, unhurt; bearing, it seems, a charmed life; and, if she would forget her griefs in death, she cannot; the leaden showers fall thick, the sharp steel flashes around her in vain.

Many follow her as an inspired being sent from heaven to lead them to victory; and the foes, as they hear the war shout of her followers, and see her approaching, fly, terror-stricken before her. The fire of revenge for her slaughtered love still burns unquenched within her bosom. Death—death alone can ever extinguish its consuming flame.

That noble champion of his country, Arslan Gherrei, still leads his followers to war; and may he be spared to enjoy the blessings of peace, which he so well deserves, and the happiness of his country, for which his heart so yearns.

Even now also is the war shout of the fierce Hadji heard in the thickest of the battle; and though his tread has lost its elasticity, his arm somewhat of its nerve, still well does he deal his blows amid the enemies of his country. May just Heaven shield the good and brave old man from the weapons of an invading enemy!

And Selem, our hero—yet does the image of the loving, the murdered Azila, dwell within his bosom. He has not forgotten his vow. Terribly does he fulfil it. But the end is not yet accomplished. His only bride, his earthly love, is his country; and what more exalted or holy feeling could possess his breast? Still does he energetically strive for Circassia’s welfare; and never for a moment, does he regret that he exchanged wealth, rank, and heartless dissipation, gilding the chains of despotism, for his humble cot, and liberty!

May every philanthropist join us in earnest hope and prayer, that Circassia may not share the fate of Poland.

The End.

William H G Kingston

"The Cruise of the Dainty"

Chapter One.

“Never was bothered with a more thorough calm!” exclaimed my brother Harry, not for the first time that morning, as he and I, in spite of the sweltering heat, paced the deck of our tight little schooner the Dainty, then floating motionless on the smooth bosom of the broad Pacific. The empty sails hung idly from the yards. The dog-vanes imitated their example. Not the tiniest wavelet disturbed the shining surface of the ocean, not a cloud dimmed the intense blue of the sky, from which the sun glared forth with a power that made the pitch in the seams of the deck bubble up and stick to the soles of our feet, and though it might have failed to cook a beefsteak in a satisfactory manner, was rapidly drying some strings of fish hung up in the rigging.

The white men of the crew were gathered forward, in such shade as they could find, employed under the superintendence of Tom Platt, our mate, in manufacturing mats, sinnet, rope yarns, or in knotting and splicing; the dark-skinned natives, of whom we had several on board similarly engaged, were mostly on the other side of the deck, apparently indifferent as to whether they were in the shade or sunshine. Even my brother, the commander of the Dainty, was too impatient to think much about the broiling we were undergoing, as we walked from the taffrail to a short distance before the mainmast, where we invariably turned to face back again; while during the intervals in our conversation, from an old habit, he whistled vehemently for a breeze, not that in consequence he really expected it to come.

As we walked with our faces forward I was amused by watching old Tom, who, marline-spike in hand, was stropping a block, now inspecting the work of one man, now that of another, and then giving his attention to a lad, seated on the spars stowed under the long-boat, engaged in splicing an eye to the end of a rope.

“Is this all right, Mr Platt?” asked the lad, handing the rope to the mate, who, squirting a mouthful of tobacco juice over the bulwarks, turned it round and round to examine it critically.

“Ay, t’will do, Dick—wants scraping a bit; let’s see how you’ll serve it,” answered old Tom, giving back the rope.

After taking a few more turns my brother stopped. “Do you think, Platt, that, we shall be long delayed by this provoking calm?” he asked.

“Can’t say, Cap’en. Known such to last for the better part of a week in these latitudes,” answered the mate, coming a few steps aft. “Maybe, though, we’ll get a breeze to-morrow, maybe not.”

“We are not likely to get it yet, at all events, from the look of the sky,” said Harry. “We’ll rig the awning and persuade Mary and Fanny to come on deck. They’ll be better here than in the close cabin.” Just as he spoke Nat Amiel, his young brother-in-law, appeared at the companion-hatch.

“Wanted to see if you were asleep, as we have been below all the morning,” he exclaimed. “Well, I declare, it is hot, though it’s baking enough in the cabin to satisfy a salamander.”

“We’ll soon have some more shade, and then ask the ladies to come on deck and enjoy it,” I answered. “In the meantime hand up a couple of the folding-chairs, and I’ll place some gratings for them to put their feet on.”

Nat dived into the cabin, and the mate calling the men aft we quickly had an awning rigged to cover the after-part of the deck. Harry then went below to bring up his wife and her sister. They were by this time pretty well accustomed to a sea life, as three weeks had passed since we left Brisbane in Queensland. My brother Harry, who had been a lieutenant in the navy, had about four years before come out to settle in the colony, being engaged at the time to Miss Mary Amiel, the eldest daughter of an English clergyman. Agricultural pursuits had not been much to his taste, and he had therefore settled himself in Brisbane for the purpose of carrying on a mercantile business. He had made a very fair commencement, and had returned about a year before the time I am speaking of to marry his intended. On his arrival he found that Mr Amiel had died, and that his family, consisting of another daughter and a son, were left in very poor circumstances. Prompted by his generous feelings, he at once invited Fanny and Nat to return with him and his bride to the colony. This they gladly agreed to do, and the whole party forthwith took a passage on board an emigrant ship, which after a prosperous voyage reached the colony.

I had from my earliest days wished to go to sea, and my mother having consented, as I could not obtain a nomination for the Britannia, I got a berth as a midshipman on board a trader bound for China. I was unfortunate in my ship and my captain. This gave me a dislike not so much to the sea as to the merchant service, and on my return from my first voyage, finding that my brother, to whom I was much attached, had gone back to Queensland, I got leave from my mother, after representing to her the sort of life I had been leading, to go and join him, she being certain that he would be very glad to receive me.

As I had made the best use of my opportunities of becoming a seaman during my first voyage, I had no difficulty in obtaining a berth on board a ship bound to Queensland, called the Eclipse, commanded by Captain Archer, and I was thus able to work my passage out free of expense. On this occasion also I made good use of my time, by adding considerably to my knowledge of seamanship, and by studying navigation. Though I was before the mast, as I had my own sextant and books the officers allowed me to take observations with them and to keep the ship’s reckoning, I had thus a right, with the experience I had had, to consider myself a fair seaman.

The Eclipse had been four days at sea, when the third mate summoned me to accompany him into the forehold to get up some casks of provisions. While searching for those he wanted, I heard a sound as if some one was gasping for breath, and then a low moan. I told the mate.

“What can that be, sir?” I asked. “It comes from forward.”

“Take the lantern, and see if there is any one there,” he answered.

I made my way to the spot whence I fancied the sounds proceeded, and lowering my lantern into a small hole, I saw the figure of a boy crouching down, with his head resting against a cask. He made no movement, and his eyes appeared to be closed.

“There’s some one here, sir,” I cried out. “He seems to be very far gone.”

The mate quickly joined me. “A young stowaway!” he exclaimed. “We must have him on deck at once, or it will be beyond the doctor’s skill to bring him round. I have known more than one lad lose his life in this way; and I shall get blamed for not having examined the hold before we left port.”

Saying this he lifted the lad in his arms while I held the lantern, and forthwith carried him on deck. The low groans the boy uttered showed us that he was still alive, but he was pale as death and in a wretched condition. He was dressed like a respectable lad, but his face and clothes were covered with dirt.

“The captain will be in a great taking when he finds this out,” said the mate; “still more so if the young fellow dies. Go aft, Ned, and call the doctor; maybe he’ll be able to bring him round.”

I hurried aft, and soon found the surgeon, who was in his dispensary. When I told him what he was wanted for, he at once, bringing some medicine with him, hurried forward.

“This will do him good,” he said, pouring some liquid down the lad’s throat. “I don’t think, Mr Simmons, that you need be anxious about him.”

The young stowaway almost immediately opened his eyes and stared about him. The doctor then ordered the cook to get some broth ready, while two of the women passengers brought some warm water and washed the poor lad’s face and hands. The broth, which he eagerly swallowed, revived him still more, and the doctor considered that he had sufficiently recovered to be conveyed to the sick bay, the women offering to stay by his side and to give him medicine and food as he might require them.

“If he is carefully tended he may come round,” said the doctor; “but had he remained another hour in the hold I feel pretty sure that he would have lost his life.”

Having been the means of discovering the young stowaway, I felt a certain amount of interest in him, and, whenever I could, went in to see how he was getting on. The next day he had so far recovered as to be able to speak without difficulty. He told me that his name was Richard Tilston, though he was generally called Dick by his friends; that he had had a great longing for going to sea; and that, as his father would not let him, he had run off from school, and found his way down to the docks. Hearing that our ship was to haul out into the stream early the next day, he waited until late in the evening, when he stole on board, and had, without being discovered, got down into the hold. He had brought a bottle of water and some biscuits, together with a couple of sausages. Supposing that the ship would at once put to sea, he had not placed himself on an allowance, and in less than three days had exhausted all his provisions and water. As the sea was smooth he fancied that we were still in the river, and was therefore afraid to creep out, until he became too ill and weak to do so.

From the tone of his voice and the way he expressed himself I suspected that he was a young gentleman, but I did not like to ask questions, and waited to hear what account he would give of himself. He was, however, too ill to say much, and was in a great fright at hearing that the captain would be very angry with him for having stowed himself away. I tried to reassure him by saying I did not believe that the captain was as yet made acquainted with his being on board, and, as far as I could judge, he was a good-natured man, and would probably not say much to him.

In spite of all the doctor’s care and the nursing he received from the two kind women who had taken him in charge, it was considerably more than a week before he was able to get up and move about the deck. When his clothes had been cleaned and he himself had been well washed, he looked a very respectable lad.

At last, one day, Captain Archer saw him, and inquired who he was. The third mate had to confess all about the matter, and the captain then sent for Dick, and in an angry tone asked what had induced him to come on board.

“I wanted to go to sea, sir, and didn’t know any other way of managing it,” answered Dick.

“You took a very bad way, and nearly lost your life in carrying out your foolish notion,” said the captain. “You have been pretty severely punished by what you have gone through, or I should have given you a sound flogging; as it is, I intend to let you off, but you will understand you must make yourself useful on board and try to pay for your passage; I can have no idlers, remember, and you will get thrashed if you do not work. I will speak to the mates about you, and they’ll see that you have something to do.”

Poor Dick, looking very much ashamed of himself, returned forward. The mates took care that he should have something to do, and the men also, for Dick was at everybody’s beck and call, and had to do all sorts of dirty and disagreeable work. When there was no other work for him he was employed by the cook to sweep out the caboose and clean the pots and pans. He now and then got his back up, when he received a rope’s-ending for his pains. I did the best I could for him, but often could not save him from ill-treatment, and at last, in the bitterness of his soul, he complained that he was leading a regular dog’s life, and that he heartily wished he had not come to sea.

“I won’t stand it any longer,” he exclaimed. “I’ll jump overboard and drown myself.”

“Don’t even talk of doing so wicked and foolish a thing,” I said. “You wished to become a sailor, now that you have the opportunity of learning your duty you do nothing but grumble and complain. You must take the rough and the smooth together. I wasn’t over well off on my first voyage, though my mother had paid a premium to the owners and I was on the quarterdeck, but I saw while I remained on board that there was no use complaining, so I took things as they were, and by keeping my eyes open and my wits awake became in a short time a fair seaman.”

Poor Dick said that he would try to follow my advice, but he, notwithstanding, would answer when spoken to, and consequently I was unable to save him from ill-treatment, as he had brought it down upon himself.

During a heavy gale we encountered, when near the latitude of the Cape, one of the so-called midshipmen fell overboard and was drowned. The captain knowing that I could take an observation, and hearing that I was able to keep accounts and would be useful to him, invited me to take the poor fellow’s berth. This, though it gave me a good deal of work, I was very glad to do, and I thus saw much less than before of Dick. As I was well treated I soon regained my old affection for a sea life, and had half determined to return home in the ship should my brother not especially press me to remain. When, however, we arrived at Brisbane, and Harry told me of his contemplated trip, and that he should be very glad of my assistance, I kept to my former intention of remaining with him. I therefore wished Captain Archer and his ship, the Eclipse, good-bye, and took up my quarters with Harry and his family. I liked Mary and her sister, whom I had not before seen, very much, and I was glad that Harry had not taken them into the bush, for they did not appear at all suited to the rough style of life they would have had to lead there, for they were both very pretty and elegant, and had never been accustomed to hard work, though they now did their best to make themselves useful in the house, and were never idle. Their brother, Nat, was a capital little fellow—as merry as a cricket and never out of temper, even when his face and hands were bitten all over by mosquitoes, or when the pugnacious insects were buzzing round us in thousands, and that is a trial to the sweetest of tempers. We used to have music and reading in the evenings, and very pleasant evenings they were—indeed, we lived much as we should have done in the old country. Altogether, I congratulated myself that I had decided on stopping out.

My brother was, however, somewhat anxious about the state of business. “You see, Ned, there is not, I fear, much to be done at present,” he said. “I have, therefore, thought of making the trip I spoke to you about. A number of vessels sail from Sydney and other places to collect cargoes of palm-oil and sandal-wood, and some few go in search of pearls. They do not all trade honestly with the natives, and several have suffered in consequence, their crews having been attacked and murdered; but I hope, by trading honestly and by being always on my guard against surprise, to make a profitable venture. I have an especial reason for wishing to sail at once, as the day before your arrival I received information from an old shipmate of mine, Tom Platt, of the existence of a small group of islands, among which pearls of large size are obtained by the natives in unusual abundance. Tom, who has been out in these seas for some years on board whalers and other craft, sailed a few months ago in a small schooner, the Zebra, from Sydney. Both master and crew were rough, lawless fellows, and Tom told me that he often wished himself clear of them, but they touched at no place where he could venture to land till they reached the islands I speak of. Here the master, for his own purposes, at first behaved better to the natives than he was accustomed to do, as he wanted to obtain some pigs, cocoanuts, and other provisions. They consequently, without hesitation, came on board in considerable numbers. Many of them were observed to wear necklaces of white beads, which the captain supposed to be made of glass, and to have been obtained from some previous trader. On examining, however, one of the strings of beads, what was his surprise to find that they were pearls! Being a cunning fellow, he kept his discovery to himself till he had obtained all he could induce the natives to part with, when, though he fancied that he had made his fortune, he formed the design of kidnapping as many people as his schooner would hold, as an effectual way of preventing other traders from having any friendly intercourse with the islanders and discovering his secret, and thereby spoiling his market. Tom Platt was the only person among the crew who suspected what the white beads really were, and he managed, unknown to the captain, to obtain a necklace, which he hid in his pocket. The very evening before the natives were to have been seized a heavy gale sprang up, and the schooner was driven out to sea. Before many days had gone by she was cast away on an uninhabited island, when all hands, with the exception of Tom Platt, were lost. He supported existence on shell-fish and a few birds he knocked down, while a small cask of water washed ashore saved him from dying of thirst. Just as it was exhausted, he was taken off by a vessel bound for this place. I met him, looking very ill and wretched, wandering about the street the very day he landed. We recognised each other, and I took him to my house, where he became so much worse that, had it not been for the careful way he was nursed, I believe he would have died. He seemed to think so himself, and was very grateful. While I was sitting with him one day, having a yarn of old times, he gave me an account of the pearl islands, and assured me that he could find them again, having carefully noted the distance the schooner had run to the reef on which she was wrecked, as also its position on the chart. He then showed me the necklace, of which he had not spoken to any one. His narrative first put our proposed venture into my head. When I told him of my idea he at once agreed to accompanying me, saying that he should be content with any wages I could afford to give him. Though a first-rate seaman, he cannot be much of a navigator, so that had you, Ned, not come out I should have been obliged to get another mate; and now that you have come, we will forthwith commence our preparations.”

“The first thing to be done is to find a suitable craft,” I said.

“I have had my eye on one—a schooner, the Dainty, of a hundred and twenty tons, built for a fruit-trader, which was brought out here from England by a settler only a month ago,” he answered.

“Then let us go at once and have a look at her, and, if she is in good condition, secure her,” I exclaimed; for, after the account Harry had given me, I had become very eager to undertake the expedition.

We started forthwith. The Dainty was even more suited for our object than we had expected. She had well fitted up cabins, like those of a yacht, with a hold large enough for all the cargo and stores we might wish to stow—was well-found and in capital condition; so Harry at once made an offer for her, which being accepted, the Dainty became his.

In the evening Harry said what he had done.

“You do not intend to leave me behind, I hope,” exclaimed Mary.

“Or me either,” cried Miss Fanny Amiel. “What should we poor girls do all alone by ourselves in this little bakehouse?”

“You must let me go as cabin-boy,” said Nat. “I’ll make myself tremendously useful.”

“I’ll talk it over with Mary,” answered Harry, who looked not at all ill pleased at the thoughts of having his wife to accompany him of her own free will. The result of the talk was that the next morning it was settled that we were all to go, the house and business being left in charge of a trustworthy old clerk, Mr Simon Humby, who had accompanied Harry when he came out the first time from England. We were very busy for the next few days in making preparations for the voyage—the ladies in the house assisted by Nat, and Harry, and I in refitting the schooner—purchasing provisions, stores, and articles for bartering with the natives. We procured also four small brass guns, with some muskets, pistols, boarding-pikes, and cutlasses.

“We shall not, I hope, have to use them,” said Harry. “But, now especially that we are to have ladies on board, we must be well prepared for defence should we be attacked.”

It was easy enough to prepare the vessel for sea, but Harry expected to find some difficulty in securing an efficient crew. He of course at once applied to Tom Platt.

“I’ll see about that, sir,” he answered. “You mustn’t be too particular as to what sort of chaps they may be, provided they are good seamen—for as to their characters, I’m not likely to be able to say much.”

“Pick up the best you can find,” said Harry. “They’ll probably behave well enough, if kept under strict discipline.”

Tom was as good as his word. In the course of a few days he had engaged ten hands—a strong crew for a vessel of the Dainty’s size—six Englishmen, a New Zealander, a Sandwich Islander, and two blacks, natives of Tanna, an island of the New Hebrides Group. Tom confessed that he had more confidence in the probable good conduct of the Pacific islanders than he had in that of the white men, who, however, when they came on board, looked more decent fellows than I had expected.

Just as the schooner was ready for sea, Harry and I were one evening leaving the quay, when I saw a lad in ragged clothes, who, on catching sight of me, tried to hide himself behind a stack of planks lately landed. In spite of his forlorn and dirty condition, I recognised him as the young stowaway who had come out with me on board the Eclipse.

“Hillo, Dick Tilston, can that be you?” I exclaimed. “Come here. What have you been about?”

On being called, he approached, looking very sheepish.

“Now, don’t be scolding at me,” he said, taking my hand, which I held out to him. “You know how I was treated aboard the Eclipse. I couldn’t stand it any longer, so when she was about to sail I slipped ashore, and hid away till she had gone. I’ve since been knocking about, unable to get any work, for no one will engage me without a character, as they guess that I’m a runaway, and take me for a young thief. I’ve sold my clothes and everything I had for food, and have got only these rags to cover me.”

I knew that what Dick said was true. I asked him if he still wished to be a sailor, or would rather go up the country and seek for employment, which I was sure he would be able to obtain with my brother’s recommendation.

“I would rather be a sailor than anything else, if I could serve under a good captain,” he answered.

“Well, then, stop a moment, and I’ll speak to my brother,” I said; and I ran after Harry. I told him in a few words about Dick.

“Well, he may come with us,” he said. “But he must try to make himself useful, and not fancy that he is a young gentleman to do what he likes.”

I ran back to Dick. The poor fellow was delighted, and burst into tears. “I own, Ned, I’ve had nothing to eat all day in this land of plenty, for I could not bring myself to beg, and nobody offered me anything,” he exclaimed, scarcely able for shame to get out his words.

I fortunately had a shilling in my pocket. “Here, Dick, go and get something to eat,” I said, giving it to him. I thought that he would rather have some food first, before he came to talk with Harry. “Then come up to my brother’s house—you can easily find it—and I will speak to him in the meantime.” Dick promised to come.

While we walked home I told my brother more about Dick.

“It is very clear that the first thing we must do for him is to give him an outfit, or he’ll not be presentable on board, and then I hope, from gratitude, that he will behave well,” he observed.

On our way we stopped at an outfitter’s, and Harry gave an order to the storekeeper to supply whatever I might select for Dick. As we walked on, he told me what things he wished me to get.

Soon after we reached home Dick presented himself at the door, looking somewhat brighter than he did when I first saw him, but rather ashamed of himself and unwilling to come in. Harry, however, came and had a few words with him, and seemed satisfied that he might be made useful on board the schooner.

As we had no place to put him up in the house, he told me to get a lodging for him for the night, and to see that he had plenty of food. “I say, Ned,” he added, “just give him a hint to take a bath and get his hair cut before he puts on his clean clothes.”

Accordingly, telling Dick to come with me, I took him to the outfitter’s. We soon got the necessary clothing for him, and then left him at a lodging with a person who knew my brother.

That evening was to be the last on shore for many a long day. Mary and her sister were in high spirits at the thoughts of their trip, for which they had got everything ready.

The next morning Dick presented himself so changed for the better in appearance, that Harry scarcely knew him. He looked a fine, intelligent sailor lad, and at once began to make himself useful in carrying down our things to the boat: most of our heavier luggage had been sent on board the previous evening. Mr Humby came off in a shore boat.

While our own boat was being hoisted in, my brother gave his last directions.

“I’ll do my best, Mr Harry, and I pray that you may have a successful voyage, and when you return find all things going on well,” he said, as he shook hands with us all.

The anchor was then hove up, and sail being made, we stood out of the harbour, while Mr Humby returned on shore, waving his last adieus.

The first part of our voyage was uneventful. We had fine weather, a fair wind, and a smooth sea, and the ladies soon got accustomed to their life on board, declaring that it was even more pleasant than they had expected, though they should like occasionally to get sight of some of the beautiful islands of the Pacific, of which they had so often heard.

We left New Caledonia and the Loyalty Islands on our port side, then steered to the north between the New Hebrides and the Fiji Islands, at neither of which my brother wished to touch.

Day after day we sailed on without sighting land, and at last Emily exclaimed, “What has become of the islands we have heard so much about? I thought we should not pass a day without seeing several of them. They appear on the chart to be very close together, like the constellations in the sky.”

“But if you will measure off on the chart the distances they are apart, you will easily understand how it is we have sailed so far without seeing them,” said Harry.

The very next day, as Fanny was looking over the starboard side, Harry pointed out to her several blue hillocks rising out of the ocean, which he told her were the northern islands of Fiji, the habitation of a dark-skinned race, once the most notorious cannibals in the Pacific.

“I am very glad to keep away from them, then,” answered Fanny, “for I shouldn’t at all like to run the risk of being captured and eaten.”

“Not much chance of that,” said Harry. “The larger number of them have given up their bad habits, and promise to become as civilised as any of the people in these seas.”

“Still, I would rather not go near their shores,” said Fanny.

She little thought at the time that there were many other islands in every direction, the inhabitants of which were quite as savage as those of Fiji had been.

From the first, Tom Platt had taken a fancy to Dick, who had hitherto behaved himself remarkably well.

“We’ll make a seaman of the lad, if he only sticks to it,” he said to me. “The rope’s-endings, as he tells me he used to get aboard the Eclipse, did him a world of good, though he didn’t think so.”

I always treated Dick in a friendly way, though he was before the mast, and I was glad to find that he did not presume on this, but willingly did whatever he was ordered. Tom had had a hammock slung for Dick near his berth away from the men, whose conversation, he said, was not likely to do him any good.

Our life on board was very regular; Tom and I kept watch and watch, the crew being divided between us, while Harry, as captain, was on deck at all hours whenever he thought it necessary.

Chapter Two.

The calm which I described at the commencement of my narrative had continued for many hours, and when the sun sank beneath the horizon there was not the slightest sign of a coming breeze. It was my first watch, and before Harry went below he charged me to keep a careful look-out, and to call him should there be any sign of a change of weather. The schooner still floated motionless on the water; scarcely a sound was heard, except the cheeping of the main boom, and the low voices of the men forward, as they passed the watch spinning their oft-told yarns to each other.

I slowly paced the deck, enjoying the comparative coolness of the night, after the intense heat of the day. The stars in the southern hemisphere were shining brilliantly overhead, reflected in the mirror-like ocean. The watch at length were silent, and had apparently dropped off to sleep, though I could see the figure of the man on the look-out as he paced up and down or leaned over the bulwarks. Suddenly, the stillness was broken by a dull splash. I started; it seemed to me as if some one had fallen overboard, but it was only one of the monsters of the deep poking its snout for an instant above the surface, and when I looked over the side it had disappeared. Occasionally I heard similar sounds at various distances. I had some difficulty in keeping myself awake, though by continuing my walk I was able to do so; but I was not sorry when the old mate turned out, without being called, to relieve me.

“We have not got a breeze yet,” I observed as he came on deck.

“No, Master Ned, and we shan’t get one during my watch either; and maybe not when the sun is up again,” he answered.

Tom was right. When I came on deck the next morning the sea was as calm as before. Though it appeared impossible that we could have moved our position, I was greatly surprised, on looking away to the westward, to see what I at first took to be the masts of a vessel rising above the horizon. I pointed them out to my brother who had just come on deck. He told me to go aloft with a telescope and examine them more minutely. I then discovered that they were trees growing on a small island, apparently cocoanuts, or palms of some sort. Beyond, to the south and west, were several islands of greater elevation, some blue and indistinct, but others appeared to be covered with trees like the nearer one, while between us and them extended from north to south a line of white surf distinctly marked on the blue ocean. On reporting to Harry what I had seen, he said that the surf showed the existence of a barrier reef surrounding the islands. “We may find a passage through it, but sometimes these reefs extend for miles without an opening through them. A strong current must be setting from the eastward towards it, or we should not have been drawn so far during the night, for certainly there was no appearance of an island in that direction at sundown.”

We soon had convincing proof that Harry was right in his conjecture. There could be no doubt that a current was setting us towards the land, for the trees gradually rose higher and higher above the water, and at length we could see them from the deck, while the white line of surf breaking on the reef became more and more distinct. At the same time a slowly moving, at first scarcely perceptible swell, which Fanny called the breathing of the ocean, passed ever and anon under the vessel, lifting her so gently that the sails remained as motionless as before. It was difficult indeed to discover that there was any movement in the mirror-like surface of the deep, and yet we could feel the deck rise and fall under our feet. The awning was rigged, and Mary and Fanny were seated in their easy-chairs under it, Mary reading aloud while her sister worked. Nat, who had placed himself near them, cross-legged on a grating, to listen, with a marline-spike and a piece of rope, was practising the art of splicing, in which he had made fair progress. “I say, Ned, I wish you would show me how to work a Turk’s head,” he exclaimed.

I went to him and did as he asked me. This made Mary stop reading; and Fanny, looking out towards the island, remarked, “How near we are getting. I am so glad, for I want to see a real coral island, and that of course is one. I suppose we shall anchor when we get close to it, and be able to go on shore.” Harry, who overheard her, made no reply, but looked unusually grave, and told me to bring the chart from below. Spreading it out on the companion-hatch, we again, for the third or fourth time, gave a careful look at it.

“I cannot understand the set of this current,” he said. “It probably sweeps round the island. But we are being carried much closer than I like to be in so perfect a calm. If we get a breeze it will be all right, but—”

Just then the sails gave several loud flaps, as if some one had shaken them out, and the schooner rolled now to one side, now to the other. Her head had moved so as to bring the swell abeam. Once having begun, she went on making the same unpleasant movements. It was evident that the swell had increased.

“Is there no way to stop her from doing that?” asked Mary.

“Not till the wind fills her sails,” answered Harry. “I hope, however, that we shall get a breeze before long.”

Harry did not say this in a very cheerful tone. He soon afterwards beckoned Tom Platt to him, and I saw them talking earnestly together for some minutes. I joined them. They were discussing the probable set of the current, which was at present sweeping us at the rate of at least three knots an hour towards the reef.

“We might keep her off it, at all events, until a breeze springs up,” remarked Tom.

“We’ll have the boats out, then, and do our best,” said my brother, and he gave the order “Out boats.”

We carried two boats on the davits, but as they were too light to be of much service, we hoisted out the long-boat, which was stowed amidships. We also lowered one of the gigs. The two boats were at once made fast to the tow-line. The men gave way, and the schooner’s head was kept off from the threatening reef, against which the sea was breaking with tremendous force. The men bent to their oars, for they knew the danger as well as we did.

We all watched the reef with anxious eyes. Should the vessel be driven against it, we should, in a few seconds, we well knew, be dashed to pieces; and, though we might escape in the boats before that catastrophe occurred, we should be left to make a long voyage before we could reach any civilised people. All around us were islands, most of them, we had reason to fear, inhabited by treacherous and blood-thirsty savages.

We, of course, did not express our anxiety to the ladies, who, however, I thought, began to suspect that the vessel was in danger, although they said nothing. The men had been pulling fully an hour against the current, and yet, as I looked at the reef, I could not help acknowledging to myself that the vessel was nearer than at first. The swell, at the same time, began to increase, and we could now hear the roar of the breakers as they dashed against the wall of coral which interrupted their progress.

“We’ll send the other boat ahead, Platt,” said my brother.

“Ay, ay, sir,” answered Tom; and he and I with the two remaining men lowered her, and, jumping in, joined our shipmates in towing, leaving only my brother with Dick and Nat to take charge of the vessel. He now ordered us to pull across the current, in the hopes of thus in time getting out of it. We all pulled away with a will, making the schooner move faster through the water than she had done for many hours.

“We must manage it somehow,” shouted Tom to the other boats. “Give way, lads—give way. We shall soon be clear of the current.”

It was of little use urging the men, as they were already straining every nerve. My brother walked the deck, stopping every now and then, casting his eyes frequently around the horizon in the hopes of discovering signs of a coming breeze. Then he would look towards the reef, but there was nothing encouraging to be seen in that direction. Still Tom shouted every now and then, “Pull away, lads—pull away!”

“We are pulling, mate, as hard as we can,” answered the men from the other boats.

If we had any doubts of it before it was now clear enough that an unusually strong current was setting us towards the reef, even faster than we could pull away from it. Whenever the men showed any signs of relaxing their efforts Harry came to the bows and cheered them on, leaving Dick to steer. It was somewhat trying work for all of us, for the hot sun was beating down on our heads, the perspiration streaming from every pore; but our lives depended upon our exertions, and pull we must to the last moment. I heard some of the men talking of going alongside the schooner and asking the captain for a glass of grog apiece.

“Don’t be thinking of that, lads,” cried Tom. “It would be so much precious time lost. We can pull well enough if we have the will. The grog would not give you any real strength, and you’d be as thirsty as before a few minutes afterwards. Can’t one of you strike up a tune, and see if that don’t help us along.”

There was no response to this appeal, so Tom himself at once began shouting a no very melodious ditty. First one man joined in, then another and another, until the whole of the boats’ crews were singing at the top of their voices. It appeared to me that the vessel was moving somewhat faster than before through the water, but looking towards the wall of foam that seemed no further off. Still we knew that our efforts were of use, as we thus considerably delayed the destruction which awaited our vessel should she once get within the power of the breakers. Hour after hour passed by. The swell had increased, and, combined with the current, made our task still more difficult, but Harry had too much at stake to let any consideration for our fatigue induce him to allow us to rest for a moment. “Pull on, lads, pull on,” he shouted. “We shall have the breeze before long, and we’ll not let the schooner be cast away.”

The roar of the breakers sounded in our ears between each dip of the oars. I looked round, but no sign of a breeze could I discover. My heart sank within me as I thought of how Harry must be feeling with the dear ones under his charge in so great a peril. As I again looked towards the reef it seemed that, since we could not tow the vessel off, no power could save her. I knew that the depth of water close up to these coral reefs is generally so great that there would not be a possibility of anchoring, nor did I see any opening through which we could pass and get into smooth water.

At last Harry shouted out, “Mr Platt, in the second gig, come alongside and help trim sails.” We at once obeyed him.

“What do you think we shall get out of that, Platt,” he asked, pointing to a small cloud which was seen rising above the horizon.

“A stiffish breeze, to my mind, and I hope we shall get it before long,” answered Tom.

We at once trimmed sails, and while we were so employed I saw several cats’-paws playing over the surface. The sails filled.

“Let the boats come alongside, and we’ll hoist them in before the breeze catches us,” cried Harry. “We shall do now, without their help, I hope.”

This was speedily done, but scarcely had we secured the larger boat, the first gig having already been hoisted on board, than the wind filling our canvas, the vessel heeled over almost to her gunwale. But the danger was not past, we had still that fearful wall of surf under our lee. It would be no easy matter to beat off it.

The awning had been quickly unrigged, and the schooner, with as much canvas as she could bear, was tearing through the fast rising seas. We stood on, still nearing the reef. Old Tom went to the helm. The wind increasing, the vessel heeled over before it, but it would not do to shorten sail. The men were at their stations.

“We’ll go about, Platt, and see if she’ll do better on the other tack,” said Harry. “Helm’s a lee!” About she came, but scarcely had she gathered way when a more furious blast than before laid her over. I looked aloft—the top masts were bending like willow wands. I feared every instant that they would go, but it was not a moment to shorten sail. Presently the wind headed us, and we had once more to go about. We now stood on almost parallel with the reef, Tom watching for every slight variation of the wind to edge the schooner off it. All this time, though the current no longer carried us towards the reef, the heavy swell rolling in threatened to set us on it. Night was approaching. It would add greatly to the danger of our position. The ladies had hitherto remained on deck, fully aware of our peril, but showing no signs of fear. Harry, who from the moment the gale sprang up had stood holding on to the weather backstay, now watching the canvas, now the fast rising seas, urged them and Nat to go below.

“I will summon you, if necessary,” he said, in a calm tone. “But we will hope for the best. Remain in the cabin, and keep your cloaks and hats ready to put on.”

They went without remonstrance. I helped them down the companion-ladder.

“Is there much danger, do you think, Ned?” asked Mary. “Harry seems unusually grave.”

“We must, as he says, hope for the best,” I answered, though I myself knew that the danger was imminent. Should a spar go or the gale increase, there would be but scant time, before the schooner would be among the breakers, to get into the boats; and even should we escape in them, would they live in that stormy sea? I saw Mary and Fanny kneel down at the sofa as I left the cabin, and Mary drawing Nat to her side.

“Their prayers will help us,” I thought, as I sprang on deck.

The wind was increasing, the foam-topped seas rolled in quick succession towards us, the sky to windward looked threatening in the extreme; that terrible wall of foam loomed higher through the gloom of night. Still, as long as the schooner’s head could be kept turned away from the reef, we might hope to claw off from it. The chart had shown us that a reef existed, but its form was indistinctly marked. Hitherto we had found it running in a direct line, north and south, but it might suddenly trend to the east, and if so, without a moment’s warning, we might be upon it. Harry, knowing this, had stationed two of the men with the sharpest sight forward, to look out for breakers ahead, that should they be seen, we might go about and have a chance of escaping them; but, owing to the heavy sea rolling in, there was a great risk of the schooner missing stays, and should she do so, our fate would be sealed: there, would be no time to get the boats out before she would be among the breakers. Harry now told me to go forward to assist the other men on the look-out.

“We’ll not go about, if we can help it,” he said. “The water is deep close up to the reef, and a miss is as good as a mile.”

Not a word was spoken; the crew were at their stations ready to execute the orders they might receive. The increased roar of the ceaseless breakers showed me that we were nearer than hitherto, though the vessel was tearing along through the seas at her fastest speed, taking the water over the bows in dense showers which often prevented me from seeing ahead.

“Shall we never get to the end of this terrible reef?” I said to myself. Just then I saw close on the starboard bow the snowy wall of surf. “Luff! Luff all you can!” I shouted out, my cry being echoed by the men. The next moment we appeared to be in the very midst of the seething waters, which fell foaming down on our deck. I gave up all for lost, but again the schooner dashed on and we were free. The reef was yet, however, on our starboard side, but as I peered through the darkness I observed a gap in the wall of foam. I ran aft to Harry. He had seen it.

“We must venture through,” he said. “Square away the fore-yard. Ease off the main-sheet; up with the helm.”

His orders were obeyed, while he hurried aft to direct Tom how to steer. The hissing breakers rose on either hand not twenty fathoms from the vessel; the seas roared up astern; now a huge billow lifted us, and then down we glided into comparatively smooth water.

“Stand by to shorten sail!” shouted Harry. “Port the helm!”

“Port it is,” cried Tom.

The headsails were handed, the schooner was rounded to, the anchor let go, and she rode in safety inside the reef. Harry, with a light heart, sprang below to assure his wife and her sister that the danger was past. We could but dimly make out the low shore on the other side of the lagoon; but what was the character of the island, or whether or not it was inhabited, we could not tell. The wind was still blowing with great force, the breakers dashing with terrific roars against the reef outside of us, so that at any moment we might be driven from our anchor. We both of us therefore intended to stay on deck during the remainder of the night, to be ready should any accident occur. We, however, went down to supper, for which we were very ready, as we had eaten nothing since the commencement of the gale. Very pleasant the cabin looked after the gloomy deck, with Mary and Fanny seated at the table, and the swinging lamp shedding a bright light around. It was difficult to believe that not many minutes before there was a fearful prospect of our vessel being dashed to pieces on the rocks. We could, however, remain below but a very short time, and had again to hurry on deck.

“I’m afraid she’s dragging her anchor, sir,” said Tom, who was getting a lead line ready to ascertain whether this was the case.

The lead was dropped to the bottom, the line ran out slowly, showing that his surmise was correct. More cable was paid out in the hope of bringing her up. We looked anxiously astern, fearing that she might strike on some mass of coral between us and the shore. At length, to our great relief, the line hung up and down, showing that the anchor was holding. The night passed slowly on. Seldom have I more anxiously wished for the return of day.

Chapter Three.

Daylight showed us that the reef, through an opening in which we had passed, was many miles in circumference, and that it surrounded several islands of various sizes and heights, with cocoanut, pandanus, and a few other trees and shrubs growing on them. They were not, as we had at first supposed, lagoon islands. Harry said that he believed them to be the summits of the hills of a submerged island, of which the reef marked the outer edge. We inspected the nearest through our glasses, but could not discover any signs of inhabitants, not a hut, not a canoe on the beach, not a wreath of smoke ascending beyond the trees. In the distance, as if floating on the calm surface of the water, appeared, blue and indistinct, the other islands of the group, one of the most northern of which we had seen on the previous day. The gale had ceased, though the breakers still dashed furiously on the outer side of the reef, but scarcely a ripple disturbed the placid expanse of the lagoon.

“Oh, how beautiful!” exclaimed Fanny, as she and Mary came on deck. “I should so like to take a stroll through that shady grove on the soft turf which carpets the ground.”

“Do let us go, Harry,” said Mary; “you are not obliged to sail immediately.”

Nat also begged that he might go.

“While the swell rolls in through the passage with this light breeze we cannot safely attempt to get out, and so, as you wish it, we will pay a visit to the nearest island,” answered Harry. “But I warn you that you may be disappointed.”

As soon as we had breakfasted the two gigs were lowered. Harry took the two ladies in one, and I had charge of the other, having with me Nat and Dick Tilston. Just as we were about to shove off I asked Tom to hand me down Harry’s fowling-piece, on the chance of getting a shot at some birds.

“May as well have a musket, too,” he said, giving me one with some ammunition. “There may be no people ashore, or if there are they may be friendly, but it’s as well to be prepared for t’other in these parts.”

Tom seldom indulged in so long a speech. It showed that he was somewhat anxious about our going on shore on an unknown island. We gave way, eager to step on shore, my boat soon catching up Harry’s. As we approached the beach we found that the surf washing over the outer reef set upon it in a way which would have made landing there disagreeable, so we pulled a short distance round to the lee side, where we discovered a little bay, or indentation in the coral rock, large enough to admit both the boats, I getting in first was in readiness to hand Mary and Fanny on shore.

“Why, what has become of the soft green turf we saw?” exclaimed Fanny, looking along under the trees.

“Perhaps we shall find it further on,” remarked Mary.

“I am afraid not,” said Harry; “but we will go on through the shady groves and try to reach it.”

It was no easy matter to do this, for although there was grass, it grew in wiry patches out of the coral rock, in some places so thickly that we were compelled to wind in and out among them to make any progress. No flowers nor fruits were to be seen, except some cocoanuts high up above our heads, while the sun came down between the scanty foliage with no less force than on the water. Still our curiosity tempted us to proceed, but everywhere was the same wiry grass which we had taken at a distance for soft turf. At length we came to an open space, raised but slightly above the level of the sea. It was tenanted by innumerable aquatic birds—gannets, sooty terns, beautiful tropic and frigate birds, the nests of the latter constructed of rough sticks covering the boughs of the surrounding trees. While the gannets, whose eggs had been deposited on the ground without nests refused to move as we approached—only exhibiting their alarm or displeasure by loud croaks, and allowing us to catch hold of them without resistance—the frigate birds, more wary, rose from their perches, inflating their blood-red pouches to the size of large cocoanuts, as they ascended high up in the air above our heads, or flew off to sea; others circled round us screeching wildly and flapping their wings. The discordant noise, the heat, the disagreeable smell, and the roughness of the ground, made the ladies unwilling to proceed further, and they proposed returning slowly to the boats; but Dick, Nat, and I, with Jack Lizard, one of the men, pushed forward in spite of all obstacles, as I was anxious to explore more of the island.

“Do not be long away,” shouted Harry; “we may have a breeze shortly, and must get aboard.”

“Ay, ay!” I answered, as we hurried on, expecting to be able to get to the other side of the island and to turn back and overtake them before they reached the boats. The ground rose slightly as we advanced, showing that the island had been upheaved, since first formed by its minute architects, owing to some volcanic convulsion far down in the depths of the ocean. Masses of coral worn by time lay scattered about, amid which grew shrubs and tangled creepers, with here and there a few taller trees; but as the shrubs were not of a thorny species we pushed through them or leaped over them, Dick and Nat coming down on their noses more than once in our progress. Seeing a knoll, or rather a mass of coral, thrown up higher than the rest ahead I made for it, hoping to get from thence a more extensive view than we could from where we were. We soon climbed to the summit, which was high enough to enable us to look over the surrounding trees.

“Hillo, what are those dots out there?” exclaimed Nat, pointing towards the eastern end of the nearest island, which we had seen from the schooner.

“Dots, do you call them, young gentleman?” said Lizard; “to my mind they are canoes, well-nigh a score of them; and they are making way over the water at a pretty fast rate, too, towards us.” I had not brought a telescope, but shading my eyes with my hands the better to examine the objects I was satisfied that Lizard was right, and that they were canoes. At first I did not suppose that they, or rather the people in them, had any hostile intentions; but suddenly the idea occurred to me that they had discovered the schooner, and were coming with the design of cutting her off. Should such be the case, it was important to warn my brother without delay, that we might return on board and prepare for the defence of the vessel.

“More nor likely, Mr Ned,” answered Lizard when I asked him his opinion. “As the mate was a saying afore we came away, you can never trust those black fellows.”

“Come on, boys, then,” I cried. “We must make good use of our legs, or the canoes will be up to us before we can reach the boats.”

We set off, keeping close together that we might help each other in case of any of us being hurt by falling. First Dick came down, and then Nat had two tumbles, both scratching their hands and knees; but, the moment they were on their feet, on they came again. I got an ugly fall, which would have been much worse if Lizard had not caught me, and, as it was, I cut one of my knees and hands on the sharp coral. At length we had to stop and take breath, for, having not only to run, but often to leap from rock to rock, it was very exhausting work.

“Are we going the right way?” asked Nat, looking round.

It was well he asked the question, for, on climbing a short way up a tree, I discovered that we had been keeping too much to the right, and should have arrived at the east instead of at the south side of the island, where we had landed. Correcting our mistake, we again went on, and I was very thankful when we came to the level part inhabited by the colony of birds. We dashed through them, crushing many an egg, as well as several hapless young ones, regardless of the screechings of the old birds and the furious pecks they gave at our legs. I looked out ahead, but could see nothing of Harry and the ladies. We shouted, thinking that they might not be far off; but, receiving no answer, I hoped that they had already embarked.

At last I caught sight of Harry, with Mary and Fanny seated near him, both with their sketch-books before them. At that moment a gun was fired from the schooner.

“Why, what’s the matter?” exclaimed Harry.

Scarcely had he asked the question than another gun was fired.

“Old Tom thinks there’s danger somewhere, and wants us aboard again.”

I was unwilling to alarm Mary and Fanny, so, instead of shouting out, I waited till I could get up to my brother, when I told him quietly what we had seen.

“The sooner we are aboard the better, for the canoes appear to be coming on at a great rate,” I added.

“No doubt about it,” he answered; and, telling the ladies to shut up their books, he hurried with them towards the boats, bidding Lizard and Dick to run on ahead and order the men to be in readiness to shove off. We were not long in reaching the boats, and we prepared to return in the order we had left the schooner, I having Dick and Nat with me. Harry’s boat got off first, and his crew gave way with a will; mine followed at some little distance. Just as we opened the eastern point of the island I got sight of the fleet of canoes coming round it, and steering directly for the schooner. Old Tom saw us coming, yet he fired again, probably in the hopes of scaring the natives and preventing them from attacking us; but this did not appear to have any effect on them, perhaps because they were ignorant of the power of firearms. Fast as we were pulling they came along faster, and it seemed doubtful if we should reach the schooner before they were up to us. As yet they were some way to the eastward, so that the course on which they were approaching the schooner formed an angle of about thirty degrees with that on which we were steering; thus, a shot fired from her, might hit them without the risk of injuring us. We had come away with only three hands in the boat besides Dick. I made him take the stroke-oar, that I might assist him, while I placed Nat at the helm. I now told Nat to edge up slightly to the eastward, so that we might keep between Harry’s boat and the savages. Though we bent to our oars, the canoes were gaining on us. It was just possible that their intentions were friendly, but it would be folly to trust to them. How I wished for a breeze, that the schooner might get under weigh and come to our assistance! There was, however, not a breath of wind to fill her sails, so that we must, I saw, depend on our own exertions. Old Tom did not again fire, probably because he considered that, unless he could hit one of the canoes, the savages would fancy that the shot would do them no harm. The canoes were now so near that I could distinguish their character. Though small compared with those of Fiji and Tonga, the leading ones were double, with a platform in the centre, on which stood a number of men gesticulating violently, and flourishing spears and clubs, while others sat on either side working broad-bladed paddles almost upright at a rapid rate. I could have picked off some of the warriors, but was unwilling to commence hostilities. I looked round, and was thankful to see that Harry’s boat was getting near the schooner. In a few minutes he and his companions would be on board. Before then, however, my boat would be on a line with the canoes, and a shot fired from the vessel might strike her. Just as this idea occurred to me there came a flash and a loud report, and as I looked astern to see the effect produced by the shot, I saw that the canoes were thrown into considerable confusion. The leading one had been struck, and the platform knocked to pieces. The warriors were tumbling overboard, while the other canoes, coming up, were running into the wreck and into each other. Whether any one had been killed I could not see. Dick and the rest of my crew shouted as they saw what had happened.

“Give way, lads, give way,” I cried out. “We may get on board now and defend the vessel, if the savages venture to attack us.”

We had got almost up to the schooner, and Harry had put the ladies on board her before the savages had recovered from their alarm, the warriors and crew of the wreck having got on board the other canoes. Notwithstanding the effect of Tom’s shot, they seemed bent on attacking us, and once more came paddling on.

“We must show the savages that we are not afraid of them,” cried Harry, turning his boat’s head towards the canoes, and standing up with a musket in his hand. He had obtained two from the vessel. I imitated his example, and all hands raised a loud, ringing cheer, which no sooner did the savages hear than they ceased paddling, and when we, firing our muskets, dashed forward, they fairly turned tail, or rather backing away, went off in all directions. A few more musket shots fired over their heads increased their speed.

“I told you, Mr Ned, that you’d find the small arms of use,” said Tom, when we got on board. “They ain’t accustomed to big guns, and don’t know what a round shot can do.”

“It was your round shot, however, which stopped them when they were nearly up with us; and I hope that they won’t forget the lesson they have learned to-day,” I answered. I need not say that Mary and Fanny looked very thankful when they saw us safe on board.

We anxiously watched the savages, for we could not be certain of their intentions. They might rally and renew the attack, if not in the daytime, during the night, when we should be unable to see them till they were close upon us. Our hope therefore was that the wind would again spring up, and that we should be able to get to sea before darkness set in. In vain, however, we waited for a breeze. The canoes meantime had disappeared behind the nearest island; but we could not ascertain whether they had gone on to the further-off islands or were still in our neighbourhood. In the latter case they might come suddenly upon us, and it would be necessary to keep a very watchful look-out to avoid being taken by surprise. I volunteered to go on shore and ascertain where they were, by making my way through the wood across the island, till I reached some point whence I could obtain a view over the water on the north side; but Harry would not allow me to run the risk, for had I been discovered I should in all probability have been put to death. He, however, took one of the boats, and surveyed the whole of the channel through which we should have to pass to get to sea, that, should a breeze spring up during the night, we might get out without fear of running on the reef. By the time he returned on board evening was drawing on. He had directed Tom to fire a gun as a signal should the canoes appear, but not one was seen before it became so dark that we could scarcely distinguish the outline even of the nearest island. Mary and Fanny having recovered from their alarm, for they had naturally been much frightened, were seated in the well-lighted cabin, with Nat, at tea, when Harry and I joined them. We had left old Tom and Dick in charge of the watch on deck, consisting of Tom Tubb the New Zealander, and Jacky Pott the Sandwich Islander, with two other men. The guns were loaded, the muskets arranged against the companion-hatch, and the cable was hove short, so that we might speedily trip the anchor and make sail should the wished-for breeze spring up. We almost forgot, as we were enjoying our comfortable meal in our cozy cabin, that not far off were hordes of howling savages; that we had to find our way between coral reefs, and might have storms and other unknown dangers to encounter. Tea over, after singing a few airs to the accompaniment of her guitar, Fanny took up her work, while Mary as usual began to read. I then went on deck.

“Any chance of a breeze soon?” I asked.

“Not a breath of wind as yet, sir,” answered old Tom; “and I don’t think we shall get it till the morning. I only hope when it does come that we shan’t have more of it than we want. I’d advise the ladies not to sit up till we are out at sea, for if they do they’ll get but little sleep to-night.”

I went below and told them what Tom said. Harry agreed that he was right; and when they retired to their cabins he and I returned on deck. We neither of us felt inclined to turn in. Perhaps we were as anxious as if we had been certain that the savages would attack us. The hours, as they always do on such occasions, went slowly by; and at last, unable longer to keep my eyes open, I got a cloak from below, and rolling myself up in it lay down on deck. How long I had slept I could not tell, when I heard Tom exclaim—

“I see them, sir.”

“You are right; so do I,” answered Harry. “Turn the hands up.”

I was on my feet in an instant, and looking towards the eastern end of the island distinctly made out a number of dark objects on the surface of the water approaching the schooner. The men came tumbling up on deck.

“Silence!” cried Harry, in a low voice; “crouch down so as not to show yourselves. As the savages hope to surprise us, we must surprise them. Ned, run down and tell Mary and Fanny that we may have to fire the guns, but that they must not be alarmed, as we are sure to beat off the savages.”

I quickly executed my commission, and sprang again on deck. The canoes did not appear to me to have got nearer. The savages were, perhaps, holding a consultation. As I was looking at them, I felt a breath of air on my right cheek. It was from the eastward. Again it came stronger. It was the most favourable wind we could have.

“Loose the headsails—man the windlass,” cried Harry. “I shall be thankful if we can avoid injuring more of the ignorant savages.”

The anchor was quickly hove up—the headsails and then the mainsail set, and the schooner glided on towards the passage through the reef. As her broadside was turned towards the canoes we could fire all our guns at them, should it be necessary. Almost immediately afterwards the moon rose, showing us clearly their position, and, what was of more consequence, enabling us with less difficulty to see our way through the passage. The canoes now came paddling on, the savages probably fearing that we should escape them.

“We must not let them attack us in the channel,” said Harry, and he reluctantly gave Tom the order to fire. Our guns were discharged in quick succession, and the next instant we saw the canoes paddling away in the utmost confusion; but it was too dark to ascertain what injury had been inflicted. We had soon to haul aft the sheets, and to devote all our attention to the navigation of our vessel—old Tom going forward to look out for dangers, and Harry standing aft to direct the helmsman and conn the vessel, while the crew were at their stations; I standing by the main-sheet with others to flatten it aft or ease it off as might be necessary. Now and then I took a look astern to ascertain if the canoes were following us, but could only just make them out, showing that the savages had had enough of it, though they might have annoyed us greatly had they boldly attacked us while we were standing through the passage. In a short time the outer part of the reef was passed, and the breeze freshening we were gliding swiftly over the moonlit sea.

Chapter Four.

When morning broke, the reef-encircled islands could be indistinctly seen over the port-quarter rising out of the sparkling ocean. The wind being against us we expected to have a long beat before we could reach our destination; but Harry resolved to persevere, hoping that we might get a favourable breeze at last. Things on board went on as usual. After I had had my sleep out in the forenoon I gave Dick a lesson in navigation, which I had done regularly every day of late since I discovered that he was anxious to learn.

“I am most grateful to you, Mr Ned,” he said. “If I can fit myself to be an officer I shall not be ashamed to return home, which I should have had I gained no more knowledge than I should have done under ordinary circumstances, as a ship’s boy.”

“Much depends on the way you work, and whether you keep to your good resolutions,” I observed. “But I say, Dick, you have never told me anything about yourself; though from the first I saw that you had had a good education.”

“To tell you the truth, my father is a merchant in London, and my mother moves in good society,” he answered, speaking rapidly. “She was very fond of me, and I do not think that if I had been with her I could have run away; but I went off from school, where I was not happy, quite forgetting how miserable it would make her when she heard that I was missing. The thought of that has preyed on my mind more than anything else. I wrote to her, however, when I reached Brisbane, and paid the postage with the last shilling I had, so that she knows now that I am alive, though I did not like to tell her how miserable I was. I only asked her and my father to forgive me, and promised to return home when I had made my fortune, for I just then fancied if I could escape from the ship that I should be able to do that. I soon found when I did get on shore that I was miserably mistaken, and if it had not been for you I believe that I should have died. I am sure that none of my own brothers, of whom I have five older than I am, could have treated me more kindly. I have three sisters also, and when I look at Mrs Morton and Miss Fanny they remind me of them, and I think of my folly in leaving them all and running the chance of never seeing them again.”

After Dick had made this confession I felt more than ever inclined to befriend him.

When I told Harry, he said that he would consider what was right to be done. “I think it best, however, that Dick should remain in his present position for a time,” he added. “He is learning the details of seamanship from old Tom and the rudiments of navigation from you, and as he does not mix much with the crew he will gain no harm from them.”

We were standing on that evening close hauled to the south-east when, just as the sun went down, dark clouds began to gather to windward.

“We’ll shorten sail at once,” said Harry. “It may not come on to blow, but it looks like it and we cannot be too cautious.” He issued the order to Tom, and we soon had the schooner under snug canvas. It was fortunate that she was. Not ten minutes afterwards, just as Harry had gone below, a squall struck her.

“Luff! Luff!” shouted Tom, but before Jack Lizard, who was at the helm, could do so, over the schooner heeled, till the water rushed through the scuppers high up her deck. Lower and lower she went, until I thought she was going to capsize. Harry sprang up from below. Tom had rushed forward, and with the hands stationed there let fly the jib-sheets, and was hauling down the forestay-sail—the foresail had been stowed. Suddenly she rose, and I heard a loud crack, like the report of a musket fired close to my ear.

“We’ve sprung the mainmast, I fear,” exclaimed Harry, and he called the men aft to lower the mainsail, while he and I sprang to the peak and throat halliards to let them go. On examining the mast we found that it was so badly sprung that it would be impossible again to set sail on it without the risk of carrying it away. It seemed a wonder that it had not gone altogether.

“We must bear up for Samoa,” said Harry. “It is very provoking, but there is no place nearer where we can hope to obtain a fresh spar.”

Accordingly the headsails were again hoisted, the fore-topsail was set, and the helm being put up, away we ran before the wind on a course for Upalu, the centre island of the group, in which Apia, the chief port, is situated. The wind increased, and we soon had to close-reef the fore-topsail, the only sail we could carry; then down came the rain in huge drops, or rather in sheets which wetted us as thoroughly as if we had jumped overboard, and so deluged the deck that had it not run out at the scuppers as the vessel rolled from side to side the water would have been up to our ankles in a few minutes. What with the pattering of the rain, the howling of the wind and the dashing of the sea, we could scarcely hear each other’s voices. Though we had no sail set on the mainmast, and had secured it with spars lashed round the injured part, and additional stays, I frequently, as the schooner pitched into the fast rising seas, expected to see it carried away altogether. Old Tom, who seemed to have the same fear, told us to look out and stand from under, in case it should go, but the difficulty was to know in what direction it would fall, should it come down.

On we ran day after day, the gale apparently following us, though Harry said that as storms were generally circular we should in time run out of it. Each time, however, that I turned out to keep my watch, there we were, running on; the seas leaping and hissing and foaming around us; the dark clouds flying overhead; the vessel rolling and pitching in the same uncomfortable fashion as before. Harry did his best to keep up the spirits of his wife and Fanny, who behaved like heroines, though they agreed that they little expected to meet with such weather in the Pacific.

“It is as well to get it over, and we may hope to have finer for the rest of the voyage,” answered Harry, to console them.

We had other dangers to encounter, of which he did not speak. Although the sea we were traversing was pretty well known by this time, there might be small islands or coral reefs improperly placed on the chart, or not laid down at all, and at any moment during the darkness of night, or even in the daytime, we might come upon one, when in an instant the vessel would have been dashed to pieces, and all on board must have perished. We had, therefore, to keep the sharpest possible look-out, for a moment’s want of vigilance might cause our destruction. Once I saw the sea leaping and foaming high up above the surrounding water away on the starboard hand. I pointed out the spot to Tom.

“The end of a reef,” he observed. “If we’d been a little more to the nor’ard we should likely enough have been on it, but a miss is as good as a mile. We may be thankful to have escaped.”

He afterwards told me that we passed another reef to the northward while I was below, how many we escaped during the night we could not tell. Thus some of the dangers to be encountered by those navigating among coral islands will be understood. At length, one morning when I came on deck to keep my watch, I saw the stars shining brightly overhead—the wind had fallen, the sea was going down, and the schooner, with her squaresail rigged out, was running gaily along. At noon we took an observation, when we found that we were less than a hundred miles from the port of Apia, which we therefore expected to reach the next day, unless the wind should fail us.

We were more fortunate than we expected. Early the next morning the land was seen over the port bow rising in a succession of ridges to a moderate height above the sea. We had made an excellent landfall, for the harbour of Apia was almost directly ahead. Before we reached it, a large whaleboat came off and put an Englishman on board, who introduced himself as the chief pilot of the place. He carried us through a somewhat intricate passage between coral rocks to a safe anchorage not far from the shore.

We were surprised to see several tastefully-built houses among trees, a large church, stores, and other buildings, besides a number of whitewashed cottages, many of which, the pilot told us, were inhabited by natives who have learned the art of building and the use of lime from the missionaries. Through their instrumentality also, although but a few years ago the people inhabiting different parts of the island were constantly fighting with each other, warfare has entirely ceased, and all have become Christians by profession, many of them adorning the Gospel by their lives and conversation, while others have gone forth to carry its blessings to the still benighted heathen in the western islands of the Pacific.

I must be brief in my account of the events which occurred during our stay at Apia. On going on shore we were received with great kindness by several of the English and American residents, who invited Harry and his wife and her sister to take up their abode at their houses, but they preferred sleeping on board the schooner. We were fortunate in finding a mast from a vessel wrecked on the coast, which by cutting down slightly could be made to replace the mainmast we had sprung.

We had been in harbour a couple of days when a fine-looking young chief came on board, prompted by curiosity to see the vessel so unlike the whalers which generally visit the port. He was unpicturesquely dressed in shirt and trousers and we should not have taken him to be a chief, except from his handsome figure, unless he had introduced himself as Toa, the nephew of the great chief Maleatoa. He spoke English well, and seemed very intelligent. On being introduced to Mary and Fanny, he made a bow which would have become a French courtier, and appeared wonderfully struck by them. He soon drew me aside and inquired who they were. When I told him that one was married to my brother, and the other was her sister, he appeared suddenly lost in thought, but said nothing at the time. We asked him into the cabin, as we were just going to sit down to dinner. He behaved in all respects like a polished gentleman, narrowly watching us, and imitating the way he saw us eat. He told us a great deal about his country, the progress it had made during the last few years since the inhabitants had become Christians and wars had ceased; the roads that had been constructed, the houses built, the fields cultivated, and horses and cattle introduced. He described their astonishment on first seeing a large animal, a mule, which they supposed to be an enormous dog, and accordingly gave it an appropriate name. In return for the civility we had shown him on board, he invited me to accompany him on a sporting expedition into the interior.

“I will show you how we catch pigeons and kill wild hogs,” he said.

Harry gave me leave to go, and I asked if Dick might accompany me, as I knew he would like it. My brother consented. On going on shore early the next morning we found the chief and several companions waiting for us. Each person carried a tame pigeon on his arm secured by a string, as also a bamboo thirty or forty feet long with a small net at the end of it. Several attendants accompanied us carrying guns and ammunition.

“We shall depend upon the provisions we find in the woods for our support,” said Toa to me. “We can easily obtain all we require.”

We proceeded for about four hours amid tangled bushes, across marshes, and up the slippery sides of hills, till we arrived at a district with here and there open spots, but generally covered with brushwood. The attendants set to work to clear away a large circle by cutting down the brushwood; we then retired to a spot which had been previously fixed on, where a camp was formed, and some, arbours which would shelter us for the night erected. Some of our people had in the meantime collected some wild bread-fruit, dug up some wild yams, and brought down some cocoanuts, which gave us an ample repast. Formerly the chiefs would have indulged in drinking kava, but that custom had been abandoned. Having satisfied our hunger we returned to our ambushes round the ring. Each sportsman, if so he could be called, now stuck a stick with a cross-piece on it into the ground for his pigeon, which was secured by a string forty yards in length, to perch on. After remaining a short time quiet Toa gave the signal, and the birds were simultaneously thrown into the air, when they flew up and commenced, as they had been taught, wheeling round and round. In a short time a number of wild pigeons seeing them from a distance, and supposing from their movements that they were hovering over their food, came from all directions to join them. I was much surprised at the dexterity with which as the wild birds circled among the decoy pigeons the sportsmen, rapidly raising their nets, captured them. The moment a bird was caught the net was again raised and another captured in the same manner. Toa in this way caught a dozen in as many minutes. Dick and I tried our skill, but we only knocked against the tame birds. It was a long time before I managed to catch even one; Dick was still less successful. It seemed at first very easy, but then it must be remembered that the rods were upwards of thirty feet long, and that the birds flew very rapidly. “Formerly,” said Toa to us, “large parties of young men used to go out for a month together, but we have now other occupation for our time, and only now and then engage in the sport.”

“This is a funny sort of fishing in the air,” said Dick.

“I call it birding,” I answered.

“Very right,” observed Toa; “I will show you how we fish some day.”

We caught several dozen pigeons during the morning. The afternoon was to be devoted to hog-shooting, at a spot a short distance off. We were divided into two parties—Dick and I accompanied Toa, while another young chief, who had arrived with a number of ugly-looking dogs, led another party.

After going some distance we arrived at a spot where the pigs had been rooting about, and away went the curs in chase. Before long their shrill yelping bark told us that the herd was found, and following the sound we discovered the chief and a companion tying the legs of a young boar, which had been caught by running it down with some of the dogs. The barking increased as we went on.

Presently Toa cried out, “Take care; get behind the trees all of you,” and we saw an enormous wild boar which the dogs had been keeping at bay.

The chief advanced running from tree to tree with great rapidity, that he might get near enough to the animal to shoot it without injuring the dogs. At length the boar caught sight of him and charged. Toa fired, and apparently missed, and the brute came rushing towards me. I aimed at his fore-shoulder, hoping, if I did not kill him outright, to stop his career. In another moment he would have been into my side, for I had no time to reload, when, just as he was near me, I made a spring and caught the bough of a tree, which I could not under other circumstances have reached, and my feet struck his back as he dashed under them. Toa had now reloaded, but before he could fire the boar again charged; he, however, nimbly sprang behind a tree, and the brute rushed past, giving me an opportunity to recover my rifle. He now caught sight of Dick, at whom he made a dash. Dick not attempting to fire, nimbly sprang up a young tree. On seeing its enemy thus escaping, the boar made a dash at the tree, and attacked it with its tusks, biting at it with the greatest fury, till Toa, approaching, settled it with a ball through its head. In this way, in a short time, we killed four large hogs, each weighing at least five hundredweight. Thus it will be seen that the sport, if exciting, was not wanting in danger, and I must own that I was very glad when it was over, and we had all escaped without wounds.

We had a luxurious supper on boar’s flesh and wild pigeons, and roots and fruits of various descriptions, all of which had been collected in the woods, showing the abundance of food to be obtained in that favoured region.

After supper, Toa invited me to walk out with him away from the rest, when he confided to me his deep admiration for Fanny Amiel, and inquired whether I thought she would consent to remain at Samoa and become his wife. I did not answer at once, as I was unwilling to offend him, and yet was certain that she would not consent to any such proposal. I replied that English ladies preferred marrying their own countrymen, and then not until they were certain of their good qualities and had been long acquainted. I undertook, however, to mention the subject to my brother, but observed that I could not venture to say anything about it to the lady herself, who would be much pained at having to refuse him. He seemed somewhat downcast at my reply, but soon recovered his spirits, and we returned to the camp to prepare for sleep.

As, with the exception of wild boars, there are no savage animals in Samoa, and the people of different tribes no longer tried to surprise and murder each other, no sentries were placed, and every one laid down to rest in perfect security.

Next morning we returned to Apia. The tide was high as we went down to the harbour, at which time, when there is a swell, the breakers burst with considerable force over the reefs outside. We found a number of boys and girls swimming off, some with boards, others without them, and others paddling in paopaos, or little canoes. On reaching the reef, where the waves curled up and broke into foam, the swimmers threw themselves forward with a jump, just as the sea took them, and away they glided in the midst of the white foam, shouting and yelling at the top of their voices. The chief took us off in his canoe to see the fun. When the breaker had spent itself the swimmers were left in smooth water, on which all turned again towards the sea, breasting the smaller waves, and quietly sinking down again as the larger and stronger ones passed over, or frequently dashing boldly through them.

“They will keep at that sport till the tide falls and the reef is left bare,” observed our friend Toa, as we pulled on board the schooner. “When I was a lad I was very fond of it, and could beat most of my companions, keeping longer at it and going out farther than any of them.”

He had brought, I should have said, a number of pigeons and some of the wild boar’s flesh as a present to Harry, and which was very acceptable on board. The ladies were on deck when we got alongside, and I was much afraid that Toa might say something to Fanny which would annoy her, before I had time to tell my brother that he might give her due warning. The young chief, however, stood in a modest manner without advancing, till Mary went up to him to thank him for his present. I in the meantime managed to tell Harry what the chief had said to me.

“I am sorry for this, but we must manage to get him on shore again as politely as possible, and I will not tell her of his proposal before he has gone.”

Our attention, however, was just then attracted by seeing a vessel standing in for the harbour; she approached within a mile or so, when the wind fell. She had a signal flying for a pilot, and the men who brought us in went out to her. Toa, who had an eye to business, wishing to be on board early to see what trading could be done, said that he should go out, and invited me to accompany him in his large canoe. As we got near the vessel we found three of her boats towing ahead. On boarding her the captain said he must get in at once, as she was leaking terribly, and was besides short of provisions and water. Toa, on this, offered to bring out provisions; and the pilot told him that it was dangerous, without a leading breeze, to attempt entering the harbour, especially as the tide was falling. The brig was, I found, the Caesar, an American vessel, bound from California to Sydney, and had come to Apia for the reasons the captain stated.

“If you won’t take her in, I will by myself,” he exclaimed. “Where’s the difficulty? The boats can tow her, as there isn’t a breath of wind to stop her way.”

“But you cannot tell how the tide will set you, and I advise you to let the boats tow you off,” answered the pilot.

The skipper, however, was obstinate, and was, I suspect, pot-valiant. He ordered the boats to continue pulling ahead, while he went to the helm himself. The pilot on this, again warning him that he was risking the safety of the vessel, stepped into his boat and pulled for the harbour. Toa, however, believing that he could leave at any moment in his canoe, remained on board, and I, of course, had to stay with him. All apparently went well for some minutes, till, just as we were at the entrance, the tide caught the vessel; the after-part struck heavily; she heeled broadside on to the reef, and the next moment, with a tremendous roar, a breaker burst over us. All was confusion on board; shrieks and cries arose from the passengers, the men swearing as they rolled and slipped about. The skipper, however, recovered in a moment his self-possession, and swore he would shoot the first man that attempted to leave the vessel; but as he had no gun or revolver in his hand, no one appeared to care for the threat. One of the crew, a New Zealander, indeed, immediately jumped overboard, when the captain threw a marline-spike at his head, but, sinking, he avoided it, and managed to reach the smooth water inside the reef, where the pilot had in the meantime anchored his boat prepared to assist those who might be able to reach her. Other boats were coming off from the shore, those which had been towing, as well as the chiefs canoe, had been cut adrift directly the vessel struck, and pulled away, or they would have been swamped in an instant.

It will be understood that owing to the heavy breakers it was impossible to get off from the vessel on the sea side, and that our only hope of safety was to pass through the foaming surf on the reef, till we reached smooth water in the inside. The vessel, lightly built, was already breaking up, and her bottom planks were appearing, floating up to the surface, while the water rushed freely in and out of her. There was therefore no time to be lost. Toa at once proposed to the skipper to tie a rope to a plank, and to swim with it to the boats inside the reef, so that the passengers and those unable to help themselves might be passed along it, and their lives saved. The rope was speedily got up.

“I will go with you,” I said to Toa.

“Come along,” he answered, and taking my hand he jumped with me into the foaming surf. The first great roller curled high above our heads, and broke with a terrific roar. As it did so we let go the plank and sank down, keeping our eyes turned upwards to watch when it had passed. Quickly returning to the surface, we again clutched the plank and shoved it before us. We had twice to perform the same operation before we reached the smooth water. I wanted to return, but Toa advised me to remain, as I was not accustomed to the water as he was. He quickly again made his way along the rope to the deck of the vessel. The next moment he appeared again, holding a young lady with one arm, while he dragged himself along the rope with the other, but he twice had to descend to avoid the rollers. The young lady seemed more dead than alive when he placed her in the boat, but she quickly recovered, while he, not in the slightest degree exhausted, dashed off again on board the vessel, and brought another girl in the same way through the surf. A third time he went, and on this occasion he encountered a young man, a gentleman apparently, who was endeavouring to make his way by himself along the rope. He was clutching the rope desperately, when a roller going over him tore him away from his hold. Toa, seeing what had happened, dashed after him, and seizing him brought him back to the rope. Again Toa had to dive twice with the almost senseless stranger, whom he at length placed, greatly exhausted, in the boat. The young ladies had quickly recovered, so that I was able to pay attention to the last comer, and with the assistance of the old pilot and two other men we brought him to.

“The sooner we get ashore with these people the better, and let them have a change of duds,” said the old pilot. “But I do not like leaving, while there are any people remaining on board.”

“Oh, pray wait,” said one of the young ladies. “There is a poor woman and her child and several other people, besides the captain and crew, who, I suppose, do not require so much help.”

By this time, seeing the possibility of getting alongside the ill-fated vessel in a boat, two put off from the shore, manned by stout fellows. The first succeeded in getting alongside and bringing away a number of the passengers, but the next was less successful. The brig gave a tremendous roll, and striking the boat, capsized her in a moment, and the whole of the people were scattered about in the raging surf. They were, however, all picked up in various ways by the boats, but one poor woman had her child washed from her arms. It was being rapidly carried away by the receding sea, when Toa, who was on board the brig, sprang after it and catching it in one arm, held its head above the surf while he swam forward with the other. Thus the little fellow was borne along by his preserver. Now the brave chief rose to the summit of a foaming sea, now he sank down into the trough, again to rise with the boy still grasped in his powerful hand. In a short time he placed him in the arms of his almost frantic mother. Loud cheers burst from all the spectators as they witnessed the gallant act, which few, indeed, would have been able to accomplish.

Shortly after the last person had been taken from the brig she broke into a thousand fragments, which, with her cargo, soon, for a mile or more on either side, strewed the beach. I felt much interested in the stranger whom Toa had saved, and as he required to be attended to more than any one else, I invited him at once to come on board the Dainty, where I was sure Harry would be glad to receive him till he was better able than at present to go on shore. The ladies who had friends preferred at once going on shore to the house of one of the English residents. The pilot, therefore, pulled up alongside the schooner. Harry, on hearing the account I gave him, immediately begged the stranger to come on board. He signified his gratitude, but was scarcely able to speak.

As Harry and I helped him along the deck, we called old Tom and Dick to come and assist us; and with their help we carried him below.

I saw Dick looking at him with wondering eyes. At last he exclaimed—

“Who are you? Are you Charles Tilston?”

“Yes,” answered the stranger, gazing at Dick’s countenance; “and you are my brother Dick, whom I have come to look for.”

“Yes, I am Dick,” was the answer. “Oh, Charlie, I should never have forgiven myself if you had lost your life, for it was I, from what you tell me, who brought you out here.”

“You will have plenty of time to talk about this by-and-by,” said Harry. “Let me advise you at once to go to bed.”

Charles Tilston acknowledged the wisdom of this advice, and Harry and old Tom assisting to get off his clothes put him into my berth, when having swallowed some warm broth he fell fast asleep. Dick begged that he might be allowed to remain and watch over him, promising not to speak again till he saw that his brother was sufficiently recovered to enter into conversation. As Harry thought a doctor should see our guest he sent me on shore to procure the services of one who had a short time before landed from a whaler. While I was waiting for him Toa landed, and was received with loud acclamations by all the people, the account of his having so gallantly saved the child being the theme of conversation.

As Harry was now only waiting for a breeze to sail, thinking that I might not see Toa again, I bade him farewell, and thanked him for having saved my life.

“I must come and see you to-morrow morning,” he said. “You will not sail till then, as there will be no wind to carry you out. And now, my friend, I have a favour to ask, I must beg you to tell the fair Pearl of the Ocean that her figure has ever been present before my eyes, that her voice has rung in my ear, that my thoughts have been occupied with her, and her alone, ever since I saw her.”

“I will not fail to deliver your message,” I answered. “But I must remind you of what my brother said, and you must not be disappointed should she decline your offer.” I flattered myself that I had made a very diplomatic reply, but the young chief did not look at all satisfied as I wished him good-bye.

I returned on board with the doctor, who prescribed for Charles Tilston, and said he had little doubt that he would soon come round. I did not fail to give Fanny the chiefs message. She and Mary laughed heartily.

“I must not tamper with his affections,” she said, “but I cannot possibly encourage him, and I think that when he comes on board again it will be better for me not to appear.”

Mary and I agreed with her, and it was settled that she should remain in the cabin when Toa paid his farewell visit. In former years had a chief conceived a similar fancy he would probably have attempted to carry off the lady by force, but this was not likely to occur under present circumstances. Harry, however, thought it prudent to keep a strong watch at night on deck. It was my middle watch, and as I was looking out across the harbour I thought I saw a fleet of canoes passing at some distance from where we lay; still, as I felt sure that Toa would not use any violence, this did not make me anxious. The canoes soon disappeared, but after some time I fancied that I again saw them hovering in the distance. Presently I heard a voice, which sounded softly as it came over the water, singing in the Samoan language. What was the meaning of the words I could not tell, but it struck me that they were those of a love ditty, and that Toa had taken this method of expressing the feelings of his heart. As Fanny was probably fast asleep in her cabin, it would be entirely thrown away upon her, and I had no intention of calling her up to listen to the serenade. I determined, however, to call Harry should the canoes approach nearer; but the song ceased, and they disappeared in the darkness.

I told old Tom, who relieved me.

“There’s no harm in that sort of thing,” he observed. “If the young chief takes to singing he will not dream of doing anything worse. Maybe he’ll not break his heart after all, though he may think of Miss Fanny for many a long day to come.”

In the morning the doctor came off again, and pronounced Charles Tilston very much better. He was able, indeed, to get up and breakfast with us in the cabin. He expressed his gratitude to Harry for the attention he had paid him, and especially for the care he had taken of Dick. He then told us, that on receiving Dick’s letter he had immediately set out, by his father’s desire, to bring him home. Wishing to take the shortest route, he had come over to America, and crossed the continent to San Francisco; he there found the Caesar on the point of sailing, and had accordingly taken a passage in her.

“I scarcely expected to reach Sydney,” he said. “The skipper was drunk the greatest part of every day, and sometimes for days together. It was a mercy that we got even as far as Samoa; and had we not been wrecked, I had intended to leave the brig, and proceed by some other vessel. Now that I have found my young brother I do not like to quit him again, but I am unwilling to deprive you of his services.”

“It will give me much pleasure if you will remain on board then,” said Harry. Charles Tilston, greatly to my satisfaction, at once accepted the invitation; for I had taken a great fancy to him, and was unwilling also to lose Dick. Harry arranged with him to go on shore to purchase some clothing and other necessaries at the store, in case his own portmanteau should not be recovered. The natives had, in the meantime, been collecting the goods thrown upon the beach from the wrecked vessel, not one of which was stolen, and bringing them into the town. We at once went to the place where they were stowed, and among them Charles Tilston discovered his own portmanteau, which he said professed to be waterproof. On opening it, he found that no wet had got in. It being delivered to him on a small payment for salvage, we returned with it on board. All that morning the calm continued, but in the afternoon, a breeze springing up, the pilot came off, and agreed to take us out. Just as the sails were loosed, before we hove up the anchor, Toa came alongside in his canoe. As was agreed on, Fanny remained below, but Mary came on deck to receive him, and to thank him for his kindness to me, but she said nothing about her sister.

“And I am also most grateful to you for saving my life,” said Charles Tilston. “Had it not been for you I am fully convinced that I should have been drowned, and I beg you to accept a few articles—all I have to offer—as a remembrance of me.” On this he put into his hand a handsome clasp knife, adding some gold pieces, with which the chief seemed highly pleased. I saw him continually looking towards the companion-hatch, as if he expected Fanny to appear, but he waited in vain. At last, Harry had to remind him that we were on the point of getting under weigh, and that it would be better for him to take his leave before we hove up the anchor. He was evidently trying to say something, but his tongue seemed to cling to the roof of his mouth; and heaving a sigh he stepped into his canoe and cast off. The anchor was immediately run up to the bows, and the sails filling, as there was a leading breeze, we ran swiftly out of the harbour. I saw the young chief standing up in his canoe, and waving to us his last farewells. Not till we were well outside did Fanny venture on deck.

“Take care,” said Mary laughing; “he may still come after us.”

However, he did not move his paddle, and we were soon out at sea, steering with a fair breeze to the eastward.

Chapter Five.

We had now a continuance of fine weather, and day after day sailed over the calm ocean, the surface just rippled by a gentle breeze, generally so much in our favour that we were able to rig out our big square sail, and to carry a topmast studding-sail. Though it was near the line the heat was not very oppressive, unless when the wind fell altogether, and then it was hot. Though I speak of the ocean being calm, there was always a perceptible swell, more perceptible when we were on the weather-side of a coral reef, against which the swell, finding an impediment to its progress, could be seen dashing with tremendous force, rising high in the air in masses of foam. We had before received a warning to keep at a respectful distance from such reefs whenever we could; but sometimes, unable to help ourselves, we were compelled to pass unpleasantly near. Night and day we kept a vigilant look-out. Sometimes, indeed, at night Harry thought it prudent to heave to, rather than attempt running on when the chart showed us that coral banks abounded ahead. In the daytime, when the sun shone, those even some way below the surface could be seen by the look-out aloft at a considerable distance, from the darker colour of the water to that of the surrounding ocean.

Though it was very delightful to have the society of Mary and Fanny, yet at other times, when danger threatened, their presence greatly increased Harry’s anxieties, and I suspect that he often on these occasions wished that he had left them on shore. Mary, however, always expressed her satisfaction at being with him.

“Just think how I should have felt all the time that you were away,” she said one day. “I should have been picturing you attacked by savages, or tossed about by storms, or thrown upon a coral reef, or undergoing all sorts of other misfortunes, till I got you safe back again; and I am very sure that you would not have taken as much care of yourself as you now do for my sake. So, whenever you go to sea, remember that I intend to accompany you.”

We found Charles Tilston a very great addition to our society. He was well-informed, and full of life and spirits, right-minded, and earnest. He was very grateful also to Harry and me for the way we had treated Dick. He was so pleased at the account we gave of Queensland, that he proposed remaining and settling there with Dick as his companion.

We were now approaching that part of the Pacific in which Tom Platt had assured us we should find the islands round which pearl oysters abounded; but, as he could not give us the exact longitude and latitude, we expected to have to search some time before we found them. He believed it, however, to be two or three days sail to the northward of the island on which he had been cast away, and which was laid down accurately on the chart, and for that island we accordingly steered. On our course there we sighted a large lagoon island, and, as we approached the north-west end, a number of canoes came off from the shore. While at some distance the natives on board them were heard singing; as they drew near the clamour increased. Now and then they interrupted their singing by giving way to loud shouts of laughter and violent gesticulations, as if they had been a party of madmen. Their canoes were small, being only fifteen feet long, and generally containing three persons. Each canoe was furnished with an outrigger, as also with a projecting point, both over the bows and stern, to enable them to get on board out of the water. They were formed of strips of cocoanut-wood neatly sewn together. When they got within a short distance of the schooner they ceased paddling, and no signs we could make would induce them to come alongside. To calm their fears, we offered them various articles. On this one canoe paddled briskly up, near enough to have the things thrown into her; then away she went, and another approached. After this, apparently to show their gratitude, they began a monotonous song. This made us all laugh, when they stopped and grinned in return; but although they seemed inclined to be friendly, they would not trust themselves near us. Harry, however, thought that they might possibly not object to our landing on their island. A boat was accordingly lowered, and Charles Tilston, Dick, and I, with Tom Tubb, Jacky Pott, and Lizard, went in her. We carried several articles for barter, hoping, as we observed a large grove of trees on the shore, to obtain some cocoanuts. The moment the natives saw the boat, however, they paddled away and returned to the shore. As we approached the beach they assembled, shaking their spears, dancing, shouting, and making signs to us to keep off. When we retired a short distance they calmed down, but when we again approached they resumed their former behaviour, thus giving us to understand that, though they wished to be friendly, they did not desire a closer acquaintanceship. When we once more retired, they followed us in their canoes, but without exhibiting any hostility. We found that Tom Tubb, the New Zealander, could make himself clearly understood, and we desired him to say that we wanted some cocoanuts; but they replied that they had only a sufficient number for themselves, and could not part with them. On our holding up various articles they cautiously approached, and presented us with some curious fish-hooks, matting, adzes made from the shell of the Tridachna and ground very sharp, as also with numerous pearl shells. We came to the conclusion that they had some good reason to mistrust white men; indeed, we afterwards discovered that such was the case. The articles they valued most were buttons, pieces of iron, bottles, and cloth. We tried to obtain some of their spears and clubs, but with these they would not part. As we rowed away we saw them waving green boughs, a universal sign of good-will among the Pacific islanders. Their clothing consisted of the maro, a cloth worn round the waist; the chiefs having also a mantle of matting over their shoulders, while some wore feathers in their hair. None of the females appeared; no doubt they had all been hidden as they saw us approaching. Their huts were constructed of long poles, bent so as to form a succession of arches, the ends of the poles being stuck in the ground, and the whole covered over with pandanus or palm leaves. They were evidently a very primitive race of people, and Charlie observed that if one missionary could gain their confidence he would be able to make much progress among them. Their island consisted of a coral reef of irregular shape, with a lagoon in the centre, in which were numerous knolls of various sizes rising four or five feet above the surface. The island itself, indeed, looked like a collection of islets, though in reality united by the reef, which was just a wash at half-tide, so that the inhabitants could have free communication with each other.

We hoped to be more successful in obtaining cocoanuts and other vegetable productions at the next island at which we might touch. We made it the following day, but here also we were disappointed. It was a perfect lagoon island, consisting of a circle of land of a light clay colour, the lagoon of a beautiful blue tint. The highest ground was not more than twelve feet above the level of the sea, and we calculated that it was about six hundred feet wide to its lagoon. The shrubs were not numerous, seldom more than twelve to fifteen feet high. Amid them rose conspicuously cocoanut-palms, and pandanus. There was but one narrow entrance into the lagoon; but, from the surf breaking on either side of it, Harry considered that it would be dangerous to attempt passing through. We already knew that, however beautiful a coral island looks at a distance, the landing on it is very disappointing. In order to obtain cocoanuts we pulled for the shore on the lee side, where it seemed possible to land. As we approached the beach, however, we saw a large number of natives collected, and as we drew near they began shouting, gesticulating, and brandishing their long spears and clubs, making violent motions to us to retire. We had a white flag, which we waved, hoping they would understand that it was an emblem of peace, but they took no notice of it, and still threatened to attack us should we attempt to land. We therefore kept off at a respectful distance, and directed Tom Tubb, who could generally make himself understood, to address them. He singled out the chief, and told him that we were friends of the natives, and that we came simply to traffic. The chief merely shouted and gesticulated as fiercely as before, making signs to us to be off, evidently not wishing to have any intercourse with strangers. This enraged the New Zealander, who, standing up in the bow of the canoe, became as much excited as the chief, brandishing the boat-hook as a spear, and making as if he would throw it at him. Thus they continued for some time, till I thought it prudent to desire Tom to cease, but he showed no inclination to do this, evidently taking pleasure in exciting the chief to the greatest pitch of fury. The rest of the natives becoming as enraged as their leader, presently began to assail us with pieces of coral, the only missiles they possessed. To avoid them we pulled away as rapidly as we could: indeed, as it was, several lumps of coral struck the boat. Here again was another proof that the natives had cause to dread an intercourse with white men.

The wind heading us we were compelled to make a tack to the eastward, when we sighted another lagoon island, on which, near the entrance, we saw a flag waving in the air, and near it a number of natives, all more or less dressed in shirts and trousers of various colours. They had no arms in their hands; and as we approached the entrance of the lagoon in a boat they came down to welcome us in a most friendly way. We were not long in discovering the cause, a native neatly dressed in shirt, trousers, and jacket, with a hat on his head, approaching, introduced himself as a native teacher. He could speak a few words of English; and, with the aid of Tom Tubb, we managed to carry on a conversation. He had been only two years on the island. When he first landed the people were as savage as those we had last visited. The whole had now become Christians, and partly civilised. Anxious as he was to instruct them in the truths of Christianity, he was also desirous of improving their social condition. All the women were dressed in cotton gowns, the men as I have described; while their huts were of a superior construction to those on any of the neighbouring islands. The missionary assured us also that many of the people could read, and some could even write. We agreed that should we have the misfortune to be wrecked, how thankful we should be to find that we had been thrown on an island inhabited by these Christian people, instead of such savages as those we had before met with. They supplied us with as many cocoanuts as they could spare. The missionary was instructing them how to make cocoanut oil, that they might be able to purchase with it such articles as they required, I may here remark that there are now very many islands which can rarely be visited by English missionaries, where native teachers have been the means of producing similar results. The next day we fell in with another similar island, in which a native teacher had a short time before landed. He had not been there more than a month or two when a vessel was wrecked which had some time before carried off several of the natives, and, undoubtedly, the only one of her crew who reached the shore would have been put to death had it not been for his interference. He not only saved the man’s life, but endeavoured to instruct him in the truths of religion. For this, however, the fellow was far from grateful, for by his conduct he did much to impede the efforts of the teacher. The latter, when we went on shore, entreated us to take the man, who called himself Sam Pest, away with us. Harry, for the sake of the teacher, undertook to do this, if Pest was willing to go. When the question was put to him, he said that he had no objection, provided we would land him at some other island where he might do as he pleased. Harry would make no promise as to where he would land him, notwithstanding which the man came willingly on board; and we bade farewell to the missionary and his flock. Sam Pest had been knocking about the Pacific for the last twenty years he told me, sometimes on board whalers, at others serving in smaller craft, frequently living on shore among the heathen natives. He was, I found, a regular beachcomber—a name generally given to the vagabond white men who are scattered about in numbers among the islands of the Pacific, to the great detriment of the natives, as by the bad example they set them they interfere much with the proceedings of the missionaries. Pest was not so bad, perhaps, as many; he had frank manners, was certainly no hypocrite, for he was not at all ashamed of the life he had led. He had served on board vessels engaged in carrying off natives to work in the mines of Peru, and he gave me many accounts of the atrocious ways in which they had been kidnapped. Sometimes the poor islanders were enticed on board under the pretence of trading, others were carried off by force. On several occasions when canoes had come alongside, the men were dragged out of them, and the canoes sunk. In some instances whole islands had been depopulated, when, from the smallness of their number, the inhabitants were unable to defend themselves against the attacks of the kidnappers.

I believe there is some soft part of the human heart, if it can be got at. By the way I talked to Sam Pest, and by occasionally giving him some tobacco, he seemed to take a liking to me. When I pointed out to him the evil of his ways, he acknowledged that he wished he were a better man, and if I would help him, he would try to him over a new leaf. I cannot say that I thought this very likely, from the way I heard him talking to the men.

We had now commenced our search for the Pearl Islands, as Tom Platt asserted we must be close to them. He said that he was certain he should know them again if he could once get sight of them. Now we stood to the northward, now tacked in one direction, now in another, now ran before the wind, carefully marking down our track on the chart, so that we might know what ground we had gone over.

“This reminds me of the long time the missionary Williams was searching for the island of Barotonga before he discovered it,” observed Charles Tilston. “He, however, went not to seek wealth for himself, but to carry a pearl of great price to the benighted inhabitants. How I should like to have a vessel and to cruise over the ocean with the same object in view, dropping missionaries here and there as it was found possible to land them.”

“Such is being done now,” I observed. “I heard a good deal about it at Brisbane, and how the Bishop of New Zealand in his little schooner makes long voyages for that purpose. There are also two or three other vessels employed by different societies with the same object in view.”

“I must make inquiries about them,” answered Charles Tilston, and he seemed lost in thought.

As we had been four days cruising about without coming in sight of the wished-for islands, at last Harry began to fear that old Tom had made some unaccountable mistake. He again and again cross-questioned him on the subject. The mate was, however, positive that he was right, and that we should see the islands if we looked long enough for them.

“They may be rather more to the eastward or northward than I fancied, but hereabouts I have no doubt we shall find them,” he said in a positive tone.

We accordingly extended our search, keeping always a sharp look-out from the mast-head. Old Tom frequently went up himself, spy-glass in hand, to sweep the horizon. At length, about noon on the sixth day, while he was aloft he raised a cheerful shout—

“Land, land! Away to the eastward; it is the island we are looking for!” As we had a fresh southerly breeze, the schooner was at once headed up in the direction he indicated. In a short time we could make out the land from the deck, which greatly resembled the other islands we had passed, looking like a fleet of vessels at anchor close together. As we stood on we could distinguish several smaller islands lying off the large one, which was the most thickly covered with trees. On getting still nearer we perceived a channel of clear water, along which we hoped to proceed to an anchorage off the larger island of which Tom had told us, and as he had marked it well on his former visit he undertook to pilot the schooner to it. Of course we took the usual precautions of heaving the lead and having a man at the mast-head, and one at each yardarm, while Tom himself stood forward, his hand shading his eyes. The dangers were fewer than we expected, and with infinite satisfaction we at length brought up in a secure harbour.

As we approached it a number of canoes similar to those I have before described, each carrying three men, came off to us. The natives appeared inclined to be friendly, for some were singing a song of welcome, and others waving green branches.

Summoning Tom Tubb and Jacky Pott to act as interpreters, we let the natives understand that we could only admit a dozen on board at a time, and that they must come unarmed. To this they made no objection, but seemed at once perfectly at their ease. From the curiosity they exhibited, they were evidently not accustomed to the sight of vessels in their harbour. They told the New Zealander that they had seen on some time before, which confirmed the account the mate had given of his visit. When told that we came to buy pearls, they appeared in no way surprised, and at once agreed to supply us with as many as we wished for, as also with mother-of-pearl shells; the latter, though bulky, were well worth carrying, as there was at the time much demand for them in the market. My brother at once arranged the price we were to pay, with which the natives seemed perfectly satisfied: they also promised to bring us off a supply of cocoanuts.

As soon as these arrangements were made, they paddled off to spread the good news among their fellow-islanders, and to collect the pearls already won from the bottom of the sea, of which they gave us to understand they had a good store. Before evening the first party returned, bringing a larger number of pearls than we expected. Few of them, however, were particularly fine, but on an average they were of good value, which encouraged us to hope that we should be well paid for our voyage. Notwithstanding the friendly behaviour of the natives, Harry considered it prudent to keep a vigilant watch during the hours of darkness. He told the natives that he should not expect to see them till the next morning.

The night passed away without any cause for alarm. At daylight the next morning every canoe in the island appeared to be afloat; some brought off pearls, as well as mother-of-pearl shells and cocoanuts, and others were seen paddling out to the water between the reefs where the oyster-beds existed. We carried on a brisk trade for a couple of hours or more. The natives selected the knives and hatchets and other articles they required, and handed over the pearls in exchange. As one party had disposed of their pearls, they were told they must get into their canoes and leave the side of the vessel, while others took their places. Thus there was no confusion, and all went on amicably. The trading over for the morning, as soon as we had breakfasted, Charles Tilston and I, with Dick and two men, pulled off to watch the natives diving for the oyster-shells. About thirty canoes were floating over different spots, each having one diver on board. He had a large net basket fastened round his waist, and, as far as we could see, he was furnished with no other means for obtaining oysters. Standing up in his canoe he drew a deep breath, then, holding his nostrils with one hand, down he dived, and remained below the water for a couple of minutes. On his return his bag was seen to be full of oysters. He had, it appeared, wrenched them off by main force with his hands. The water was so clear that he could see the oysters without difficulty, as he could also the approach of a shark or any other dangerous fish. He remained diving at intervals till his canoe was filled, when she returned to the shore with her freight. I found that the divers select that period of the day for carrying on their operations when the direct rays of the sun illumine the depths of the ocean. On making inquiries through Tom Tubb I found that, notwithstanding the number of sharks which infest those seas, very few of the natives lose their lives from them, as they are always on the watch for the creatures, and know how to elude them with wonderful skill and courage. Every day brought us a fresh supply of pearls, and when we found that it began to fall off we produced some fresh articles to tempt them: gaily-coloured handkerchiefs and cloth, nails, scissors, hammers, gimlets, and similar things. All this time we had not gone on shore. The people were gentle and well behaved on board, but they were heathens and savages, so that it was impossible to tell how they might conduct themselves should they find that we were in their power.

Chapter Six.

We had now obtained a fair amount of cargo, and I would have returned to Brisbane well satisfied with our voyage; but Harry, being anxious to get as many pearls as could be procured, resolved to wait on as long as they came in freely and he had goods to pay for them.

Trading was just over for the day, when, looking towards the entrance to the harbour, I saw the topsails of a brigantine appearing over a point to the westward, but as the point was covered with trees, the masts of the schooner could not have been seen from her deck. Her appearance showed us that the island was not so completely unknown as Tom had supposed. I immediately told Harry, who at once proposed sending a boat to assist in piloting her in, and pointing out a good anchorage should she be a stranger. Tom offered to go, and I agreed to accompany him. As we got round the point, we saw that the brigantine was shortening sail, and before we were up to her she had dropped her anchor in mid channel, as if she were not aware of the existence of a harbour, or at all events had no intention of entering it. She was tolerably secure where she lay, and had the advantage of being able to get out again with less difficulty than if she had come into the harbour. We, however, went alongside. She was a rakish-looking craft, and there appeared to be a good many men on board. As we went up her side we saw a swarthy fellow with big whiskers standing to receive us.

“Hulloa, I did not know any other vessel was in here,” he said, as we gained the deck. “Where have you come from? What are you about?”

“We hail from Brisbane; we are engaged in trading with the natives,” I answered. “And may I ask you in return where you come from, and what is the object of your voyage?”

“We come from Callao, and are engaged as you are,” he answered.

I did not like the tone of his voice or manner, and thought it useless asking any further questions. As I looked round the deck it struck me that the people I saw were as ruffianly a crew as I had ever set eyes on, and that the sooner we took our leave the better. I therefore merely observed that on seeing his vessel coming up the channel, supposing that he intended to enter the harbour we had pulled out to offer him our assistance, but that as he did not require it we would wish him good evening.

“I don’t like the looks of those chaps,” observed Tom, as we pulled away. “They’re after no good.”

“I do not suppose that they will interfere with us,” I remarked.

“I’m not so sure of that,” said Tom. “They’ll interfere with the natives and spoil our trade; at all events it would be as well to keep a watch on them, and the sooner we are out of their reach the better.”

Old Tom was not generally an alarmist; but I did not fancy that even out in the Pacific, in the middle of the nineteenth century, any crew could be found who would venture to commit an act of violence on an English trader when they would be so surely discovered and brought to justice. Still, I fancied that Harry, who was always prudent, would take all necessary precautions. On hearing the account we gave of the trader he, however, to my surprise, laughed at my apprehensions.

“She may not be altogether honest, and I daresay her crew would not scruple to ill-treat the natives; but they will not venture to interfere with us, or to misbehave themselves while we are here to watch them,” he observed.

He, however, afterwards, having had a conversation with old Tom, instead of the usual anchor watch at sunset, ordered half the crew to remain on deck, the guns to be loaded, and the small arms placed in readiness for instant use. Sam Pest was in the first watch, and as I walked the deck I spoke to him as I frequently did.

“I have been hearing about the strange craft which came in this evening, sir,” he said, “and from what they say I think it’s more than likely she’s the one I was aboard of some time ago. Strange pranks she played. Her skipper was a regular rough one, never minded what he did, and thought no more of a man’s life than that of a dog. I mind what happened once when we were away to the westward after sandal-wood, where the black men of one island are always at war with those of another, and when one side gains the victory never fail to kill and eat their enemies. We had gone to one island where the natives were friendly, and had got them to cut down and bring aboard a good quantity of the wood. When they had cut down all that was to be found in that part of the island, and we had shipped the best part of it, the skipper told them to bring off the remainder in their canoes and he would pay them handsomely. No sooner were they on board than he invited them down into the hold to receive their payment, when he had the hatches clapped on over them, and casting their canoes adrift made sail. He then told them that he was going to take them to another island where there was plenty of sandal-wood, and that when they had cut it down for him and shipped it he would take them back to their own country. This quieted them, though it seemed strange that they should have believed him. In three or four days we got to the island he spoke of, when about half the crew well armed landed with the black fellows, and soon set them to work on the sandal-wood trees, which were some way from the coast. We were on the watch all the time to prevent them or ourselves being attacked by the natives, who kept at a distance, for they dreaded our firearms, as we had shot three or four of them for coming too near. We made our prisoners carry the sandal-wood on their shoulders down to the harbour, when our boats took it on board. We went on in this fashion till we had got a full cargo, notwithstanding which the skipper said he must have the remainder of the wood cut down, and ordered our prisoners to go and fetch it. As they knew the way they trudged on as they had done for several days past. As soon as they were out of sight the skipper told us to give them the slip and return to the boats. On getting aboard he ordered the anchor to be hove up, and sail made, and stood out of the harbour. Just then we saw the sandal-wood cutters come rushing back waving and shouting to us.

“‘You must shout louder for me to hear you,’ cried the skipper. ‘I cannot stop for you.’

“Presently we saw a whole army of natives with spears and clubs come rushing out of the wood. They soon overtook the runaways, every one of whom was struck down or speared through before they reached the beach.

“That’s an easy way of paying our debts,” says the skipper, and that was the only remark he made about the unfortunate wretches who were killed; and as the people in those islands are all cannibals I have no doubt were eaten by the next day.

“This will give you, sir, some notion of the sort of man the skipper was, and if the same man commands the brigantine out there, it’s just as well to be on our guard against him.”

When I went below to get some supper I told Harry what Sam had said.

“I cannot take more precautions than we are now doing,” he answered; “and as soon as we get a breeze to carry us out of the harbour, we’ll put as wide a distance as we can between him and ourselves.”

It appeared after all, when morning came, that our precautions were unnecessary, not a canoe nor a boat was seen in the harbour; indeed, Harry said that even supposing the crew of the brigantine were the greatest ruffians afloat it was very improbable that they would venture to attack us. Only a few canoes came alongside bringing pearls or oyster-shells. The natives said that if we would wait for a few days they would procure a further supply from some beds at the other end of the island. Harry, however, determined to sail as soon as possible. We now only waited for a fair wind, without which it would have been dangerous to attempt the passage between the reefs.

Breakfast was just over when a boat was seen pulling towards us; she evidently belonged to the brigantine. The guns had been secured, the small arms placed out of sight, and the awning having been rigged, Mary and Fanny were on deck seated with their work in their hands. Presently the boat came alongside, and the skipper whom we had seen the previous evening stepped on deck. Harry received him politely, and begged to know the cause to which he was indebted for a visit from him.

“Just come to learn what you are about, here,” answered the skipper in a gruff tone. “I am Captain Samuel Myers. My vessel is the Wasp, now belonging to Callao.”

“I am happy to see you, Captain Myers; but I thought that my brother, who visited you yesterday evening, had told you that we were on a trading voyage, and about to return immediately to Brisbane.”

“What have you been trading in?” asked Captain Myers. “I should not have thought there was much to be got in these islands.”

Harry frankly told him, adding, “We have, I believe, obtained all the pearls the natives had collected.”

“Where those came from, others may be got,” observed the skipper. “I know a trick or two to make the natives work for me; and I should be obliged to you, captain, if you’d show me some of those you have got, that I may see whether they are worth having.”

Harry, not liking to refuse, as it would have shown want of confidence in his visitor, told me to bring up one of the cases, as also some specimens of the oyster-shells. I did not think it necessary to select the finest. When Captain Myers saw them his eyes glittered.

“I did not think there were such pearls to be got in these parts,” he observed. “Have you many of them, captain?”

“Enough to satisfy me,” answered Harry. “Indeed, as I said before, I do not think there are many more to be procured at present.”

“We shall see about that,” remarked Captain Myers, glancing his eyes round the deck. They fell, I observed, on the guns, and he evidently noted each man of our crew, who had come up to have a talk with the strangers alongside. Harry had not invited any of the latter on board, and I guessed had no intention of doing so.

Captain Myers waited, as if expecting to be asked below to take something, as is usual when one skipper visits another; but Harry, who did not like his appearance more than I had done, apologised by saying that, as the cabin was devoted to the use of the ladies, he could not invite strangers into it; but not wishing altogether to be inhospitable, he ordered the steward to bring up some wine and spirits and biscuits, which were placed in a tray on the companion-hatch. Our visitor, without ceremony, poured out for himself half a tumbler of rum, to which he added a very small quantity of water.

“I like a nip neat at this time of the morning,” he observed, as he gulped it down. “It sets a fellow up. Well, as you have got ladies aboard, I won’t trouble you with my company any longer,” he added, taking another look round the deck. “Good morning to you,” and without more ado he stepped back into his boat.

I saw him surveying the schooner as he pulled away. As soon as he was gone, Sam Pest came aft.

“He’s the very chap I thought he was, and as neat a villain as ever lived,” he said. “I knew him at a glance, but I do not know if he knew me. If he did, he did not show it; but that’s just like him, for he is as cunning as need be, and, depend on it, will be up to some trick or other if he thinks he can play it to his own advantage.”

I repeated to Harry what Sam Pest had said.

“He must be very cunning to play us a trick while we are on our guard,” observed Harry.

We noticed that the brigantine’s boat pulled for the shore, her skipper having apparently no fear of the natives. We were now waiting anxiously for a breeze to get out of the harbour, but not a breath of wind stirred its smooth surface. As we were not likely to be able to sail at all events till the evening, when there might be a breeze, some of the men asked leave to go on shore; but Harry, suspecting their object was to have a talk with the boat’s crew of the brigantine, refused, and told Tom Platt to find work for them on board.

Captain Myers did not pay us another visit during the day, but we saw his boat pulling back to the brigantine in the afternoon. What he had been about on shore we could not tell, but no more natives came alongside with pearls or oyster-shells, though we saw several canoes paddling out as if about to proceed to the Wasp.

“If I was your brother I’d keep a look-out for any trick Captain Myers may be inclined to play,” said Sam Pest to me. “He may think that the shortest way of getting a cargo of pearls will be to rob this here schooner, and send her to the bottom.”

“You don’t mean really to say that you think he is capable of so black a deed,” I said.

“I tell you there’s nothing he would stick at,” answered Sam in a positive tone. “I ain’t very particular myself, but I’ve seen him do things, besides the one I told you of, which made my blood curdle, and heartily wish I was clear of him. I have seen him heave shot into canoes, and sink them alongside the vessel, just to get rid of the natives; and another time when we had some aboard who were somewhat obstreperous when shut up in the hold, he shot them down as if they had been a parcel of rats, and threw some overboard with life still in them. If he does not meddle with us, he’ll treat the natives in this place in a way which will make them turn against all white men. For you see they cannot distinguish one from the other; and we shall find it unpleasant, to say the best of it, to remain here.”

I heartily thanked Sam for the warning, and assured him that my brother would not forget his good intentions, even though Captain Myers might not act as he thought possible. Of course I repeated what Sam had told me to Harry, when the ladies were not within hearing, for it might have made them unnecessarily anxious. Although my brother was inclined as before to laugh at the idea of Captain Myers attacking us, he took the same precautions as on the previous night. Tom Platt and I had the first watch, with Dick Tilston, Tubbs the New Zealander, and three other men; a couple of hands, besides the officer, would have been sufficient on an ordinary anchor watch. We kept a look-out, by Tom’s advice, not only in the direction of the brigantine, but also towards the shore.

“You cannot tell what dodge those chaps may be up to,” he observed. “They may come in their own boats, or just as likely aboard a number of canoes, to make us fancy that they are only a party of natives coming off to trade.”

Harry and Charles Tilston, with the rest of the men, had gone below, but did not intend to take off their clothes, so that they might be ready to spring on deck at a moment’s notice. With all the precautions we had taken I cannot say that I felt particularly anxious; indeed, I must own that I should not have been very sorry if Captain Myers had made an attempt to overpower us. I continued walking the deck, talking to Dick, and occasionally exchanging a word or two with old Tom. The night was calm, and the bright stars shining down from the clear sky were reflected as in a mirror on the surface of the harbour. The only sound heard was the low dash of the sea on the distant reefs, and occasionally some indistinct noise from the shore. My watch was nearly over, and I felt that if my head was on the pillow I should in a moment be fast asleep. Suddenly, as I stopped in my walk, I fancied I heard the splash of oars, but so far off that I could not be certain. I listened, leaning over the bulwarks, with my hand to my ear. Again I heard the sound, more distinctly than before, but though I peered into the darkness I could see nothing. I went across the deck to tell Tom, but he had not heard the sound.

“It may be one of the Wasp’s boats, but that’s no reason why she’s coming here,” he answered. “However, we’ll be on the watch for her, and take precious good care that she does not come alongside for the purpose of doing us harm.”

After this I listened, but could hear no sound, and at length fancied that I must have been mistaken. It was just on the point of striking eight bells, and I was leaning over the bulwarks, when I thought I saw two objects through the gloom. I kept my eyes fixed on them. Dick was close to me.

“Look out, and tell me if you see anything,” I whispered to him.

“Yes; two boats, and I fancy there’s another astern,” he answered.

“You’re right,” I said. “Run and tell the captain, and rouse up the men for’ard; they’re not coming at this time of night with any good intentions.”

The men were prepared, and every one was on deck in less than a minute, with cutlasses at their sides, pikes in their hands, and the guns cast loose, ready for firing. Three boats now came in sight.

The moment Harry saw them, he shouted at the top of his voice, “Keep off, or we fire and sink you.”

Instead of dashing on, as they might have done, the crews of the boats ceased pulling: the threat had had a good effect. They were near enough even now to enable us to send a shot among them; but unless they had given stronger evidence of their intentions of attacking us than they had done, Harry was unwilling to fire. Still it was a critical time; and from the number of men on board the brigantine, we knew that they might possibly overpower us; at the same time, if our men behaved with courage, it was more probable that we should beat them off. Still, it might not be done without bloodshed, if they attacked us with resolution. We had the guns in readiness pointed at them to fire, should they again approach. Harry again shouted—

“We know what you are about; if you come on it will be at your own peril.”

No answer was given; still the boats remained on the same spot without advancing.

“Let us give them a shot or two, sir,” shouted Tom at the top of his voice. “It will show them we are in earnest.”

Scarcely had he spoken when the dark objects receded, becoming less and less distinct, till they disappeared in the darkness. Tom very seldom indulged in a chuckle, but he did so on this occasion.

“I thought as how it would have a good effect,” he observed. “They expected to take us by surprise, and had no stomach for fighting. Maybe their skipper wanted them to come on, for he is ready for anything, but the men would not. It’s my opinion they are cowards at heart, though boasting knaves when there’s no danger.”

“What you say, Mr Platt, is very true,” I heard Sam Pest remark.

“Well done, Platt,” said Harry. “Your words had a good effect. I don’t think they’ll trouble us again to-night.”

“We must not be too sure, sir, of that,” said Tom. “Perhaps the skipper will think that towards morning we shall not be keeping so bright a look-out, and may try to steal alongside to surprise us; but he’ll find himself mistaken.”

As I was very sleepy I went below and lay down, but heard old Tom say that he should remain on deck till daylight. Next morning Harry told me that the boats had appeared, but being hailed to keep off, they had not come nearer, and that he had not thought it necessary to call up all hands as he had done before. Being in the neighbourhood of a pirate, as she was nothing else, was very disagreeable, to say the least of it. Indeed, she in a manner blockaded us, for we could not venture to tow the schooner out to sea lest her boats might attack us in some critical position. Still Harry determined that should we get a leading breeze to sail past her, taking the opportunity of doing so while her boats were away. We saw them passing to the eastward, apparently going to compel the natives to dive for oysters. The calm continued the greater part of that day; but although towards the evening a breeze sprang up, it was too light and not sufficiently favourable to enable us to run out of the harbour. We therefore had to pass another anxious night.

The ladies were not by this time entirely ignorant of what had occurred, but Harry made as light of it as possible; saying that the fellows would not really venture to annoy us, however willing they might be to get possession of our pearls if they could do so without fighting. The third night began; about the middle of the first watch the breeze increased so much, that Harry, who had come on deck, consulted with Tom whether we should get the schooner under weigh, and run past the brigantine in the dark.

“If there was a lighthouse at the end of the reef, and we had a pilot aboard, I would not mind trying it, sir,” said Tom. “But you see it would be an awkward job if we were to run ashore; besides, it’s just possible that the Wasp’s boats may be on the look-out for us, and hope to catch us napping this time, though they were wrong before.”

Harry said he felt pretty sure of the channel, but the last objection was of more importance, and he determined therefore to wait till daylight. It was settled, accordingly, that as soon as the Wasp’s boats were seen going in the direction of the oyster-beds, we were to heave up the anchor, and make sail. At the same time, as there might be hands enough left on board the brigantine to attack us, we were to have the guns loaded, and be prepared to defend ourselves if necessary. The remainder of the night passed quietly away; we were thankful to find in the morning a steady and favourable breeze still blowing, which would enable us to run out of the harbour and pass the brigantine without making a tack.

We had just breakfasted, when we saw three boats cross the mouth of the harbour, and, after pulling in to the shore and waiting for some time, continue their course, accompanied by a number of canoes, to the oyster-beds. As soon as they were out of sight, we hove up the anchor and made sail, as had been arranged. Getting outside, we saw the brigantine lying directly in our course.

“With so many of her crew away, her skipper will not attempt to interfere with us,” said Harry.

We were under all plain sail, and, as there was a good breeze, we ran quickly through the water as before, with men on the look-out forward, and the lead kept going. We could almost have thrown a biscuit aboard the brigantine as we passed her. Besides the captain, there were very few men on her deck.

“Good day, Captain Myers,” said Harry. “We’ll report your whereabouts at Sydney. Have you any message there?”

I need not repeat the answer the skipper gave. It was such as might have been expected from so thorough a ruffian. The next moment, stooping down, he lifted up a musket and presented it at us.

“If you fire so will I,” I shouted; but before I could pull my trigger a bullet whistled past my ear. Providentially no one was hit. My bullet also flew wide of its mark; indeed, I was too much hurried to take aim.

“Don’t fire again,” cried Harry. “The man must be mad.”

Probably no other musket was at hand, as the captain of the Wasp did not again fire. In a short time we were out of range, and we had too much to do in attending to the navigation of the schooner to think just then much about the matter. From the number of rocks close to which we passed, I was thankful that we had not attempted to run out during the dark. At length we were in the open ocean, and, with a fair breeze, we steered to the westward.

Chapter Seven.

The breeze fell before we had entirely lost sight of the Pearl Islands, and, indeed, from aloft I could still make out the masts of the brigantine as she lay at anchor. It crossed my mind that Captain Myers might even now follow us; but I saw no indication of the vessel getting under weigh; still, daring ruffian as he appeared to be, he might be tempted to try and possess himself of the rich freight we carried. I did not mention the idea which had occurred to me to Harry, as there would be no use in doing so, for we were carrying all the sail we could set on the schooner, but our progress was very slow, and there was a possibility of our being becalmed again during the night. As we could see the brigantine, we also must still be visible from her mast-head, and Myers was probably keeping a watch on our movements. Should we be becalmed before sundown, it was possible that he might make another attempt in his boats to capture us, hoping to catch us off our guard.

“He shall not do that, at all events,” I thought to myself. “I will not say anything to Harry unless we are becalmed, and then I will tell him the idea which has occurred to me.” Our progress was so slow that I fancied there must be a current setting against us, but of this I was uncertain. The currents which set in various directions between the islands of the Pacific are among the dangers which voyagers in those seas have to encounter. I asked Tom what he thought about the matter.

“There may be a current,” he said, “but if there is one it is not of much strength. You see we are moving but slowly through the water. We’ll heave the log presently, and you’ll find that we are not going more than two knots, if as much as that.”

Tom was right; with his practised eye he could always tell in smooth water how fast the vessel was moving. We now went slower and slower, till at length the canvas hung down from the yards emptied of wind, and we had no longer steerage way on the vessel. Evening was drawing on, and we might expect to remain becalmed all night. We had, however, we supposed, plenty of sea room, and had no apprehension of being drifted on any unseen coral reef; I thought, however, that it was time to tell Harry of my apprehensions.

“The same thing occurred to me,” he answered. “However, I do not really suppose that the fellow Myers, ruffian as he is, will make the attempt after having found us before so wide-awake. Had we been unarmed the case would have been different, as he would have been glad enough to possess himself of our cargo, if he could have done so without the certainty of getting some hard blows. However, we will be on the watch as before, and ready to give his boats a warm reception if they attempt to molest us.” We enjoyed our usual pleasant evening meal, and afterwards had music, reading, and lively conversation till bed-time. The mate, meanwhile, kept watch, while I occasionally slipped up on deck to see if there was any prospect of a breeze springing up.

“Not an air in all the heavens,” answered old Tom. “It is better than having a westerly gale to drive us back towards the islands. Maybe we shall get a breeze before the morning, and slip along merrily on our course.”

“I hope so,” I said. “The captain wishes you to keep a bright look-out to the eastward, in case our buccaneering friends may be coming to pay us a visit.”

“Trust me for that,” said Tom. “I have not forgotten them, and the last words the captain spoke to that fellow Myers will make him more than ever eager to prevent our getting to Sydney. I don’t mean to say that he will take us, or that he has a chance of taking us, but he is very likely to try it.”

After the ladies had retired to their cabins, Harry came on deck.

“I have told them not to be alarmed if they hear us firing, for I am determined should the pirates make their appearance to stand on no terms with them, but, if I can, to send their boats to the bottom before they get up alongside.”

“A very right way, too, of treating them, sir,” observed Tom. “If we can sink their boats it might be the saving of the lives of many of the poor islanders, for, depend on it, when they have got all the pearl shells they can, they will be carrying off as many of the people as the brigantine can hold. I have seen something of the way those sort of fellows behave, and Sam Pest has been telling me more about it.”

The watch on deck were all awake, and the men below had been warned that they must be ready to spring up at a moment’s notice; the guns were loaded, and our other weapons were placed handy, ready for use.

As old Tom observed, “If they do not come, there’s no harm done; and if they do, why they’ll pretty soon find out that they’ve had their pull for nothing.”

As Tom had been awake the whole of the first watch, Harry told him to go below, observing that he and I would keep a look-out.

“No, thank you, sir,” answered Tom; “I will get my sleep by-and-by; I’d like to be ready in case the pirates should follow us.”

“You, Ned, had better then go below, as you cannot do without sleep, and you can be called if you are wanted.”

I was just about to do as he advised me, when old Tom, pointing to the eastward, towards which our starboard broadside was turned, exclaimed, “As sure as I’m an Englishman there come the boats, and I can make out three of them pulling abreast; we shall see them more clearly presently.”

The watch below, which had lately turned in, were soon roused up, and I called Charlie Tilston, as he had begged me to do.

“We will have the port guns over to the starboard side, and give the fellows a salute which will show that we are not to be caught napping,” said Harry. “All ready, there?”

He took charge of one gun, Tom of another, Lizard of the third, and I of the last. We waited till the boats had got as far as we could judge within range, and then fired together, aiming as carefully as we could. We then immediately reloaded, to be ready for them should they make a dash at us. Whether or not we had hit either of the boats we could not be certain, they still appeared to be coming on. Just then Harry exclaimed—

“Trim sails; here’s the breeze.”

The helm was put up, the fore-topsail blew out, the mainsail filled.

“Ease off the main-sheet,” cried Harry, and the schooner began to glide once more through the water. We watched the boats now right astern; they still kept following us, hoping not to let their prey escape them. We had two ports in the stern, through which our guns could be fired. Harry had them dragged over for that purpose, and we at once began to blaze away at our pursuers. For some time we could see them still following us, showing that they had hitherto escaped our shot. The breeze was freshening, the schooner ran faster and faster through the water.

“Hurrah! They have given it up,” I shouted, as I saw them pulling round.

“One more parting shot,” cried old Tom, and before Harry could stop him he fired.

“That was not a miss, at all events,” he cried out.

Almost immediately afterwards we could distinguish only two boats—evidence that one of them had been sunk. In a short time we had completely lost sight of them, and all fear of pursuit was over.

We had reason to be thankful that we had avoided a fight, for, desperate as the fellows were, many of us might have been wounded, if not killed, even though we had driven them back; the alternative of their succeeding was too dreadful to contemplate. Harry at once hastened below to assure Mary and Fanny that all danger was over. I now turned in, and though I went to sleep in a moment I kept dreaming all the time that the pirates were boarding us, that we were fighting desperately; sometimes Captain Myers was on deck flourishing a cutlass, singing, “I’m afloat, I’m afloat,” and the “Rover is free,” at others, with his cut-throat companions, he was struggling in the water while old Tom was pelting them with marline-spikes.

I was very thankful when I went on deck to find the schooner running on with a fair breeze, and no land anywhere in sight. Mary and Fanny, though they had been naturally very anxious, soon recovered their spirits, and everything went on as pleasantly as could be desired, Charles Tilston was well-informed, and made himself very agreeable, and though he had no intention of becoming a sailor, he soon learned how to take an observation, and could work it out as well as Harry himself. He was always ready also to pull and haul and be as useful as he could. He spent a portion of every day in giving Dick instruction in mathematics and other subjects in which his brother was somewhat deficient, and he also kindly offered to help me with my studies.

As Harry wished to obtain samples of such produce as the islands afforded, he had settled to visit those which were at no great distance from our course to the westward.

The first island we sighted after leaving the Pearl Islands was of considerable size, with a lagoon in the centre. We observed at the south-east end a broad entrance, through which it appeared we might pass without difficulty into the lagoon. Near one side was a village, and the whole island appeared thickly covered with cocoanut and other trees. As from this it seemed probable that we might obtain some palm-oil, the schooner was hove to, and Charlie Tilston and I, with Tom Tubb and three other men, pulled for the shore. As we approached we saw a number of natives rushing down to the beach, all fully armed; but they were not so savage in appearance as those who had prevented us from landing on the islands we had before visited. They shouted and gesticulated, however, making signs that we must not attempt to set foot on shore.

We, however, still pulled on, and as we got closer, Tom Tubb hailed them, and desired to know why they were so inhospitable. They answered—

“We know why you have come. Not long ago a vessel appeared and carried off a number of our people, and you will try to do the same; but we will prevent you.”

Our interpreter tried to explain that our object was simply to trade honestly; that if they had any cocoanut oil, we would give them a fair price for it.

“We will not trust you,” was the answer. “Go away! Go away!”

As we saw several of the people clothed in shirts, and some even in trousers, we had no doubt that a missionary was among them, though we could not distinguish him from the rest. It was, however, evident that they had been visited by a kidnapping vessel, and some of their people, probably Christians, had been carried off into slavery. Finding, notwithstanding all our protestations that we were honest traders, that the natives would not allow us to land, Charlie and I agreed that it would be folly to attempt doing so, and therefore returned to the vessel.

Soon after this we came off another island totally different to any we had before visited, being formed of corals that had been uplifted to the height of upwards of two hundred feet, and surrounded by cliffs worn into caverns. As no natives appeared, Harry did not wish to lose time by landing.

The islands of the Pacific present a great variety of forms, although the larger number are either partly or entirely surrounded by coral reefs. These reefs, however, vary in construction; some are called encircling reefs, when they appear at a distance from the shore, and a lagoon intervenes; others are called fringing reefs, which are joined to the land, and extend out from it without any lagoon. Others are denominated lagoon islands, when the reef itself, raised above the surface of the ocean, forms the land generally in a circular shape, and surrounds a lake or lagoon, which has sometimes a passage to the sea, and at others is completely closed. Then there are atoll islands; these rise within a large encircling reef, which is seldom perfect, having passages here and there through it. Sometimes there are elevations on the reef itself, forming islands; but frequently the reef is a wash with the sea. Besides these, there are the great barrier reefs which extend along the larger part of the eastern coast of Australia, part of New Guinea, and New Caledonia. Some of these are several hundred miles in extent. These countless reefs are all formed by the coral insect. The difference of their appearance is owing to various causes: some by the subsidence of the land; others by its elevation through volcanic agency. The encircling reefs have been produced by the subsidence of the land; they were originally fringing reefs, having been attached to the coastline of the country or islands. As the land sank, the insects went on building one generation above another; but they can only work in a certain depth of water—below which they die; thus a wall has been built up on the foundations formed by the original workers, who constructed a fringing reef. After a time, the last architects have died, storms have thrown up pieces of coral shells and other débris on the top of the wall, birds have brought seeds of plants, the ocean has washed cocoanuts and other palm seeds on to the top: thus vegetation has been commenced, and finally groves of trees and shrubs have grown up.

The barrier reefs have been formed in the same way. Where no vegetation appears, the has probably sunk as rapidly as the creatures have built, and the sea has continued to wash over it. Other groups have been formed by the violent elevation of the land when the barrier reef has been broken into and wide gaps have appeared.

The last island we visited, surrounded by high cliffs, must have been formed by the sudden upheaval of the earth beneath it, so that the whole mass of coral was lifted above water. Such has been the origin of a considerable number of islands. The most beautiful and picturesque, like Tahiti and others in that group, owe their present shape to the subsidence to the earth, they being merely the summits of mountain ranges, probably of some vast continent, of which the lower land has been submerged. The gaps or openings in the encircling reefs are always found opposite to a river or stream. The coral insect can only build in pure salt water; the fresh water running out from the river has, therefore, prevented its upward progress; thus a gap in the wall has been formed serving as a safe entrance to the inner lagoon. Knowing these facts, it was easy to decide to which class the islands and reefs we passed belonged. There was always, therefore, matter of interest before us.

Volcanic action has been the agent of many of the islands to the westward, where several still active volcanoes exist. Many of those in that direction are clothed with the richest vegetation. They are inhabited by dark-skinned races; still the most savage among those of the Pacific, such as the New Hebrides, Santa Cruz, Solomon Islands, and New Ireland, to the eastward of New Guinea. They produce the finest sandal-wood, and Harry determined to visit some of them, in order to obtain a supply before returning home. He had, however, settled to call first, as I have said, at the islands, where he hoped to be able to purchase palm-oil.

The first we reached after this was very similar to those already described. The natives, as we appeared, came off to the schooner in their canoes, and invited us to enter a secure harbour into which they offered to pilot her. Several of those who boarded us were dressed in shirts, and one of them spoke a sufficient amount of English to make himself understood. He said that two native missionaries were settled on the island, and that all the inhabitants were Christians. They had also, he added, a good quantity of palm-oil, of which they would be glad to dispose. Harry, therefore, without hesitation, accepted their invitation, and we brought up within the outer reef, at no great distance from the shore.

None of the people now cared for the trinkets and other trumpery which they formerly so greatly sought for, but desired to have cotton goods, axes, knives, carpenters tools, fish-hooks, cooking utensils, and other things required by a civilised community. They also asked for paper, pens and ink, and copybooks. We had, unfortunately, no Bibles or other books in their language, or we might have disposed of a good number, so eager were they to procure them. They all behaved, when on board, in a quiet and sedate manner, though they were evidently merry fellows, for we saw them laughing and joking among themselves. Their huts were larger and better built than any we had lately seen, and those we visited were remarkably clean and tidy; yet one of the missionaries whose acquaintance we had made, and who could speak a little English, told us that the people a few years ago were as savage as any of those in that part of the Pacific. We bought a dozen casks of palm-oil at a fair price, calculating the value of the goods we gave in return. The people said if we would come back they would have a further quantity with which to supply us.

We warned them about the Wasp, and gave them a minute description of her, so that should she appear they might avoid being entrapped. They replied that they had heard of such vessels cruising about to carry off the natives, but that none had visited their island, and that they had therefore doubted of their existence. They thanked us much for warning them, and promised to be on their guard. We advised them to be cautious how they went on board any vessels before being acquainted with their character.

The next island off which we called was also inhabited by Christian natives, who supplied us with six casks of oil.

I have not space more minutely to describe the islands we touched at. Wherever missionaries were established, there the people were more or less civilised, industrious, and happy. They had not ventured to lay aside their weapons altogether, as they might be required to defend themselves against the nefarious proceedings of lawless white men; but as soon as they found that we came to trade honestly with them, they put them by, and mixed among us without the slightest sign of fear, not even attempting to keep their women out of our sight.

When Mary and Fanny landed, the latter gathered round them, expressing their wonder at their dresses and fair complexions, we felt indeed that we were among friends who could be thoroughly trusted.

Having obtained as much palm-oil as we required, we now steered to the south-west for Vavau, one of the Friendly Islands, of which the civilised King George is the ruler. We made it early in the morning, and, the wind being fair and the harbour easy of access, without waiting for a pilot we stood on, having two small islands on the eastern side, and a larger one to the westward. Vavau appeared of uniform height. At first we did not see many signs of fertility or cultivation; the cliffs rose abruptly from the sea without a fringing reef; but the water had worn the coral rocks, which stand out from the shore, into the shape of huge mushrooms on their stalks. When once we were inside, however, signs of the most industrious cultivation showed themselves. The country was covered with woods, looking like one vast garden, while from every village came the sound of the mallet, used by the women in beating out the native cloth. At a wharf not far off were several large double canoes taking in cargoes for another port; beyond could be seen a number of comfortable-looking houses. Numerous huts of smaller dimensions peeped out from among the trees, while at some distance apart were buildings of considerable size, which we afterwards found to be churches. Altogether we felt that we had come to a civilised country.

Soon after we had dropped anchor, an old native gentleman came off in a large canoe, and introduced himself as the Viceroy of Vavau, and begged to know the object of our visit. Harry replied that he had come to refit the schooner, but should be happy to trade if we could procure any of the articles we required. The old chief said that the people would be ready to receive money as payment for any of their produce, that they had cotton, and palm-oil, and Beche-de-Mer, cocoanuts, native cloth, and various other articles, and that they could supply us with an abundance of hogs and goats, and vegetables of all sorts at a cheap rate.

We were received, as we had been at Samoa, by the white inhabitants in a very kind way, but as Harry was anxious to refit the schooner as soon as possible, the two ladies, under the escort of Charlie Tilston, could alone be much on shore. We, however, managed to see something of the country—the roads in course of construction in all directions across it, the cotton plantations and well-cultivated gardens, and many other signs of the industry of the people. The greatest novelty was the manufacture of the native cloth, or Tapa, formed out of the bark of the paper-mulberry tree. The natives universally wear it for clothing, and as it cannot stand any amount of wet and is easily spoiled, there is a constant demand for it. It is manufactured entirely by the women. The young tree is first cut down and the bark is stripped off; it is then steeped in water for a couple of days, when the inner is separated from the coarse outer rind. This is then beaten by a mallet, resembling a square razor strop with small furrows on the under side, till it becomes almost as thin as silver paper, and of course is greatly increased in size. Even then it is scarcely a foot wide, but the edges are overlapped and stuck together with arrowroot melted in water; it is then again beaten till all the parts are completely joined. Pieces are thus made of many yards in length. A mucilaginous dye is then used, both to colour the cloth, and further to strengthen it, until large bales are formed of a single piece, from which portions are cut off as required for use. Some of those we saw were fifty yards long and four yards wide. When thus formed, it is called Tapa or Taba, a name by which it is generally known among all the islands of the Pacific. It is afterwards beautifully coloured, sometimes by a stamp, at others by painting it by hand, when it is known as Gnatu. A coarser kind, worn by the common people, is made from the bark of the bread-fruit tree.

A number of canoes came alongside, bringing turkeys, fowls, eggs, and a variety of fruits and vegetables, among which were pine-apples, bananas, yams, sweet potatoes, cabbages, and onions. Besides cotton, the natives produce tobacco for their own use, and probably, before long, cotton manufactures will supersede the Tapa. Although the former will be more useful, it has not the elegance of the native cloth.

We visited a chapel built in the native style; it was upwards of a hundred feet long by forty-five wide, and nearly thirty high. It had a high-pitched roof, with curved ends, and two rows of columns, each three of the lower column supported a short beam, from which sprang a second series bearing the ridge-pole. These, as well as the horizontal beam, were beautifully ornamented with cocoanut plait, so arranged as to give the appearance of Grecian mouldings, of infinite variety and delicate gradations of colour—black, with the different shades of red and yellow, being those employed. Altogether the effect was very artistic and pleasing.

The Tongans are said to be the best canoe builders and navigators in the Pacific. One of the chiefs exhibited, with some pride, a large double canoe, which consisted in the first place of a canoe a hundred feet in length, and half a dozen or more in width; the second canoe was composed of a tree hollowed out for the sake of buoyancy like the canoe, but was, in reality, merely an outrigger. The large canoe was formed of planks lashed together with cocoanut plait; beams were then laid between the two, on which was erected a house for the stowage of provisions; above this rose a platform surrounded by a railing, forming the deck of the vessel. It had been built by Tongans in the Fijis, where suitable timber could alone be procured. These vessels, frail and unwieldy as they appear, are navigated in the face of the trade wind between two and three hundred miles, the Tongans making voyages to Fiji and also to Samoa. We were told that six years are required to build one. The sail, formed of matting, is triangular, spread on a long yard. The vessel is never tacked, but the sail is lowered, shifted over, and again hoisted when beating to windward.

We made the acquaintance of a young chief—greatly resembling our Samoan friend Toa—who offered to show us some interesting caverns which exist along the coast. The distance was too great for the ladies to venture, as we had to perform the voyage in a small canoe, and should be away the whole day; but Harry told Charlie and Dick Tilston, Nat and me, that we might go.

We started at daylight in two canoes, with an ample supply of provisions on board, Nat and I accompanying the young chief Alea. He could speak a little English, and gave us an interesting legend connected with one of the caves.

Years ago, a chief had rebelled against the king of the country, when, being defeated, he and his family were condemned to death. He had a very beautiful daughter, who had a lover belonging to another family. Having gained intelligence of the intention of the king to exterminate the family of his beloved, he hastened to her, and managed, without being discovered, to carry her on board a small canoe which he had in waiting. She asked how he could possibly hope to escape by such means from the vengeance of the king, who would destroy him as well as herself. He told her not to fear—that he had a place of concealment, where, notwithstanding the most vigilant search which could be made for her, she would never be discovered. They paddled away till they reached a cliff which rose out of the water.

“I see no cavern in which I can be concealed,” she said.

“Fear not; I will conduct you to one, notwithstanding,” he answered, and, taking her hand, desired her to leap overboard.

Trusting him to the full, she obeyed; and, both diving, they swam for some distance, till they rose in the centre of a large cavern with rocks, free of water, on one side of which there was sufficient space to rest. Here he told her that she might remain secure, and that he would bring her food every night, till he could make arrangements for their escape to Fiji. He had discovered the cavern, he said, not long before, when diving for a turtle. He was unable to fulfil his promise till he came, one night, and told her that a large double canoe, with friends of his, was waiting outside. They were soon on board, and arrived safely in Fiji, where they remained till the death of the king enabled them to return to Vavau. From this legend Byron draws a romantic account of Neuha’s Cave in his poem of “The Island.”

As our friend had not described the first cave to which he took us, we were surprised and delighted with it. The mouth was of considerable width, sufficient to admit two or three boats abreast. Once inside, the water was fully five fathoms deep. We here found ourselves amid columns and stalactites hanging from the high-domed roof, resembling Gothic arches. The bright sunlight streamed down through the wonderfully clear water, and was reflected up from the sparkling stones and coral at the bottom, with a beautiful series of light tints, and shades of delicate blue and green, over every part of the walls and vaulted roof. We agreed that it was the fit abode of the most charming of sea-nymphs and mermaids; indeed, we almost expected to see some of the fair ladies seated among the rocks, combing their hair. At the further end there was an arched passage, sloping upwards till it reached an opening in the roof above. Some of our companions landed, and made their way up it, now appearing, now disappearing among the rocks, the effect in their progress being singularly picturesque and scenic. On their return, after visiting another smaller cave, we made sail for Neuha’s cavern. On arriving at the spot, we in vain looked for any sign of the entrance, till the chief pointed out to us two poles placed crosswise, which, he said, marked it.

“Now, which of you would like to accompany me into the cavern?” he asked. “You must be prepared for a long dive.”

Neither Charlie nor Dick Tilston were willing to venture, on hearing how long they would have to hold their breath. At last I agreed to go, the chief undertaking to keep hold of my hand, and to conduct me in safety. On looking down, with our backs to the sun, we could see a darker patch than usual among the coral-covered rocks, some eight feet below the surface: this was the entrance. We had brought a long line, which was secured to one of the canoes. A follower of the chief’s, taking the end, jumped overboard. By watching him carefully we saw him disappear in the midst of the dark patch. He was absent for about ten minutes, and he said that he had made the line secure in the inside of the cavern. After he had rested a little while, the chief asked me if I was ready, when, he and his follower taking me by the arm, we dived downwards, the chief keeping the end of the line in his hand to guide us. I held my breath and struck out with my feet, but my companions had some difficulty in keeping me down sufficiently to avoid scraping my back against the sharp points which project from the roof of the passage. As the whole distance was thirty feet, I was so much exhausted by the time I reached the surface inside the cavern that I could not at first admire its wonders. My companions helped me to a ledge of a rock just visible in the dusk, where we stopped to rest ourselves. The subdued light within the cave was derived entirely from the reflection through the mouth of the submerged passage, and I was at first afraid that I should scarcely be repaid the exertion I had made and the risk run. Suddenly, however, the chief leaped into the water, and began swimming about, when the phosphorescent light produced by his movements was more beautiful and brilliant than anything of the sort I had ever seen. Wherever he went he was followed by a stream of liquid fire. When both the natives were in the water, the light was sensibly increased, so that I obtained some notion of the size of the cavern. It was, however, at the best, a somewhat dreary place of captivity, and the poor girl who inhabited it must have passed many an anxious hour, uncertain whether her lover would be able to return and bring her her daily allowance of food and water, and help her finally to escape. I owned that, having once performed the feat, I did not feel that I should be inclined to pay the cave a second visit. I therefore, as I sat on the rock and pictured to myself how the lovely Neuha had passed her time, took in every visible object; then, feeling rested, told the chief that I was ready to return to the outer world. I own that I had some slight apprehension of encountering a shark on the way; but I felt tolerably satisfied that my companions would send it to the rightabout, if they did not kill the monster.

“Now I’m ready,” I said.

The natives then, seizing my arms as before, dived with me almost to the bottom, and, while holding my breath, I felt myself carried along, this time escaping the roof. With infinite satisfaction I saw the bright sunlight overhead. We rose to the surface close to the canoe, and I was hauled on board, pretty well done, however, to receive the congratulations of my friends. The account I gave did not tempt them to make the experiment. After landing on some rocks to discuss the viands we had brought, we pulled back the way we had come, and late in the evening got on board the schooner.

Chapter Eight.

We were now bound on a cruise among the islands of Melanesia, inhabited by a dark-skinned race, differing very greatly from the people we had previously visited. We hoped, however, to obtain a supply of sandal-wood, and to establish friendly relations at different spots, so that the schooner might return for another cargo, and bring back any natives who might be willing to engage as labourers in Queensland. Had time allowed, we should have been glad to touch at Fiji, the inhabitants of which were by that time no longer to be dreaded—many, with their old king, Thakombau, once a cannibal, having been converted to Christianity, and partially civilised—but Harry was anxious to conclude the voyage, which had already been longer than he had at first intended.

We had been some days at sea when we came in sight of Cherry Island, rising some three hundred feet above the surface of the ocean, and thickly covered with vegetation, but only two miles and a half in circumference. It appeared truly a little gem in the midst of the world of waters. As there were no dangers off it, we were able to stand close enough in to observe the fine sandy beach extending round it for a considerable distance. Along the shore we saw no canoes, but a number of natives appeared, waving green branches—emblems of peace. As we watched them through our telescopes, we saw that they were of the Polynesian, or brown race—fine-looking fellows, unlike the Papuans, who inhabit the islands we were about to visit. As it was not likely that they could supply us with either cocoanut oil or sandal-wood, we did not communicate with them, but continued our course westward.

The first island we made after leaving Cherry Island, was Varikoro, one of the Santa Cruz group, but, as we were bound northward, we did not heave to till we came off the small island of Lom-lom, where we saw a number of canoes paddling towards us. The natives who manned them wore rings in their ears and noses. Though their object was to trade, as they brought off only a few bows and arrows, and a fruit in appearance and taste resembling an apple, we soon concluded our transactions with them.

Thence standing on, and passing several other islands, the next day but one we reached that of Nukapu, which has a melancholy interest, as it was here that the excellent Bishop Patteson lost his life. The island itself appeared to be about a couple of miles in circumference, and is surrounded by a coral reef, extending, on its south-west side, as far as a mile and a half from the shore, but in other places much nearer. The island was covered with a dense bush, growing down to within a few feet of the water’s edge. As we were not aware at the time of the treacherous character of the natives, while the schooner was hove to, Charlie and I, with four men as a crew, pulled off in the gig, hoping to open up an intercourse with them. We were well armed with muskets, pistols, and boarding-pikes, in case we should be attacked. On approaching the reef, we saw a number of canoes floating in the lagoon, each containing three men. We found, however, that we could not get over the reef, but we saw the people on the beach waving green branches, inviting us to come on shore. We accordingly pulled in, believing that we should meet with a friendly reception. As, however, we got near, the savages commenced yelling and dancing in a curious fashion.

“They wish to do us honour, I suppose,” said Charlie. “It will be wise, however, not to trust them too much.”

We pulled on till we got to within a hundred yards of the beach.

“Look out; they mean mischief!” I shouted; and scarcely were the words out of my mouth when a flight of arrows came whistling towards us, though, fortunately, they fell short of our boat. In vain we tried to make the natives understand that our object was peaceable, by waving white handkerchiefs, and holding up our hands without exhibiting our weapons. This only made them yell and dance more furiously than before. We might have shot down a number of the natives, but we did not for a moment think of doing that, and therefore at once returned to the schooner.

We now continued our course until, towards evening, we came in sight of a lofty mountain, rising in a conical form out of the ocean. On turning our glasses towards its summit, we could see dense volumes of smoke and flame issuing forth, and as it lay in our course, and the wind was fair, we passed close to it. When darkness came on, the whole summit of the mountain appeared to be a mass of fire. Harry summoned Mary and Fanny, who had gone below, on deck to enjoy the magnificent spectacle. Now flames would shoot forth, rising high in the air; and then the incandescent lava, flowing over the edge of the crater, would come rushing down the slope of the mountain, finally to disappear in the sea. Then again all was tolerably quiet. Now we heard a loud rumbling noise, and presently the lava bubbled up once more, to plunge as before down the mountain-side.

“I’m very glad we are no nearer,” observed Nat. “Suppose we were to be driven by a gale of wind against it, we should run the double chance of being burnt up by the lava or drowned among the breakers.”

“We’ll take good care to keep away from it, then,” said Harry, laughing.

The following day we came off the island of Santa Cruz, the largest of the group. When even several miles from the shore, a number of canoes approached us, each generally containing three people, all of whom showed an anxiety to trade. We stood into a small harbour, where we brought up, when immediately more than a hundred canoes came around us, loaded with mats, bows and arrows, and cocoanuts, which the islanders willingly gave for bottles, pipes and tobacco, and for articles of clothing. Whenever a shirt or a pair of trousers were to be had, the islanders immediately slipped them on, not always as they were intended to be worn, several putting the hind part before. They were an ugly race—their skins nearly black, and their foreheads low and receding, with high cheekbones and broad faces, their noses flat and mouths large, while their heads were like black, curly mops. I cannot exactly say that they were dressed, their only garment being a sort of apron, fastened by a string tightly round the waist; but they wore tortoise-shell rings hanging from their ears down to their shoulders, and one large ring through the nose, which gave a most hideous expression to their countenances. Some had on necklaces of human teeth, and armlets of shells. Their habitations were low, small, and dirty huts of a circular form, roofed with the leaf of the cocoanut tree, and destitute of every description of furniture. They were altogether the most ugly and diminutive race we had hitherto met with.

As usual, Harry would only allow a dozen on board at a time, while a strict watch was kept on all their movements, but as far as we could judge, they had no treacherous intentions. As evening approached, we made them understand that we wished to be left in quiet, though it was somewhat difficult, without giving them offence, to get them into their canoes. They then paddled on shore, promising the next day to return with the sort of wood we required, of which we showed them a specimen. We, of course, kept a strict watch during the night, and were ready at any moment to defend ourselves; but not a single canoe was seen floating on the surface of the harbour; we therefore supposed that the natives had retired to their huts to sleep.

Next day a chief came off, the distinguishing mark of his rank being a breastplate of white shells, about nine inches in diameter. He brought with him several large bundles of sandal-wood, and promised, if we would come again some time afterwards, to procure for us as much as we required. Savage as these people were, they seemed willing enough to trade, and there is no reason to doubt that the blessings of Christianity might be introduced among them. Such is the task undertaken by the Melanesian Mission, about which Charlie Tilston often talked to me.

We soon after this came off Sugar-Loaf, or Mota Island, which is the head-quarters of the Melanesian Mission; and, as Harry thought the missionaries would be glad of an opportunity of sending letters by us, he ordered a boat to be got ready to go on shore, while the schooner was hove to. I went in her, with Charlie and Dick, Jack Lizard, Tom Tubb, Jackie Potts, and Sam Pest. On approaching the beach, we found it was rocky and rugged, while so heavy a surf was seething on it, that we were afraid to attempt landing; we therefore pulled round, hoping to reach a part where we might get on shore without danger. Rounding a point, we lost sight of the schooner, and after going some distance, succeeded in finding a sheltered nook, into which we ran the boat.

Leaving Dick in charge of her, Charlie and I proceeded on foot in search of the missionaries’ houses. The walk was a much longer one than we had expected, but we at last found them, and were courteously received. They expressed themselves very grateful for the attention Harry had shown them, and immediately set to work to write letters, while their wives prepared some refreshments for us. They also insisted upon sending some down to the boat. We in the mean time walked out to a spot whence we expected to see the schooner, but when we got there, great was our dismay at not being able to discover her. A dark cloud, sending down a deluge of rain, was sweeping over the ocean, driven evidently by a heavy squall.

“We shall see her when it has passed over,” observed Charlie; “for she will then stand back should she have been driven away from the land.”

“I trust so,” I said. “Harry is always cautious, and would have shortened sail in time; otherwise the squall has strength enough to capsize her or whip the masts overboard.”

“You should not allow such a fancy to enter your head,” he observed, wishing to comfort me, as I felt fearfully anxious.

We kept watching the spot where the schooner ought to have been, entirely forgetting the repast prepared for us. The cloud seemed to increase in size, the rain grew thicker and thicker.

“If the schooner is still afloat, she must be in the very midst of it,” I at length observed, with a groan.

“Of course she is,” said Charlie, “and running before it. She could not possibly beat back in the teeth of such a squall. We shall see her when it has passed.”

When we looked back landward, we saw, however, that the sun was already sinking below the tree-crowned heights, and in that latitude darkness comes on almost immediately after the sun has gone down. Still, we could not tear ourselves from the spot.

We were standing thus when we heard a voice saying, “I have been searching for you, my friends, for a long time, and could not conceive where you had gone.”

Charlie explained the cause of our anxiety, for I was too much agitated to speak.

“Trust in God’s mercy, my friends,” said the missionary. “We must hope that your vessel has not suffered material damage, though you do not see her. If she has been dismasted, which is possible, you would scarcely discern her at the distance she must be off by this time. Her captain must undoubtedly have perceived the squall coming, and would be prepared to encounter it.”

All he could say, however, did not relieve my anxiety. He waited with us till the gloom of evening, stealing over the eastern ocean, made us abandon all hope of discerning the vessel. We then returned with him to his house, where we were thankful to take the refreshment his wife had prepared. We hurried it over, as we wished to get back as soon as possible to the boat.

“I have sent to say that you are delayed,” remarked the missionary, “and I must urge you not to attempt to put to sea till the morning. You would very probably miss your vessel in the dark, whereas she is sure to stand back to look for you at daylight. I must advise you to wait till then. Have your boat hauled on shore, and let your people come up here to pass the night, as this elevated position is more healthy than on the lower ground; and I will take care that an efficient guard is placed to protect her.”

This advice was so good that we were fain to accept it. We therefore returned with the missionary to his house, while he despatched a New Zealander, who spoke English, to bring up Dick and the men. Having a guide, they were much less time reaching the station than we had been, and soon arrived. Of course, Dick was very much grieved to hear of our anxiety about the schooner. The missionaries and their wives did their best to draw our thoughts away from our friends, by describing the progress of the work they had undertaken. Their object was, they told us, to collect young and intelligent natives from the different islands, and to endeavour to instruct them in the truths of Christianity. When their education was completed, if they exhibited a right missionary spirit, they were sent back to diffuse the truths of Christianity among their fellow-islanders.

It was deeply interesting to see a number of natives brought from among the most savage races, gentle and civilised, and apparently imbued with true Christian principles. They were all clothed in shirts and trousers, and looked as different as possible to the savages we had met with, though of the same race, and a few years ago were exactly like them.

We sat up for some time, hoping against hope that we might hear a gun fired from the schooner, as a signal to us that she was in the offing. Several times we looked out over the ocean, now sleeping in calm repose, but no sign of the schooner could be discovered.

At last the missionary advised us to take some rest. He had a guest-room in which, he said, beds were prepared for Charlie, Dick, and me, while some shake-downs of leaves and grass were made up in an outhouse for the crew of our boat. I kept continually starting up, fancying that I heard a gun fire. Again when I slept I pictured to myself vividly the schooner struck by the squall, and going down beneath the surface.

As soon as morning broke we were all on foot, and hurried to the look-out place, whence we earnestly hoped that we might see the schooner; but not a sail was in sight above the distant horizon. The Christian converts were gathered for prayer, and we joined them, though unable to understand what was said. When our early breakfast was over, I again hurried out to look for the schooner. Still, as far as eye could reach, there was no appearance of her. I felt that, as I was in command of the boat, I must decide what was to be done, though I wished to consult my companions and have their opinion. I proposed that we should, without loss of time, proceed in the boat to some of the neighbouring islands to search for her, believing it possible that she had been compelled to take shelter in one of their harbours. I told Charlie what I thought of doing.

“Dick and I will be ready to accompany you, whatever you may decide,” he answered.

“Then let us go at once,” I said. “We have a sail in the boat, and, though the distance between the islands is considerable, we may cross in a few hours from one to the other.”

When we told the missionary what we intended to do, he strongly urged us to remain with him for a day or two, in the hope that the schooner might in the mean time return.

“The vessel may be on one side of the island, and you may be passing on the other and thus miss her,” he observed.

I thanked him very much, but still told him that I was too anxious to commence our search to delay a moment longer than necessary. As the schooner carried another gig, my brother was certain to send on shore, should we miss each other, to inquire for us, and we agreed to return should we fail to find him.

“If you insist on going, I must beg you to allow me to supply you with provisions and water,” said our kind friend, “and I must advise you to be very cautious in attempting to land on any of the islands. You must remember that they are inhabited by treacherous races, on whom no dependence can be placed. It will be better to endure hunger and thirst than to run the risk of being clubbed, should you land among hostile natives.”

I again thanked him heartily for his kindness, and assured him that we would be as cautious as necessary. Bidding him and his companion and their wives farewell, we went down to the boat, accompanied by a number of natives carrying the provisions with which we had been furnished. Our boat was launched, and we put to sea.

Chapter Nine.

We had what might prove a long and dangerous voyage before us, while we were almost overwhelmed with the anxiety we felt about the fate of the schooner. We could see the first island we intended to visit just rising out of the water, blue and indistinct, and as it was calm we had to depend upon our oars to reach it, but we hoped before long to get a favourable breeze which would send us on our way. The sun struck down on our heads with intense force, but we were too anxious to think about it. I proposed that we should relieve each other at the oars, so that we might continue pulling, if necessary, all day. Jack Lizard, Potts, and Tubb declared that they would not allow us to do that.

“If you like to change places now and again with Dick, and his brother takes a turn with the oar, it is all very well; but we are born to it, as it were, and it makes no difference to us if we pull on all day,” said Jack.

Fortunately, after we had pulled a couple of hours and the island of Mota was fading in the distance, a breeze sprang up, and we were able to stand on under sail. At length, towards evening, we got near the shore, and seeing a number of natives on the beach, we hoped that we might obtain information from them as to what had become of the schooner; for, had she been driven past the island, they must have seen her.

“We take care,” said Tubb, the New Zealander. “I not like dere looks; dey not friends.”

The people had hitherto been quiet enough, and I had observed no signs of hostility; no sooner, however, did we approach the shore than they assumed a warlike attitude, dancing and gesticulating in the wildest manner, while they yelled and brandished their weapons as a sign to us that we were to come no nearer. As it would have been madness to have attempted landing in the face of such hostile demonstrations, we put the boat partly round, and pulled on parallel with the shore, but at a respectful distance. As we did so, we saw the natives running along the beach, every now and then making threatening gestures as a warning to us not to land.

“They may be savages,” observed Charlie; “but they cannot be called treacherous ones, or they would have allowed us to land and afterwards murdered us.”

We continued along the coast, hoping to come to the mouth of some harbour in which we might find the missing schooner. No harbour appeared, and everywhere, whenever we stood in closer than before to the beach, the natives, gathering in numbers, ordered us to keep off. We had now no choice but to remain at sea during the night, for we could not hope to reach the next island within several hours. We therefore stood away from Inhospitable Island, as we called it.

Fortunately the weather remained fine, and the coolness of the night was pleasanter than the heat of day. A distant volcano, which threw up a continuous column of flame, enabled us to steer a direct course, and, as the breeze was very light, we did not expect to reach Aurora Island, which we intended next to visit, till morning. Jack Lizard and I took it by turns to steer, for I was rather afraid of trusting Charlie Dick Tilston, lest a sudden squall might strike the boat and send us over. Our minds were too much occupied with the thoughts of the schooner, or rather of those on board her, to enable us to talk on any other subject Charlie Tilston every now and then tried to get up a lively conversation, but found that he could not succeed. All night long we glided smoothly on.

“I hope that we shall be treated in a more hospitable way by the inhabitants of the next island we visit,” he observed.

“We cannot be very certain about that, sir,” observed Sam Pest. “I have been up and down these islands, and I have seen the way white men have treated the blacks. No wonder they ain’t friendly, for there’s not a village scarcely where some of the natives have not been carried off, while others have been fired on and the people killed. We must make them understand that we come as friends, or we shall have no chance of getting anything out of them.”

By daylight we were close up to Aurora Island. The inhabitants had seen our boat approaching, and had gathered on the beach to receive us. They probably thought that our vessel was not far off, round a point to the westward.

“Come, I think we have a chance of a friendly intercourse with these people,” observed Charlie; “and if you like, I will land and try to have a talk with them by signs. Neither Tubb nor Potts seem to understand their language better than we do.”

Although the natives waved no green boughs, and kept a short distance back on some high ground above the beach, yet, as their women and children were with them, and as they made no hostile demonstrations, we concluded that we might safely land. We therefore ran the boat on to the beach, and Charlie, stepping out, moved a few paces from them, and sat down on a rock. In a short time six or seven persons came down to where he was sitting, apparently inclined to hold a palaver, Sam Pest all the time watching them narrowly.

“Take care, sir,” he shouted, “or they’ll play you some foul trick.” The next instant he added, “Jump up! Run for your life down to the boat!”

As he spoke I seized a musket, and old Sam took up another and presented it at the natives, to cover Charlie and enable him to get back to the boat. Just as he sprang up, I saw a young native in the act of lifting a club as if about to strike him; but the suddenness with which Charlie started up and retreated to the boat prevented the savage from dealing the intended blow. Charlie springing on board, we shoved off, and lay on our oars at a safe distance from the beach. This was a bad commencement, and there seemed but little chance of our obtaining any information from them. When the natives saw our guns pointed at them, they quickly retreated, and though we did not fire, and made signs to them to return, nothing would induce them to trust themselves near us.

“I am afraid, from what Sam says, that we can expect no better reception wherever we go. But we must not complain of the poor natives,” observed Charlie; “they are thorough savages, it is true, but would probably have received white men with gladness, if the white men had from the first treated them properly, and tried to win their regard.”

“That may be so,” I remarked. “But we must not forget how the far less savage inhabitants of the Friendly Islands treated the shipmates of Mariner, and would, it is said, have treated Captain Cook and his companions, if they had had the opportunity. Their conduct, in some instances, is owing to debased human nature, rather than to a spirit of revenge, though undoubtedly in many the white men have been the aggressors.”

Finding that we were not likely to establish a friendly intercourse with the natives, or to gain any information about the schooner, we pulled away from the beach, and steered before the wind for another island which we saw to the westward. Although our hearts were full of anxiety, and our thoughts were occupied with the task in which we were engaged, we could not help admiring the beauty of the islands amid which we were sailing. We found the water very deep round the beach, from which the hills rose abruptly, clothed with a dense vegetation. Cocoanut trees grew in the greatest profusion, not only on the shores, but frequently up the sides of the hills, and were seen in clusters at the bottom of the valleys running inland. There were also many other fine timber trees, while graceful ferns and flowering shrubs formed a dense undergrowth over all the uncultivated parts of the country. The water was so transparent that we could see the fish swimming about as we looked over the side of the boat. We had, fortunately, some hooks and lines, and as nearly anything served for bait, we were able to catch as many as we could possibly eat. The difficulty was to cook them, as we could not venture to land on any spot where there were natives. Our fear also was that we might run short of water; thus, although in the midst of abundance, we might perish of thirst, or by the hands of the savages.

“We must manage to land somewhere,” cried Dick. “Perhaps if we were to pull in to the shore towards evening, we might escape detection, and have time to cook our fish and find water before the natives are down upon us.”

“Although there may be some risk, I do not see what else we can do,” said Charlie. “We must, however, keep a strict watch while we are cooking our food, and not attempt to sleep on shore. We shall probably be able to obtain some cocoanuts in addition to the water, so that we may keep at sea, without the necessity of landing again, for several days.”

As this plan seemed feasible, we determined to adopt it.

“The island out there, for which we are steering, is of considerable size, and there must surely be some parts uninhabited,” observed Charlie.

“I hope so,” I said. “As there are a good many missionaries scattered about, we may drop upon some island where one is established; and, if so, we shall be better off than we should if we landed at an uninhabited part; besides which, we may possibly gain tidings of the schooner.”

The breeze was light, but yet sufficient to enable us to run on under sail. We had miscalculated the distance to the island, for, the hills being high, it appeared nearer than it really was. We were still some way off the shore when the sun set; the wind also fell, and we had to lower the sail and take to our oars. This, however, was the best thing we could do, as we had less chance of being seen, should there be any people on the shore. The moon rose as we neared the land, and gave us sufficient light to distinguish objects, so that we might pick out a place into which we could run the boat. Seeing no fires or lights, we began to hope that we should not meet with natives; we therefore pulled in, placing Tubb ahead to look out for rocks. The part we first made appeared too rugged to allow us to venture on; we therefore rowed along the shore for some way, till a small sandy bay, just suited to our purpose, appeared. We accordingly steered in for it, keeping, as before, a careful look-out ahead. The ground rose abruptly almost immediately beyond the beach, on which no surf was breaking; but I fancied that I heard a rushing sound of water falling probably over the cliffs close at hand, though a thick grove of tall trees concealed it from our sight.

“We could not have discovered a better place,” said Charlie, in a cheerful tone. “We may here remain securely till morning, and get some sleep without being cramped up in the boat. I should not be surprised either if those are cocoanut trees, and, if so, we may get a good supply.”

We now rowed into the bay, Tom Tubb feeling the way with the boat-hook, so that we might not run the risk of staving in the bows of the boat. At length our keel grated on the smooth sand, and jumping out, we quickly hauled up the boat. Tubb and Sam Pest then went on, the latter carrying a musket, to survey the neighbourhood, and to ascertain if there was any path by which an enemy might come suddenly down and surprise us; they were also to look out for water. We meantime collected driftwood and dry branches from under the trees to make a fire. We placed a pile some way up the beach close to the grove of trees, so that the flames might be concealed by the overhanging cliffs and hills on either side, and thus, although there might be natives in the neighbourhood, we might escape being seen. We had got our wood ready to light when Sam and his companion came back.

“There’s only one part, away to the left, where anybody, unless they’ve got wings, can come down,” said Sam. “We must keep a look-out on it, and we shall have time, if many of the savages appear, to get the boat into the water and shove off before they can reach us. One of us had better keep guard there, and we shall be safe enough.”

They had also discovered a waterfall, which came down over the rock at an easily accessible spot, where we could fill the kettle we had brought with us. We accordingly spitted the fish which we had caught in the morning, though already they were not as fresh as we should have liked, and put on the kettle to boil, to make some tea which the missionary had given us. Following Sam’s advice, we at once placed Jack Lizard on the look-out at the spot he had mentioned; we then cooked and ate our supper, and sent Tubb to relieve Jack. This done, we spread the boat’s sail on the oars and boat-hook, to make an awning under which we could sleep; the sand was hot and dry enough so that we required no other bedding. It was arranged that we should relieve each other every two hours, and thus all might get a good spell of sleep. Had it not been for our anxiety about the schooner, we should have enjoyed our adventure. We had scarcely given a thought about ourselves, or what we should do, should we not find her. Our only idea had been to return to Mota; but from that island we were already at a considerable distance, and bad weather might come on before we could reach it. A few years before this, however, we should have been in much greater peril, for there would have been no place for which we could steer with any certainty of meeting with a friendly reception. It was sad to think that generation after generation had passed away, during which these beautiful islands had been inhabited by savages, to whom no one had carried the light of the Gospel; and that, even now, only on a few isolated spots were missionaries established, few of whom, owing to the numerous difficulties in their way, had made much progress.

As we had all been awake during the previous night, scarcely had we thrown ourselves on the sand than most of us were fast asleep. It appeared to me that I had scarcely closed my eyes when I was summoned by Charlie to keep my watch. Although I might have excused myself, as being in charge of the boat, I did not wish to do that. He told me that he had heard no sounds to indicate that any savages were in the neighbourhood. I took the musket which he handed me, and kept pacing up and down on the top of a bare mound, beyond which the ground sloped upwards towards the interior, as far as I could make out in the darkness. I thought it prudent, however, to cast my eye towards the other side of the bay, for it seemed to me that there was a way along under the cliffs at low water. It was arranged that should the sentry see any one coming, he was to shout to the rest of the party, who were to launch the boat, while he made the best of his way to join them. This might appear a very timid proceeding, but, considering the savage character of the natives, it was the only safe mode of showing them that we had no hostile intentions. We might thus also the better be able to gain their friendship.

Day broke while I was still on watch, and I could now distinguish the nature of the country. It was thickly wooded in all directions, with hills, or mountains, indeed, rising to a considerable elevation; and I was thankful, on looking at the grove, to see that the trees were loaded with cocoanuts. However, I would not quit my post till I was relieved, as it was far more important to keep a look-out now than it was during the night. Looking towards our camp, I saw Charlie on his feet, arousing the rest, and Dick soon joined me. I, of course, charged him to keep a vigilant look-out, but on no account to fire, even although the natives might appear with arms in their hands, and make threatening gestures when they saw him.

When I got back to the camp, Charlie proposed that we should push off and catch some fresh fish for breakfast, as the remainder of those we brought with us were no longer fit to eat. The boat accordingly shoved off with the four men and Charlie, while I remained on shore with the other musket in my hand, that I might be ready to assist Dick if necessary. Much sooner than I expected, the boat returned with a sufficient number of mullet and bream to afford us food for the whole day. As we were all very hungry and I had made up the fire, we quickly cooked them, and I was just about to send Jack Lizard to relieve Dick, when the latter shouted—

“Here come some people; but there are only three or four fellows, and I cannot make out exactly who they are.”

I quickly joined him, when I saw four men coming down the valley. Three of them were undoubtedly savages, but the fourth had some clothing on, and was taller and bigger than the others. He carried a huge knotted club in one hand, and a spear in the other. The rest of the men were also armed with spears. The first, from his dress and ornaments, was apparently a chief, but I was puzzled at his general appearance. On his getting nearer, though his skin was brown enough, I observed that it was very much lighter than that of his companions. Dick and I stood with the butts of our muskets on the ground, while we shook our handkerchiefs with our other hands. As the strangers got nearer, to my surprise the apparent chief shouted out—

“Hilloa! Who are you? What brings you here?”

“We came in to get water and fresh provisions,” I answered. “And now I’d ask who you are.”

“Why, as to that, I’m Prime Minister, High Priest, and Doctor Extraordinary to the king of this ’ere country,” answered the man, who I now saw had been a white man, though certainly I could not call him so now.

“Very glad to meet you, friend; for some of the people in these parts are not very hospitable to strangers, and we have found it difficult to land to cook our food and stretch our legs, without the risk of being knocked on the head.”

“Couldn’t say, if I had not been with them, but what my people here might have treated you in the same way,” answered the stranger, “Howsomedever, I will come and have a palaver with you, and hear the news, for I have not set eyes on any white chaps for I don’t know how long.”

Of course we told our new friend that we should be glad of his company, and he, followed by the blacks, went with us towards the boat.

“You don’t happen to have any liquor aboard?” he asked. “It is a mighty long time since I have tasted a drop.”

I was obliged to confess that we had no spirits, though we had still some of the tea the missionaries had given us. He looked much disappointed, and made a remark about the missionaries which I need not repeat. They were evidently not in his good graces.

He and his companions had seated themselves before the fire, when we gave them some tea sweetened with sugar, which seemed to their taste. They also condescended to eat the remainder of our fish, though the white man told us they were precious badly cooked. I saw Sam Pest looking at him while he was eating. At last Sam, seating himself by his side, said—

“Well, Dan Hogan, you seem to have forgotten me.”

“No, I haven’t, now you speak, though I do not know what I might have done if you had not opened your lips.”

Though the two were old shipmates, they did not even shake hands, but sat eagerly talking together for some time, regardless of the rest of us. I could scarcely make out what they said. Sam, at last getting up, came towards me, and said—

“This ’ere old shipmate of mine has given me some news which you will be glad to hear for one thing, though not for another. The schooner has got safe into port, and is not far off from this.”

“Safe!” I exclaimed, my heart bounding with joy, and I shouted the news to Charlie and the rest.

“Safe into port, but I did not say she was safe,” said Sam. “In the first place, from what he tells me, she’s carried away her mainmast, and seeing that she cannot put to sea, some of his black friends have made a plot to get hold of her, and if they do, they’ll not leave any of those aboard alive. The captain, I know, keeps a sharp look-out; but they’re cunning rascals, and will try, if they can, to circumvent him.”

“How far off is she? How soon can we get there?” I asked eagerly. I could feel my heart beating as I spoke.

“He says about thirty miles, more or less, round the coast, though it is little more than a quarter of that distance across country.”

“Then couldn’t we go over land, and warn my brother?” I asked anxiously.

“Why, bless you, we should be knocked on the head by the first black fellows we might meet,” answered Sam. “Our only chance is to go round by water, and I hope we may get there before any mischief is done.”

“Then we have not a moment to lose,” I exclaimed. “But we must ask your friend to exert himself, and try to save them. Perhaps, when they hear that we are engaged in honest trading, they may be induced to abandon their design.”

I spoke to Hogan, who, however, shook his head, as if he thought the attempt would be useless, though he promised to do what he could.

“You will understand, friend, that we shall be happy to reward you for any service you can render us, and you must point out to the natives that, should they commit any act of violence, they will be sure before long to be punished. British men-of-war are about to cruise in these parts for that very purpose, though, perhaps, the natives have never seen or heard of them as yet.”

Hogan looked greatly astonished at hearing this, and exhibited some alarm himself. He promised, however, to tell the people, though he tried to persuade us that he could not be answerable for what they might do.

As every moment might be of importance, I wished him good-bye, and ordered the men to launch the boat. I observed that Sam parted from his old shipmate in a remarkably cold manner, as before, not even shaking hands with him. We immediately shoved off, Hogan and his companions standing on the beach, and watching us as we pulled out of the little bay, and soon afterwards I saw them going back by the way they had come. Hogan, I should have said, had minutely described the harbour in which the schooner lay, so that I had no fear about finding the place, if we could reach it before dark.

Chapter Ten.

Nearly two hours of daylight had already gone by, and as there was at present a perfect calm, we should have to depend on our oars alone. I explained to the men that it was a matter of life and death to arrive as soon as possible.

“Never fear, Mr Ned,” answered Jack Lizard. “We’ll make the boat fly along as fast as our oars can send her.”

As Dick had a sharp pair of eyes, I stationed him in the bows to look out for rocks; for, of course, to shorten the distance, we had to keep close to the land, or, rather, just outside the breakers, which, as we advanced, we found dashing on the shore. As we had had a good breakfast, we did not stop to dine, but Charlie handed round a mug of water, that the men might moisten their lips. As I sat in the stern-sheets holding the yoke-lines, I felt as if I was steering in a race; and so it was—a race against the machinations of the treacherous savages; but I trusted that we should win, and be in time to warn Harry of their evil intentions. I was pleased with the way the men behaved, evidently exerting their strength to the utmost, and even old Sam did not utter a complaint. As we pulled on, I eagerly looked out for each point or headland, hoping that it might be the one beyond which we should find the harbour.

Everywhere the country was covered with trees. Sometimes there were cliffs, and at others the land rose in bold slopes almost from the water’s edge; but nowhere did we see any coral reefs. This was owing, Charlie said, to the existence of a volcano, which we observed somewhere in the interior, sending forth clouds of smoke and ashes, occasionally bright flames darting up, though scarcely visible in the sunlight. The lava, he said, rolled down into the sea, and so heated the water that it prevented the existence of the coral insects. Here and there were small sandy bays, in which canoes were drawn up. On observing them, I feared that some might come off and interfere with us. However, our boat was so small an object, and being without a sail, the natives probably scarcely observed her as we glided rapidly by. Perhaps they might have taken her for some marine monster, or other fish which had just risen above the surface. Occasionally we had to cross a broad bay, when we were, in consequence, at a considerable distance from the land; but I took care to examine it carefully, so as to be sure that the harbour we were searching for was not within it.

Night was drawing on. We had been pulling, we calculated, for not less than seven hours, and must have been going at the rate of four knots an hour. Charlie thought that there might have been a current against us, or, perhaps, we had scarcely made good the four knots as I supposed, or else that the distance was greater than Hogan had told us. As yet, however, we had seen no indication of an opening. A tree-covered point was before us; we steered for it.

“Perhaps we shall find the harbour on the other side,” said Charlie.

The men had not lately been pulling as fast as in the early part of the day; and no wonder, for their arms were becoming weary with their exertions. Still they went on.

“Never fear, sir,” cried Jack Lizard. “We’ve got some go in us yet. Cheer up, lads, cheer up; let us give way with a will again.”

The point was rounded when we saw what Charlie and I felt nearly sure was the entrance to the harbour. We were already steering for it when we made out half a dozen canoes, which had just rounded the opposite point, and soon came paddling towards us. They might have had no unfriendly intentions; but, at all events, we were anxious not to encounter them. As we pulled on, we became perfectly convinced, by the appearance of the land, that we had discovered the harbour we were in search of. The canoes were coming up with us, and it seemed doubtful whether we should get into the harbour before them. Our men, though they had previously appeared too much fatigued to pull longer, redoubled their efforts, and point after point was passed, when at length I was gladdened by the sight of the schooner at anchor.

I raised a shout of joy. “Hurrah, hurrah! There she is!” I exclaimed.

“And there are the canoes!” cried Jack Lizard. “But we’ll be alongside her before they’re up with us.”

Harry, who was on deck, saw us coming, and presently Mary and Fanny came up, and Nat, and waved to us. We were quickly on board, and rapidly exchanging accounts with each other. Harry had been as anxious about us as we had been about him, for, as he could not tell whether we had put off from Mota before squall came on, he feared that we might have been exposed to its fury.

The canoes, seeing us safe on board, turned aside and paddled for the shore. Whether or not they had had any intention of attacking the boat, this showed us that they believed the schooner was able to defend us.

Harry said that he had been compelled to be very strict with them, although he had hitherto remained on good terms. He had held to his rule of allowing only a few men to come on board at a time, and he had made these leave their arms in the canoes, while, as soon as evening drew on, he compelled all on board to return to the shore. When I told him of the warning Hogan had given us, he replied that he had brought the natives into such good order that he did not think they would attempt any act of treachery.

“That is just what Sam was afraid of,” I observed. “Their object, by pretending to be quiet and friendly, is to throw us off our guard. However, now that the schooner’s crew is strengthened by our arrival, perhaps they’ll abandon their designs.”

He told me that he had been arranging with a chief for leave to cut down a tree from which to make a mainmast. “It will take some time,” he continued, “but it must be done, and as the natives cannot cut down the tree, we must manage to do it ourselves. It did occur to me that, while we were thus engaged, they might think it a favourable opportunity to attack us, unless we are on our guard.”

“From what Hogan told Sam, we were much afraid that they might attempt to cut you off even before our arrival,” I observed. “The old sailor had, by some means or other, gained intelligence of their designs, although he acknowledged that he was very uncertain whether he should be able to put you on your guard in time to save you.”

“One thing is positive, that we cannot leave this harbour till we have obtained a mast. And we must have it, therefore, at all risks,” said Harry.

“I advise that we should get hold of a chief, or some other person of influence, and keep him as a hostage on board, while our people are working on shore,” said Charlie Tilston. “The wildest savages know what that means, and will not venture to attack us while we have a chief in our power.”

“A capital idea!” said Harry; “but the question is, how are we to bell the cat, or rather, get hold of a chief?”

“I will go on shore with Sam Pest, and try to induce one of them to come off,” said Charlie. “It would be useless to take either the New Zealander or the Sandwich Island man, as neither of them speak a word of the language of these people, but Sam can make himself understood.”

Harry thought that there was much risk in the undertaking, but Sam, when told of the plan, was ready enough to go, and I begged that I might accompany Charlie, as I did not like the idea of his going alone. We were all to be well armed, and to be on the watch to prevent any savage from getting behind us—this, should they have any treacherous intentions, they were sure to attempt doing. Charlie proposed carrying a few articles to present to the chief, with the promise of others, in exchange for provisions and such things as we should require, if he would come to receive them. This was considered more politic than carrying on the trading first, and promising the presents afterwards, as the chief might doubt whether they would be delivered. From what we gleaned from Sam, they had more than once before been tricked by white men, who had come into their harbour, and were therefore likely to be suspicious of our intentions.

As soon as the plan was arranged, Charlie and I, with Sam, Jack Lizard, and two other men, shoved off and pulled for the shore. As we approached, we found a number of savages armed with clubs, collected on the beach. We pulled slowly, looking out for one who, from the ornaments he wore, and his general appearance, might prove to be a chief.

“That’s the fellow we want,” said Charlie, pointing out a man who wore an ornamented head-dress and breastplate, with a necklace and rings round his arms. We waved, and made signs to him to approach, and we steered the boat directly towards where he stood. Charlie then held up several articles he had brought. The chief seemed to understand our object, and ordering his people to stand back, he advanced without hesitation. We accordingly ran in the boat; Charlie and Sam stepped on shore, while Jack Lizard and I sat with our muskets in our hands, ready to cover them should they be attacked. Charlie then presented first one article and then another, and Sam tried to explain, as far as his knowledge of the language would allow him, our object to the chief, who seemed highly pleased, and stepping back, exhibited the gifts he had received to his attendants. Sam then gave him to understand that we had many more of the same description on board. At first, I was afraid that he would not consent to accompany us; but at length his cupidity overcame his fears, and Sam, advising him to come lest others should obtain the goods we had to dispose of, he stepped into the boat.

As it was evident that she could not well carry more than one person besides ourselves, Sam made signs to the others that we could not take them on board, and at once pulled away from the beach. This showed the savages that we had not come for the purpose of kidnapping them. The chief, however, looked somewhat nervous, and I was afraid might, after all, jump overboard, and swim back to the shore. I told Charlie, therefore, to try and occupy his attention by showing him some of the other articles which we had brought. What interested him most was a telescope, through which, having adjusted the focus, we made him look at his friends. He almost let it drop in his astonishment at seeing them so near, and had not Charlie held it, it would have fallen overboard. He looked through it again and again, each time expressing by signs his wonder, and of course utterly unable to comprehend how the objects he saw through it were brought so near. I was very glad when we got him safe alongside.

Stepping on deck, he gazed about him with almost as much astonishment as he had exhibited when looking through the telescope. Harry stood ready to receive him, and told Sam to say how happy he was to have him come on board. We then showed him some of the articles which we had brought for trading, and gave him to understand that a certain number of them should be his, as soon as the mast was ready. Sam also was told to explain to him that till then he must remain on board, and that, should his countrymen offer any violence to our people, he would be the sufferer. He seemed to understand this perfectly well. The difficulty, however, was to let the natives know why we had carried him off, as we could not allow him to return to tell them so. The only way of accomplishing our object was to bring off one or two more natives, who might convey any message he desired to send. After some persuasion, we induced him to go down to a spare space in the hold, when some food likely to suit his taste was placed before him, and the mate and Dick sat down to eat with him.

As soon as they were thus engaged, Charlie and I shoved off, and pulled for the shore. At first the natives, though they had been eager to accompany their chief, seemed unwilling to embark; but at last we persuaded two to trust themselves with us. On pulling back we amused them as we had the chief, and as soon as they got on board we conducted them down below. We placed some food before them, and when their meal was over, we got Sam to try and explain to them that we intended to keep their chief as a hostage, while our people were on shore cutting down the tree; that he would be well treated, and ample payment made to him. They seemed to understand this clearly, and after they had had a conversation with the chief, we told them that we would convey them back to the shore. They appeared to be in no way dissatisfied with the arrangement, and willingly got into the boat, leaving their chief on board.

“Please, sir, we must keep a sharp look-out on that chap,” observed Sam, “or maybe he’ll jump overboard and swim ashore.”

“He’ll lose the goods we promised him if he does,” said Harry.

“But he does not think so; for he knows the schooner cannot get away, and he expects to take her some dark night, then to get hold of everything on board.”

“We will not stand on any ceremony with him, then, but keep him safely under hatches till we get the mast aboard,” said Harry.

We at once landed the two natives, who explained to the rest our object in keeping the chief. This did not appear to surprise them, nor did they show any unfriendly feeling towards us, but continued to bring down fresh provisions, till we gave them to understand that we had as much as we wanted. As there was no time to be lost, the carpenter, and men to assist him, at once went on shore to cut down the tree. Charlie and I accompanied them to superintend the operation. Notwithstanding the pacific behaviour of the natives, we considered it prudent to go well armed, and to keep a vigilant watch all the time on their movements. As the tree we required was not a large one, it was quickly cut down, and the branches and bark being chopped off, we commenced dragging it towards the water. None of the natives, however, offered to assist us. We had got to within about a hundred yards of the beach, when we saw a number of natives collecting on either side, with clubs and spears in their hands; and at the same time we observed, to our dismay, a fleet of canoes paddling towards the schooner. We had too much reason to fear that a simultaneous attack was to be made on us and her. Providentially, our boat, which lay hauled up on the beach, had not been touched, and we determined therefore to make a rush for her, and to try and reach the schooner before the canoes could get alongside, as, if once on board, we might hope to defend her against any number of assailants.

“Whatever we do, let us keep together,” cried Charlie.

Presenting our muskets at the natives, we ordered them to keep back, and while he and I retreated with our faces towards them, the men rushed on to launch the boat. Still the savages well knew that after we had discharged our pieces we should be defenceless. They hesitated, however, no one wishing to be shot, and we were able to get the boat off and to leap into her. Still it seemed very doubtful whether we could gain the schooner before the canoes. Scarcely, however, had we shoved off from the shore, when I caught sight of a white sail appearing over the point which formed the southern entrance to the harbour, and almost immediately afterwards a large vessel appeared, steering directly for it. The natives saw her; her appearance evidently disconcerted them, for, instead of continuing their course towards the schooner, they paddled away for the shore.

The breeze being fair, the stranger came rapidly on, and, shortening sail, brought up a short distance outside where the Dainty lay. Harry immediately sent me alongside to tell her captain what had occurred. I found that she was a whaler, which had put in for fresh provisions and water. As she carried four guns and a numerous crew, the captain said that he had no fear of the natives; besides which, he well knew how to deal them, though he confessed that he might have been deceived had we not warned him of their treacherous conduct. The first thing to be done was to get off the spar intended for our mast. He accordingly sent a couple of boats well armed to assist us, and lent us his carpenters, who quickly shaped it as it was required. Our captive chief, on being told of the meditated attack of his countrymen, looked very much alarmed, believing that we should in consequence put him to death. We gave him to understand that we had no intention of doing so, and that, as we had obtained the spar, we would pay him and send him on shore, hoping that he would induce his countrymen to behave in a friendly way to white men in future. This, as far as we could understand, he promised faithfully to do. Landing him on the beach, we shook hands, and let him go his way with the goods he had obtained. Next morning, he and a number of his people appeared, loaded with provisions of all sorts, and before the day was over the whaler obtained as much as she required. The natives kept at a respectful distance during the time her boats crews were filling the casks with water. With the assistance of the captain of the whaler we got our mast stepped and rigged, and both vessels sailed together.

We heard nothing more during our stay of Hogan, or what had become of him. Probably he fell a victim to the jealousy of the natives—a common fate of so many white men who have abandoned themselves to a savage life. Parting from the whaler, we made the best of our way to Sydney, where Harry immediately gave information to the authorities of the piratical cruise of the Wasp.

Having disposed of our cargo, we returned to Brisbane, where we found that everything had been going on in a satisfactory manner.

Charles Tilston, instead of going home, resolved to settle there, and, as I had long suspected would be the case, made an offer to Fanny Amiel, who accepted him.

Dick and I, with old Tom Platt and Jack Lizard, made several successful trips in the Dainty; but our sisters-in-law agreed that interesting as had been their voyage, they did not wish ever to make another. I need not say the adventures we met with have often since served us as subjects of conversation, and I hope that we were all grateful for our preservation from the many dangers we encountered.

I must confess, before I conclude, that I was induced to write the narrative of our voyage, not merely to amuse my readers, but to interest them in the dark-skinned inhabitants of the almost countless beautiful islands spread over the Pacific, and to induce them to give their warm support to the missionary efforts now making to convey the blessed light of the gospel to those savage races so long plunged in the utter darkness of heathenism. A wonderful work has already been accomplished. Thousands and tens of thousands of the Pacific Islanders have become civilised and enlightened; but much—very much—remains to be done, and I would remind my readers that they should consider it a privilege to help with their subscriptions to send men forth who are willing to engage in the noble and glorious undertaking.

The End.

W.H.G. Kingston

"The Cruise of the Frolic"

Preface.

By Barnaby Brine, Esq, RN.

The “Cruise of the ‘Frolic’” has already met with so many marks of favour, that it is hoped it will be welcomed not the less warmly in its new and more attractive form. The yachting world especially received the narrative of my adventures in good part; two or three, however, among whom was the O’Wiggins, insisted that I had caricatured them, and talked of demanding satisfaction at the point of the sword, or the muzzle of a pistol. I assured them then, as I do now, that on the word of an officer and a gentleman, I had not the slightest intention of wounding the feelings of any human being; and I entreated their pardon, if in shooting at a venture I had hit an object at which I had not taken aim.

I can only say, that I hope my readers may experience as much pleasure in perusing my adventures, as I had in writing them, and, I may add, again feel, in looking over the pages which recall so many of the amusing scenes and incidents of my yachting days—a pleasure which will, I feel sure, be shared by my companions in the adventures I have described.

No one with any yachting experience will venture to say that the tale is improbable, although it may be confessed that when an author takes pen in hand, he is apt to throw an air of romance over events which, if told in a matter-of-fact manner, would be received as veracious history; and such is the plea which I have to offer for the truth of the following narrative of my yachting experience many summers ago.

Chapter One.

A Yachtsman’s Lament—The “Frolic,” and the Frolickers.

What yachtsman can ever forget the beautiful scene Cowes Road presented on a regatta morning in the palmy days of the club, when the broad pennant of its noble commodore flew at the masthead of his gallant little ship, the “Falcon,” and numberless beautiful craft, of all rigs and sizes, with the white ensign of St. George at their peaks, and the red cross and crown in their snowy burgees aloft, willingly followed the orders of their honoured leader? Then, from far and near, assembled yachts and pleasure-boats, of all degrees, loaded with eager passengers to witness the regatta; and no puffing, blowing, smoking, rattling steamers came to create discord on the ocean, and to interfere with the time-honoured monopoly of the wind in propelling vessels across the watery plain. Small thanks to the man whose impertinently-inquisitive brain could not let the lid of his tea-kettle move up and down at its pleasure without wanting to know the cause of the phenomenon! Smaller to him who insisted on boiling salt water on the realms of Old Neptune! Stern enemy to the romance and poetry of a life on the ocean! Could you not be content to make carriages go along at the rate of forty miles an hour over the hard land, without sending your noisy, impudent demagogues of machines to plough up the waves of the sea, which have already quite enough to do when their lawful agitator thinks fit to exert his influence? It was a work of no slight difficulty and risk to cruise in and out among the innumerable craft at anchor, and dodging about under sail just when the yachts were preparing to start. I doubt whether many of your “turn-a-head and back her” mariners, with their chimney-sweep faces, would possess seamanship enough to perform the feat without fouling each other every instant. But I must not go on harping on the smoke-jacks. Back, memory! back, to those glorious yachting days. Of the regatta I am treating. While afloat, all was movement, gaiety, and excitement; there was not less animation on shore. The awning of the club-house shaded crowds of gay visitors; and on the broad esplanade in front of it were drawn up the carriages-and-four of the noble house of Holmes, and those of Barrington and Simeon, with blood-red hands emblazoned on their crests; while, in like style, some might by chance come over from Appuldercombe, and others of equal rank from the east and the west end of the island; and thus, what with booths of gingerbread and bands of music, scarcely standing-room was to be found on the quays during the day, while every hotel and lodging was overflowing at night. And then the ball! what lofty rank, what a galaxy of beauty, was to be seen there! And the fireworks! what a splutter, what a galaxy of bright stars they afforded! Alas, alas! how have they faded! how have they gone out! The pride of Cowes has departed, its monopoly is no more, its regattas and its balls are both equalled, if not surpassed, by its younger rivals! “Tempora mutantur et nos mutamur in illis.” I am now about to speak of times when that change had already commenced, and the fleets of the Ryde, the Thames, the Western, the Irish, and other clubs dotted the ocean. The first day of a Cowes Regatta broke fair and lovely, then down came the rain in torrents to disappoint the hopes of the pleasure-seekers, like the clouds which at every turn beset our path in life; but again, as they do happily in our mortal course, the clouds passed away, and the sun shone forth bright, warm, and cheering; a light air sprang up from the westward, and the whole scene on shore and afloat looked animated, joyous, and beautiful. While the rain-drops were still hanging on the trees, a large party of ladies and gentlemen collected on the Yacht Club slip, by the side of which were two gigs, their fine, manly crews, with their oars in the air, ready to receive them. Three or four servants followed, laden with cloaks and plaids, to guard against a repetition of the shower; and several white baskets, of no mean proportions, showed that delicacies were provided from the shore which might not be found afloat. Never was a merrier set of people collected together. Cheerful voices and shouts of laughter emanated from them on all sides.

“Who’s for the first boat?” sung out Ned Hearty, the owner of the “Frolic.” Ned had tried shooting, hunting, and every other amusement which the brain of man has invented to kill time; and he was now trying yachting, which he seemed to enjoy amazingly, though practically he knew very little about it; but I never met a man, green from the shore, so ’cute in taking in the details of marine affairs. In a week he could box the compass, knew the names of all the sails and most of the ropes of his craft, and had a slight notion of steering, though I’ll wager he never touched a tiller in his life before. “I say, old fellow,” he continued, turning to me—I had joined him the day before, and had taken up my quarters on board for a spell—“do you take charge of the first gig, and see some of the ladies safe on board. Send her back, though, for the two boats won’t hold us all, and the Cardiffs and Lorimer have not come down yet.”

“Very well: I can stow four ladies and three gentlemen,” I answered, stepping into the boat, and offering my hand to Miss Seaton, who was considered the belle of the party by most of the men: at all events, she was the most sought after, for she was that lovable thing, an heiress. She took her seat, and looked up with her soft blue eyes to see who was next coming.

“We’ll go in the first! we’ll go in the first?” exclaimed the two Miss Rattlers, in one breath; and forthwith, without ceremony, they jumped into the boat, disdaining my proffered aid. Fanny Rattler, the eldest, was dark, with fine flashing eyes and a petite figure; but Susan was the girl for fun. She had not the slightest pretension to beauty, of which she was well aware; but she did not seem to care a pin about it: and such a tongue for going as she had in her head! and what funny things it said!—the wonder was it had not worn out long ago.

“Who’ll come next?” I asked. “Come, Miss May Sandon, will you?” She nodded, and gave her delicate little hand into my rough paw. She was one of three sisters who were about to embark. They were all fair, and very pretty, with elegant figures, and hair with a slight touch of auburn, and yet they were not, wonderful as it may seem, alike in feature. This made them more attractive, and there was no mistaking one for the other. The three gentlemen who presented themselves were Harry Loring, a fine, good-looking fellow, a barrister by profession, but briefless, and the younger son of Sir John and Lady Loring. He was a devoted admirer of Miss Seaton. The next was Sir Francis Futtock, a post-captain, and a right honest old fellow. “Here, I must go, to act propriety among you youngsters,” he said, as he stepped into the boat. The third, Will Bubble, the owner of a small yacht called the “Froth,” laid up that year for want, as he confessed, of quicksilver to float her. Will, like many a man of less wisdom, had been, I suspect, indulging in railway speculations, and if he had not actually burnt his fingers, he had found his capital safely locked up in lines which don’t pay a dividend. “Shove off!” was the word; and I, seizing the yoke-lines, away we went towards the “Frolic.”

“I say, Sir Francis, take care they behave properly,—don’t discredit the craft,” sung out her owner. “No flirtations, remember, till we get on board—all start fair.”

“Hear that, young ladies,” said Sir Francis, looking, however, at Miss Seaton, whereat a soupçon of rosy tint came into her fair cheek, and her bright eyes glanced at her own delicate feet, while Henry Loring tried to look nohow, and succeeded badly.

“I vote for a mutiny against such restrictions,” cried Miss Susan Rattler. “I’ve no idea of such a thing. Come, Sir Francis, let you and me set the example.”

The gallant officer, who had only seen the fair Susan two or three times before, stared a little, and laughingly reminded her that he, as a naval man, should be the last to disobey the orders of the commander-in-chief. “Though faith, madam,” he added, “the temptation to do so is very great.”

“There, you’ve begun already with a compliment, Sir Francis,” answered Miss Susan, laughing; “I must think of something to say to you in return.”

She had not time, however, before the whole party were put in terror of their lives by a large schooner-yacht, which, without rhyme or reason, stood towards the mouth of the harbour, merely for the sake of standing out again, and very nearly ran us down, as she went about just at the moment she should not. We did not particularly bless the master, who stood at the helm with white kid gloves on his hands, one of which touched the tiller, the other held a cambric handkerchief to his nose, the scent of which Bubble declared he could smell as we passed to leeward. Two minutes more took us alongside the “Frolic.” She was a fine cutter of between ninety and a hundred tons; in every respect what a yacht should be, though not a racer; for Ned Hearty liked his ease and his fun too much to pull his vessel to pieces at the very time he most wanted to use her. She did not belong to the Cowes squadron; but Ryde owned her, and Ryde was proud of her, and the red burgee of the Royal Victoria Yacht Club flew at her masthead. The water was perfectly smooth, so the ladies stepped on board without any difficulty. The gentlemen were busily engaged in arranging the cloaks and cushions for the ladies, while the other boats were coming off. In the next came, under charge of Captain Carstairs, who was yachting regularly with Hearty, Mrs Sandon, and two more of her fair daughters. Mamma was a very amiable gentlewoman, and had been a brunette in her youth, not wanting in prettiness, probably.

Then came a Mrs Skyscraper, a widow, pretty, youngish—that is to say, not much beyond thirty—and with a good jointure at her own disposal; and a very tall young lady, Miss Mary Masthead by name, a regular jolly girl, though, who bid fair to rival the Rattlers. Then there was Master Henry Flareup perched in the bows, a precocious young gentleman, waiting for his commission, and addicted to smoking; not a bad boy in the main, however, and full of good nature. Hearty himself came off last with what might be considered the aristocracy of the party—Lady and Miss Cardiff, Lord Lorimer, and the Honourable Mrs Topgallant; and with them was young Sandon, an Oxonian, and going into a cavalry regiment. Her ladyship was one of those persons who look well and act well, and against whom no one can say a word; while Clara Cardiff was a general favourite with all sensible men, and even the women liked her; she talked a great deal, but never said a silly thing, and, what is more, never uttered an unkind one. She was so incredulous, too, that she never believed a bit of scandal, and (consequently, or rather, for such would not in all cases be the sequitur) at all events she never repeated one. She was not exactly pretty, but she had a pair of eyes, regular sparklers, which committed a great deal of mischief, though she did not intend it; her figure was petite and perfect for her height, and she was full of life and animation. Mrs Topgallant was proud of her high descent, and a despiser of all those who had wealth, the advantages arising from which they would not allow her to enjoy. It was whispered that her liege lord was hard up in the world—not a very rare circumstance now-a-days. I almost forgot Lord Lorimer. He was a young man—a very good fellow—slightly afraid of being caught, perhaps, and consequently very likely to be so. The Miss Sandons, in their quiet way, set their caps at him; Jane Seaton looked as if she wished he would pay her more attention; and Mrs Skyscraper thought his title very pretty; but the Rattler girls knew that he was a cut above them; and Clara Cardiff treated him with the same indifference that she did the rest of the men. Such was the party assembled on board the “Frolic.”

I have not yet described the “Frolic,” which, as it turned out, was to be my home—and a very pleasant home, too, for many a month on the ocean wave; and yet she was well worthy of a description. She had the first requisite for a good sea-boat—great breadth of beam, with sharp bows, and a straightish stem. Her bulwarks were of a comfortable height, and she was painted black outside; her copper, of its native hue, was varnished so as to shine like a looking-glass. Some people would have thought her deck rather too much encumbered with the skylights; but I am fond of air; provided there are ample means of battening them down in case of a heavy sea breaking on board, they are to be commended. A thorough draught can thus always be obtained by having the foremost and aftermost skylights open at the same time; in a warm climate, an absolute necessity. Besides her main cabin, she had five good-sized sleeping-cabins, a cabin for the master and chief mate, store-rooms, and pantries; a large fore cuddy for the men; and Soyer himself would not have despised the kitchen range. I might expatiate on the rosewood fittings of her cabin, on the purity of her decks, on the whiteness of her canvas and ropes, on the bright polish of the brass belaying-pins, stanchions, davits, and guns, and on the tiller with the head of a sea-fowl exquisitely carved; but, suffice it to say, that, even to the most fastidious taste, she was perfect in all her details. Before Hearty came down I had engaged a crew for him, and as soon as he arrived on board, I mustered them aft in naval fashion. They were, truly, a fine-looking set of fellows, as they stood hat in hand, dressed in plain blue frocks and trousers, the ordinary costume of yachtsmen, with the name of “Frolic” in gold letters on the black ribbon which went round their low-crowned hats. The name of the master was Snow. He was a thorough sea-dog, who had spent the best part of his life in smuggling, but not finding it answer of late, had grown virtuous, and given up the trade. He was clean and neat in his person; and as he appeared in his gold-laced cap, and yacht-buttons on his jacket, he looked every inch the officer. Odd enough, the name of one of the other men was Sleet, so Carstairs chose to dub the rest, Hail, Ice, Frost, Rain, Mist, Thaw, and so on; while one of the boys always went by the name of Drizzle. Hearty had brought down his own man, but was very soon obliged to send him on shore again; for John, though an excellent groom, proved a very bad sailor. Among other disqualifications, he was invariably sick, and could never learn to keep his legs. The first day we got under weigh, he caught hold of the swing table, and sent all the plates and dishes flying from it. After breakfast he hove overboard half a dozen silver forks and spoons when shaking the tablecloth; and as he went to windward, of course all the crumbs and egg-tops came flying over the deck. Indeed, it were endless to mention all the inexcusable atrocities poor John committed. On his retiring on sick leave, we shipped a sea-steward to serve in his stead, who, having been regularly brought up on board yachts, proved himself admirable in his department; but a more impudent rascal to all strangers whom he thought not likely to know his master, I never met.

Who can fail to look with pleasure at the mouth of the Medina on a fine summer’s day, filled as the roadstead is with numerous fine yachts, as well fitted to contend with the waves and tempests in a voyage round the world as the largest ship afloat! The scenery itself is beautiful—a charming combination of wood and water. On one side, to the east, Norris Castle, with its ivy-crowned turrets and waving forest; on the other, the church-spire peeping amid the trees; and the pretty collection of villas climbing the heights, and extending along the shore from the Club-house and Castle to Egypt Point, with the fine wild downs beyond. On the opposite coast, the wooded and fertile shores of Hampshire; the lordly tower of Eaglehurst, amid its verdant groves; and Calshot Castle on its sandy beach, at the mouth of the Southampton Water; while far away to the east are seen, rising from the ocean, the lofty masts and spars of the ships-of-war at Spithead, and the buildings in the higher parts of Ryde; altogether forming a picture perfect and unrivalled in its kind. Osborne—fit abode of Her Majesty of England—has now sprung up, and added both dignity and beauty to the scene.

Chapter Two.

Treats of the Regatta and Dinner on Board the “Frolic.”

“What shall we do? Which way shall we go?” was the cry from all hands.

“Accompany the yachts to the eastward, and haul our wind in time to be back before the flood makes,” was Will Bubble’s suggestion, and it was approved of and acted on.

We watched the yachts starting, and a very pretty sight it was; but I have not the slightest recollection of their names, except that they are mostly those which have sailed before at Ryde. It is the tout ensemble of a regatta which makes up the interest; the white sails moving about, the number of craft dressed out with gay colours, the bands of music, the cheers as the winners pass the starting vessel, the eagerness of the men in the boats pulling about with orders, the firing of guns, the crowd on shore, the noise and bustle; and yet no dust, nor heat, nor odours disagreeable as at horse-races, where abominations innumerable take away half the pleasure of the spectacle. A gun was fired for the yachts to take their stations and prepare; a quarter of an hour flew by—another was heard loud booming along the water, and up went the white folds of canvas like magic—mainsail, gaff-topsail, foresail, and jib altogether. A hand ran aloft to make fast the gaff-topsail-sheet the moment the throat was up, and while they were still swaying away on the peak.

Every man exerts himself to the utmost—what muscular power and activity is displayed! There is not one on board who is not as eager for victory as the owner. What a crowd of canvas each tiny hull supports. What a head to the gaff-topsail, as long as that of the mainsail itself! And then the jib, well may it be called a balloon; it looks as if it could lift the vessel out of the water and carry her bodily along; it can only be set when she is going free; another is stopped along the bowsprit ready to hoist as she hauls close up to beat back. Huzza! away glide the beautiful beings—they look as if they had life in them; altogether, not two seconds’ difference in setting their sails—a magnificent start! This beats the turf hollow: no slashing and cutting the flanks of the unfortunate horses, no training of the still more miserable jockeys; after all of which, you see a flash of yellow, or green, or blue jackets, and in a few minutes every thing is over, and you hear that some horse has won, and some thousands have slipped out of the hands of one set of fools into those of another set, who, if wiser, are perhaps not more respectable. Now, consider what science is required to plan a fast yacht, what knowledge to build her, to cut and fashion her canvas—to rig her. What skill and hardihood in master and crew to sail her. What fine manly qualities are drawn out by the life they lead. Again I say, Huzza for yachting!

Away glided the “Frolic” from her moorings, as the racing-yachts, accompanied with a crowd of others, ran dead before the wind to the eastward through Cowes Roads. The whole Channel appeared covered with a wide spread of canvas, as we saw them stem on with their mainsails over on one side, and their immense square-sails boomed out on the other. Everybody on board was pleased, some uttered loud exclamations of delight, even the Miss Sandons smiled. They never expressed their pleasure by any more extravagant method; in fact, they were not given to admiration, however willing to receive it.

I wish two persons to be noted more particularly than the rest—our hero and heroine, at least for the present; for what is a story, however true, without them? They were to be seen at the after-part of the vessel—the one, the fair Jane Seaton, sitting on a pile of cushions, and leaning against the side, while Harry Loring, the other, reclined on a wrap-rascal at her feet, employed in looking up into her bright blue eyes, as she unconsciously pulled to pieces a flower he had taken out of his button-hole and given her.

“Wouldn’t it be delightful to take a cruise to the Antipodes?” he asked.

“Yes,” she answered.

“Just as we are now,” he added, “with such a heaven above me.” He looked meaningly into her blue eyes.

Sweet Jane blushed, as well she might. What more in the same style he said I don’t know, for as she bent her head down, and he put his face into her blue hood, not a word reached me. By the by, all the ladies wore blue silk hoods, formed after the model of the front of a bathing-machine, and they were considered admirable contrivances to help a quiet flirtation, as in the present instance, besides aiding in preserving the complexion.

Hearty was rather bothered, I fancied. He liked to be making love to somebody, he declared, and Jane Seaton appeared to be a girl so much to his taste, that, as he confessed, he felt rather spooney on her, and had almost made up his mind to try his luck. Foolish Jane! Here was ten thousand a year ready to throw himself at your feet instead of the penniless youth who had so easily placed himself there. How you would have kicked had you known the truth!

“I say, Hearty, can’t you find something for all these young people to do to keep them out of mischief?” sung out Sir Francis. “Remember the proverb about idleness. I tremble for the consequences.”

“Fie, fie!” said Mrs Skyscraper.

“Fie, fie!” echoed Mrs Topgallant; “I’m ashamed of you.”

“We’ll try what can be done, Sir Francis,” answered Hearty. “Can you, Bubble, devise something?”

“I have it,” replied Will. “Tablecloths, napkins, towels, and all sorts of household linen came on board yesterday at Portsmouth unhemmed, so I laid in a supply of needles and thread this morning on purpose for the present emergency.”

The rogue had put Sir Francis up to making the observation he had done. In a few minutes a number of rolls of various sorts of linen were brought on deck. Some of the damsels protested that they had no needles, and couldn’t work and wouldn’t work, till Sir Francis slyly suggested that it was a trial to see who would make the most notable wife; and without another objection being offered, all the fair hands were employed in sewing away at a great rate, the gentlemen, meantime, holding their parasols to shade them from the sun. Carstairs was the only exception. He slyly went forward, and, taking out pencil and paper, made a capital sketch of the various groups, under which he wrote, “All for Love,” and headed, “Distressed Needlewomen;” much to the scandal of those who saw it.

The ladies, old and young, soon got tired of doing any thing, and the announcement that dinner would be ready as soon as the company were, was received with evident signs of satisfaction. Hearty was a sensible fellow, and determined to get rid of all bad London habits, so we dined early on board; and then when we got back to port in the evening, we used generally to repair to the house of one or other of the guests, and enjoy a meal called by some a glorious tea, by others a yachting tea—in fact, it was something like the supper of our ancestors, with tea and coffee. It mattered, therefore, nothing to us whether we got back at eight, nine, or ten; no one waited dinner for us; indeed, Hearty never would undertake to get back in time. I should advise all yachting people to follow the good example thus set them.

By general acclamation it was determined that we should dine on deck; and Sir Francis, Bubble, and some of the more nautical gentlemen, set to work to rig tables, which we accomplished in a very satisfactory manner, and never was a better feast set before a more hungry party of ladies and gentlemen. Champagne was the favourite beverage; and certainly Hearty did not stint his friends in it, though there was no lack of less refined liquors. Sir Francis, of course, proposed the health of Ned Hearty; “and may there soon be a Mrs Hearty to steady the helm of the Frolic!” were the last words of his speech.

Ned got up to return thanks. He looked at Jane Seaton, but she had the front of her bathing-machine turned toward Harry Loring, so did not see him. He made a long oration, and concluded by observing,—

“How can there be any difficulty in following the advice my gallant friend, Sir Francis Futtock, has given me, when I see myself surrounded by so many angelic creatures, any of whom a prince might be proud to make his bride?”

Loud shouts of applause from the gentlemen—odd looks and doubtful smiles from the chaperones—blushes deep from the young ladies—each one of whom, who was not already in love, thought she should like to become Mrs Hearty, provided Lord Lorimer did not ask her to become Lady Lorimer; while Henry Flareup was discovered squeezing the hand of Miss Mary Masthead.

“Oh that I were a prince, then!” whispered Loring into Miss Seaton’s blue shade.

Thus passed on the day. If there was not much real wit, there was a great deal of hearty laughter; and stores of health and good spirits were laid in for the future. Loring sang some capital songs, Carstairs spouted, and Bubble floated about, throwing in a word whenever he saw any one silent, or looking as if about to become dull; while young Flareup, who was anxious to do his best, laughed loudly, for want of any other talent to amuse the company. As the vessels came to haul their wind in order to save the tide back to Cowes, it was curious to observe how they appeared to vanish. One could scarcely tell what had become of the immense crowd we had just before seen astern of us. Scattered far and wide in every direction, there seemed not to be one-quarter of the number which were before to be seen. We got back soon after eight o’clock, every one assuring Hearty that they had spent a most delightful day.

Chapter Three.

A Voyage—The Mariners’ Return.

“I say, old fellows, don’t you find this rather slow?” exclaimed Hearty, as one morning Carstairs, Bubble, and I sat at breakfast with him on board the “Frolic.” “What say you to a cruise to the westward, over to the coast of France and the Channel Islands, just for ten days or a fortnight or so?”

“Agreed, agreed, agreed!” we all answered.

“Well, then, to-morrow or next day we sail,” said Hearty. “But how can you, Carstairs, tear yourself away from your pretty widow? Bubble, you don’t mean to say that you can leave sweet May Sandon without a sigh?”

“A little absence will try the widow; it will teach her to miss me, and she will value me more when I return,” was Carstairs’ answer. “But you, Bubble, what do you say?” for he did not answer.

Will was guilty of blushing, for I saw the rosy hue appearing even through his sunburnt countenance, though the others did not.

“That is the best thing we can do,” he answered, with a loud laugh. “Hurrah for the broad seas, and a rover’s free life!”

“I thought so—I thought there was nothing in it,” said Hearty. “Happy dog!—you never fall in love; you never care for any one.”

“Ah, no: I laugh, sing, and am merry!” exclaimed Bubble. “It’s all very well for you fellows with your five or ten thousand a year to fall in love; you have hope to live on, if nothing else—no insurmountable obstacles; but for poverty-stricken wretches, like me and a dozen more I could name, it can only bring misery: yet I don’t complain of poverty—no cares, no responsibilities; if one has only one’s self to look after, it matters little; but should one unhappily meet with some being who to one’s eye is lovely, towards whom one’s heart yearns unconsciously, and one longs to make her one’s own, then one begins to feel what poverty really is—then the galling yoke presses on one’s neck. Can you then be surprised that I, and such as I, throw care away, and become the light frivolous wretches we seem? Hearty, my dear fellow, don’t you squander your money, or you will repent it!”

Bubble spoke with a feeling for which few would have given him credit. He directly afterwards, however, broke into his usual loud laugh, adding,—

“Don’t say that I have been moralising, or I may be suspected of incipient insanity.”

“Will Bubble has made out a clear case that he cannot be in love, for no one accuses him of being overburdened with the gifts of fortune,” I observed; for I saw that he was more in earnest than he would have wished to be supposed. “But do you, Hearty, wish to desert Miss Seaton, and leave the stage clear for Loring?”

“Oh, I never enter the lists with a man who can sing,” answered Hearty. “Those imitators of Orpheus have the same winning way about them which their great master possessed. But, at the same time, I’ll bet ten to one that the fair Jane never becomes Mrs Loring. I had a little confab the other day with Madame la Mère, and faith, she’s about as fierce a she-dragon as ever guarded an enchanted princess from the attempts of knights-errant to rescue her.”

“I’ll take your bet, and for once stake love against lucre!” exclaimed Bubble, and the bet was booked.

But enough of this. We bade our friends farewell; and, in spite of all their attempts to detain us, we laid in a stock of provisions to last us for a month, and with a fine breeze from the northward, actually found our way through the Needles just as the sun was tinging the topmost pinnacles of those weather-worn rocks.

As soon as we were through the passage, we kept away, and shaped a course for Havre de Grâce. The wind shifted round soon afterwards to the westward, and I shall not forget the pure refreshing saltness of the breeze which filled our nostrils, and added strength and vigour to our limbs. What a breakfast we ate afterwards! There seemed no end to it. Our caterer had done well to lay in a store of comestibles. Our perfect happiness lasted till nearly noon, and then the wind increased and the sea got up in a not unusual manner. We went below to take luncheon, and we set to in first-rate style, as if there was no such thing as the centre of gravity to be disturbed. Carstairs began to look a little queer.

“‘Thus far into the bowels of the earth have we marched on without impediment,’ Shakespeare, hum”—he began. He was going to give us the whole speech, but instead, he exclaimed, “O ye gods and little fishes!” and bolted up on deck.

Hearty, the joyous and free, followed. They declared that they felt as if the cook had mixed ipecacuanha in the sausages they had eaten for breakfast. Bubble laughed, lighted a cigar, and sat on the companion-hatch with one leg resting on the deck, the other carelessly dangling down, with the independence of a king on his throne, pitying them. Oh, how they envied him; how they almost hated him, as cigar after cigar disappeared, and still there he sat without a sign of discomposure! At dark we made the Havre light, and an hour afterwards, and an hour afterwards, the tide being high, we ran in and dropped our anchor in smooth water. Wonderful was the change which quietude worked on all hands!

“Supper, supper!” was the cry. Even Will and I did justice to it, though we had had a quiet little dinner by ourselves in the midst of our friends’ agony, off pickled salmon and roast duck, with a gooseberry tart and a bottle of champagne.

Next morning we sailed with the wind back again to the north-east, and, notwithstanding the little inconveniences we had suffered on the passage across, we stood to the westward, and heroically determined to run through the Race of Alderney, to pay a visit to Jersey. There was a nice breeze, and I must say we were glad there was no more of it, as we ran through the passage between Alderney and the French coast. The water seemed possessed; it tumbled and leaped and twisted and danced in a most extraordinary and unnatural manner; and several seas toppled right down on our decks, and we could not help fancying that some huge fish had jumped on board. However, with a fair wind and a strong tide we were soon through it, nor was there danger of any sort; but from the specimen we had we could judge what it would be in a strongish gale. The wind had got round to the southward of west, and before we had managed to weather Cape Gronez the tide turned against us. Cape Gronez is the north-west point of Jersey, and bears a strong similarity to the nose of Louis Philippe, as his portrait used to be represented in “Punch.” We had an opportunity of judging of it, for, for upwards of an hour did we beat between it and those enticing rocks called very properly the Paternosters, for if a ship once strikes on them, it is to be hoped that the crew, being Roman Catholics, will, if they have time, say their Paternosters before they go to the bottom.

At last it came on very thick, we ran back and anchored in a most romantic little cove called Bouley Bay, where we remained all night, hoping the wind would not shift to the northward, and send us on shore. I should advise all timid yachtsmen to keep clear of Jersey, for what with the rapid tides, and rocks innumerable, it is a very ticklish locality. The next morning we got under way at daybreak, and brought up off Elizabeth Castle, which guards the entrance of the harbour of St. Heliers. I have not time to describe Jersey. I can only recommend all who have not seen it, and wish to enjoy some very beautiful scenery, to go there. Two days more saw us crossing to Torbay, which we reached on the morning of the regatta. Had an artist been employed to carve the cliffs on which Torbay is situated, he could scarcely have made them more picturesque, or added tints more suitable, except perhaps that they are a little more red than one might wish. However, it is a very beautiful place, and admirably adapted for a regatta.

The bay before the town was crowded with yachts, and I counted no less than fourteen large schooners, among which I remember the “Brilliant,” which, however, should be called a ship, “Gypsy Queen,” “Dolphin,” “Louisa,” and a vast number of cutters, a large proportion of which were gayly dressed up with flags. The course is round the bay, so that the yachts are in sight the whole time—an advantage possessed by few other places. The “Heroine,” “Cygnet,” and “Cynthia,” sailed, but the race was not a good one, as the “Heroine,” driven to windward by her antagonist, ran her bowsprit into one of the mark boats, and another of them, the “Cynthia,” making a mistake, did not go round her at all. Notwithstanding this, the sight was as beautiful of its kind as I ever saw. There was a ball at night, to which we went, and we flattered ourselves that four dancing bachelors were not unwelcome. We met a number of acquaintances. Hearty lost his heart for the tenth time since he left London. The Gentle Giant, as the Miss Rattlers called Carstairs, looked out for a charmer, but could find none to surpass Mrs Skyscraper. Bubble laughed with all but sighed with none, though Hearty accused him of flirtations innumerable; and I never chronicle my own deeds, however fond I may be of noting those of my friends. However, if we did not break hearts, we passed a very pleasant evening. Hearty invited everybody he knew to come on board the next morning, and we went as far as Dartmouth, and a beautiful sail back we had by moonlight, to the great delight of the romantic portion of the guests. They were a very quiet set of ladies and gentlemen, and more than one sigh was heaved when they had gone on shore for our fast friends at Cowes.

We were present at the Plymouth Regatta, and were going to several other places, when, one day after dinner, Hearty thus gave utterance to his thoughts. We were about a quarter of the way across channel on our passage to the French coast, with a stiffish breeze from the westward, and a chopping sea:—

“It seems to me arrant folly that we four bachelors should keep turning up the salt water all the summer, and boxing about from place to place which we don’t care to visit, when there are a number of fair ladies at Cowes who are undoubtedly pining for our return.”

“My own idea,” exclaimed Carstairs.

“Your argument is unanswerable,” said Bubble.

I nodded.

“All agreed—then we’ll up stick for the Wight,” said Hearty joyfully. “The wind’s fair. We shall be there some time to-morrow. Hillo, Jack! beg the master to step below.”

This was said to a lad who waited at table and assisted the steward.

Old Snow, the master, soon made his appearance. He had been a yachtsman for many years, and previously, if his yarns were to be believed, a smuggler of no mean renown. He was a short man, rather fat, for good living had not been thrown away on him, and very neat and clean in his person, as became the master of a yacht.

“We want to get back to Cowes, Snow,” said Hearty.

“Yes, sir,” answered the skipper, well accustomed to sudden changes in the plans of his yachting masters.

“How soon can we get there?” asked Hearty.

“If we keeps away at once, and this here wind holds, early to-morrow; but, if it falls light, not till the afternoon, maybe; and, if it chops round to the eastward, not till next morning,” replied Snow.

“By all means keep away at once, and get there as fast as you can,” said Hearty; and the master disappeared from the cabin.

Directly afterwards we heard him call the hands aft to case off the main-sheet, the square-sail and gaff-topsail were set, and, by the comparatively easy motion, we felt that we were running off before the wind. Not a little did it contribute to our comfort in concluding our dinner.

The next day, at noon, saw us safely anchored in Cowes Roads.

“There’s Mr Hearty and the Gentle Giant, I declare,” exclaimed the melodious voice of Miss Susan Rattler, from out of a shrubbery, as my two friends were pacing along on the road towards Egypt, to call on Lady Cardiff.

“Oh, the dear men! you don’t say so, Susan!” replied her sister.

Bubble and I were close under them, a little in advance, so they did not see us, though we could not avoid hearing what was said.

“Yes, it’s them, I vow; we must attack them about the pic-nic forthwith,” said Susan.

“Don’t mention Jane Seaton, or poor Ned will be too much out of spirits to do any thing,” observed her sister.

“Trust me to manage all descriptions of he-animals,” replied Rattler minima. “Ah, how d’ye do?—how d’ye do? Welcome, rovers, welcome!” she exclaimed, waving her handkerchief as they approached.

“Lovely ladies, we once more live in your presence,” began Hearty.

“‘Oh that I were a glove upon that hand!’” shouted Carstairs.

“Oh, don’t, you’ll make us blush!” screamed Susan, from over the bushes. “But seriously, we’re so glad you’re come, because now we can have the pic-nic to Netley you promised us.”

“I like frankness—when shall it be?” said Hearty.

“To-morrow, by all means,—never delay a good thing.”

“‘If ’twere done, ’twere well ’twere done quickly,’” observed the captain.

“That’s what Shakespeare says about a beef-steak,” cried Susan. “But I say then, it’s settled—how nice!”

“What? that we are to have beef-steaks?” asked Hearty. “They are very nice when one’s hungry.”

“No, I mean that we are to have a pic-nic to-morrow,” said the fair Rattler.

“That depends whether those we invite are willing to join it,” observed Hearty.

“‘I can summon spirits from the vasty deep; but will they come, cousin?’” exclaimed Carstairs.

“Oh, yes, in these parts, often,” cried Rattler maxima; “the revenue officers constantly find them, I know.”

“Capital—capital!” ejaculated Hearty. “You must bring that out again on board the ‘Frolic.’ You deserve a pic-nic for it; it’s so original. You must consider this only as a rehearsal.”

“How kind—then it’s all settled!” exclaimed both young ladies in a breath. “There’s Mary Masthead, I know, is dying to go, and so is Mrs Topgallant, and I dare say, if Captain Carstairs presses Mrs Skyscraper, she’ll go, and the Sandons and Cardiffs, and all our set; I don’t think any will refuse.”

“Well, then, we’ve no time to lose,” we exclaimed, and off we set to beat up for recruits.

We were not, however, without our disappointments. Lady Cardiff could not go, and without a correct chaperone she could not let her daughter be of the party—the thing was utterly impossible, dreadfully incorrect, and altogether unheard of. Mrs Skyscraper was a great deal too young, and being a widow had herself to look after. If Mrs Topgallant would go, she would see about it; so we tried next to find the lady in question, but she had gone to Carisbrooke Castle, and would not be back till late. Mrs Sandon was next visited, but she had a cold; and if Lady Cardiff would not let her daughter go without a chaperone, neither could she. We by chance met Mrs Seaton with the fair Jane, looking very beautiful, but mamma never went on the water if she could help it. She could not come to the island without doing so; but once safe there, she would not set her foot in a boat till she had to go away again. Sooth to say, that was not surprising; the good dame was unsuited by her figure for locomotion. Every thing depended on Mrs Topgallant; never was she in so much request. The gentlemen being able to come without chaperones, more readily promised to be present. We fell in with Sir Francis Futtock, Lord Lorimer, Harry Loring, and young Flareup, and a young Oxonian, who had lately taken orders, and created a great sensation among the more sensitive portion of his audience by his exquisite preaching, and the unction by which he privately recommended auricular confession and penance.

The Rev. Frederick Fairfax was a pink-faced young man, and had naturally a round, good-natured countenance, but by dint of shaving his whiskers, elongating his face, and wearing a white cravat without gills, and a stand-up collar to his coat, he contrived to present a no bad imitation of a Jesuit priest. The Miss Rattlers called him the Paragon Puseyite, or the PP, which they said would stand as well for parish priest. How Hearty came to invite him I don’t know, for he detested the silly clique to whom the youth had attached himself. We had just left the young gentleman when we met the two merry little Miss Masons. At first they could not possibly go, because they had no chaperone; but when they heard that the Rev. Frederick was to be of the party, all their scruples vanished. With such a pastor they might go anywhere. They had only lately been bitten, but had ever since diligently applied themselves to the study of the “Tracts of the Times;” and though not a word did they understand of those works (which was not surprising by the by), they perceived that the Rev. Fred’s voice was very melodious, that he chanted to admiration, and looked so pious that they could not be wrong in following his advice. At last the hearts of all were made glad by the appearance of Mrs Topgallant, who, without much persuasion, undertook to chaperone as many young ladies as were committed to her charge.

Chapter Four.

A Pic-nic, and its Consequences.

The morning came at last, fine as the palpitating hearts of expectant damsels could desire, and calm enough to please the most timid chaperone; so calm, indeed, that it was a question whether any craft with canvas alone to depend on could move from her moorings with a chance of going anywhere except to Hurst or the Nab; but, as few of our lady friends had any nautical knowledge, that in no way disconcerted them, and they would not have believed us had we assured them that there was too little wind for the excursion. By noon, however, a few cats’-paws appeared on the lake-like surface of the water, and soon after the deck of the “Frolic” once more began to rejoice in the presence of many of the former frolickers. They found it easy enough to come on board, but to collect all hands and get under way was a very different thing. The Miss Sandons and Jane Seaton, who came escorted by Loring, on finding no chaperone, thought they ought to go on shore again, as neither Mrs Topgallant nor Mrs Skyscraper had come; but Sir Francis kept them discussing the point till Carstairs had time to dive below, and presently returned with a Norman cap on his head, a shawl over his shoulders, and a boat-cloak as a petticoat.

“There,” he exclaimed, crossing his arms before him, and putting his head on one side, sentimentally, “I’m as good a duenna as Mrs Topgallant, or any other lady of your acquaintance.” All laughed and forgot to go. “Come, my dear girls, sit down and behave yourselves; no flirting with that naval officer, if you please,” he continued, imitating the honourable dame. “You, Mr Loring, and you, Mr Henry Flareup, go forward and smoke your cigars. I can’t allow such nasty practices here.”

Flareup had, as usual, lighted his weed, and was sending the smoke into the face of May Sandon. The roars of laughter were not few as the real Mrs Topgallant, with Miss Mary Masthead, approached, and the Norman cap with the good-natured face of the wearer was seen looking over the side affectionately down upon them. The Rev. Fred and the Miss Masons next arrived, and lastly Mrs Skyscraper, Miss Cardiff, Lord Lorimer, and Hearty.

“Now, remember, Mr Hearty, we must get back before dark; it is on that condition alone that I have consented to chaperone these young ladies,” said Mrs Topgallant, as we were about to get under way.

“And I, also,” exclaimed pretty Mrs Skyscraper.

“Oh, we don’t allow you to be a chaperone,” said Carstairs; “you are far too young and too engaging,” he whispered; and the Gentle Giant actually blushed as he said so; luckily Miss Susan Rattler did not hear him.

“And mamma made me promise to be back at eight,” cried Jane Seaton.

“And so did ours!” echoed the three Miss Sandons.

“You know we could not have come at all unless we were certain of being at home in proper time!” exclaimed the two Miss Masons; “could we, Mr Fairfax?”

The pet bowed and smiled. He was meditating on the Life of St. Euphemia, of Rhodes, and did not hear the question.

“Remember, ladies, that time and tide wait for no man,” answered Hearty. “Even such fair goddesses as honour the ‘Frolic’ by their presence this day cannot govern the winds and waves, however much they may every thing else. Therefore all I can promise is, to do my best to follow the wishes of your amiable mammas, and of yourselves.”

“And of mine, if you please, Mr Hearty,” put in Mrs Topgallant.

“Certainly, my dear madam, I considered you among the goddesses of whom I was speaking,” answered Hearty, with a flourish of his broad-brimmed beaver, which, with the compliment, completely won the honourable lady’s heart.

The anchor was at last weighed, and it being fortunately slack tide, with a light air from the south-east, we were able to fetch Calshot Castle.

Most of my readers probably know the Southampton Water, and may picture us to themselves as we floated up the stream with the round, solid, Stilton-cheese-like-looking Castle of Calshot, at the end of a sandy spit, and the lordly Tower of Eaglehurst, rising among the trees visible over it on the one hand, and the mouth of the Hamble River on the other, while, as far as the eye can reach on either hand, are seen verdant groves, with the roofs and chimneys of numerous villas peeping from among them. About three-quarters of the way up, on the right hand, at a short distance only from the water, stand the picturesque ruins of Netley Abbey. The jolly monks of old—and I respect them for it—always selected the most beautiful sites in the neighbourhood for their habitations, and in fixing on that for Netley, they did not depart from their rule. Several chambers remain; and the walls which surround an inner court are entire, with fine arched windows, the tracery work complete, looking into it. We brought up off it, and the boats were instantly lowered to convey the passengers on shore. In getting into one of them, Loring nearly went overboard, and a shriek of terror from Jane Seaton would have published her secret, had not everybody known it before. At last the hampers and the people reached the beach in safety; and now began the difficulties of the chaperone. She was like a shepherd with a wild flock of sheep and no dog; they would stray in every direction out of her sight. Some had brought sketch-books, and perched themselves about, far apart, to take views of the ruins; others preferred what they called exploring; and Jane and Loring vanished no one knew where. The Gentle Giant, who drew very well, was called on by the Miss Rattlers and several other ladies to fill up the pages of their books; and Hearty was running about talking to everybody and ordering every thing; while Bubble was exerting himself to do the same, and to take sketches into the bargain, though all his friends observed that there was a want of his usual vivacity. The Rattler girls quizzed him unmercifully, till they brought him back to the semblance, at all events, of his former self. The servants had been employed in laying the cloth under the shade of a tree which had sprung up in the courtyard, and thither Hearty’s voice now summoned us. How can pen of mine do justice to the cold collation which was spread before our rejoicing eyes! I can only say that the party did it, and amply too.

“Are we all here?” exclaimed the master of the revels. “No, by Bacchus! two are wanting—Miss Seaton and Mr Loring—where are they?”

“Good gracious! where can they be?” screamed the Honourable Mrs Topgallant.

“What can have become of them?” cried Mrs Skyscraper.

“They probably did not hear you call, and I dare say they are not far off,” suggested Miss Cardiff, always anxious to find a good excuse for her acquaintance.

“I should not wonder but what they have eloped,” observed Miss Susan Rattler.

“What fun!” said Miss Mary Masthead; “we haven’t had such a thing for a long time.”

“How shocking!” ejaculated the Miss Masons in a breath, and looked at the Rev. Frederick.

“I’ll wager I find the truants,” said Bubble, about to go; but he was saved the trouble, for at that moment they appeared; the fair Jane looking very confused—Harry Loring remarkably happy.

“We’ve all been talking about you two,” blurted out Hearty. “No scandal though, so sit down and enable us to recover our appetites, for our anxiety nearly took them away. Now tell us, what have you been doing?”

Poor Jane did not know which way to look, nor what to say; and it never occurred to Hearty that his question might possibly confuse her. Loring, however, came to the rescue.

“Admiring the architecture, exploring everywhere, and examining every thing, which no one else appears to have done, or the dinner-bell would not have been answered so speedily. And now, old fellow, I’ll drink a glass of champagne with you.”

This would not blind us, however. Every one saw what he had been about, and no small blame to him either. Of course, no one further hinted at the subject. After dinner we again wandered about the ruins, and the shades of evening surprised us while still there, to the great horror of Mrs Topgallant, and not a little to that of the Miss Masons, who had been so earnestly listening to a discourse of the Rev. Frederick on the importance of reviving monasteries, that they did not observe the sun set.

“Hillo, ladies and gentlemen! we ought to be on board again,” sung out Hearty, from the top of a high wall to which he had climbed. “There is no time to be lost, if we would not displease our mammas.”

A good deal of time, however, was lost in collecting the scattered sheep, and in carrying down the baskets to the boats, which the servants had neglected to do. When we did at length reach the spot at which we had landed, a bank of mud was alone to be seen, and one of the men brought us the pleasing intelligence that the nearest place at which we could possibly embark was about a mile down the river.

“We here have a convincing proof that time and tide wait for no one,” cried Bubble; “or the latter would certainly have remained up for the convenience of so many charming young ladies.”

“Shocking!” exclaimed Mrs Topgallant.

“What will our mammas say?” ejaculated all the fair damsels.

“That it’s very improper,” said the chaperone-general.

“It can’t be helped now; so if we do not intend to spend the night on the beach, we had better keep moving,” observed one of the gentlemen.

Henry Flareup expressed his opinion that the dismay their non-arrival would cause would be jolly fun, and the Miss Rattlers were in ecstasies of delight at the contretemps.

However, no one grumbled very much, and at last we reached the boats. A new difficulty then arose. They barely floated with the crews in them, but with passengers on board they would be aground. The men had to get out, and, as it was, the only approach to them was over wet mud of a soft nature, yet no persuasions would induce the ladies to be carried to them. Mrs Topgallant would not hear of such a thing, and boldly led the van through the mud. The young ladies followed, nearly losing their shoes, and most effectually draggling (I believe it is a proper word) their gowns. Hearty counted them off to see, as he said, that none were missing; and then began the work of getting the boats afloat, one or two of the ladies, not accustomed to yachting, being dreadfully alarmed at seeing the men jump overboard, to lift them along. Huzza! off we went at last, and pulled towards the “Frolic.”

“Let’s get back as fast as we can, Snow,” exclaimed Hearty, as soon as he stepped on deck.

“Beg pardon, sir, it won’t be very fast, though,” answered the master.

“Why, how is that?” asked Hearty; “an hour and a half will do it, won’t it?”

“Bless your heart, no, sir,” said old Snow, almost laughing at the idea. “It’s just dead low water, so the flood will make up for the best part of the next six hours, and after that, if there doesn’t come more wind than we has now, we shan’t make no great way.”

“But let us at all events get up our anchor and try to do something,” urged Hearty, whose ideas of navigation were not especially distinct at the time.

“If we does, sir, we shall drive up to Southampton, or maybe, to Redbridge, for there ain’t an hair in all the ’eavens,” was the encouraging answer given by the master.

I never saw a more perfect calm. A candle was lighted on deck, and the flame went straight up as if in a room. If we had been in a tropical climate we should have looked out for a hurricane. Here nothing so exciting was to be apprehended. The conversation with the master was not overheard by any of the ladies, and Hearty thought it was as well to say nothing about it, but to leave them to suppose that we were on our way back to Cowes.

“It is much too dark to distinguish the shore, and as none of them ever think of looking at the sails, they will not discover that we are still at anchor,” he observed; and so it proved, as we shall presently see.

The after-cabin had been devoted to the use of the fairer portion of the guests, and when they got there and found the muddy condition of their dresses, there was a general cry for hot water to wash them. Luckily the cook’s coppers could supply a good quantity, and two tubs were sent aft, in which, as was afterwards reported—for we were not allowed to be spectators of the process—the Honourable Mrs Topgallant and her protégées were busily employed in rinsing their skirts, though it was not quite so easy a matter to dry them. Tea and coffee were next served up in the main cabin, and cakes and muffins and toast in profusion were produced, and as Carstairs quietly observed, “Never were washerwomen more happy.”

There was only one thing wanting, we had not sufficient milk; and that there might be no scarcity in future, it was proposed to send the steward on shore with Henry Flareup to swap him for a cow to be kept on board instead. He was fixed on as the victim, as it was considered that he had been making too much love to one of the Miss Sandons, conduct altogether unbecoming one of his tender years.

“We have passed a very pleasant evening, Mr Hearty, I can assure you,” said the chaperone; “and as I suppose we shall soon be there, we had better get ready to go on shore.”

“We shall have time for a dance first; we have had the deck cleared, and the musicians are ready,” replied Hearty; “may I have the honour of opening the ball with you, Mrs Topgallant?”

“Oh, I don’t know what to say to such a thing—I’m afraid it will be very incorrect; and at all events you must excuse me, Mr Hearty, I shall have quite enough to do to look after my charges.”

And as Mrs Topgallant said this, she glanced round at the assembled young ladies.

“A dance, a dance, by all means!” exclaimed the Miss Rattlers; “what capital fun.”

A dance was therefore agreed on, and we went on deck, which we found illuminated with all the lanterns and spare lamps which could be found on board; and even candles without any shade were stuck on the taffrail, and the boom was topped up, so as to be completely out of the way. We owed the arrangements to Bubble, Carstairs, and the master, who had been busily employed while the rest were below at tea. An exclamation of delight burst from the lips of the young ladies; the musicians struck up a polka, and in another minute all hands were footing it away as gayly as in any ball-room, and with far more merriment and freedom.

Ye gentlemen and ladies who stay at home at ease,

Ah, little do ye think upon the fun there’s on the seas!

How we did dance! No one tired. Even Mrs Topgallant got up and took a turn with the Gentle Giant, and very nearly went overboard, by the by. We had no hot lamps, no suffocating perfumed atmosphere, to oppress us, as in a London ball-room. The clear sky was our ceiling, the cool water was around us. Every gentleman had danced with every lady, except that Loring had taken more than his share with Miss Seaton, before we thought of giving in.

“Well, I wonder we don’t get there!” on a sudden exclaimed Mrs Topgallant, as if something new had struck her.

There was a general laugh, set, I am sorry to say, by Sir Francis Futtock.

“Why, my dear madam, we have not begun to go yet.”

“Not begun to go!” cried the Miss Masons. “What will be said of us?”

“Not begun to go!” groaned the Rev. Fred. “What will my flock do without me?”

“Why, I thought we had been moving all the time. We have passed a number of objects which I should have taken for ghosts, if I believed in such things,” said Mrs Topgallant.

“Those were vessels going up with the tide, my dear madam, to Southampton, where we should have gone also,” observed Sir Francis.

Just then a tall dark object came out of the gloom, and glided by us at a little distance. It certainly had what one might suppose the appearance of a spirit wandering over the face of the waters.

“Cutter, ahoy! What cutter is that?” hailed a voice from the stranger.

“It’s one of them revenue chaps,” said Snow. “The ‘Frolic’ yacht; Edward Hearty, Esq, owner!” answered the old man; “and be hanged to you,” he muttered.

“‘I’ll call thee king—father, royal Dane. Oh, answer me!’” continued Carstairs.

“He’ll not answer you—so avast spouting, and let’s have another turn at dancing!” exclaimed Hearty, interrupting the would-be actor, and dragging him, to the side of Mrs Skyscraper, who did not refuse his request to dance another quadrille.

Thus at it again we went, to the no small amusement of a number of spectators, whose voices could be heard round us. Their boats were just dimly visible, though, from the bright lights on our deck, we could not see the human beings on board them. At last the rippling sound against our bows ceasing, gave notice that the tide had slackened, and that we might venture on lifting anchor. A light air also sprang up from the eastward, and slowly we began to move on our right course. Some of the un-nauticals, however, forgot that with an ebb tide and an easterly wind there was not much chance of our reaching Cowes in a hurry. A thick fog also began to rise from the calm water; and after the dancing, for fear of their catching cold, cloaks and coats, plaids and shawls, were in great requisition among the young ladies. Mrs Topgallant insisted that they would all be laid up, and that they must go below till they got into Cowes harbour.

“She was excessively angry,” she said, “with Mr Hearty for keeping them out in this way; and as for Sir Francis Futtock, a captain in Her Majesty’s navy, she was, indeed, surprised that such a thing could happen while he was on board.”

“But, my dear madam,” urged Sir Francis, in his defence, “you know that accidents will happen in the best-regulated families. Nobody asked my Advice, and I could not venture to volunteer it, or I might have foretold what has happened. However, come down below, and I trust no harm will ensue.”

After some persuasion, the good lady was induced to go below, and to rest herself on a sofa in one of the sleeping-cabins, the door of which Harry Flareup quietly locked, at a hint from Hearty, who then told the young ladies that, as Cerberus was chained, they might now do exactly what they liked. I must do them the justice to say that they behaved very well. There was abundance of laughter, however, especially when Miss Susan Rattler appeared habited in a large box-coat belonging to Captain Carstairs. It had certainly nothing yachtish about it. It was of a whitey-brown hue, with great horn buttons and vast pockets. It was thoroughly roadish, it smelt of the road, its appearance was of the road. It reminded one of the days of four-in-hand coaches; and many a tale it could doubtless tell of Newmarket; of races run, of bets booked. Not content with wearing the coat, Susan was persuaded to try a cigar. She puffed away manfully for some time.

“You look a very jemmy young gent, indeed you do,” observed the Gentle Giant, looking up at her as he sat at her feet. “What would your mamma say if she saw you?”

“What an odious custom you men have of smoking,” cried Hearty, pretending not to see who was the culprit.

“In the presence of ladies, too,” exclaimed Loring, really ignorant of the state of the case.

Poor Susan saw that she was laughed at, and, beginning probably at the same time to feel a little sick from the fumes of the tobacco, she was not sorry of an excuse for throwing Carstairs’ best Havana into the water.

As the fog settled over us rather heavily, not only were the more delicate part of the company wrapped up in cloaks and shawls, but we got up the blankets and counterpanes from the cabins, and swaddled them up completely in them, while the gentlemen threw themselves along at their feet, partly in a fit of romantic gallantry, and partly, it is just possible, to assist in keeping themselves warm. Carstairs recited Shakespeare all night long, and Loring sang some capital songs.

By this time we had got down to Calshot; and, as the tide was now setting down pretty strong, we appeared to be going along at a good rate.

“How soon shall we be in, captain?” asked one of the Miss Masons of the skipper, who was at the helm.

“That depends, miss, whether a breeze comes before we get down to Yarmouth or Hurst; because, if we keep on, we shan’t be far off either one or the other, before the tide turns,” was the unsatisfactory answer.

“Keep on, by all means, Snow,” exclaimed Hearty, who had not heard all that was said; “I promised to do my best to get in, and we must keep at it.”

So tideward we went; the little wind there had been dropping altogether. Presently we heard a hail.

“What cutter is that?”

“The ‘Frolic.’”

“Please, sir, we were sent out to look for you, to bring Mrs Topgallant and Miss Masons, and some other ladies, on shore.”

There was a great deal of talk, but Hearty had determined that no one should leave the yacht. Mrs Topgallant was below, and could not be disturbed; besides, the other young ladies could not be left without a chaperone. The Miss Masons wanted to go in company with their pastor, but it would not exactly do to be out in a boat alone with the Rev. Fred. As that gentleman was afraid of catching cold, he was at the time safe below, and knew nothing of what was taking place, so the boat was sent off without a freight. Hearty vowed that he would fire on any other boat which came near us to carry off any of his guests. Thus the night wore on.

It would be impossible to record all the witty things which were said, all the funny things which were done, and all the laughter which was laughed. All I can say is, that the ladies and gentlemen were about as unlike as possible to what they would have been in town during the season. Hour after hour passed rapidly away, and not a little surprised were they when the bright streaks of dawn appeared in the eastern sky, and Egypt Point was seen a long way off in the same direction, while the vessel was found to be turning round and round without any steerage-way.

Now it was very wrong and very improper, and I don’t mean for a moment to defend our conduct, though, by the by, the fault was all Hearty’s; but it was not till half-past eleven of the next day that the party set foot once more upon the shore. Never was there a merrier pic-nic; and, what is more, in spite of wet feet and damp fogs, no one was a bit the worse for it.

Looking in at the post-office, I found a letter summoning me immediately to London.

Sending a note to Hearty, to tell him of my departure, I set off forthwith, and reached the modern Babylon that same night. How black and dull and dingy it looked; how hot it felt; how smoky it smelt! I was never celebrated for being a good man of business; but on the present occasion I worked with a will, and it was wonderful with what rapidity I got through the matter in hand, and once more turned my back on the mighty metropolis.

Chapter Five.

True Love Runs anything but smooth—Being a Melancholy Subject, I Cut it short.

The day after my return I met Harry Loring. Alas, how changed was the once joyous expression of his countenance!

“My dear fellow, what is the matter?” I asked.

“What, don’t you know?” he exclaimed. “I thought all the world did, and laughed at me. False, fickle, heartless flirting!”

“What is all this about?” I asked. “I deeply regret, I feel—”

“Oh, of course you do,” he replied, interrupting me petulantly. “I’ll tell you how it was. She had accepted me, as you may have guessed, and I made sure that there would be no difficulties, as she has plenty of money, though I have little enough; but when there is sufficient on one side, what more can be required? At last one day she said, ‘I wish, Mr Loring, you would speak to mamma’ (she had always called me Harry before). ‘Of course I will,’ said I, thinking it was a hint to fix the day; but after I left her, my mind misgave me. Well, my dear fellow, as I dare say you know, that same having to speak to papa or mamma is the most confoundedly disagreeable thing of all the disagreeables in life, when one hasn’t got a good rent-roll to show. At least, after all the billing and cooing, and the romance and sentiment of love, it is such a worldly, matter-of-fact, pounds-shillings-and-pence affair, that it is enough to disgust a fellow. However, I nerved myself up for the encounter, and was ushered into the presence of the old dragon.”

“You shouldn’t speak of your intended mother-in-law in that way,” I observed, interrupting him.

“My intended—; but you shall hear,” he continued. “‘Well, sir, I understand that you have favoured my daughter with an offer,’ she began. I didn’t like the tone of her voice nor the look of her green eye,—they meant mischief. ‘I have had the happiness of being accepted by’—‘Stay, stay!’ she exclaimed, interrupting me. ‘My daughter would not think of accepting you without asking my leave; and I, as a mother, must first know what fortune you can settle on her.’ ‘Every thing she has got or ever will have,’ I replied, as fast as I could utter the words. ‘My father and mother are excellent people, and they have kindly offered us a house, and’—‘is that it, Mr Loring? And you have nothing—absolutely nothing?’ shrieked out the old woman. Oh, how I hated her! ‘Then, sir, I beg you will clearly understand, that from this moment all communication between you and my daughter ceases for ever. I could not have believed that any gentleman would have been guilty of such impertinence. What! a man without a penny to think of marrying my daughter, with her beauty and her fortune! There, sir, you have got my answer; I hope you understand it. Go, sir; go!’ I did go, without uttering another word, though I gave her a look which ought to have confounded her; and here you see me a miserable, heartbroken man. I have been in vain trying to get a glimpse of Jane, to ask her if it was by her will that I am thus discarded, and if so, to whistle her down the wind; but I have dreadful suspicions that it was a plot between them to get rid of me, and if so, I have had a happy escape.”

I have an idea that his last suspicion was right. Poor fellow, I pitied him. It struck me as a piece of arrant folly on the part of the mother, that a nice, gentlemanly, good-looking fellow should be sent to the right-about simply because he was poor, when the young lady had ample fortune for them both.

“Look here!” exclaimed Loring, bitterly; “is it not enough to make a man turn sick with grief and pain as he looks round and sees those he once knew as blooming, nice girls growing into crusty old maids, because their parents chose to insist on an establishment and settlement for them equal to what they themselves enjoy, instead of remembering the altered circumstances of the times? Not one man in ten has a fortune; and if the talents and energy of the rising generation are not to be considered as such, Hymen may blow out his torch and cut his stick, and the fair maidens of England will have to sing for ever and a day, ‘Nobody coming to marry me, nobody coming to woo.’”

I laughed, though I felt the truth of what he said. “But are you certain that you are disinterested? Were you in no way biassed in your love by her supposed-fortune?” I asked.

“On my word, I was not. I never thought of the tin,” was the answer.

“Then,” I replied, “I must say that you are a very ill-used gentleman.”

Chapter Six.

How to kill time—the O’Wiggins—England’s Bulwarks—Jack Mizen and the “Fun”—Her Fair Crew—Naval Heroes and Nautical Heroines.

I had promised to yacht during the summer with Hearty; and as he paid me the compliment of saying that he could not do without me, notwithstanding several other invitations I had received, I felt myself in honour bound to rejoin the “Frolic.” I had no disinclination to so doing, though I own at times we led rather a more rollicking life than altogether suited my taste. Accordingly, I once more took up my berth aboard the “Frolic.” Hearty was growing somewhat tired of the style of life he was leading. He wanted more variety, more excitement. Indeed, floating about inside the Isle of Wight with parties of ladies on board is all very well in its way to kill time, but unless one of the fair creatures happens to be the only girl he ever loved, or, at all events, the only girl he loves just then, or the girl he loves best, he very soon wearies of the amusement, if he is worth any thing, and longs for the wide ocean, and a mixture of storms with sunshine and smooth water. I found the party on board the “Frolic” increased by the addition of two. The most worthy of note was Tom Porpoise, a thorough seaman, and as good a fellow as ever stepped. He had entered into an arrangement with Hearty to act as captain of the yacht; for though Snow was a very good sailing-master, he was nothing of a navigator, and Hearty was now contemplating a trip to really distant lands.

Porpoise was a lieutenant in the navy of some years’ standing; he had seen a great deal of service, and was considered a good officer. He sang a good song, told a good story, and was always in good spirits and good humour. He had been in the Syrian war, in China, on the coast of Africa, and in South America; indeed, wherever there had been any fighting, or work of any sort to be done, there has dashing Tom Porpoise been found. He had a good appetite, and, as old Snow used to say, his victuals did him good. Porpoise was fat; there was no denying the fact, nor was he ashamed of it. His height was suited to the dimensions of a small craft, and then, having stated that his face was red, not from intemperance, but from sun and spray, I think that I have sufficiently described our most excellent chum.

The other addition of note was ycleped Gregory Groggs. How Hearty came to ask him on board I do not know. It could scarcely have been for his companionable qualities, nor for his general knowledge and information; for I had seldom met a more simple-minded creature—one who had seen less of the world, or knew less of its wicked ways. It was his first trip to sea, and he afforded us no little amusement by his surprise at every thing he beheld, and every thing which occurred. He had a tolerably strong inside; so, as we had fine weather, he fortunately for us and for himself, was seldom sea-sick. Our friend Groggs was a native of an inland county, from which he had never before stirred, when, having come into some little property, he was seized with a strong desire to see the world. He had been reading some book or other which had given him most extraordinary principles; and one of his ideas was, that people should marry others of a different nation, as the only way of securing peace throughout the world. He informed us that he should early put his principles into practice, and that, should he find some damsel to suit his taste in France, he should without fail wed her. We bantered him unmercifully on the subject; but, as is the case with many other people with one idea, that was not easily knocked out of his head.

Hearty, having fallen in with him on a visit to his part of the country, invited him, should he ever come to the sea-side, to visit the “Frolic.” By a wonderful chance, Groggs did find his way on board the yacht, as she one day had gone up to Southampton, and once on board, finding himself very comfortable, he exhibited no inclination to leave her. He therein showed his taste; and Hearty, though at first he would have dispensed with his company, at last got accustomed to him, and would have been almost sorry to part with him.

So much for Groggs.

We lay at anchor off Cowes. Several other vessels lay there also, mostly schooners—a rig which has lately much come into fashion.

“What shall we do next?” exclaimed Hearty, as we sat at table after dinner over our biscuits and wine.

“What shall we do next?” said Carstairs, repeating Hearty’s question; “why, I vote we go on deck and smoke a cigar.”

We had not time to execute the important proposal before the steward put his head into the cabin and announced a boat alongside.

“Who is it?” asked Hearty.

“Mr O’Wiggins, of the ‘Popple’ schooner, sir,” answered the steward. “She brought up while you were at dinner, sir.”

“Oh, ask him down below,” said our host, throwing himself back in his chair with a resigned look, which said, more than words, “What a bore!”

Before the steward could reach the deck, O’Wiggins was heard descending the companion-ladder. He was a tall, broadly-built man, with a strongly marked Hibernian countenance. Hearty did not think it necessary to rise to receive his guest, but O’Wiggins, no way disconcerted, threw himself into a vacant chair.

“Ah, Hearty, my boy! Faith, I’m glad to find any one I know in this dull place,” he exclaimed, stretching out his legs, and glancing round at the rest of us, as he helped himself from a decanter towards which Hearty pointed.

“We are not likely to be here long, but we are undecided what next to do,” returned Hearty.

“Och, then, I’ll tell you what to do, my boy,” said O’Wiggins. “Just look in at the regattas to the westward, and then run over to Cherbourg. I’ve just come across from there, and all the world of France is talking of the grand naval review they are to have of a fleet, in comparison to which that of perfidious Albion is as a collection of Newcastle colliers. There’ll be rare fun of one sort or another, depend on it; and, for my part, I wouldn’t miss it on any account. What say your friends to the idea? I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting them before, I think?”

“I beg your pardon,” said Hearty; “I forgot to introduce them.” And he did so in due form; at which O’Wiggins seemed mightily pleased, and directly afterwards began addressing us familiarly by our patronymics, as if we were old friends. In fact, in a wonderfully short space of time he made himself perfectly at home. The proposal of the Cherbourg expedition pleased us all; and it was finally agreed that we would go there. We could not help being amused with O’Wiggins, in spite of the cool impudence of his manner. He told some capital stories, in which he always played a prominent part; and though we might have found some difficulty in believing them, they were not on that account the less entertaining. Meantime coffee and cigars made their appearance. O’Wiggins showed a determination to smoke below, and Hearty could not insist on his going on deck: so we sat and sat on; Porpoise enjoying the fun, and Groggs listening with opening eyes to all the wonders related by our Irish visitor, for whom he had evidently conceived a vast amount of admiration. At a late hour O’Wiggins looked at his watch, and finding that his boat was alongside, he at length took his departure.

We were present at most of the regattas to the westward, but as they differed but little from their predecessors for many years past, I need not describe them. No place equals Plymouth for a regatta, either on account of the beauty of the surrounding scenery, or in affording a good view of the course from the shore. By the by, it was some little satisfaction to look at the two new forts run up on either side of the entrance to the harbour, as well as at the one with tremendously heavy metal between the citadel and Devonport, not to speak of the screw guardships, which may steam out and take up a position wherever required. I can never forget the superb appearance of that mammoth of two-deckers, the “Albion,” with her ninety guns, and a tonnage greater than most three-deckers. It is said that she could not fight her lower-deck guns in a heavy sea; but one is so accustomed to hear the ignorant or unjust abuse and the falsehood levied at her talented builder, that one may be excused from crediting such an assertion. She is acknowledged to be fast; and, from looking at her, I should say that she has all the qualifications of a fighting ship, and a great power of stowage. What more can be required? (Note.) If she is not perfect, it is what must be said of all human fabrics. If Sir William Symonds had never done more than get rid of those sea-coffins, the ten-gun brigs, and introduce a class of small craft superior to any before known in the service, the navy would have cause to be deeply indebted to him. He has enemies; but in the service I have generally found officers willing and anxious to acknowledge his merits.

There is no little satisfaction in cruising about Plymouth Sound. I suspect that now our neighbours would not be so ready to attempt to surprise the place and to burn its arsenal, as they one fine night thought of doing some few years back. People in general are so accustomed to believe our sacred coasts impregnable, that they could not comprehend that such an enterprise was possible. Yet I can assure my readers that not only was it possible, practicable, in contemplation, and that every preparation was made, but that we were perfectly helpless, and that they would indubitably have succeeded in doing all they intended. Neither Plymouth nor Portsmouth were half fortified; and such fortifications as existed were not half garrisoned, while we could not have collected a fleet sufficient to have defended either one or the other. Providentially the differences were adjusted in time, and the French had not the excuse of inflicting that long-enduring vengeance which they have a not unnatural desire to gratify. When they have thrashed us, and not till then, shall we be cordial friends; and, though electric wires and railroads keep up a constant communication, may that day be long distant! We had brought up just inside Drake’s Island, which, as all who know Plymouth are aware, is at the entrance of Hamoaze. We were just getting under way, and were all on deck, when a cutter-yacht passed us, standing out of the harbour. Our glasses were levelled at her to see who she carried, for bonnet-ribbons and shawls were fluttering in the breeze.

“What cutter is that?” asked Porpoise. “There’s a remarkably pretty girl on board of her.”

“That must be—yes, I’m certain of it—that must be the ‘Fun;’ and, by Jove, there’s jolly Jack Mizen himself at the helm!” ejaculated Hearty, with for him unusual animation.

He waved his cap as the rest of us did, for Porpoise and I knew Mizen. Mizen waved his in return, and shouted out,—

“Come and take a cruise with us. We’ll expect you on board to lunch.”

“Ay, ay!” shouted Hearty, for there was no time for a longer answer before the yacht shot by us.

We had soon sail made on the “Frolic,” and were standing after the “Fun” towards the westernmost and broadest entrance to the Sound. It was a lovely day, without a cloud in the sky, and a fine steady breeze; such a day as, from its rarity, one knows how to value in England. Yachts of all sizes and many rigs were cruising about in the Sound. Largest of all was the “Brilliant,” a three-masted square-topsail schooner, of nearly 400 tons, belonging to Mr Ackers, the highly-esteemed Commodore of the Royal Victoria Yacht Club; and as for the smallest, there were some with the burgee of a club flying, of scarcely ten tons. We, meantime, were standing after the “Fun.” Her owner, Jack Mizen, had once been in the navy; but before he had risen above the exalted rank of a midshipman he had come into a moderate independence, and not being of an aspiring disposition, he had quitted the service, with the intention of living on shore and enjoying himself. He, after a few years, however, got tired of doing nothing, so he bought a yacht and went afloat, and, as he used to say,—

“Fool that I am! I have to pay for sailing about in a small craft, not knowing where to go or what to do, when, if I had stuck to the service, I might have got paid for sailing in a large ship, and have been told where to go and what to do. Never leave a profession in a huff; you’ll repent it once, and that will be to the end of your days, if you do.”

Such was Jack Mizen. He was a jolly, good-natured fellow. He sang a good song, told a good story, and everybody liked him. He had seven ladies on board, two of whom we judged to be chaperones; the other five were young, and, if not pretty, were full of smiles and laughter. The “Fun” was much smaller than the “Frolic,” so we easily kept way with her, and ran round the Eddystone and hove-to, while the racing-vessels came round also. We four bachelors then went on board the “Fun,” and were welcomed not only by her owner, but by the many bright eyes she contained. There were already four or five gentlemen on board, but they had not done much to make themselves agreeable, so nearly all the work had fallen on Mizen. We gladly came to his assistance: poor Groggs, also, afforded them much amusement, but it was at his own expense—not the first person in a like position—unknown to himself. They were all talking about Cherbourg, and had insisted on Mizen’s taken them over there. He, of course, was delighted. The main cabin was to be devoted to them. Fortunately, however, one chaperone and two damsels could not go, so the rest might continue to rough it for a few nights. We had a large luncheon and much small talk. I mustn’t describe the ladies, lest they should be offended. If I was to say that one of the chaperones was fat, and another tall, all the fat and tall elderly ladies on the water that day would consider I intended to represent them. However, there can be no risk in saying that the eldest, dame was Mrs Mizen, an aunt of the owner of the “Fun,” and chaperone-general to the party. The very pretty girl was Laura Mizen, her daughter, and the other married lady was Mrs Rullock, wife of Commander Rullock, RN, and who had also two unmarried daughters under her wing. Of the other young ladies, one was Fanny Farlie, a rival in beauty, certainly, of Laura Mizen—it was difficult to say which was the prettiest—and another was her cousin, Susan Simms, who read novels, played on the piano, was devoted to the polka, and kept tame rabbits. It was perceptible to us, before we had been long on board, that Mizen affected Fanny, while Miss Mizen at once, with some effect, set her cap at Hearty. She did not intend to do so, but she could not help it. She was not thinking of his fortune nor of his position, nor did she wish to become mistress of the “Frolic.” Of the gentlemen, one was in the navy, Lieutenant Piper, an old messmate of Mizen’s, and Mr Simon Simms, the brother of Susan, who had an office in the dockyard, smoked cigars, and was very nautical in his propensities. There was a fat old gentleman and a thin Major Clay, of a foot regiment; but I have not space to describe all the party. They will re-appear in their proper places. We ate and drank, and were very merry, and sailed about all day, most of us hoping to meet again at Cherbourg.

Note. Well we may say Tempera mutantus. A pygmy ram would send her to the bottom in a few minutes.—Editor.

Chapter Seven.

Yacht Squadrons on a Cruise—O’Wiggins’s “Popple”—Arrival in Cherbourg—The Peace Congress and the French Channel Fleet—Lionising On Shore—Groggs Lost—His First Love—An Irate Parent.

A crowd of yachts might have been seen one fine morning becalmed outside the Needles. We were among them. We had sailed from Cowes the previous evening, but had been unable to get further, from the light winds and calms which had prevailed. At last a breeze from the northward sprang up, and we went gayly along. It was a beautiful sight, and no one could fail to be in good spirits as we spoke the various vessels on board which we had acquaintances. The “Popple” was among them, but having started first, was ahead till we came up with her, much to her owner’s disgust. O’Wiggins entertained the idea (very common not only to yachtsmen, but to masters of vessels and seaman in general, and a very happy one it is) that his vessel was the fastest, the most beautiful, and the best sea-boat going.

“Ah, Hearty, old fellow, how are you?” he hailed. “You’ve brought a nice breeze with you. We haven’t had a breath of it till this minute; we shall now stand on in company.” As he spoke, we observed his master trimming sails with the greatest care, for he saw that we were already shooting past him at a great rate. We laughed, for we knew that the “Popple” was a regular slow coach, as ugly as she was slow. She had once, I believe, been a cutter of the old build, with a high bow, and she was then lengthened, and had a new stern stuck on to her, and was rigged as a schooner. As a cutter she had been considered fast; but her new canvas was too much for her, and she could not manage to wag with it. Her copper was painted of a bright red, and she had altogether a very peculiar and unmistakable appearance. We saw O’Wiggins walking his deck with very impatient gestures as we shot past him. He could not make it out; something must be the matter with the “Popple;” she was out of trim; it was the master’s fault, but what was wrong was more than he could discover. His philosophy, if he had any, was sorely tried as yacht after yacht passed him, and more than all, when every one on board laughed at him. The fact was, that poor O’Wiggins had done so many things to make himself ridiculous, that every one considered him a fair subject to exercise their merriment on. It was night before we made the lights on the French coast. First the Barfleur lights and Cape La Hogue to the south were seen, then those of Pilee and Querqueville, and lastly the breakwater and harbour lights, and we soon after ran in by the south entrance, and anchored among the crowd of vessels of all sizes already in the harbour. One by one the yachts came, and last, though not least, the “Popple” appeared, and brought up near us. O’Wiggins instantly came on board to explain why the “Popple” had not got in first; but all we could make out was, that she had not sailed as fast as she could because she had not. We did not go on shore that night. We had amusement enough, as we walked the deck with our cigars in our mouths, in watching the lights on shore and afloat, and the vessels as they came gliding noiselessly in, like dark spirits, and took up their berths wherever they could find room, and in listening to the hails from the ships-of-war, and those from the yachts’ boats, as they pulled about trying to find their respective craft. We amused ourselves by marking the contrasts between the voices of the two nations—the sharp shrill cry of the French, and the deep bass of John Bull.

A good deal of sea tumbled into the bay during the night, in consequence of the fresh northerly breeze, and many an appetite was put hors de combat in consequence. Poor Groggs, we heard him groaning as he lay in his berth, “Oh, why was I tempted to cross the sea to come to this outlandish place, for the sake of watching a few French ships moving about, which, I dare say, after all don’t differ much from as many English ones?” He exclaimed, between the paroxysms of his agony, “Oh dear! oh dear! it’s the last time I’ll come yachting, that it is!” Poor Gregory!—he was not the only one ill that night, I take it; and I am sure Hearty pardoned his not very grateful observations. We were early on deck, to inhale the fresh breeze, after the somewhat close air of the cabin; then indeed a splendid sight met our view. In the first place, floating in the bay were nine line-of-battle ships, in splendid fighting order, their dark batteries frowning down upon us; and, drawn up in another line, were a number of large war-steamers, besides many other steamers, both British and French; and lastly, and no unpleasing sight, there were some seventy or eighty yachts; it was impossible to count them—schooners, cutters, and yawls, besides some merchantmen and innumerable small craft of every description, all so mingled together that it appeared as if they would never get free of each other again. To the south was the town, with its masses of houses and churches, and its mercantile docks in front. On the west, the naval arsenal and docks, the pride of France and Frenchmen, and which so many had come to see. On the other side were the shores of the harbour, stretching out to Pilee Island, and not far from the town a scarped hill looking down on it, with a fine view obtainable from the top, while to the north, outside all, was the famous digue, or breakwater, which the French assert eclipses that of Plymouth, as the big sea-serpent does a common conger-eel. It was begun by Louis Fourteenth, and almost completed during the reign of Louis Philippe; during which period it was one night nearly washed away, while some hundred unfortunate workmen engaged on it were in the morning not to be found! but their place being supplied, the works were continued.

The first day nothing of public importance took place. Yachts came gliding in from all quarters, and steamers, if with less grace, at all events with more noise, bustle, and smoke, paddled up the harbour, with their cargoes of felicity-hunting human beings, very sick and very full of regrets at their folly at having left terra firma to cross the unstable element. Among other English craft, the “Fun” came in with Jack Mizen and a large party on board. We quickly pulled alongside to welcome our friends. The ladies had proved better sailors than most of the gentlemen; and though good Mrs Mizen, the chaperone of the party, had been a little put out, and still looked rather yellow about the lower extremity of the face, the young ladies, who had been cruising all the summer, and tumbling about in all sorts of weather, had borne the passage remarkably well, and were as frisky and full of laughter as their dear sex are apt to be when they have every thing their own way.

We, of course, as in duty bound, undertook to escort them on shore to show them the lions of the place. As the President was not expected till the evening, there was nothing particular to be done, so we had full time to walk about and to lionise to our heart’s content. Hearty took especial charge of Laura Mizen, while the owner of the “Fun” kept Fanny Farlie under his arm, and looked unutterable things into her bonnet every now and then, while Susan Simms fell to my share; for Porpoise made it a point of conscience, I believe, always to watch over the welfare of the chaperone. It was one of his many good points.

Remember, in forming a party of pleasure, never fail to secure a man who likes to make himself agreeable to the chaperone, or you will inevitably make some promising youth miserable, and bore the old lady into the bargain. Groggs was the only man not paired. It was a pity the Miss Rullocks had not come; no blame to them, but their pa would not let them. Mizen had brought no other gentlemen, as he had to give up all the after-part of his craft to his fair passengers, in order to make them comfortable.

The two gigs carried the party properly apportioned between each, and in fine style we dashed up under the eyes of thousands of admiring spectators to the landing-place at the entrance of the inner basin, now filled with a number of yachts, which had got in there for shelter. The hotel was, of course, full; so the ladies resolved to live on board the yacht while they remained.

Our first visit was to the dockyard, through which we were conducted by a gendarme. We were particularly struck by the large proportion of anchors, of which, as Mizen observed, he supposed there was a considerable expenditure in the French fleet. The vast inner basins, yet incomplete, look like huge pits, as if excavated to discover some hidden city. There are lines of heavy batteries seaward, which would doubtlessly much inconvenience an approaching fleet; but as their shot would not reach a blockading squadron, they could not prevent an enemy’s fleet from shutting up theirs inside the breakwater, while it remained fine, supposing such a squadron ready to convoy over a fleet of troop-ships to the opposite shore; and were it to come on to blow, they might be welcome to put to sea as fast as they like, and a pleasant sail to them across channel.

We went into a church where mass was being performed, and had to pay a sou each for our seats; the faithful who do not like paying must kneel on the ground, which is kept in the most holy state of filth, in order not to tempt them to economise.

Our next visit was to the Museum. Its attractions were not great, with the exception of some large pictures of naval combats, drawn by artists of merit, undoubted by the citizens of Cherbourg, but who, nevertheless, had not read “James’s Naval History” to any good purpose; for, by some extraordinary oversight, the English were invariably getting tremendously thrashed (without their knowing it), and the French fleet were, with colours flying, proudly victorious. Perhaps our histories differ; for certain battles, which we consider of importance, were not even in any way represented. Trafalgar, St. Vincent, the Nile, were totally ignored. Porpoise said that, to show his gratitude for the attention we received, he should present them with a correct painting of the first-named battle.

“They’ll alter the buntin’, if you do, and hoist the French over the English,” observed Hearty. “Though they may suspect that they cannot deceive the present generation, they hope to give their descendants an idea that they were everywhere victorious. They will boast of their glory, even at the risk of being convicted of fibbing by their posterity.”

“They know pretty well that the easy credulity of their countrymen will allow them to go any length, in direct opposition to truth, without fear of contradiction,” replied Porpoise. “Why, the greater the scrape Nap. or any of his generals got into, the more glowing and grandiloquent was their despatch. Depend on it that humbug has vast influence in the world, and the French knowing it—small blame to them—they make use of it wherever it suits their purpose.”

After we had shown all the sights to be seen to our fair companions, we were walking through the somewhat crowded streets, on our return to the boats, when by some chance we got separated from each other. We, however, managed to find our way to the rendezvous, with the exception of Groggs, who was not forthcoming. As he was guiltless of speaking a word of any other language than his mother-tongue, we could not leave him to find his way by himself on board, and accordingly Porpoise and I, handing our charges into the boat, hurried off in search of him. We agreed not to be absent more than a quarter of an hour, and away we started, taking different routes among the crowds of women with high butterfly muslin caps, and bearded soldiers with worsted epaulettes, and sailors totally unlike English, notwithstanding all the pains they had taken to imitate them. We agreed that this dissimilarity arose much from the different mould in which the men are cast, and the utter impossibility of a French tailor cutting a seaman’s jacket and trousers correctly. They all wore braces, and though they tried to swagger a little in imitation of the English seaman’s roll, they had in appearance a very slight similarity to their intended originals.

In despair of finding Groggs among such a collection of idlers, I was wending my way back, when I was attracted by a crowd in front of the shop of a marchand d’eau de Cologne, and above the din of shrill voices I heard one which, by its unmistakable accents, I recognised as that of our lost companion. At the same time, Porpoise appearing some way up the street, I beckoned him towards me, and together we worked our way through the grinning crowd. In the shop was a damsel with considerable pretensions to beauty, before whom, on his knees, appeared Groggs, fervently clasping her hand, while with no less fervour, and much more gesticulation, his hair was grasped by a little man, the father, we found, of the damsel, and whose dress and highly-curled locks at once betrayed the peruquier, or the hair-artist, as he would probably have styled himself.

“But I tell you, old gentleman, my intentions are most honourable towards the lady!” exclaimed Groggs, trying to save his head from being scalped entirely. “I tell you, sir, I have rarely seen so much beauty and excellence combined; and, if she is not displeased with my attentions, I don’t see why you or any other man should interfere.”

“Je suis son père, je vous dis, et je ne permets pas de libertés avec ma fille!” cried the irate Frenchman, giving another tug at his unlucky locks.

Groggs now caught sight of us, and appealed to us to save him. As we advanced, the young lady disengaged herself from his hand and ran behind the counter, the peruquier withdrew his clutches, and Groggs rushed forward to meet us. The Frenchman gazed at us with a fierce look of inquiry; but the uniform Porpoise wore on the occasion, and my yachting costume, gained us some respect, I suppose.

“What in the name of wonder is all this about?” I exclaimed, looking at Groggs; and then turning to the Frenchman I observed, in my best French and blandest tone, “that our arrival was fortunate, as I hoped instantly to appease his wrath, and put every thing on a pleasing footing.”

Groggs then, in a few words, gave us his eventful history since he parted from us. He had been attracted by the words “Eau de Cologne” in the affiche over the door, and being anxious to show how well he could make a purchase by himself, he had entered. Instantly struck all of a heap (as he said) by the beauty and elegant costume of the lady, forgetting all about the eau de Cologne, he endeavoured to address her. What was his delight to discover that she could speak some English! Forgetful of the quick passing of time, he stayed on, till the father, hearing a stranger talking to his daughter in a tongue he could not understand, made his appearance. It was at the moment that Groggs, grown bold, had seized her hand to vow eternal constancy. The lady was not unmoved, though somewhat amused, and not offended. It was probably not the first time her hand had been so taken, she nothing loath; of which fact her most respectable sire was doubtlessly cognisant. To pacify the irate barber, we interpreted the protestations of his honourable intentions which Groggs was pouring out. The daughter, Mademoiselle Eulalie Sophie de Marabout, ably seconded our endeavours, by assuring her papa that the gentleman had behaved in the most respectful manner, nor uttered a word to offend her modest ears. At length we succeeded not only in appeasing the wrath of the artiste, but in propitiating him to such a degree that, assuring us that he felt convinced we were most honourable gentlemen, he invited us all to a soirée in his rooms over the shop that evening. Eulalie, with sweet smiles, seconded the invitation. Groggs was delighted; and we, provided we could manage it, consented to avail ourselves of the respectable gentleman’s kindness.

We now hurried off Groggs, for the ladies were all this time waiting in the boats; not before, however, he had whispered to Eulalie that nothing should prevent him, at all events, from renewing the acquaintance thus somewhat inauspiciously begun. It was impossible to refrain from telling the story when we got on board; and had Groggs’s admiration for Eulalie been proof against all the raillery and banter with which he was assailed, it would have been powerful indeed. The ladies did not openly allude to his adventure, but they said enough to show him that they knew all about it, as he could not help discovering from an occasional reference made to international matrimonial alliances, and the advantages to be derived from them.

We returned on board just in time to get under way at a signal from our respective commodores, when the yachts of the various squadrons sailed in line outside the breakwater, under the command of the Earl of Wilton, who acted as admiral of the fleet. We formed in two columns, and performed a number of evolutions—we flattered ourselves, in the most creditable manner—and then we re-entered the harbour, and, running down the French line in gallant style, took up our stations again according to signal. Our hearts swelled with pride, and we felt very grand indeed, only wishing that each of our little craft were seventy-four or one hundred and twenty gun ships, and that the French fleet were what they were. O’Wiggins’s yacht was the only one continually out of line, or somewhere where she ought not to have been. This was owing partly to his imagining that he knew more about the matter than the commodore or any one else, and partly to the bad sailing of his craft.

Mizen invited us four bachelors to spend the evening on board the “Fun,” and the attractions of our fair friends proved stronger than those held out by Mademoiselle Eulalie. There was an addition to our party in the person of O’Wiggins, who invited himself on board, and served as an assistant laughing-stock to poor Groggs. There was, consequently, a bond of union between the two—similar to that of two donkeys in a cart, both being lashed with the same whip. In the course of the evening O’Wiggins heard of Groggs’s adventure, and, clapping him on his shoulder, assured him that he would take care it should not be his fault if he lost the lady.

We had all day been waiting in expectation of the arrival of the President, every craft being decked out with flags, and every gun loaded to do him honour. At the hour he was expected, enthusiasm was at its height; but as time drew on, it waxed colder and colder. People had come from far and wide to see a sight which was not to be seen; they had expended their time and money, and had a right to complain. Complain, therefore, they did, ashore and afloat; and had it at that time been put to the vote whether he should longer remain President, I fear he would instantly have been shorn of his honours.

At last the bright luminary of day sank behind the dockyard, the commodores of the English craft fired the sunset gun, the flags were hauled down, and night came on. We had begun to fancy that the President’s carriage must have broken down or been upset, or that he was not coming at all, when a gun was heard, and then another, followed by such a flashing and blazing and banging of artillery and muskets and crackers and rockets that we could have no doubt that the great man had indeed arrived.

Thus ended our first day at Cherbourg.

Chapter Eight.

Gay Scene in Cherbourg Harbour—The O’Wiggins again—Aquatic Visiting—A Disciple of St. Impudentia—How to Banquet Uninvited—The Ball—Visit of the President to the Fleet—A Few Remarks on Affairs in General.

By the time the world was up and had breakfasted, on Friday, the harbour of Cherbourg presented a very gay appearance. The water was covered with hulls of vessels, and on the decks of the vessels were crowds of gay people, and above them a forest of tall masts, surmounted by flags innumerable, showing all the hues of the rainbow, while in every direction were dashing and splashing boats of every description, men-of-war’s boats and shore-boats; and faster moving than all, yachts’ boats, which, like comets, seemed to be flying about in eccentric orbits, without any particular reason, and for no definite purpose. O’Wiggins made his appearance on board the “Frolic,” foaming with rage and indignation at not having been invited to the grand banquet to be given that day to the President.

“Neither have I, nor Mizen, nor any other of the owners of yachts, except the commodores and a few noblemen.”

“Faith, but that’s no reason at all, at all, why I shouldn’t!” exclaimed our Hibernian friend, drawing himself up; “and, what’s more, I intend to go, in spite of their neglect.”

We laughed, as usual, at his unexampled conceit; but fancying that he was joking, we thought no more about the matter. He soon took his departure, carrying off Groggs, who had conceived a high respect for him. O’Wiggins had promised to conduct him to the feet of the fair Eulalie, which was an additional temptation to the poor man. Never, perhaps, was there so much paying and receiving of visits as there was in the course of the day. The yachtsmen paid visits to each other, and then to the men-of-war; and to do the French officers justice, they treated us with the very greatest attention. I must say that all the French naval officers I have met are as gentlemanly a set of fellows as I know: they are highly scientific, and as brave as any men one could wish to meet.

It appeared as if all the inhabitants and visitors of Cherbourg were on the water also paying visits; and a report having got abroad that the owners of the English yachts were happy to show their vessels to all comers, we were all day long surrounded by visitors. The general joke was to send them all off to O’Wiggins’s craft, the “Popple.” Her cabins were, certainly, very gaudily and attractively furnished. It was hinted to the townspeople that he was a very important person, and that he would be highly offended if his vessel was not the first honoured by their presence. O’Wiggins was at first highly flattered with the attention paid him, and had actually prepared luncheon for the first-comers; but he soon discovered that he had more guests than he could accommodate, and in a little time he was almost overwhelmed with visitors, who, for hours after, crowded his cabins, without a possibility of his getting free of them. Among others, while Groggs was on board, came the fair Eulalie and her respectable sire, habited in the costume of the National Guard, and looking very military and dignified. Groggs hurriedly advanced to receive the lovely maid; her surprise equalled his delight; when O’Wiggins stepped out from an inner cabin. There was a mutual start and a look of recognition, and Eulalie sank back, almost fainting, into the arms paternal, open to receive her, while, with a look which would have annihilated any man but O’Wiggins, she exclaimed the single word, “Perfide!” M. de Marabout, with paternal solicitude, endeavoured to remove his daughter to the fresh air of the deck, but she recovered without that assistance, and exhibited signs unmistakable of a wish to abstract one or both of the eyes of the O’Wiggins from his head.

“What means all this, my dear sir?” inquired Groggs, with a somewhat faltering voice, for suspicions most unpleasant were beginning to take possession of his imagination.

“Ask the lady,” replied O’Wiggins, looking out for a mode to secure his retreat.

The lady saw that he was cowed, which, of course, gave her courage; so, releasing herself from her father, she sprang towards him. The skylight hatchway was the only available outlet; so he sprang on the table, and from thence was endeavouring to leap on deck, when she caught him by the leg. He struggled hard, for expose himself to her fury he dared not, and he did not like to summon his people to his assistance. At last he was obliged to do so; when as the seamen, with shouts of laughter, were hauling him up, off came his shoe and a piece of his trousers; and he was spirited away and stowed safely in the forepeak before the irate damsel could gain the deck, where she instantly hastened in the hopes of catching him. Of the distracted and astounded Groggs, Eulalie took no further notice, and having in vain sought for the object of her fierce anger, whom she supposed to have escaped in a boat to the shore, she and her father and friends took their departure, and Groggs saw his beloved no more. How O’Wiggins had thus mortally offended the damsel remains a secret; for, communicative as he was on most subjects, he took very good care on this matter not to enlighten any of us.

When O’Wiggins discovered that Eulalie was in reality gone, he retired to his cabin to compose himself, and to change his tattered garments for a magnificent uniform of some corps of fencibles, or militia, or yeomanry, of which he professed to be colonel; the said uniform being added to and improved according to his own taste and design, till it rivalled in magnificence that of a Hungarian field-marshal, or a city lieutenant’s.

We had been giving the ladies a pull about the harbour, and were passing the “Popple,” when her owner made his appearance on deck. The previous account, it must be understood, we received afterwards from Groggs, who recounted it with a simple pathos worthy of a despairing lover. On his head O’Wiggins wore a huge cocked-hat, surmounted by a magnificent plume of feathers, which, waving in the wind, had a truly martial and imposing appearance, while the glittering bullion which profusely covered his dress could not fail of attracting the notice of all beholders. With the air of a monarch he stepped into his gig, which was alongside, manned by a grinning crew, and seizing the yoke-lines he directed her head up the harbour. He was too much engrossed by his own new-fledged dignity to observe us, so we followed him at a respectful distance, to watch his movements. The boats of all descriptions made way for him as he advanced, and the men-of-war’s boats saluted, every one taking him for a foreign prince, or an ambassador, or a field-marshal, at least. At length he reached the quay, and with a truly princely air he stepped on shore, taking off his plumed hat, and bowing to the admiring and wondering crowds who stood there to welcome him. A space was instantly cleared to allow full scope for the wave of his cocked-hat, and as he advanced the crowd made way, bowing to him as he progressed. In execrable French he signified his wish to know the way to the mayor’s hotel, where the banquet was to be held; and an officious official instantly thereon, perceiving the gestures of the great unknown, stepped forward, and profoundly bowing, advanced before him.

“Some dreadful mistake has doubtlessly occurred, and by an oversight which no one but I can remedy, no one has been deputed to conduct the prince to the banquet. For the honour of my country I’ll tell a lie.” So thought the patriotic official, as he observed, in an obsequious tone, “I have been deputed, mon prince, by monsieur the mayor, who deeply regrets that his multifarious duties prevent him from coming in person to conduct you to the banqueting-hall, where the great President of the great French republic will have the satisfaction of meeting you.”

“I am highly pleased at the mayor’s attention,” answered O’Wiggins, with an additional flourish of his hat, and wondering all the time whom he could be taken for, that he might the better act his part. “A prince, at all events, I am, and that’s something,” he thought; so he walked on, smiling and bowing as before.

Of all nations in the world, the French are certainly the greatest admirers of a uniform, and the most easily humbugged by any one who will flatter their vanity; and certainly republicans are the greatest worshippers of titles. On walked the great O’Wiggins, admired equally by the vieux moustache of the Imperial Guard, by the peasant-girl, with her high balloon starched cap, by the dapper grisette, by real soldiers of the line, by shopkeeping national guards, by citizen gentlemen and ladies in plain clothes, and the queer-shaped seamen and boatmen, of whom I have before spoken. His step was firm and confident as he approached the hall, and, as he got near, he saw with dismay that the guests arriving in crowds before him were admitted by tickets. This we also observed, and fully expected to have seen him turned back, shorn of his honours, amid the shouts of the populace. But the knowing doorkeeper, equally knowing as the officious official, who now, with a glance of pride, announced him, could not dream of insulting a prince by asking him for his ticket, and only bowed the lower as he advanced, he bestowing on them in return some of his most gracious nods. The act was accomplished. He was safe in the banqueting-hall; but still there might be a turn in the tide of his affairs; some one who knew him might possibly ask how he had managed to get there, and the mayor might request his absence. But O’Wiggins was too true a disciple of St. Impudentia thus to lose the ground he had gained. Having begun with blusters and bold confidence, he now called in meek humility and modest bashfulness, with an abundant supply of blarney. Stowing away his cocked-hat in a safe corner, he retired among a crowd of betinselled officials, and earnestly entered into conversation with them, expatiating largely on his satisfaction at the sight he had that day witnessed, assuring his hearers that in Turkey, Russia, or America, or any other of the many countries he had visited, he had never seen any thing to equal the magnificence he had beheld in this important part of la belle France. He endeavoured also to bend down, so as to hide his diminished head among the crowd, and thus, as he had calculated, more wisely than a well-known wise man we have heard of, he passed undetected.

Dinner being announced as served, he found himself, much against his will, forced upwards close to the English naval officers and yacht commodores; but by a still further exertion of humility he contrived to take a seat a few persons off from those who knew him, and might put awkward questions. The French, however, could not fail to admire the admirable modesty of the foreign prince, and the liberals set it down to the score of his respect for republican institutions, while the royalists fancied that he was afraid of presuming on his rank before his republican host. From the information I could gain, and from his own account afterwards, his impudence carried him through the affair with flying colours, for no one detected him, though many wondered who he was; and even some who were acquainted with him by sight, failed to recognise the O’Wiggins in the gayly-decked militaire before them.

Having seen him enter the hall, we returned on board the “Fun,” to give an account of what had happened to our fair friends; and of course we did not fail of making a good story of the affair, and surmising that O’Wiggins would be discovered and compelled to strip off his feathers. After dinner we prepared to go to the ball, to which the ladies wisely would not venture. Poor Groggs was very downcast at the events of the morning, and with the discovery that he could never hope to make the fair Eulalie Mrs Groggs. As we were going on shore we met O’Wiggins pulling off in his gig with four highly-bedecked officers of National Guards, whom he had invited to visit the yacht. He had selected them for the gayness of their uniforms, which he fancied betokened their exalted rank. They had discovered that he was not a prince, but still were under the impression that he was at least a Mi Lord Anglais, imbued with liberal principles. He nodded condescendingly to us as he passed.

“I’m going to show my craft to these officers whom I brought from the banquet, and I’ll be back soon at the ball,” he exclaimed, with a look of triumph.

It is understood—for I cannot vouch for the truth of the statement—that he made the officers very drunk, and then, changing his gay uniform for his usual yacht dress-coat, he made his appearance at the ball, where he boasted of the polite manner in which the President had asked him to the banquet, quoting all the speeches which had been made, and many other particulars, so that no one doubted that he was there.

The ball-room was crowded to suffocation, and dancing was out of the question. I looked at the President with interest. The last time I had seen him was in a London ball-room, and at supper I had sat opposite to him and his cousin, the very image of their uncle. At that time, neither had more influence in the world than I or any other humble person. They were little lions, because they had the blood in their veins of the most extraordinary man our times has known; but any Indian from the East, with a jewelled turban, created more interest. Now I beheld the same man the head of a nation—the observed of all observers—dispensing his courtesies with a truly regal air. One could not help feeling that there must be more of his uncle’s spirit in the man than one was before inclined to suppose. A considerable number of ladies’ dresses and men’s coats were torn, and purses and handkerchiefs abstracted from pockets, and the ball terminated. I have not given a very lucid description of it; but a crush in England is so very like a crush in France, that my readers who have endured one may easily picture the other.

Mrs Mizen and her charges were anxious to sail to get back to Plymouth for Sunday, but we induced them to stop till the afternoon, by promising them to accompany them, that they might see the President visit the fleet, which it was understood he was to do on Saturday. The day was lovely, and every craft afloat, from the big “Valmy” to the smallest yacht, did her best to look gay, and to add to the brilliancy of the scene. The piers were crowded with people, and so were the decks of the vessels and boats and barges laden with passengers which were moving in every direction. It was amusing to watch the numerous parties on board the steamers at their meals: those forward indulging in bread and cheese and sausages, and vin ordinaire or beer; the more aristocratic aft in chicken-pies, hams, champagne, and claret, in which beverages they drank prosperity to the republic and long life to the President, though they would as readily have toasted a king or an emperor. It was a day of excitement. The first thing in the morning there was a pulling-match, but who was the winner I am unable to say. Then the President paid a visit to the dockyard, and from that time every one was on the tiptoe of expectation to catch a glimpse of him as he pulled off to the ships-of-war he purposed visiting.

At length he appeared in a state-barge of blue and white and gold, and prow and stern raised and carved richly, which floated as proudly as that of any Lord Mayor of London, from Whittington downward; for not altogether dissimilar was she in appearance. She pulled twenty-four oars, and a captain stood by the coxswain to con her. Under a canopy of purple cloth, the colour reminding one of imperial dignity, sat the President of the republic, a tricolour flag waving in the bow from a lofty flagstaff, speaking, however, loudly of republicanism. As his galley shot out of the dockyard, there burst forth from the mouth of every cannon on board the ships and in every fort on shore, roars most tremendous, flashes of flame, and clouds of smoke. Never had I before heard such a wild, terrific uproar; crash followed crash, till it appeared that every soul afloat or on shore must be annihilated.

Thundering away went the guns, every ship firing every gun she had as fast as she could, and every fort doing the same. Bang—crash, crash, crash. The ladies stopped their ears, and looked as if they wished themselves well out of it. It appeared as if a fierce battle were raging, while the ships and the batteries and the shore were shrouded by a dense mass of smoke. On a sudden the firing ceased, the smoke blew away, revealing once more the masts and rigging of the ships-of-war, now crowded with men in the act of laying out on the yards. The crews cheered, and the bands of all the ships struck up martial music, which floated joyfully over the water, and one could not help fancying that something very important was taking place. In reality, it was only a coup d’état—Prince Napoleon was trying to supplant Prince de Joinville in the affections of the seamen of France. It is said that he made himself very popular, and gained golden opinions from all classes of men.

His first visit was to the “Friedland,” the flag-ship of Admiral Deschenes, then to the “Valmy,” and next to “Minerve,” the gunnery-ship, on the same plan as our “Excellent.” Here some practice took place, but I cannot say that the firing was any thing out of the way good. Having inspected his own ships, he paid a visit to Lord Wilton’s beautiful schooner, the “Zarifa,” and afterwards to the “Enchantress,” Lord Cardigan’s yacht, both perfect vessels of their kind. We yachtsmen had, indeed, reason to feel not a little proud of the display made by our peaceable crafts on the occasion.

We went on board several of the French ships, and were much struck with their beauty, cleanliness, and order, while every improvement which science has suggested has been introduced on board them. We were not particularly prepossessed in favour of the French seamen, either on shore or on board. There was a roughness in their manner which savoured somewhat of national dislike, fostered for sinister purposes, to be pleasant; or, if it was put on in imitation of the manners of our own honest Jack Tars, all I can say is, that it was a very bad imitation indeed, and about as unlike the truth as when they attempt to represent the English national character on the stage.

From the French officers all who visited their ships received the very greatest attention and courtesy. We sailed that afternoon, as soon as the spectacle was over, in company with the “Fun.” I cannot, therefore, describe the ball, with its overpowering heat and crush, which took place that evening, nor the sham-fight, when the boats of the squadron attacked the steamer “Descartes,” nor the evolutions of the fleet, nor the awful expenditure of gunpowder from the ships, sufficient to make the economical hearts of the men of Manchester sink dismayed within their bosoms. O friends! think you this expenditure of gunpowder and noise breathes the spirit of peace? O merchants, manufacturers, and calculators well versed in addition and subtraction, is it not worth while to employ some portion of our own income, even a large portion maybe, to insure Old England against any freak our volatile neighbours may take into their heads? But I have done with public affairs. The “Frolic” and the “Fun” danced gayly together over the starlit ocean towards Plymouth, wind and tide favouring us. The voices of our fair friends, as they sang in concert some delicious airs, sounded across the water most sweetly to our ears. What a contrast to the loud roar of the cannon in the morning, and the glare and bustle of Cherbourg harbour, did that quiet evening present!

We arrived safely in Plymouth at an early hour next day. I am happy to say that, not long after, I received cards with silver ties from my friends Mr and Mrs Jack Mizen; but I am somewhat anticipating events. I think it right, however, to announce to the spinster world that Groggs, Porpoise, and Bubble are still bachelors.

Chapter Nine.

Preparations for a Long Cruise—Hearty Confesses to a Soft Impeachment—The O’Wiggins and his Passengers—How we Got Rid of them.

Hearty had long projected a voyage up the Mediterranean, and invited Carstairs, and Bubble, and me to join him. Groggs, as may be supposed, had become a bore, unbearable; and, as soon as we arrived at Plymouth, had been sent back to cultivate his paternal acres and describe the wonders he had seen during his nautical career. While Porpoise was attending to the refitting of the yacht, Bubble and I were busily engaged in laying in stores of comestibles, and drinkables, and burnables and smokables, of all sorts. Food for the mind, as well as for the body, was not forgotten; but Hearty would not allow a pack of cards or dice on board. It was a fancy of his, he said, that he did not much mind being peculiar. “If a set of men with heads on their shoulders and brains in their heads cannot amuse themselves, unless by the aid of means invented for the use of idiots, and fit only for the half-witted, I would rather dispense with their society,” he used to observe. We had, however, chess and draughts, though he was no great admirer of either game, especially of the latter. “However,” as he said, “though those games kill time which I think it would be wise of men if they tried to keep alive, as they, at all events, won’t let a fellow’s mind go to sleep, we may as well have them.”

We exerted all our ingenuity and thought in laying in every thing which could possibly be required for a long voyage; and seldom has a yacht, I suspect, been better found in this respect. Seldom, also, have five jolly bachelors been brought together more ready to enjoy themselves. Three is generally considered the best number to form a travelling party, and certainly on shore no party should exceed that number, unless there is some stronger bond of union than mere pleasure or convenience. Seldom when more men unite do they fail to separate before the end of the journey. For a yacht voyage, however, the case is different. In the first place, there is more discipline. The owner, if he is a man of judgment, assumes a certain amount of mild authority; acts as captain over every one on board, and keeps order. Should a dispute arise, he instantly reconciles the disputants, and takes care himself never to dispute with any one.

Hearty was just the man for the occasion. “Now, my dear fellows,” said he to all the party on giving us the invitation, “the first thing we have to do is to sign articles to preserve good fellowship, and to do our best to make each other happy. I don’t want to top the officer over my guests; but all I want you to promise me is, that if there arises any difference, you will allow me at once to be umpire. If I differ with any one, the rest must act the part of judge and jury.” We, of course, were all too happy to agree to so reasonable a proposal, and so the matter was settled. With respect also to the numbers on board, in reality only Hearty and Carstairs were idlers; Porpoise was officially master; Bubble had originally fitted out the yacht, and acted as caterer; while I had undertaken to keep my watch, and aid Will in his duties. We had with us guns and ammunition, and fishing-rods and nets, and camera-lucidas, and sketch-books; and musical instruments, flutes, a violin, a guitar, and accordion. We had even some scientific apparatus; nor had we forgotten a good supply of writing materials. The truth was that Bubble and I had some claim to be authors. Will had written a good deal: indeed, his prolific pen had often supplied him with the means of paying his tailor’s bill; while I had more than once appeared in print. We agreed, therefore, not to interfere with one another in our literary compositions. While he took one department, I was to take the other. At last we were all ready for sea. Mizen came out in the “Fun” to see us off, with Fanny Farlie, Miss Mizen, Mr and Mrs Rullock, and Susan Simms on board, as well as several of our friends, and we struck up, as the yachts at length parted, with our voices and all the musical instruments we could bring into action, “The Girls we leave behind us.” Hearty heaved a sigh as he was looking through his glass at the fast-receding “Fun.”

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“Yes, she is a sweet girl!” he ejaculated, not answering me, however. I spoke again.

“Laura Mizen, to be sure,” he replied. “Who else? She’s unlike all the rest of our yachting set away at Ryde there. They are all young ladies, cast in the same mould, differing only in paint, outside show; one may be blue and the other red, another yellow, though I don’t think you often find them of any primitive colour; generally they are of secondary, or mixed colours, as the artists say. One again wishes to be thought fast, and another sentimental, another philanthropic or religious, and another literary. I don’t know which of the pretenders I dislike the most. The fast young ladies are the most difficult to deal with. They do such impudent things, both to one and of one. If they knew how some of the fast men speak of them in return, it would make them wince not a little, I suspect, if they have not rattled away from all delicacy themselves. Oh, give me a right honest, good girl, who does not dream of being any thing but herself; who is a dutiful daughter, and is ready to be a loving, obedient wife of an honest man, and the affectionate mother of some fine hearty children, whom she may bring up with a knowledge of the object for which they were sent into the world.”

“Well said, my dear fellow,” I answered, warmly; for I seriously responded to his sentiments, though, it must be confessed, they were very different to the style which had been usual on board the “Frolic.” “Why did you not ask her, though?” I continued.

“Because I was a fool,” he answered. “Those Rattler girls, Masons and Sandons, and that Miss Mary Masthead, and others of her stamp, were running in my head, and I couldn’t believe that Laura Mizen was in reality superior to them. I used to talk the same nonsense to her that I rattled into their willing ears; and it is only now that I have thought over the replies she made, and many things she lately said to me, and that I have discovered the vast difference there is between her and the rest.”

“Well, ’bout ship, and propose,” said I; “though sorry to lose the cruise, your happiness shall be the first consideration.”

“Oh, no, no! that will never do,” he answered. “I doubt if she will have me now. When we come back next summer I will find her out, and if she appears to receive me favourably, I will propose. Now she thinks me only a harum-scarum rattler. It would never do.”

I could say nothing to this. I truly believed that though Hearty’s fortune would weigh with most girls, it would but little with her; and I could only hope that in the mean time she would not bestow her affections on any one else.

Just as we got outside the breakwater we sighted a schooner, standing in for the Sound, which we had no difficulty in making out to be the “Popple.” As soon as she discovered us, she bore down on us, signalising away as rapidly as possible.

“What are they saying?” asked Hearty, as he saw the bunting run up to her masthead.

“Heave-to, I want to speak to you,” I answered, turning over the leaves of the signal-book.

“Shall we?” asked Porpoise.

“Oh, by all means,” replied Hearty. “O’Wiggins may have something of importance to communicate.”

“Down with the helm; let fly the jib-sheet; haul the foresail to windward,” sung out Porpoise, and the cutter lay bobbing her head gracefully to the sea, while the schooner approached her.

Still they continued running up and down the bunting on board the “Popple.” I had some difficulty in making out what they intended to say. “Ladies aboard—trust to gallantry,” I continued to interpret, as I made out the words by reference to the book.

“What can they wish to say?” exclaimed Hearty.

“They wish to lay an embargo on us of some sort, and begin by complimenting us on our gallantry,” observed Bubble.

“By the pricking of my thumbs, something evil this way comes,” exclaimed Carstairs. “As I am a living gentleman, there are petticoats on board. Who has been acting the part of a perfidious wretch, and breaking tender vows? An avenging Nemesis is in his wake in the person of Mrs Skyscraper, or the Rattler girls, or Mary Masthead. Even at this distance I can make them out.”

So it was, as the schooner approached, the very dames Carstairs had named were seen on board.

We had observed, as we went down the Sound, a large schooner beating up from the westward. There had been discussions as to what she was. Our glasses had now once more been turned towards her, when we discovered her to be the “Sea Eagle.” Seeing our bunting going up and down so rapidly, Sir Charles Drummore, her owner, curious to know what we were talking about, stood towards us.

The “Popple” hove-to to windward of us, and a boat being lowered, O’Wiggins pulled on board. “My dear fellow, I’m so glad we’ve overtaken you,” he began. “Your friend, Mrs Skyscraper, and those young ladies with her, were so anxious to have another cruise on board the ‘Frolic’ before the summer is over, that I consented to bring them down here, as I made sure that you would be delighted to see them!” Never did Hearty’s face assume a more puzzled and vexed expression. “Heaven defend me from them!” he exclaimed. “Tell them that we’ve got the yellow-fever—or the plague, or the cholera, or the measles, or the whooping-cough, or any thing dreadful you can think of; make every excuse—or no excuse; the thing is impossible, not to be thought of for a moment: they can’t come. We are bound foreign, say to the North Pole, or the West Indies, or the coast of Africa, or the South Pacific, or to the Antipodes. They don’t want to go there, at all events, I suppose.”

“But if you don’t take them, what am I to do with them?” exclaimed O’Wiggins. “I’m bound down Channel, and if they don’t worry me out of house and home, they’ll drive me overboard with the very clatter of their tongues.”

A bright thought struck Hearty. Just then the “Sea Eagle” came up, and hove-to on our quarter.

“Much obliged to you for your kind intentions towards us, but, instead, just hand them over to Drummore,” said he, rubbing his hands. “If any man can manage so delicate an affair, you can, O’Wiggins, without wishing to pay you an undue compliment.”

Sir Charles Drummore was a baronet, one of our yachting acquaintances, and had lately purchased the “Sea Eagle.” A worthy old fellow, though he had the character of being somewhat of a busybody. He certainly looked more in his place in his club than on board his yacht. “Well, I’ll try it,” answered the O’Wiggins, who was himself easily won by the very bait he offered so liberally to others. “Trust me, I’ll do it if mortal man can. I’ll weave a piteous tale of peerless damsels in distress, and all that sort of thing. Thank you for the hint; it will take, depend on it.”

“Well, be quick about it,” we exclaimed, “or Drummore will be topping his boom, and you will miss your chance.” Thereon O’Wiggins tumbled into his boat, and pulled aboard the “Sea Eagle.” What story he told—what arguments he used—we never heard; but very shortly we had the satisfaction of seeing the Misses Rattler and Mary Masthead, with their skittish chaperone, Mrs Skyscraper, transferred to the deck of the “Sea Eagle.”

We strongly suspected that the prim baronet had not the slightest conception as to who formed the component parts of the company with whom he was to be favoured. He bowed rather stiffly as he received them and their bandboxes on deck; but he was in for it; his gallantry would not allow him to send them back to the “Popple,” and he had, therefore, only to wish sincerely for a fair breeze, that he might land them as speedily as possible at Ryde. The O’Wiggins waved his cap with an extra amount of vehemence, and putting up his helm, and easing off his sheets, stood away for Falmouth. We, at the same time, shaped a course down Channel, mightily glad that we were free of all fast young ladies and flirting widows.

“O’er the glad waters of the dark blue sea,

Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free,

Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam,

Survey our empire, and behold our home!”

spouted Carstairs, pointing to the wide Atlantic which rolled before us.

“The sea, the sea, the open sea!—

The wide, the blue, the ever free;

Without a mark, without a bound,

It runneth the earth’s wide region round!

I’m on the sea—

I am where I would ever be:

With the blue above, and the blue below,

And silence wheresoe’er I go,”

chimed in Hearty, whose quotations and sketches were always from authors of more modern date.

“You’ll sing different songs to those, gentlemen, if it comes on to blow a gale of wind while we are crossing the Bay,” said Porpoise, laughing. “The sea always puts me in mind of a woman, very delightful when she’s calm and smiling, but very much the contrary when a gale is blowing. I’ve knocked about all my life at sea, and have got pretty tired of storms, which I don’t like a bit better than when I first went afloat.”

“Never fear for us,” answered Hearty. “I never was in a storm in my life, and I want to see how the ‘Frolic’ will behave.”

“As to that, I dare say she will behave well enough,” said Porpoise. “There’s no craft like a cutter for lying-to, or for beating off a lee-shore; or working through a narrow channel, for that matter, though a man-of-war’s man says it. We have the credit of preferring our own square-rigged vessels to all others, and not knowing how to handle a fore-and-after.”

“Come what may, we’ll trust to you to do the best which can be done under any chances which may occur,” said Hearty. “And now here comes Ladle to summon us to dinner.” To dinner we went, and a good one we ate, and many a good one after it. Many a joke was uttered, many a story told, and many a song was sung. In truth, the days slipped away more rapidly even than on shore.

“Well, after all, I can’t say that there is much romance in a sea-life,” exclaimed Carstairs, stretching out his legs, as he leaned back in an arm-chair on deck, and allowed the smoke of his fragrant Havana to rise curling over his upturned countenance, for there was very little wind at the time, and from what there was we were running away.

“I can’t quite agree with you on that point: there is romance enough at sea, as well as everywhere else, if people only know how to look for it,” observed Will Bubble, who had been scribbling away most assiduously all the morning in a large note-book which he kept carefully closed from vulgar eyes!

“Oh, I know, of course, ‘Books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in every thing,’” answered Carstairs, who was seldom at a loss for a quotation from Shakespeare. “But I mean, who ever meets a good, exciting, romantic adventure with pirate-smugglers, savages, or some thing of that sort? Perhaps you, Bubble, have got something of that sort in your book there which you will give us, but then it will be only fiction: I want a stern reality. The world has grown too matter-of-fact to keep a fellow awake.”

“I’ll own to the soft impeachment,” answered Bubble, laughing. “But my story’s real; I’ve been merely putting some notes into form for our amusement, and I hope all hands will be duly grateful.” We all thanked Bubble for his promise.

“I cannot agree with you, in any way, as to there being no romance in a sea-life,” said I. “Only last year I took part in a very pretty little bit of romance, which would have made the fortune of any paper into which it had been allowed to find its way; but for the sake of the actors we kept the affair a profound secret, or you would certainly have heard of it.”

“Let’s have it all out now,” exclaimed Hearty; “we won’t peach: we’ll be as tight as the ‘Frolic’ herself.”

“I wouldn’t trust you in the club,” said I. “But, out here, I don’t think it will go beyond the bulwarks, so you shall hear my story.” While the rest of our party sat round, and drew, or netted, or smoked, I gave an account of the incident to which I alluded. As it is an important introduction to our subsequent adventures, it is, I feel, well worthy of a chapter to itself.

Chapter Ten.

Why a Bachelor Took to Yachting—The Rival Suitors—A Doubtful Character.

Awakened one morning towards the close of the last London season by the postman’s rap, my friend Harcourt found, on reading his letters, that he had become the owner of the “Amethyst” cutter, and a member of the Royal Yacht Club. Possessing an independent fortune, a large circle of acquaintance, several stanch friends, and few enemies, he ought to have been a happy man—but he was not. The fact is, he did not know what to do with himself. He had travelled not only over the Continent, but had visited the three other quarters of the globe. He had gone through several London seasons, and run the rounds of innumerable country-houses where there were marriageable daughters, but had neither fallen in love, nor been drawn into a proposal. In truth, he believed with his friends that he was not a marrying man. He had become heartily sick of dusty roads, passage-steamers, hot rooms, dissipation, and manoeuvring mammas, when I, who had of old been his messmate, recommended him to try yachting for the summer.

“What, go to sea for pleasure?” he exclaimed, in a tone of contempt. “You surely cannot suggest such a folly. I had enough of it when I was a poor young middy, and obliged to buffet the rude winds and waves; but—”

“Well; think about it,” were the last words I uttered as I left him.

He did think about it, and thought, too, perhaps, he might like it. He was not a novice, for he had for some years of his existence served his country in the exalted capacity of a midshipman; but on succeeding, by the death of an elder brother and an uncle, to some few thousands a year, he magnanimously determined, by the advice of his lady mother, not to stand in the way of the promotion of any of his brother-officers, and retired from the career of glory he was following. I cannot say that the thoughts of leaving his profession gave him much regret, particularly as being too old to return to school, and too ignorant of Latin and Greek to think of the university, he was henceforth to be his own master. If now and then he acknowledged to himself that he might have been a happier man with a pursuit in life, I cannot say—I am not moralising. So much for his past life.

After I left him he meditated on the subject I had suggested, he told me; and the next time we met, we talked it over, and as I was going down to Portsmouth, he gave me carte blanche to buy a vessel for him, there not being time to build one. This letter communicated the result of my search. Having made himself master of this and a few other bits of information, he turned round, as was his custom after reading his letters, to sleep off the weariness of body and mind with which he had lately been afflicted, but as he lay dozing on his luxurious couch, visions of the “Amethyst,” flitted across his brain. A light, graceful craft, as she probably was, with a broad spread of white canvas, gliding like some lovely spirit over the blue ocean. “Who shall sail with me,” he thought. “Brine, of course. Where shall we go? When shall we start? What adventures shall we probably encounter? How shall I again like to find myself on the surface of the fickle sea?” The case, however, from the Then and the Now was widely different. Then he was a midshipman in a cockpit, at the beck and order of a dozen or twenty masters. Now he was to enjoy a command independent of the admiralty and their sealed orders, admirals, or senior captains. His own will, and the winds and tides, the only powers he was to obey.

“By Jove! there is something worth living for,” he exclaimed, as he jumped out of bed. “I’ll forswear London forthwith. I’ll hurry off from its scheming and heartlessness, its emptiness and frivolity. I’ll go afloat at once. Brine is right. He’s a capital fellow. It was a bright idea. I’ll try first how I like channel cruising. I can always come on shore if it bores me. If I find it pleasant, I’ll buy a larger craft next year. I’ll go up the Straits, perhaps out to visit my friend Brooke at Borneo, and round the world.”

He bathed, breakfasted, drove to his tailor’s, looked in at the Carlton and the Conservative, fulfilled a dinner engagement, and in the evening went to three parties, at all of which places he astonished his acquaintances by the exuberance of his spirits.

“The fact is,” he answered to their inquiries as by what wonderful means the sudden change had been wrought, “I’ve broken my trammels. I’m off. A few days hence and London shall know me no more. To be plain, I’m going to turn marine monster, don a monkey-jacket, cultivate a beard, wear a tarpaulin hat, smoke cigars, and put my hands in my pockets. We shall meet again at Cowes, Torquay, Plymouth, or one of the other salt water places. Till then, au revoir.”

As he was entering Lady L—’s door, who should he meet coming out but his old friend O’Malley, whom he had not seen for ages! He knew that his regiment had just come back from India, so he was not very much surprised. He took his arm and returned into the rooms with him. Now, O’Malley was an excellent fellow, agreeable, accomplished, and possessed of a fund of good spirits, which nothing could ruffle. He was, indeed, a good specimen of an Irish gentleman. He sang a good song, told a good story, and made friends wherever he went. Such was just the man under every circumstance for a compagnon de voyage. He hesitated not a moment in inviting him, and, to his infinite satisfaction, he at once accepted the offer.

A week after he had become the owner of the “Amethyst,” O’Malley and he were seated in a Southampton railroad carriage, on their way to Cowes, where she was fitting out under my inspection. In the division opposite to them sat a little man whom they at once perceived to belong to the genus snob. He had a comical little face of his own, lighted by a pair of round eyes, with a meaningless expression, fat cheeks, a somewhat large open mouth, and a pug nose with large nostrils.

“Beg pardon, sir,” he observed to O’Malley, on whose countenance he saw a smile playing, which encouraged him. “Hope I don’t interrupt the perusal of your paper? Ah, no—concluded—topped off with births, deaths, marriages, and advertisements. See mine there soon. Don’t mean an advertisement, nor my birth, ha, ha! too old a bird for that; nor death, you may suppose; I mean t’other—eh, you twig? coming the tender, wooing, and wedding—hope soon to fix the day:”—suddenly he turned round to Harcourt—“Reading the ‘Daily’?—Ah, no, the ‘Times,’ I see.—Any news, sir?”

They did look at him with astonishment, but, at the same time, were so amused that, of course, they humoured the little man. Harcourt, therefore, unfroze, and smiling, offered him the paper.

“Oh dear! many thanks, didn’t want it,” he answered; “can’t read in a railroad, afraid to interrupt you before you’d finished. Going down to the sea, I suppose?—So am I. Abroad, perhaps?—I’m not. Got a yacht?—national amusement. Sail about the Wight?—pretty scenery, smooth water, I’m told. Young lady, fond of boating—sure way to win her heart. Come it strong—squeeze her hand, can’t get away. Eh, see I’m up to a trick or two.”

In this absurdly vulgar style he ran on, while they stared, wondering who he could be. Finding that, they said nothing, he began again.

“Fond of yachting, gentlemen?”

“I believe so,” answered Harcourt.

“So am I.—Got a yacht?” he asked.

Harcourt nodded.

“What’s her name?”

Harcourt told him.

“Mine’s the ‘Dido.’ Pretty name, isn’t it? short and sweet. Dido was Queen of Sheba, you know—ran away with Ulysses, the Trojan hero, and then killed herself with an adder because he wouldn’t marry her. Learned all that when I was at school. She’s at Southampton, but I belong to the club. Only twenty-five tons—little, but good. Not a clipper I own—stanch and steady, that’s my motto. Warwick Ribbons has always a welcome for his friends. That’s me, at your service. Christened Warwick from the great Guy. Rough it now and then. You won’t mind that. Eggs and bacon, and a plain chop, but weeds and liquor ad lib. Brother yachtsmen, you know. Bond of union.” They winced a little. “Shall meet often, I hope, as my father used to say each time he passed the bottle. David Ribbons was his name. Good man. Merchant in the city. Cut up well. Left me and brother Barnabas a mint of money. Barnabas sticks to trade. I’ve cut it. Made a lucky spec, in railroads, and am flaring up a bit. Here we are at the end of our journey,” he exclaimed, as the train stopped at Southampton. “We shall meet again on board the ‘Dido.’ Remember me. Warwick Ribbons, you know—good-by good-by.” And before they were aware of his friendly intentions, he had grasped them both warmly by the hand. “I must see after my goods—my trunks, I mean.” So saying, he set off to overtake the porter, who was wheeling away his traps.

Harcourt never felt more inclined to give way to a hearty fit of laughter, and O’Malley indulged himself to his heart’s content.

In an hour after this they were steaming down the Southampton Water on their way to Cowes. Just as they got clear of the pier they again beheld their friend, Warwick Ribbons, on the deck of a remarkably ugly little red-bottomed cutter, which they had no doubt was the “Dido.” He recognised them, apparently, for, holding on by the rigging, he jumped on the gunwale, waving his hat vehemently to draw their attention and that of the other passengers to himself and his craft, but of course they did not consider it necessary to acknowledge his salute. This vexed him, for he turned round and kicked a dirty-looking boy, which also served to let everybody know that he was master of the “Dido.” The boy uttered a howl and ran forward, little Ribbons followed him round and round the deck, repeating the dose as long as they could see him.

I was the first person they met on landing at Cowes, and Harcourt, having introduced O’Malley to me, we repaired to the “Amethyst,” lying off White’s Yard. We pulled round her twice, to examine her thoroughly before we went on board. He was not disappointed in her, for though smaller than he could have wished—she measured sixty tons—she was a perfect model of symmetry and beauty. She was also so well fitted within that she had accommodation equal to many vessels of nearly twice her size.

Three days more passed, and the “Amethyst” was stored, provisioned, and reported ready for sea. Harcourt’s spirits rose to an elevation he had not experienced for years, as, on one of the most beautiful mornings of that beautiful season, his craft, with a light wind from the southward, glided out of Cowes Harbour.

“What a wonderful effect has the pure fresh air, after the smoke and heat of London!” exclaimed O’Malley. “Let me once inhale the real salt breeze, and I shall commit a thousand unthought-of vagaries, and so will you, let me tell you; you’ll be no more like yourself, the man about town, than the ‘Amethyst’ to a coal-barge, or choose any other simile you may prefer.”

We had now got clear of the harbour, so I ordered the vessel to be hove-to, that, consulting the winds and tides, we might determine the best course to take.

“Where shall we go, then?” asked Harcourt. “The flood has just done. See, that American ship has begun to swing, so we have the whole ebb to get to the westward.”

“We’ll take a short trip to spread our wings and try their strength,” I answered. “What say you to a run through the Needles down to Weymouth? We shall be back in time for dinner to-morrow.”

We all three had an engagement for the next day to dine with Harcourt’s friends, the Granvilles, one of the few families of his acquaintance who had yet come down.

“As you like it; but hang these dinner engagements in the yachting season,” exclaimed O’Malley. “I hope you put in a proviso that, should the winds drive us, we were at liberty to run over to Cherbourg, or down to Plymouth, or do as we pleased.”

“No,” he answered; “the fact is, I scarcely thought the vessel would be ready so soon, and we are bound to do our best to return.”

“And I see no great hardship in being obliged to eat a good dinner in the company of such nice girls as the Miss Granvilles seem to be,” I put in.

“Well, then, that’s settled,” Harcourt exclaimed. “We’ve no time to lose, however, though we have a soldier’s wind. Up with the helm—let draw the foresail—keep her away, Griffiths.” And the sails of the little craft filling, she glided gracefully through the water, shooting past Egypt Point, notwithstanding the light air, at the rate of some six knots an hour. Gradually as the sun rose the breeze freshened. Gracefully she heeled over to it. The water bubbled and hissed round her bows, and faster and faster she walked along.

“She’s got it in her, sir, depend on’t,” said Griffiths, as he eyed the gaff-topsail with a knowing look. “There won’t be many who can catch her, I’ll answer. I was speaking yesterday to my brother-in-law, whose cousin was her master last summer, from the time she was launched, and he gave her a first-rate character—such a sea-boat, sir, as weatherly and dry as a duck. They were one whole day hove-to in the Chops of the Channel without shipping a drop of water, while a big ship, beating up past them, had her decks washed fore and aft.”

Griffiths’ satisfactory praise of the craft was cut short by the announcement of breakfast, and, with keen appetites, we descended to discuss as luxurious a meal as three bachelors ever sat down to. Tea, coffee, chocolate, hot rolls, eggs, pickled salmon, lamb chops, kaplines, and orange marmalade, were some of the ingredients. Then came some capital cigars, on which Harcourt and O’Malley had chosen a committee of connoisseurs at the Garrick to sit before they selected them.

“We bachelors lead a merry life, and few that are married lead better,” sang O’Malley, as he lighted his first Havana.

“On my word you’re right,” chimed in Harcourt. “Now I should like any one to point me out three more happy fellows than we are and ought to be. What folly it would be for either of us to think of turning Benedict!”

“Faith, an officer in a marching regiment, with only his pay to live on had better not bring his thoughts into practice, at all events,” observed O’Malley. “Such has been the conclusion to which I have always arrived after having fallen in love with half the lovely girls I have met in my life; and, as ill luck would have it, somehow or other if they have been heiresses, I could not help thinking that it might be their money which attracted me more than their pretty selves, and I have invariably run off without proposing. I once actually went down to marry a girl with a large fortune, whose friends said she was dying for me, but unfortunately she had a pretty little cousin staying with her, a perfect Hebe in form and face, and, on my life, I could not help making love to her instead of the right lady, who, of course, discarded me, as I deserved, on the spot.”

As we opened Scratchell’s Bay to the south of the Needles, O’Malley, who had never been there before, was delighted with the view.

“The pointed chalk rocks of the Needles running like a broken wall into the sea, the lofty white cliff presenting a daring front to the storms of the west, the protector, as it were, of the soft and fertile lands within; the smooth downs above, with their watchful lighthouse, the party-coloured cliffs of Alum Bay, and Hurst Castle and its attendant towers, invading the waters at the end of the yellow sandbank. Come, that description will do for the next tourist who wanders this way,” he exclaimed. “Ah, now we are really at sea,” he continued; “don’t you discover the difference of the land wind and the cool, salt, exhilarating breeze which has just filled our sails, both by feel, taste, smell? At last I begin to get rid of the fogs of London which have hitherto been hanging about me.”

As the sun rose the wind freshened, and we had a beautiful run to Weymouth. We brought up in the bay near a fine cutter, which we remarked particularly, as there were very few other yachts there at the time. Manning the gig, we pulled on shore to pass away the time till dinner, and as none of us had ever been there before, we took a turn to the end of the esplanade to view that once favourite residence of royalty.

As we were walking back we met a man in yachting costume, who, looking hard at O’Malley, came up and shook him warmly by the hand. I also knew his face, but could not recollect where I had seen him, and so it appeared had Harcourt. Slipping his arm through that of O’Malley, who introduced him as Mr Miles Sandgate, he turned back with us. He seemed a jovial, hail-fellow-well-met sort of character, not refined, but very amusing; so, without further thought, as we were about to embark, Harcourt asked him on board to dine with us. He at once accepted the invitation, and as we passed the yacht we had admired, we found that she belonged to him. I remarked that she had no yacht burgee flying, and he did not speak of belonging to any club. He might, to be sure, have lately bought her, and not had time to be elected. But then, again, he had evidently been constantly at sea, and was, as far as I had an opportunity of judging, a very good seaman.

The dinner passed off very pleasantly. Harcourt’s cook proved that he was a first-rate nautical chef. Our new acquaintance made himself highly amusing by his anecdotes of various people, and his adventures by sea and land in every part of the globe. There was, however, a recklessness in his manner, and at times a certain assumption and bravado, which I did not altogether like. After we had despatched our coffee, and a number of cigars, he took his leave, inviting us on board the “Rover,” the name of his yacht; but we declined, on the plea of wishing to get under way again that evening. In fact, we had agreed to return at once to Cowes to be in time for our dinner at the Granvilles’.

“Oh, then you must breakfast with me to-morrow morning, for I am bound for the same place, and shall keep you company,” he observed, with a laugh; “though I have no doubt that the ‘Amethyst’ is a fast craft, yet I am so much larger that you must not be offended at my considering it probable that I shall be able to keep up with you.”

On this Harcourt could not, in compliment to O’Malley, help asking him to remain longer with us, and he sending a message on board his vessel, both yachts got under way together. Perhaps he perceived a certain want of cordiality in Harcourt’s manner towards him, as he was evidently a keen observer of other men; for at all events he did his utmost to ingratiate himself with him, and during the second half of his stay on board he had entirely got rid of the manner which annoyed him, appearing completely a man of the world, well read, and conversant with good society. At the same time he did not hint to what profession he had belonged, nor what had taken him to the different places of which he spoke. In fact, we could not help feeling that there was a certain mystery about him which he did not choose to disclose. At a late hour he hailed his own vessel, and his boat took him on board her. The wind was so light, that, till the tide turned to the eastward, we made but little progress; but the moon was up, and the air soft and balmy, and most unwillingly we turned in before we got through the Needles.

As soon as our visitor had left us, O’Malley told us that he had met him many years before in India, at the house of a relation, he believed, of Sandgate’s; that this relation had nursed him most kindly through a severe illness with which he had been attacked, and that he had, on his recovery, travelled with Sandgate through the country. He met him once or twice after that, and he then disappeared from India, nor had he seen him again, till he encountered him in London soon after his return. He believed that he had been connected with the opium trade, and suspected that he had actually commanded an opium clipper in his more youthful days, though he fancied he had engaged in the pursuit for the sake of the excitement and danger it afforded, as he appeared superior to the general run of men employed in it.

The next morning, the tide having made against us, we brought up off Yarmouth, when we went on board the “Rover,” to breakfast, and a very sumptuous entertainment Mr Sandgate gave us, with some cigars, which beat any thing I had ever tasted. The cabin we went into was handsomely fitted up; but he did not go through the usual ceremony of showing us over the vessel. It was late in the afternoon when the two vessels anchored in Cowes Harbour.

Soon after we brought up we saw the “Dido” come into the harbour, and just as we were going on shore, Mr Ribbons himself, in full nautical costume, pulled alongside. He insisted on coming on board, and taxed Harcourt’s hospitality considerably before we could get rid of him. Hearing me mention the Granvilles, he very coolly asked us to introduce him. “Why, you see,” he added, “there’s an acquaintance of mine, I find, staying with them whom I should like to meet.” We all, of course, positively declined the honour he intended us.

“Probably if you send a note to your friend he may do as you wish,” I observed. “I am not on sufficiently intimate terms with the family.”

“Oh! why you see it’s a lady—a young lady, you know—and I can’t exactly ask her.”

“I regret, but it is impossible, my dear sir,” I answered. “You must excuse us, or we shall be late for dinner;” and leaving him biting his thumbs with doubt and vexation, we pulled on shore.

The party at the Granvilles’ was excessively pleasant. The Miss Granvilles were pretty, nice girls, and they had a friend staying with them, who struck me as being one of the most lovely creatures I had ever seen. She had dark hair and eyes, with an alabaster complexion, a figure slight and elegant, and features purely classical; the expression of her countenance was intelligent and sweet in the extreme, but a shade of melancholy occasionally passed over it, which she in vain endeavoured to conceal. Harcourt at once became deeply interested in her, though he could learn little more about her than that her name was Emily Manners, and that she was staying with some friends at Ryde, the Bosleys, he understood. Who they were he could not tell, for he had never heard their names before. She sang very delightfully; and some more people coming in, we even accomplished a polka. During the evening, while he was speaking to her, he overheard O’Malley, in his usually amusing way, describing our rencontre with Mr Warwick Ribbons, and he was surprised, when she heard his name, to see her start and look evidently annoyed, though she afterwards could not help smiling as he continued drawing his picture.

“And, do you know, Miss Granville,” he added, “he wanted us to bring him here, declaring that some mutual and very dear friend of his and yours was staying, with you.”

“Absurd! Who can the man be?” said Miss Granville. “Miss Manners is the only friend staying with us, and I am sure she cannot know such a person, if your description of him is correct. Do you, Emily, dear?”

To my astonishment, Miss Manners blushed, and answered, “I am acquainted with a Mr Ribbons; that is to say, he is a friend of Mr Bosley’s; but I must disclaim any intimacy with him, and I trust that he did not assume otherwise.”

O’Malley saw that he had made a mistake, and with good tact took pains to show that he fully believed little Ribbons had imposed on us, before he quietly dropped the subject, and branched off into some other amusing story.

The Granvilles and their fair friend promised to take a cruise in the “Amethyst” on the following day, but as the weather proved not very favourable, Harcourt put off their visit till the day after. He thus also gained an excuse for passing a greater part of it in their society.

As we walked down to the esplanade in front of the club-house to look at the yacht, which they had expressed a wish to see, we encountered no less a person than Warwick Ribbons himself. He passed us several times without venturing to speak; but at last, mustering courage, he walked up to Miss Manners and addressed her—

“Good morning, Miss Emily. Happy to see you here. Couldn’t tell where you’d run to, till old Bosley told me. Been looking for you in every place along the coast. Venture back to Ryde in the ‘Dido’? Come, now, you never yet have been on board, and I got her on purpose”—he was, I verily believe, going to say “for you,” but he lost confidence, and finished with a smirking giggle—“to take young ladies out, you know.”

Harcourt felt inclined to throw the little abomination into the water.

“Thank you,” said Miss Manners; “I prefer returning by the steamer.”

“Oh, dear, now that is—but I’m going to see your guardian, Miss, and may I take a letter to him just to say you’re well?” asked Mr Ribbons; “he’ll not be pleased if I don’t.”

“I prefer writing by the post,” answered Emily, now really becoming annoyed at his pertinacity.

“You won’t come and take a sail with me, then?” he continued; “you and your friends, I mean.”

She shook her head and bowed.

“Well, then, if you won’t, I’m off,” he exclaimed, with a look of reproach, and, striking his forehead, he turned round and tumbled into his boat.

We watched him on board his vessel, and the first thing he did was to set to and beat his boy; he then dived down below and returned with a swimming belt, or rather jacket, on, which he immediately began to fill with air, till he looked like a balloon or a Chinese tumbler. The “Dido,” then got under way; but her crew were apparently drunk, for she first very nearly ran right on to the quay, and then foul of a boat which was conveying a band of musicians across the river.

A most amusing scene ensued, Ribbons abused the musicians, who had nothing at all to do with it, and they retorted on him, trying to fend off the vessel with their trombones, trumpets, and cornopeans. At one time they seemed inclined to jump on board and take forcible possession of the “Dido,” but they thought better of it, and when they got clear they put forth such a discordant blast of derision, finishing like a peal of laughter, that all the spectators on shore could not help joining them, and I wonder the little man ever had courage again to set his foot in Cowes.

We were still on the quay when Sandgate came on shore and passed us; as he did so, he nodded to us, and I observed him looking very hard at Miss Manners. He soon after, without much ceremony, joined us, and managed quietly to enter into conversation with all the ladies. After some time, however, I perceived that he devoted his attention almost exclusively to Emily. He was just the sort of fellow to attract many women, and I suspect that Harcourt felt a twinge of jealousy attacking him, and regretted that O’Malley had ever introduced him; at the same time I trusted that Emily would perceive that want of innate refinement which I had discovered at once; but then, I thought, women have have not the same means of judging of men which men have of each other. He did not, however, speak of his vessel, nor offer to take out any of the party.

I shall pass over the next two or three days which we spent in the neighbourhood, each day taking the Granvilles and their friends on the water; and so agreeable did we find that way of passing our time that none of us felt any inclination to go further. It was, if I remember rightly, on the 24th of July that we went to Spithead to see those four magnificent ships, the “Queen,” “Vengeance,” “St. Vincent,” and “Howe,” riding at anchor there. Though the morning was calm, a light breeze sprung up just as we got under way, and we arrived in time to see her Majesty and Prince Albert come out of Portsmouth Harbour in their yacht steamer, and cruise round the ships. We hove-to just to the southward of the “Howe,” so as to have a good view of all the ships in line, and it was a beautiful and enlivening sight, as they all manned yards and saluted one after the other. From every ship, also, gay flags floated, in long lines from each masthead to the bowsprit and boom-ends, the bands played joyous tunes, and then arose those heart-stirring cheers such as British seamen alone can give. The ladies were delighted—indeed, who could not be so at the proud spectacle?

On our way back to Cowes we were to land Miss Manners, who, most unwillingly on her part, I believe, was obliged to return to her guardian. We accordingly hove-to off the pier, and all the party landed to conduct her to Mr Bosley’s house. After taking a turn to the end of the pier, as we were beginning our journey along its almost interminable length, we on a sudden found ourselves confronted by two most incongruous personages walking arm-in-arm—Warwick Ribbons and Miles Sandgate. The latter, the instant he saw us, withdrew his arm from that of his companion, and in his usual unembarrassed manner, advanced towards us, putting out his hand to O’Malley and me, and bowing to the ladies. He, as usual, placed himself at the side of Emily, who had Harcourt’s arm, and certainly did his best to draw off her attention from him. Little Ribbons tried, also, to come up and speak to her, but either his courage or his impudence could not overcome the cold, low bow she gave him. By the by, she had bestowed one of a similar nature on Sandgate. After some time, however, he ranged up outside of Harcourt, for he had no shadow of excuse to speak to either Mrs Granville or her daughters.

“Ah, Miss Emily,” he exclaimed in a smirking way, “you said you would prefer returning here in a steamer to a yacht, and now you’ve come in one after all.”

Emily did not know what to answer to his impudence, so Harcourt relieved her by answering—

“Miss Manners selected a larger vessel, and had, also, the society of her friends.”

“In that case, I might have claimed the honour for my vessel, which is larger than either,” observed Mr Sandgate, with a tone in which I detected a sneer lurking under a pretended laugh.

“Ah, but then I’m an old friend,” interposed the little man; “ain’t I, Miss Emily?—known you ever since you was a little girl, though you do now and then pretend not to remember it.”

“Hang the fellow’s impudence!” Harcourt was on the point of exclaiming, and perhaps might have said something of the sort, when his attention was called off by another actor in the drama. He was a corpulent, consequential-looking gentleman, with a vulgar expression of countenance, dressed in a broad-brimmed straw hat and shooting-coat, with trousers of a huge plaid pattern, and he had an umbrella under his arm though there was not a cloud in the sky. He was, in fact, just the person I might have supposed as the friend of little Ribbons, who, as soon as he espied him, with great glee ran on to meet him. Poor Emily, at the same time, pronounced the words, “My guardian, Mr Bosley,” in a tone which showed little pleasure at the rencontre, and instantly withdrew her arm from Harcourt’s. She was evidently anxious to prevent a meeting between the parties, for she turned round to the Miss Granvilles and begged them not to come any further, and then holding out her hand to Harcourt, thanked him for the pleasant excursions he had afforded her. She was too late, however, for Mr Bosley advancing, bowed awkwardly to the Miss Granvilles, and then addressing Emily, said,—

“Ay, little missie, a long holiday you’ve been taking with your friends; but I shan’t let you play truant again, I can tell you. I’ve heard all about your doings from my friend Warwick here—so come along, come along;” and seizing her arm, without more ceremony he walked her off, while Mr Ribbons smirked and chuckled at the thoughts of having her now in his power, as he fancied. Miles Sandgate, at the same time, bowing to the ladies, and nodding to us in a familiar way which verged upon cool impudence, followed their steps. We all felt excessively annoyed at the scene; but far more regretted that so charming a girl should be in the power of such a coarse barbarian as Mr Bosley appeared.

On our passage back to Cowes, Miss Granville told me all she knew of Miss Manners. She was the daughter of a Colonel Manners, who had gone out on some mining speculation or other, to one of the South American States, but it was believed that the ship which was conveying him to England had foundered, with all hands, at sea.

He had left his daughter Emily under the charge of a Mr Eastway, a merchant of high standing, and a very gentlemanly man. Mr Eastway, who was the only person cognisant of Colonel Manners’ plans, died suddenly, and Mr Bosley, his partner, took charge of her and the little property invested in his house for her support. She had been at the same school with the Miss Granvilles, who there formed a friendship for her which had rather increased than abated after they grew up. This was the amount of the information I could extract from them. She never complained of her guardian to them; but she was as well able as they were to observe his excessive vulgarity, though there was probably under it a kindliness of feeling which in some degree compensated for it. Harcourt certainly did his best to conceal the feelings with which he could not help acknowledging to himself she had inspired him, and was much pleased at hearing the Granvilles say that they intended writing to her to propose joining her at Ryde on the day of the regatta.

Chapter Eleven.

A Lady Spirited Away—The Chase—The Consequences.

In the mean time Harcourt made daily trips to Ryde, and promenaded the pier from one end to the other, and through every street of the town, in the hope of meeting Miss Manners, but in vain. He met Ribbons frequently, but of course he could not inquire after her from him, and consequently avoided him. Sandgate he encountered several times; but he had conceived such an antipathy to the man, as well as a suspicion of his character, that, as O’Malley was not with us, he did not think it necessary to recognise him. Harcourt felt all the time that he was not treating O’Malley and me fairly in keeping about the island, and therefore promised to start on a long cruise directly after the regatta. The first day of the regatta was cold, and blowing fresh, so none of the ladies went. It was the schooner-match round the island, when the little “Bianca” carried off the cup from her huge competitors, though she came in last, so much time being allowed for the difference of tonnage. The next day of the regatta the weather was most propitious, and we had the pleasure of meeting Miss Manners on the end of the pier with Mr Bosley, who saved Harcourt from inviting him, by telling us that “if we would give him a hundred pounds for every minute he was in that gimcrack-looking boat, he wouldn’t come. Let him have a steady-going steamer, which didn’t care for winds and tides.” He made no objection to Emily’s accompanying us; though little Ribbons coming up just as she was stepping into the boat, reproached her for not visiting the “Dido” instead.

The sight was beautiful in the extreme; for, independent of the racing-vessels, hundreds of other yachts were sailing about in every direction. The course also being round the Nab light, and a similar light-vessel moored at the mouth of the Southampton Water, the racing-yachts were the whole time in sight of Ryde. The Royal Victoria Yacht Club-house was decorated with banners, and from a battery in front of it were fired the necessary signals and salutes, while several yachts anchored off the pier-head were also gayly-decked with flags. In the afternoon the Queen came from Osborne on board the “Fairy,” amid the animated scene, and made several wide circles; passing close to the pier, and as she glided by, each vessel saluted with their guns or lowered their flags. The whole day the “Dido” had most perseveringly endeavoured to follow us, and several times we saw her nearly run foul of other vessels. At last, as she passed the “Fairy,” Ribbons, in a fit of enthusiastic loyalty, I suppose, loaded his gun to the muzzle, and discharged it directly at the steamer, the lighted wadding almost falling on board, while the recoil of the gun upset the little man, who was looking with dismay at the effect of his achievement. He was not hurt, however, for he picked himself up, and managed to fire another wadding on board the “Amethyst.” The last we saw of him that day, he was hard and fast on a mud-bank half-way between Ryde and Cowes. Sandgate’s vessel was also cruising about, and passed us several times, though at a respectful distance; but I saw that his telescope was directed each time towards Miss Manners. On a sudden it struck me that Griffiths might possibly know something of the man, and I accordingly asked him, in a mere casual way, if he had ever seen him before he came on board us?

“Why, yes, sir, I have seen him more than once,” he answered. “Maybe he don’t recollect me, though we’ve gone through some wild scenes together.”

“How is that?” I asked, with surprise.

“Why, you see, sir, I’ve done something in the free-trade line myself, I own, and he’s lent me a hand at it.”

“What! you don’t mean to say that Mr Sandgate is a smuggler?” I asked.

“Yes, I do, sir, though, and many’s the rich crop he’s run in that ere craft of his.”

“Impossible! why she’s a yacht,” I replied.

“No, sir, she’s only a private vessel at the best, and if she was a yacht, she’s not the only one as—. Howsomdever, I won’t say any thing again yachts. It’s the lookout of the other members of the club that they don’t smuggle, and more’s the shame of them who does.”

“But I thought that smugglers were so bound together that they would never speak against each other,” I observed.

“So they are, sir; and though that Mr Sandgate has no reason to expect any favour from me, for reasons he well knows, I wouldn’t speak to anybody else of him as I do but to you, or my master, because I don’t think he’s fit company for such as you, sir, and that’s the truth.”

Thinking over what Griffiths had told me, I determined in future to be on my guard against Sandgate. I, however, did not repeat what I had heard to any one except Harcourt. In the afternoon we returned to Cowes, leaving Miss Manners with the Granvilles.

Harcourt having promised to pay some friends a visit at Torquay, the next morning we got under way, and, though the winds were light, we got there on the following day. Taking all points into consideration, I think Torquay and its surrounding scenery is the most beautiful part of England. Our stay was short, for Harcourt was anxious to get back to Cowes, as he had found metal more attractive than even Devonshire could afford.

We reached Cowes late in the day, and after dinner went to the Granvilles’, for we were now on sufficiently intimate terms to do so. I missed Emily from their circle, and inquired if she was still staying with them.

“I am sorry to say that she left us suddenly yesterday evening,” answered Miss Granville. “It was almost dark when a letter arrived from her guardian. It stated that he had gone over to Portsmouth on business connected with her affairs, and that when there he was taken dangerously ill; that something had transpired which he could alone communicate to her, and he entreated her to come to him without a moment’s delay. The bearer of the letter was Mr Miles Sandgate, who, it appeared, had met Mr Bosley at Portsmouth, and volunteered to carry it, and to escort Miss Manners back. Emily immediately prepared for her departure, though she hesitated about accepting Mr Sandgate’s offer. We also sent down to the quay to learn if there was any steamer going to Portsmouth that evening, but the last for the day had already left. Mr Sandgate on this requested Emily would allow his vessel to convey her, observing, in the most courteous way, that he saw the difficulties of the case, and would himself remain at Cowes till his vessel returned, saying, at the same time, that he thought he might be of service in escorting her to the hotel where Mr Bosley was lying ill. Mamma herself would have gone with her, but she was unwell, and we girls should not much have mended the matter. Mr Sandgate all the time stood by, acknowledging that he himself was perplexed, and would do any thing she wished; till at last I bethought me of sending our housekeeper, who was very ready to do her best to serve Emily, and to this plan, as Mr Sandgate is a friend of yours as well as of Mr Bosley’s, Emily had no further hesitation in agreeing. We walked with her down to the quay, and saw her safely on board.”

“And have you heard to-day from her?” I asked in a tone of anxiety I could not conceal.

“No,” answered Miss Granville; “we thought she would have written.”

“Good heavens! and has she trusted herself with that man?” exclaimed Harcourt.

Miss Granville stared.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“That I have very serious suspicions of his character,” answered Harcourt. “I wish that she had taken any other means of getting to Portsmouth: not that I for a moment suspect he would not safely convey her there, but I am unwilling that she should—that any lady, a friend of yours, should have even been on board that vessel.”

“You surprise me!” exclaimed Miss Granville, now beginning to be really alarmed; and I volunteered to run over to Portsmouth at once, to inquire for Mr Bosley, but she had not heard the name of the hotel where he was staying.

“That shall not stop me,” replied Harcourt. “I will inquire at all of them till I learn.”

She smiled at his eagerness, though, when he told her all he had heard of Sandgate, she saw that he had reason for his annoyance at what had occurred. We were engaged in paying our adieus, when the house-bell rang, and directly afterwards Mr Warwick Ribbons was announced. Astonishment was depicted on the countenances of all present, at the appearance of this most unexpected visitor, and all wondered what could have brought him there again. He had, by the by, already called in the morning to beg Miss Manners and her friends would take a sail in the “Dido,” but hearing that she was no longer there, had gone away. He gazed about the room, his round eyes blinking with the bright light after having come out of darkness, and, with a flourish of his hat, he bowed to the ladies.

“Beg pardon,” he said, in a nervous tone; “but I’ve come to ask where Miss Manners is.”

“She has gone to see her guardian, Mr Bosley, who has been taken seriously ill at Portsmouth,” answered Mrs Granville.

“No, she ain’t, ma’am,” he exclaimed, throwing his hat down on the ground with vehemence; “Mr Bosley isn’t ill, and isn’t at Portsmouth, and Miss Manners isn’t with him, for I’m just come from Ryde, and there I saw him as well as ever he was in his life, and he begged that I would come and ask what has become of her. Your servants this morning told me that she wasn’t here, so I made sure that she’d gone back to Ryde, and started off to look after her.”

We were now seriously alarmed at what we had heard, as were the rest of the party in a less degree. Nothing more could we elicit from Mr Ribbons, though Miss Granville convinced him that the account she gave of Miss Manners’s departure was true, and it appeared too certain that she had been carried off for some reason or other by Miles Sandgate. I could have staked my existence that she had been as much deceived by him as were her friends. I need not attempt to describe what were Harcourt’s feelings on finding that his worst suspicions were more than realised. She was in Sandgate’s power, and his vessel was large enough for him to carry her to any distant part of the world. A bold and accomplished seaman as he was, he would not hesitate, of course, to run across the Atlantic, and with the start of upwards of twenty-four hours which he had, it would be impossible to hope to overtake him, even if we could sail at once; but without a good supply of water and provisions, it would be madness to attempt to follow him. This, however, as soon as by possibility we could, we determined to do. Ribbons wanted to come also, but we recommended him to employ his vessel in a different direction to ours; and while I was busy in collecting provisions and stores, Harcourt made inquiries among all the boatmen and revenue people to learn any thing about the “Rover,” and what course she had steered on leaving Cowes. The wind, it appeared, had been from the eastward, and as the tide was ebbing, she must have gone to the westward, and could not have got round by the Nab. At first he could learn nothing about her; but after some time he met a man who had watched her getting under way, and, after she had stood across as if turning up towards Portsmouth, had seen her, or a vessel exactly like her, keep away and run past Cowes, in the direction he supposed. One of the revenue-men, who had been on duty in the guard-boat, had boarded her, and her people said they were bound for Cherbourg. Harcourt found, also, that her character was suspected, and that a revenue-cutter was on the watch for her. This circumstance, he conjectured, if he could fall in with the cutter, would give him the best chance of learning the course she had steered. I believe that he ought to have called in the aid of the law, but of that he did not think; as soon as he found that he could gain no further information about the “Rover,” he came to assist us in getting the “Amethyst” ready for sea. We also shipped six additional hands, and some cutlasses and pistols, for we felt certain that, should we fall in with Sandgate at sea, he would resist an attempt to rescue Emily from his power. By twelve o’clock at night our preparations were completed, and we determined, in the first place, to run across to Cherbourg, on the bare possibility of his having gone there, to complete his own supplies for a long voyage. At the same time, we dispatched little Ribbons in the “Dido,” to look into every port along the coast, and to wait for us at Penzance. Miss Granville, with much judgment, undertook to send to every place to the eastward, and to let Mr Bosley know, that he might take the proper measures to search for the daring scoundrel. I need not say that Harcourt was in a perfect fever of excitement, and we were little less calm, particularly O’Malley, whose indignation at Sandgate’s conduct knew no bounds, especially as he had acknowledged him as an acquaintance, and introduced him to Harcourt.

Little Ribbons showed that there was something good beneath the mass of absurdity, vanity, and vulgarity which enveloped him, by the eagerness with which he undertook the task we had assigned him; although he must have been pretty well convinced that he had no chance of winning the hand of the young lady, and we verily believed that, should he fall in with Sandgate, he would attack him, even with the fearful odds he would have against him. The weather was clear, and the stars and moon shone bright from the sky, as, with a fine fresh breeze from the eastward, and an ebb tide, we got under way and ran through the Needles. We then hauled up, and shaped a course for Cherbourg, for we had no other clew by which to steer than the vague report that the “Rover” had gone there. We thought also that Sandgate would very probably have selected that place, as being the nearest French port to the English coast, and one into which he might at all times run, and from which he might as easily escape. For the sake of his victim he would probably go there, in the hopes that she might agree to the object, whatever it might be, which had induced him to venture on the atrocious exploit of carrying her off. We had understood that she was an almost portionless girl, so that her fortune could not have been the temptation: in fact, we were completely in the dark, and it was a subject too delicate and painful to discuss.

The wind held fair, and at daybreak we were running across the Channel at the rate of eight knots an hour. Just before sunrise, when the horizon is often the clearest, I went aloft to discover if any vessels coming from the direction we were steering for were in sight, to give me any information for the chase, but not a sail was visible anywhere ahead of us, though several were seen off island. For the next three or four hours not a cutter was seen, though many square-rigged vessels were standing down Channel. Almost worn out with mental and physical exertion, Harcourt threw himself into his berth, while I took charge of the deck, and promised to have him called should there be any vessel in sight either like the chase or from which we might gain any information about her. He had not been asleep an hour, when he heard a hail, and jumping on deck, just as O’Malley was coming to call him, he found that we were hove-to close to a revenue-cutter, and that I had ordered a boat to be lowered ready to go on board her. He jumped in with me, and in another minute we were on the deck of the cutter. Her commander was excessively courteous, and ready to do every thing we might propose to overhaul the “Rover.” From him I found that the information I had gained about Sandgate was correct; and he told us that, according to his orders, he had followed the “Rover” at a distance, so as not to excite suspicion, and that he had seen her yesterday afternoon enter Cherbourg Harbour, where, supposing she would remain for some time, he had again stood off during the night.

“Then to a certainty she is still there!” exclaimed Harcourt, in a tone which somewhat surprised the officer.

The plan he instantly formed was to run in directly it was dusk, while the cutter remained in the offing, and to get alongside the “Rover” before Sandgate could have time to carry Miss Manners on shore. We thus should not lose much time, for the wind had fallen considerably, and we could scarcely expect to reach the mouth of the harbour before dark. The best formed plans are, however, liable to failure, particularly at sea; and as we got well in with the land, just put off Point Querqueville, it fell almost calm. There was still, however, a light air at times, which sent the cutter through the water, so that by degrees we drew in with the shore. We must have been for some time visible from the heights before it grew dark. The flood-tide was now sweeping us up to the eastward, and before we could get through the western passage we were carried past the breakwater. The large fires lighted by the workmen engaged on that stupendous work dazzled our eyes so much, that we were almost prevented from seeing the entrance, and they totally disabled us from watching the western passage. At last, however, the wind freshened up, and we ran inside the breakwater. The moon had by this time risen, and we could see across that fine sheet of water, which, in extent and the shelter it affords to a fleet, rivals Plymouth Sound. Harcourt’s impatience was excessive. We did not anchor; but as there was a light wind we kept cruising about among the men-of-war and large steamers lying there, in the hopes of finding the “Rover” brought up among them. In vain, however, did we search; she was nowhere to be seen. At last we determined to go on shore, and endeavour to learn whether the “Rover” had been there at all. Pulling up between two fine stone piers, we landed at the end of the inner harbour, and repaired at once to the house of Monsieur M—, who obligingly assisted us in making the inquiries I desired. After some time we met a person who asserted that he had observed the “Rover” at anchor that very evening.

“Even with this light you can see her from the end of the pier,” he observed; “come, I will show you where she is.”

We hurried to the spot, but the space where she had been was vacant. That she had not entered the inner harbour, Monsieur M— was certain, as she could not have come without his knowledge. Baffled, but still determined to continue the pursuit, we returned on board; and I was convinced that we had been seen from the shore before dark, and that Sandgate, suspecting we had come in quest of him, had slipped out by the western entrance while we were still outside the breakwater.

On making inquiries among other vessels anchored near where the “Rover” had lain, we found that, as we suspected, a vessel answering her description had got under way at the very time we supposed, and had stood off to the westward. After holding another consultation, we came to the conclusion that Sandgate would certainly avoid the open sea, and keep along the French coast, and we thought it probable would make for Jersey or Guernsey. At all events, thither we determined to run. Again we were under sail, and by the time we got clear of the harbour the wind had shifted round to the westward of north, and as the ebb had then made, we suspected Sandgate would take advantage of the tide, and run through the Race of Alderney. We calculated, however, that by the time we could reach it, we should have the full force of that rapid current in our favour, whereas he would only have the commencement of it. No one on board turned in, for the weather was too threatening, the passage we were about to attempt too dangerous, and the time too exciting, to allow us to think of sleep.

As we brought the bright light of Cape La Hogue a little before the larboard beam, the wind increased considerably, and we began to feel the short, broken sea of the Race. Every moment it increased; rapidly the water rose and fell in white-topped pyramids, leaping high above our bulwarks, and threatening to tumble on board and overwhelm us with its weight. The hatches were battened down and every thing well secured on deck; and well it was so, for sea after sea came leaping over the side, now on the quarter, then over the bows, and now again amidships. It was impossible to say where it would strike the vessel, for not the best steering could avoid it; yet on we flew with the fast rising breeze, rolling and pitching and tumbling, the water foaming and roaring, and literally drenching us with spray even when we avoided the heavier seas. The moon, too, which shone forth on the wild tumult of waters, rather increased the awfulness of the scene, by exhibiting to us the dangers which surrounded us on every side; yet so clear were the lights, both of La Hogue on the left and the Casquets on the right, that we had no difficulty in steering our course. The dark outline of the small island of Sark at last appeared in sight on the starboard beam, and in order to avoid the wild shoal of the Dirouilles Rocks, towards which the early flood sets, we hauled up more to the westward.

Still urged onward by the terrific force of the tide, we continued plunging through the mad waters, till daybreak showed us the Island of Jersey right ahead, and Guernsey on our weather beam. So strong was the current, however, that we had drifted considerably to the east, and in the grey light of the morning, not a cable’s length from us, appeared the dark heads of the Dirouilles, while on the starboard hand the sea, in masses of foam, was breaking over the equally terrific rocks of the Paternosters. The wind had now got so far to the westward, and the tide set so strong against us, that finding we were drifting bodily to leeward, we ran close in-shore, and dropped our anchor in a romantic little cove called Bouley Bay, on the north-east coast of Jersey. There was a narrow sandy beach, on which a few boats were drawn up, and a narrow ravine leading down to it, while on either side lofty cliffs towered high above our heads. On the side of the ravine was situated a small hotel, the master of which came off to us as soon as he saw us standing into the bay.

To the first question I put to him, as to whether he had seen any vessel off the coast that morning, he told us that at break of day he had been to the top of the cliffs, and had observed a cutter standing between the Paternosters and the land, and that he thought it probable she would be able to double Cape Grosnez before the tide made against her, in which case she would have little difficulty in getting round to St. Helier’s, if she happened to be bound there.

“If she is, we shall catch her to a certainty,” exclaimed O’Malley; and he forthwith volunteered to go across the island to try what he could do; and I proposed accompanying him, as I thought I might be of assistance in getting hold of Sandgate. Of course Harcourt gladly assented to our offer, although he determined himself to remain in the vessel.

I have not described Harcourt’s feelings all this time;—his hopes and fears, his eager excitement, as he thought the “Rover” was within his reach—his dread lest his Emily should have suffered injury or alarm—they were too intense for utterance.

As soon as the “Amethyst” had made sail, O’Malley and I started away across the little island as fast as our legs could carry us. We should have hired horses or a carriage, but none were to be procured at the quiet little spot where we landed, so we resolved to trust to our own feet, of which we had by no means lost the use, as the way we made them move over the ground gave full evidence. As soon as we reached St. Helier’s, we hurried down to the pier, when, to our infinite satisfaction, we beheld the “Rover” at anchor in the outer roads. We immediately hurried off to the authorities to give information, and to procure assistance to rescue Miss Manners. On our way we suddenly came upon the villain of whom we were in search,—Sandgate himself. Something made him turn round, and he caught sight of us. Without a moment’s hesitation he darted off towards the quay, where a boat was in waiting, and jumping into her, pulled towards the cutter. He had every reason to fear, we learned; for on his appearance in the morning he had been narrowly watched by the revenue officers, who suspected that some smuggling business had attracted him to the island. Such in fact was the case, as he had gone there to settle with his agents, and to procure certain stores before he commenced the long voyage he contemplated, little thinking that we should so soon have been able to track him thither. Before we had been able to engage a boat he had got on board, and the “Rover” was under way for the westward. I have an idea that some of the boatmen were in league with him. At all events, they seemed to think that it was their business to impede us as much as possible, and to do their best to help the hunted fox to escape. Such a feeling is very general among that class. The more eagerness and impatience we exhibited, the more difficulties they threw in our way; and it was not till the “Rover” was well clear of the harbour, and pursuit hopeless, that we could obtain a boat. We got one at last, and jumping into it, asked the men to pull away out of the harbour. Much to their vexation and to our satisfaction, we in a short time caught sight of our friend’s cutter. She had just got off Elizabeth Castle, which stands on a rocky point, isolated at high water from the mainland. She hove-to, and in a few minutes we jumped on board, and gave Harcourt the information we had obtained on shore, and pointed out in the distance a sail which we had little doubt was the “Rover.”

Harcourt then told us that after we had started overland, he had remained two hours at anchor, and then shipping an old pilot, in a Welsh wig, who only spoke Jersey French—the oddest patois he ever heard—he got under way for St. Helier’s. The “Amethyst” beat along that rocky and lofty coast, inside the Paternosters, till she rounded Cape Grosnez—which, as she had had a fresh breeze, she had done without much difficulty. She was then kept away, passing the rugged and threatening rocks of the Corbière, rounding which with a flowing sheet, she was headed in among an archipelago of hidden dangers towards the town of St. Helier’s. As they were passing the Corbière, Harcourt observed a cutter standing away to the westward, as if she had come out of St. Aubin’s Bay. He pointed her out to Griffiths, but she was too far off to distinguish what she was, and he was unwilling to make chase till we had ascertained whether Sandgate had been there. He accordingly stood on, eager to receive our report.

Our first act was to tumble the pilot into the shore-boat, and make chase after the cutter Harcourt had before observed. She had a very long start, but we trusted to the chances the winds and tides might afford us to come up with her—yet we could not but see that she had many more in her favour to aid her escape. There were, however, still some hours of daylight, and as long as we could keep her in sight, we need not despair. From the course she was steering, as much to the westward as she could lay up with the wind as it then stood, we felt certain that our worst suspicions would be realised, and that Sandgate fully intended to run across to America, or to some other distant land.

Never had the “Amethyst” before carried such a press of sail as she now staggered under; but little would it have availed us had the wind, which came in uncertain currents, not shifted round to the northward, while the “Rover” still had the breeze as before. It continued, however, increasing till we could no longer bear our gaff-topsail, and so much had we overhauled the chase, that, at sundown, we were within two miles of her. Now came the most critical time; as before the moon rose it would scarcely be possible to keep her in sight, and Sandgate would not fail to profit by the darkness if he could, to effect his escape—he, also, having the wind exactly as we had it, now sailed as fast as we did. So exciting had become the chase, even to those least interested in it, that every man kept the deck, and with so many well-practised eyes, Argus-like, fixed on her, any movement she made would scarcely escape us. The sky was clear, and the stars shone bright, but the wind whistled shrilly, and the foam flew over us, as the little craft, heeling over on her gunwale, plunged and tore through the foaming and tumbling waves. Thus passed hour after hour. If the “Rover” hauled up, so did we; if she kept away, the movement was instantly seen and followed by us, though all the time, as O’Malley observed, he could not, for the life of him, make out any thing but a dark shadow with a scarcely defined form stalking like an uneasy ghost before us; as to know what she was about, it passed his comprehension how we discovered it. That she was, however, increasing her distance we became at length aware, by the difficulty we experienced in seeing her, and at last the shadowy form faded into air.

Every one on board uttered an exclamation of disappointment, and some swore deeply, if not loudly.

“Can no one make her out?” Harcourt asked.

The seamen peered through the darkness.

“There she is on the weather-bow,” sung out one.

“I think I see her right ahead still,” said another.

“No: I’m blowed if that ain’t her on the lee-bow there,” was the exclamation of a third.

One thing only was certain, she was not to be seen. We determined, however, to keep the same course we had been before steering, and as the moon would rise shortly, we trusted again to sight her. The intervening hour was one of great anxiety; and when, at last, the crescent moon, rising from her watery bed, shed her light upon the ocean, we looked eagerly for the chase. Right ahead there appeared a sail, but what she was it was impossible to say; she might be the “Rover,” or she might be a perfect stranger. On still we steered due west, for, although we felt that our chance of overtaking Sandgate was slight indeed, yet our only hope remained in keeping a steady course. Thus we continued all night; and the moment the first streaks of light appeared in the sky, Harcourt was at the masthead eagerly looking out for the chase. Far as the eye could reach, not a sail was to be seen; there was no sign of land, nothing was visible but the grey sky and the lead-coloured water. Still Harcourt remained at his post, for he dared not acknowledge to himself that Emily was lost to him for ever. In vain he strained his eyes, till the sun rose and cast his beams along the ocean. A white object glistened for a moment ahead; it might have been the wing of a sea-fowl, but as he watched, there it remained, and he felt certain that it was the head of a cutter’s mainsail. Taking the bearings of the sail, he descended on deck, and, as a last hope, steered towards it, sending a hand on the cross-trees to watch her movements. The wind fortunately, as it proved to us, was variable, and thus we again neared the chase. As we rose her hull, Griffiths pronounced her to be of the size of the “Rover,” if not the “Rover” herself.

“Well, we’ll do our best to overhaul her,” I exclaimed; “set the gaff-topsail. The craft must bear it.”

And, pressed to her utmost, the little “Amethyst” tore through the foaming waves. Thus we went on the whole day, till towards the evening the chase again ran us completely out of sight. The wind, also, was falling away, and at sundown there was almost a complete calm. Still the vessel had steerage-way, so we kept the same course as before. At length I threw myself on a sofa in the cabin. I know not how long I had slept, when I was awoke by feeling the yacht once more springing livelily through the water. I jumped on deck without awaking O’Malley, who was on the opposite sofa. The morning was just breaking, and, by the faint light of the early dawn, I perceived a large dark object floating at some distance ahead of us.

“What is that?” I exclaimed to Griffiths, who had charge of the deck.

“A dismasted ship, sir,” was the answer. “I have seen her for some time, and as she lay almost in our course, I steered for her, as I thought as how you’d like to overhaul her, sir.”

“You did well,” I answered. “Rouse all hands, and see a boat clear for boarding her. But what is that away there just beyond the wreck? By heavens, it’s the ‘Rover,’ and becalmed too. Grant the wind may not reach her!”

Awoke by hearing the people called, Harcourt and O’Malley were by my side. I pointed out the wreck and the cutter to them.

“Well,” exclaimed O’Malley, “the big ship there may still float, but the breeze which has been sending us along, may at last reach the sails of the ‘Rover;’ so I propose we make sure of her first.”

To our joy, however, we found that the wind, instead of reaching her, was gradually falling away, and by the time we were up with the wreck, the sea was as calm as a sheet of glass. We were in hopes also that keeping, as we had done, the wreck between us and the “Rover,” we might have escaped observation, and in the grey light of morning we might come upon her unawares. There were several people on board the ship, who cheered as they saw assistance at hand; and reason they had to be glad, for from the clear streams of water which gushed from her sides, they had evidently great labour to keep her afloat. No time was to be lost, the gig was soon in the water, and Harcourt, O’Malley, and I, with eight men fully armed, pulled towards the “Rover,” while old Griffiths, the master, boarded the ship in the other boat. My friend’s heart beat quick as we neared the cutter. She was the “Rover,” there was no doubt, but whether Sandgate would attempt to defend his vessel was the question. A moment more would solve it. We dashed alongside; the men, stowed away in the bottom of the boat, sprang up, and before the crew of the “Rover” had time to defend themselves, we were on board. Except the man at the helm and the look-out forward, the watch on deck were all asleep, and those two, as it afterwards appeared, were glad to see us approach. The noise awoke Sandgate, who, springing on deck, found himself confronted by O’Malley and me, while half his crew were in the power of my people, and the fore-hatch was battened over the rest. A pistol he had seized in his hurry was in his hand; he pointed it at my breast, but it missed fire; on finding which, he dashed it down on the deck, and before we could seize him, retreated forward, where some of his crew rallied round him. With fear and hope alternately racking his bosom, Harcourt hurried below. He pronounced his own name; the old nurse opened the door of the main cabin—a fair girl was on her knees at prayer. She sprang up, and seeing him, forgetful of all else, fell weeping in his arms. I shall pass over all she told him, except that Sandgate had behaved most respectfully to her, informing her, however, that he should take her to the United States, where she must consent to marry him, and that, on their return to England, he would put her in possession of a large fortune, to which by some means he had discovered she was heiress, and which had induced him to run off with her. It was, I afterwards learned, his last stake, as the reduction of duties no longer enabled him to make a profit by smuggling; and as he had no other means of supporting his extravagant habits, he was a ruined man.

Sandgate’s people seemed resolved to stand by him, but not to proceed to extremities, or to offer any opposition to our carrying off Miss Manners and her attendant. He evidently was doing all he could to induce them to support him; and I believe, had he possessed the power, he would, without the slightest compunction, have hove us all over board, and carried off his prize in spite of us. As it was, he could do nothing but gnash his teeth and scowl at us with unutterable hatred. Handing the young lady and the old nurse into the boat, we pulled away from the “Rover.” Of course, we should have wished to have secured Sandgate; but as we had come away without any legal authority to attempt so doing, we saw that it would be wiser to allow him to escape. We should probably have overpowered him and his lawless crew, but then the females might have been hurt in the scuffle, and we were too glad to recover them uninjured to think at the moment of the calls of justice.

What was our surprise, as Harcourt handed her on to the deck of the yacht, to see her rush forward into the arms of an old gentleman who stood by the companion-hatch.

“My own Emily!” he exclaimed, as he held her to his heart.

It was Colonel Manners.

“My father!” burst from her lips.

A young lady was reclining on the hatch near him; she rose as she saw Emily, and they threw themselves on each other’s neck.

“My sister!” they both exclaimed, and tears of joy started to their eyes.

There were several other strangers on board, who, by Griffiths’ exertions, had been removed from the wreck. Our boats were busily employed in removing the others, for there was no time to lose, as the ship was settling fast in the water. All the people being placed in safety, we proceeded to remove the articles of greatest value and smallest bulk on board the two vessels, which became then very much loaded, when, a breeze springing up, another sail hove in sight: she bore down towards us, and, in a short time, the little fat figure of Mr Warwick Ribbons graced the deck of the “Amethyst.” His delight at seeing Emily in safety was excessive, but, though he looked sentimental, he said nothing; and, when he heard that the colonel was alive, and that there was another sister in the case, his face elongated considerably. From motives of charity, I hurried him, with several of the passengers and part of the cargo, on board the “Dido,” and the three vessels made sail together for Falmouth. Just as we were leaving the ship, a deep groan issued from her hold, and, her head inclining towards the water, she slowly glided down into the depths of the ocean. Landing all our passengers at Falmouth, except the colonel and his daughters, we had a quick run to Cowes. Colonel Manners established his claim to his property. O’Malley had made such good use of his time during the voyage, that he won the heart and hand of Julia Manners; while, as may be suspected, Emily owned, that if Harcourt loved her, their affection was reciprocal; and the same day saw them joined respectively together in holy matrimony.

Such was the result of my friend Harcourt’s summer cruise, and I think you will all agree that the narrative is not altogether unworthy of the name of a romance. The last time I saw little Ribbons he was on board the “Dido,” which lay high and dry on the mud off Ryde, and I afterwards heard that he married a Miss Bosley, who, I conclude, was a daughter of old Bosley’s.

“And what became of the rascal Sandgate?” exclaimed Hearty; “by Neptune! I should like to come up with the fellow, and to lay my craft alongside his till I had blown her out of the water. Fancy a scoundrel in the nineteenth century venturing to run off with a young lady!” We laughed at his vehemence. Hearty always spoke under a generous impulse.

“Oh, it’s not the first case of the sort I have heard of,” said Carstairs; “more than one has occurred within the last few years in Ireland; but I agree with Hearty, that I should like to catch Mr Sandgate, for the sake of giving him a good thrashing. Though I hadn’t the pleasure of knowing Miss Manners, every man of honour should take a satisfaction in punishing such a scoundrel.” Bubble and Porpoise responded heartily to the sentiment, and so strong a hold did the account take of the minds of all the party, that we talked ourselves into the idea that it would be our lot to fall in with Sandgate, and to inflict the punishment he had before escaped. “Will Bubble had taken an active part in fitting out the yacht, and in selecting most of the crew; he consequently was on rather more intimate terms with them than the rest of us; not that it was the intimacy which breeds contempt, but he took a kindly interest in their welfare, and used to talk to them about their families, and the past incidents of their lives. Indeed, under a superficial coating of frivolity and egotism, I discovered that Bubble possessed a warm and generous heart,—fully alive to the calls of humanity. I do not mean to say that the coating was not objectionable; he would have been by far a superior character without it. Indeed, perhaps all I ought to say is, that he was capable of better things than those in which he too generally employed his time. He returned aft one day from a visit forward, and told us he had discovered that several of the men were first-rate yarn-spinners. The master,” said he, “seems a capital hand; but old Sleet beats all the others hollow. If it would not be subversive of all discipline, I wish you would come forward and hear them in the forecastle as one caps the other’s tale with something more wonderful still.”

“I don’t think that would quite do,” said Hearty; “if we could catch them on deck spinning their yarns, it would be very well. But, at all events, I will invite Snow, into the cabin and consult him.”

According to Hearty’s proposal, he invited Snow down. “Mr Snow,” said Hearty, “we hear that some of the people forward are not bad hands at spinning yarns, and, if you could manage it, we should be glad to hear them, but it would never do to send for them aft for the purpose.”

“You are right, sir, they would become tongue-tied to a certainty,” answered Snow; “just let me alone, and I will manage to catch some of them in the humour. Several of them have been engaged, one time or another, in the free-trade, and have some curious things to tell about it.”

“But I thought smuggling had been knocked on the head long ago,” observed Hearty.

“Oh, no, sir! of late years a very considerable blow has been struck against it; but even now some people find inducements to follow it,” answered the master. “I found it out to be a bad trade many years ago, and very few of those I know who still carry it on do more than live, and live very badly too; some of them spending many a month out of the year in prison, and that is not where an honest man would wish to be.”

However, I have undertaken to chronicle the adventures of the “Frolic,” and of those who dwelt on board her, so that I must not devote too much of our time to the yarns, funs, witticisms, and anecdotes and good sayings with which we banished any thing like tedium during our voyage. No blue devils could stand for an instant such powerful exorcisms.

It was not, however, till some time after this that we benefited by Snow’s inquiries among the crew.

Chapter Twelve.

The “Frolic” in a Gale, in which the Frolickers see no Fun—A Sail in Sight—Her Fate—An Unexpected Increase to the Crew—Bubble Shows that he can Think and Feel—Intelligence Obtained.

“What sort of weather are we going to have, Snow?” asked Hearty, as we came on deck after dinner one afternoon, when the cutter was somewhere about the middle of the Bay of Biscay.

“Dirty, sir, dirty!” was the unenlivening answer, as the old master looked with one eye to windward, which just then was the south-west. In that direction thick clouds were gathering rapidly together, and hurrying headlong towards us, like, as Carstairs observed, “a band of fierce barbarians, rushing like a torrent down upon the plain.” The sea grew darker and darker in hue, and then flakes of foam, white as the driven snow, blew off from the hitherto smooth surface of the ocean. The sea rose higher and higher, and the cutter, close-hauled, began to pitch into, them with an uneasy motion, subversive of the entire internal economy of landsmen.

“The sooner we get the canvas off her the better, now, sir,” said Snow to Porpoise, who had come on deck after calculating our exact position on the charts.

“As soon as you like,” was the answer. “We shall have to heave-to, I suspect; but that little matters, as we have plenty of sea-room out here, and she may dance away for a fortnight with the helm a-lee, and come to no harm.”

The topmast was struck; the jib was taken in, and a storm-jib set; the foresail was handed, and the mainsail meantime was closely reefed. Relieved for a time, she breasted the seas more easily; but the wind had not yet reached its strength. Before nightfall down came the gale upon us with all its fury; the cutter heeled over to it as she dashed wildly through the waves.

“The sooner we get the mainsail altogether off her the better, sir,” said Snow. This was accordingly done, and the trysail was set instead, and the helm lashed a-lee.

“There; we are as snug and comfortable as possible,” exclaimed Porpoise, as the operation was completed. “Now all hands may turn in and go to sleep till the gale is over.”

The landsmen looked rather blue.

“Very funny notion this of comfort!” exclaimed Carstairs, who had the worst sea-going inside of any of the party. “Oh, oh, oh! is it far from the shore?”

“Couldn’t get there, sir, if any one was to offer ten thousand guineas,” said Snow. “We are better as we are, sir, out here—by very far.”

The cutter, which in Cowes Harbour people spoke of as a fine large craft, now looked and felt very like a mere cockle-shell, as she pitched and tumbled about amid the mighty waves of the Atlantic.

“Don’t you feel very small, Carstairs?” exclaimed Hearty, as he sat convulsively grasping the sides of the sofa in the cabin.

“Yes, faith, I do,” answered the gentle giant, who lay stretched out opposite to him. “Never felt so very little since I was a baby in long-clothes. I say, Porpoise, I thought you told me that the Bay of Biscay was always smooth at this time of the year.”

“So it should be,” replied our fat captain. “No rule without an exception though; but never mind, it will soon roll itself quiet; and then the cutter will do her best to make up for lost time.”

The person evidently most at his ease was Will Bubble. Blow high or blow low, it seemed all the same to him; he sang and whistled away as happily as ever.

“Oh, oh, oh! you jolly dog, don’t mock us in our misery!” exclaimed Carstairs with a groan.

“On no account,” answered Will, with a demure look. “I’ll betake myself to the dock, and smoke my weed in quiet.”

On deck he went, and seated himself on the companion-hatch, where he held on by a becket secured for the purpose; but as to smoking a cigar, that was next to an impossibility, for the wind almost blew the leaves into a flame. I was glad to go on deck, also; for the skylights being battened down made the cabin somewhat close. The cutter rode like a wild fowl over the heavy seas, which, like dark walls crested with foam, came rolling up as if they would ingulf her. Just as one with threatening aspect approached her, she would lift her bows with a spring, and anon it would be found that she had sidled up to the top of it.

It was a wild scene—to a landsman it must have appeared particularly so. The dark, heavy clouds close overhead; the leaden seas, not jumping and leaping as in shallow waters, but rising and falling, with majestic deliberation, in mountain masses, forming deep valleys and lofty ridges, from the summits of which, high above our heads, the foam was blown off in sheets of snowy whiteness with a hissing sound, interrupted by the loud flop of the seas as they dashed together.

We were not the only floating thing within the compass of vision. Far away I could see to windward, as the cutter rose to the top of a sea, the canvas of a craft as we were hove-to. She was a small schooner, and though we undoubtedly were as unsteady as she was, it seemed impossible, from the way she was tumbling about, that any thing could hold together on board her.

I had rejoined the party in the cabin, when an exclamation from Bubble called us all on deck.

“The schooner has bore up, and is running down directly for us!” he exclaimed.

So it was; and in hot haste she seemed indeed.

“Something is the matter on board that craft,” said Porpoise, who had been looking at her through his glass. “Yes, she has a signal of distress flying.”

“The Lord have mercy on the hapless people on board, then!” said I. “Small is the help we or any one else can afford them.”

“If we don’t look out, she’ll be aboard us, sir,” sung out Snow. “To my mind, she’s sprung a leak, and the people aboard are afraid she’ll go down.”

“Stand by to make sail on the cutter; and put the helm up,” cried Porpoise. “We must not let her play us that trick, at all events.”

On came the little schooner, directly down for us, staggering away under a close-reefed fore-topsail, the seas rolling up astern, and threatening every instant to wash completely over her. How could her crew expect that we could aid them? still it was evidently their only hope of being saved—remote as was the prospect. They might expect to be able to heave-to again under our lee, and to send a boat aboard us. The danger was that in their terror they might run us down, when the destruction of both of us was certain. We stood all ready to keep the cutter away, dangerous as was the operation—still it was the least perilous of two alternatives. We were, as may be supposed, attentively watching every movement of the schooner; so close had she come that we could see the hapless people on board stretching out their arms, as if imploring that aid which we had no power to afford them. On a sudden they threw up their hands; a huge sea came roaring up astern of them; they looked round at it—we could fancy that we almost saw their terror-stricken countenances, and heard their cry of despair. Down it came, thundering on her deck; the schooner made one plunge into the yawning gulf before her. Will she rise to the next sea?

“Where is she?” escaped us all. With a groan of horror we replied to our own question—“She’s gone!”

Down, down she went before our very eyes—her signal of distress fluttering amid the seething foam, the last of her we saw. Perhaps her sudden destruction was the means of our preservation. Some dark objects were still left floating amid the foam; they were human beings struggling for life; the sea tossed them madly about—now they were together, now they were separated wide asunder. Two were washed close to us; we could see the despairing countenance of one poor fellow; his staring eye-balls; his arms outstretched as he strove to reach us. In vain; his strength was unequal to the struggle; the sea again washed him away, and he sunk before our sight. His companion still strove on; a sea dashed towards us; down it came on our deck. “Hold on, hold on, my lads!” sung out Porpoise.

It was well that all followed the warning, or had we not, most certainly we should have been washed overboard. The lively cutter, however, soon rose again to the top of the sea, shaking herself like a duck after a dive beneath the surface. As I looked around to ascertain that all hands were safe, I saw a stranger clinging to the shrouds. I with others rushed to haul him in, and it was with no little satisfaction that we found that we had been the means of rescuing one of the crew of the foundered schooner from a watery grave. The poor fellow was so exhausted that he could neither speak nor stand, so we carried him below, and stripping off his wet clothes, put him between a couple of warm blankets. By rubbing his body gently, and pouring down a few drops of hot brandy and water, he was soon recovered. He seemed very grateful for what had been done for him, and his sorrow was intensely severe when he heard that no one else of the schooner’s crew had been saved.

“Ay, it’s more than such a fellow as I deserve!” he remarked.

I was much struck by his frank and intelligent manners, when having got on a suit of dry clothes, he was asked by Hearty into the cabin, to give an account of the catastrophe which had just occurred.

“You see, gentlemen,” said he, “the schooner was a Levant trader. Her homeward-bound cargoes were chiefly figs, currants, raisins, and such-like fruit. A better sea-boat never swam. I shipped aboard her at Smyrna last year, and had made two voyages in her before this here event occurred. We were again homeward-bound, and had made fine weather of it till we were somewhere abreast of Cape Finisterre, when we fell in with some baddish weather, in which our boats and caboose were washed away; and besides this, we received other damage to hull and rigging. We were too much knocked about to hope to cross the Bay in safety, so we put into Corunna to refit. The schooner leaked a little, though we thought nothing of it, and as we could not get at the leak, as soon as we had got the craft somewhat to rights, we again put to sea. We had been out three days when this gale sprang up, and the master thought it better to heave the vessel to, that she might ride it out. The working of the craft very soon made the leak increase; all hands went to the pumps, but the water gained on us, and as a last chance the master determined to run down to you, in the hopes that before the schooner went down, some of us might be able to get aboard you. You saw what happened. Oh, gentlemen! may you never witness the scene on board that vessel, as we all looked into each other’s faces, and felt that every hope was gone! It was sad to see the poor master, as he stood there on the deck of the sinking craft, thinking of his wife and seven or eight little ones at home whom he was never to see again, and whom he knew would have to struggle in poverty with the hard world! He was a good, kind man; and to think of me being saved,—a wild, careless chap, without any one to care for him, who cares for nobody, and who has done many a wild, lawless deed in his life, and who, maybe, will do many another! I can’t make it out; it passes my notion of things.”

Will Bubble had been listening attentively to the latter part of the young seaman’s account of himself. He walked up to him with an expression of feeling I did not expect to see, seemingly forgetful that any one else was present, and took his hand: “God in his mercy preserved you for better things, that you might repent of your follies and vices, and serve him in future. Oh, on your knees offer up your heartfelt thanks to him for all he has done for you!”

Hearty and Carstairs opened their eyes with astonishment as they heard Will speaking.

“Why, Bubble, what have?” began Hearty.

“I have been thinking,” was the answer; “I had time while you fellows lay sick; and I bethought me how very easily this little cockle-shell might go down and take up its abode among the deposits of this Adamite age,”—Will was somewhat of a geologist,—“and how very little we all were prepared to enter a pure state of existence.”

“That’s true, sir,” said the seaman, not quite understanding, however, Bubble’s remarks; “that’s just what I thought before the schooner sank. I am grateful to God, sir; but, howsomdever, I feel that I am a very bad, good-for-nothing chap.”

“Try to be better, my friend; you’ll have help from above if you ask for it,” said Bubble, resuming his seat.

“Why, where did you get all that from?” asked Carstairs, languidly; “I didn’t expect to hear you preach, old fellow.”

“I got it from my Bible,” answered Bubble. “I’m very sure that’s the only book of sailing directions likely to put a fellow on a right course, and to keep him there, so I hope in future to steer mine by it; but I don’t wish to be preaching. It’s not my vocation, and a harum-scarum, careless fellow as I am is not fitted for it; only all I ask of those present is to think—to think of their past lives; how they have employed their time—whether in the way for which they were sent into the world to employ it, in doing all the good to their fellow-creatures they can; or in selfish gratification; and to think of the future, that future without an end—to think if they are fitted for it—for its pure joys—its never-ending study of God’s works; to think whether they have any claim to enter into realms of glory—of happiness.”

Will sprang on deck as he ceased speaking. He had evidently worked himself up to utter these sentiments, so different to any we should have conceived him to have possessed. I never saw a party of gentlemen more astonished, if not disconcerted. Had not Tom Martin, the young seaman just saved, been present, I do not know what might have been said. Still the truth, the justice, the importance of what Bubble had said, struck us all, though perhaps we thought him just a little touched in the upper story, to venture on thus giving expression to his feelings. While Tom Martin had been giving an account of himself, I had been watching his countenance, and it struck me that I had seen him somewhere before.

“You’ve been a yachtsman, I think,” I observed; “I have known your face, I am sure.”

“Yes, sir,” said he, frankly; “and, if I mistake not, I know yours. I used to meet you at Cowes last year; but the craft I belonged to I can’t say was a yacht, though its owner called her one. I’m sure you gentlemen won’t take advantage of any thing I say against me, and so I’ll tell you all about the matter. The craft I speak of was the ‘Rover’ cutter, belonging to Mr Miles Sandgate. I first shipped aboard her about three years ago; he gave high pay, and let us carry on aboard pretty much as we liked, when not engaged in his business. An old chum of mine, a man called Ned Holden, who was, I may say, born and bred a smuggler, first got me to join; there wasn’t a dodge to do the revenue which Ned wasn’t up to, and he thought no more harm of smuggling than of eating his dinner. I didn’t inquire how the ‘Rover’ was employed; she belonged to a gentleman who paid well, and that’s all I asked, though I might have suspected something. She had just come from foreign parts, and the people who had then been in her talked of all sorts of curious things they had done. Smuggling was just nothing to what she’d been about. Mr Sandgate seemed to have tried his hand at every thing. He had been out in the China seas, running opium among the long pigged-tailed gentlemen of that country. More than once he had some hot fighting with the Government revenue-vessels, and several times he was engaged with the pirates, who swarm, they say, in those seas. I did not hear whether he made money out there, but after a time he got tired of the work, and shaped a course for England. On his way, after leaving the Cape of Good Hope, he fell in with a craft, which he attacked and took. She was laden with goods of all sorts fitted for the markets in Africa, and intended to be exchanged for slaves. Besides them she had the irons, and all the other fittings for a slaver. Such vessels sail without a protection from any government. After he had taken every thing he wanted, he hove the rest overboard, and then told the crew that he gave them their liberty, and that they might make the best of their way back to the parts from whence they came. With the goods he had thus obtained he stood for the slave-coast; he had acquaintance there, as everywhere else; indeed it would be difficult to say in what part of the world he would not find himself at home. He was not long in fitting the ‘Rover’ inside into a regular slave-vessel, but outside she looked as honest and harmless as any yacht. He ran up the Gaboon, or one of those rivers on the slave-coast—I forget which exactly—where lived a certain Don Lopez Mendoza, the greatest slave-dealer in those parts; besides which, as I heard say, it would be difficult to find anywhere a bigger villain. Well, he and Mr Sandgate were hand-in-glove, and one would have done any thing for each other. They were fairly matched, you may depend on it; however that might be, the Don took all the goods Mr Sandgate brought him, and asked no questions, and filled his vessel in return with a lot of prime slaves and water, and farina enough to carry them across to Havana. As soon as he got them on board he was out of the river again, and, loosening his jib, away he went with some two hundred human souls stowed under hatches, in a craft fit to carry only thirty or forty in comfort. She had a quick run across, and escaped all the ships-of-war looking after slavers. Mr Sandgate there sold the blacks for a good round sum, and thought he had done a very clever thing. However, he does not seem to be a man to keep money, though he is ready enough to do many an odd thing to get it. He gave his crew a handsome share of the profits; he and they went ashore at the Havana, and spent it as fast as they had made it, just in the old buccaneering style I’ve heard tell of, in all sorts of wild games and devilry, till I rather fancy the Dons were glad to be rid of them. When their money was nearly all gone, they went aboard again and made sail. I don’t mean to say but what I suppose Mr Sandgate had some left. He had also armed the cutter, and stored and provisioned her completely for a voyage round the world.

“Once more he stood across for the African coast. He had heard, it appears, that one of those store-ships I was speaking of, which supply slavers with goods and provisions, and irons and stores, was to be met with in a certain latitude. He fell in with her, and, without asking her leave or saying a word, he ran her alongside, and, before her people had time to stand to their arms, he had mastered every one of them. He never ill-treated any one, but he just clapped them in irons till he had rifled the vessel, and then, leaving them a somewhat scant supply of provisions and water, he, as before, told them that they were at liberty to make the best of their way home again.

“Some men would, perhaps, have gone back to the coast, taken in a cargo of slaves, and returned to the Havana or the Brazils, but our gentleman was rather too cautious to run any such risk. He knew that he had made enemies, who would try to prove him a pirate, with or without law; so he just goes off the Gaboon, and sends in a note to his friend Don Lopez, to say that he had got a rich cargo for him, which he should have for so many dollars, two thousand or more below its value. The Don, in return, despatched two or three small craft with the sum agreed on aboard, and all being found right and fair, the exchange was quickly made, and Mr Sandgate once more shaped a course for England. As you may suppose, every one was sworn to secrecy aboard; but, bless you, the sort of chaps he had got for a crew didn’t much care for an oath; and besides, as it was that they mightn’t say any thing out of the ship, they didn’t mind talking about it to me and others who afterwards joined her. He brought home a good round sum of money; but he took it into his head to go up to London, and what with gambling and such-like ways, he soon managed to get rid of most of it. He had got tired, it seems, of having his neck constantly in a noose, so he took to the quieter occupation of smuggling. He didn’t do it in the common way like the people along the coast, but in a first-rate style, like a gentleman. He had some relatives or other, rich silk merchants in London, and he undertook to supply them with goods to any amount, free of duty. There was nothing new in the plan, for it was an old dodge of this house, by which they had made most of their money. You would be surprised, gentlemen, to hear of the number of people employed in the business, and who well knew it was against the laws. First, there were the agents in France to buy the goods, and to have them packed in small bales fit for running; then they had to ship them; next there were the cutters and other craft to bring them over, and the people to assist at their landing; and the carters with their light carts to bring them up to London; and the clerks in the warehouse in London, many of whom knew full well that not a penny of duty had ever been paid on the goods; and the shop people too, who knew full well the same thing, as they could not otherwise have got their articles so cheap. It’s a true saying, that one rascal makes many; and so it was in this case.”

Much to the same effect Tom told us about Sandgate; but as with several of the points the readers are already acquainted, I need not repeat them. Tom frankly acknowledged that he was on board the “Rover” when Sandgate attempted to carry off Miss Manners; but he seemed to be little aware of the enormity of the offence. He said that he fancied the young lady had come of her own free will, as Sandgate had made the crew believe a tale to that effect.

“But what became of him after that?” I asked, eagerly. “Did he return to the coast of Africa, and turn pirate again?”

“No, sir,” answered Martin. “He had several plans of the sort though, I believe; but at last we stood for the Rock of Gibraltar, and ran through the Straits into the Mediterranean. We could not make out what Mr Sandgate was about. We touched at two or three places on the African coast, and he had some communication with the Moors. To my mind, he scarcely knew himself what he would be at. He spoke and acted very often like a person out of his wits. Sometimes we would be steering for a place, and our course would be suddenly altered, and we would go back to the port from whence we came. However, by degrees we got higher and higher up the Mediterranean. We did not touch at Malta, but stood on till we got among the Greek islands: there he seemed quite at home, and was constantly having people aboard whom he treated as old friends. Still we did nothing to make the vessel pay her way, and that was very unlike Mr Sandgate’s custom. After a time we ran on to Smyrna: we thought that we were going to take in a cargo of figs and raisins, and to return home. One day, however, a fine Greek polacca-brig stood into the harbour, and Mr Sandgate, after examining her narrowly, went on board her. On his return, calling us together, he said that as he was going to sell the cutter, he should no longer have any need of our services; and that as he was very well pleased with the way we had more than once stuck by him, he would therefore add five pounds to the wages of each man. We all cheered him, and thought him a very fine fellow; and so I believe he would have been had he known what common honesty means. The ‘Rover’ was sold next day, and we all had to bundle on shore and look out for fresh berths. When we were there I heard some curious stories about that polacca-brig; and all I can say is, that if I had been aboard a merchantman and sighted her, I shouldn’t have been comfortable till we got clear of her again. Whether Mr Sandgate went away in her or not I cannot say for certain; all I know is, that the polacca-brig left Smyrna in a few days. The crew of the ‘Rover’ joined different vessels, and though I was very often on shore, I saw no more of him. The rest of my story you know, gentlemen. I shipped on board the schooner which you lately saw go down.”

“Very extraordinary story altogether,” exclaimed Hearty, as soon as Tom Martin had left the cabin, highly pleased with his treatment. “If you had not been able to corroborate some of it, Brine, I certainly should not have felt inclined to believe it.”

“I know the circumstance of one quite as extraordinary,” said Porpoise. “Some day I will tell it you if you wish it. I should not be surprised when we get up the Straits if we hear more of Mr Sandgate and his doings. He is evidently a gentleman not addicted to be idle, though, clever as he is, he will some day be getting his neck into a halter.”

“I should think it was well fitted for one by this time,” added Carstairs; “but I say, Porpoise, let us have your story at once; there’s nothing like the present time for a good thing when it can be got, and we want something amusing to drive away all the bitter blue-devilish feelings which this confounded tumblefication of a sea has kicked up in our insides.”

“You shall have it, with all my heart, and without delay,” added Porpoise. “All I have first to say is, that as I was present during many of the scenes, and as descriptions of the others were given me, strange as the account may appear, it is as true as every thing we have just heard about that fellow Sandgate. I could almost have fancied that he and the hero of my story were one and the same person.”

Our curiosity being not a little excited by this prelude, in spite of the rolling and pitching of the vessel, seldom has a more attentive audience been collected, as our jovial companion began his story.

Chapter Thirteen.

Lieutenant Porpoise’s Story—The Black Slaver—The Spanish Maiden—The Deserter’s Dream—The Flight.

The British Cruiser.

“Keep a bright look-out, Collins, and let me be called if any thing like a sail appears in sight,” said Captain Staunton, as he was quitting the quarter-deck of His Majesty’s brig “Sylph,” which he had the honour to command. She was then stationed on the coast of Africa. Some years have passed by, it must be remembered, since the time to which I now allude.

“Ay, ay, sir,” answered the first lieutenant, who was the officer addressed. “With so many sharp eyes on board it shall be hard if we miss seeing him, should he venture to approach the coast, and if we see him, harder still if he escape us.”

Captain Staunton descended to his cabin, and feverish and ill from long watching and the effects of the pestiferous climate, he threw himself into his cot, and endeavoured to snatch a few hours’ repose, to better prepare himself for the fresh exertions he expected to be called on to make. But sleep, which kindly so seldom neglects to visit the seaman’s eyelids, when wooed even amid the raging tempest, refused for some time to come at his call.

“I would sacrifice many a year’s pay to catch that fellow,” he continued, as he soliloquised half aloud. “The monstrous villain! while he lives I feel that the stain yet remains on the cloth he once disgraced. We will yet show him that the honour of the service cannot be insulted with impunity, although he dares our vengeance by venturing among us when he knows every vessel on the station is on the watch for him. And yet I once regarded that man as a friend; I loved him almost as a brother, for I thought his heart beat with the most noble sentiments. I thought him capable of the like deeds; but all the time he must have been a most accomplished hypocrite, though still he has one good quality, he is brave, or perhaps, it may be, he possesses rather physical insensibility to danger and utter recklessness of all consequences. He started fairly in life, and at one time gave good promise of rising in his profession. I knew him to be wild and irreligious; but I fancied his faults arose from thoughtlessness and high spirit, and I hoped that experience of their ill effects and a good example would cure them; but I now see that vice, from an ill-regulated education, was deeply rooted in him, and, alas! has that good example which might have saved him always been set him? I fear not. Ah! if those in command could foresee the dreadful results of their own acts, of their careless expressions, they would keep a better watch over themselves, and often shudder with horror at the crime and misery they have caused.”

With a prayer to Heaven to enable him to avoid the faults of which he felt with pain that he had himself too often been guilty, the commander of the brig fell asleep.

The officer of the watch, meantime, continued his walk on the quarter-deck, his thoughts taking a turn very similar to those of his chief, for they had often together discussed the subject, and the same train of ideas were naturally suggested by the same circumstance, as he also had known the person of whom the captain was thinking.

The “Sylph” was at this time some miles off the African coast, which, although not seen from the deck, was faintly distinguishable from the masthead; it appeared like a long blue line drawn on the ocean with a slight haze hanging over it, scarcely to be perceived by unpractised eyes. The part visible was about the mouth of the Pongos River, a well-known slave depot, the favourite resort of the Spanish South American slavers.

The surface of the ocean was smooth, although occasionally ruffled by a light breeze, which, coming from seaward, served to cool the brows of the crew, and restore some vigour to their exhausted limbs; yet there was the usual swell, which seldom leaves the bosom of the Atlantic to perfect tranquillity. It came in from the west, slowly and silently, making the vessel roll from side to side like a drunken man. Though she was not, it must be understood, at anchor, she had not a stitch of canvas spread which would have contributed, had there been any wind, to steady her. All her sails were closely furled, but her studding-sail booms were at their yard-arms, their gear was rove, and the studding-sails themselves were on deck, ready to set in a moment. The boats, too, were clear to hoist out in an instant, and there, was every sign on deck that the now apparently listless crew would, at first sound of the boatswain’s whistle, spring into life and activity, and that the now bare tracery of spars and rigging would, the second after, be covered with a broad sheet of snowy canvas.

The “Sylph” had been about a year on the coast. When she left England, her officers and crew were a particularly fine, healthy set of men, and the whole of them could scarcely, in the course of their lives, have mustered a month’s illness among them. Since they came to their present station, the second lieutenant and second master had died, as had two midshipmen and thirteen of the crew, and nearly all the remainder had, more or less, suffered, few retaining any traces of their former ruddy and healthy appearance.

They had, however, to be sure, before being well acclimated, or having learned the necessary precautions to take against illness, been exposed to a good deal of hard service in boats up the rivers, where were sown the seeds of the disease which afterwards proved so fatal among them. Fresh officers and men had been appointed to fill the places of those who had died, and the brig was now again the same model of discipline and beauty which she had before been. When Captain Staunton joined the brig, he is reported to have called the men aft, and to have made them a speech much to this effect:—

“Now, my men, that you may not have any long discussions as to the character of your new commander, I wish to let you clearly understand that I never overlook drunkenness, or any other crime whatever, either in my officers or men. I shall not say whether I like flogging or not, but while it is awarded by the articles of war, I shall inflict it. Remember, however, I would much rather reward than punish. The men who do their duty well and cheerfully, I will advance as far as I have the power. I wish this to be a happy ship, and it will be your own faults if you do not make it so. Now pipe down.”

The men agreed, as they sat in knots together after they had knocked off work for the day, that they liked the cut of their new skipper’s jib, and that his speech, though short, was good, and had no rigmarole in it.

He afterwards invited his officers to dine with him, and in the course of conversation impressed on their minds that he considered gross language and swearing not only ungentlemanly, but wicked, and that he was certain the men did not obey at all the more readily for having it applied to them; that the men would follow the example they set them; that their influence depended on their doing their duty, and that if they did it the men would do theirs. “Drunkenness,” he observed, “is by some considered a very venial offence, but as the lives of all on board, as the discipline of the ship depends on the judgment of those in command, however much I shall regret the necessity, I shall break any officer who is guilty of it.” As Captain Staunton himself practised what he preached, and set an example of all the high qualities which adorn his noble profession, the necessity he would have deplored never occurred; punishment was very rare, and the “Sylph” was a happy ship.

Having made this digression, we will return to the time when the “Sylph” lay on the waste of waters, rolling her polished sides in the shining ocean, while the drops of spray which they threw off sparkled like diamonds in the rays of the burning sun. Had it not been for the light breeze we spoke of, the heat would have been intolerable on deck, for there was not the usual shade from the sails to shelter the seamen from the fury of the burning orb; but all were far too eager for the appearance of a vessel they were looking for to think of the inconvenience.

Three days before, an English homeward-bound merchantman had spoken them, and brought them the information that a large slaver was every moment expected in the river; a very fast-sailing schooner, which had already once before escaped them by the daring and good seamanship of her commander, who was supposed to be an Englishman. Thus much the crew knew, and they added their own comments, believing him to be a character similar to the famed Vanderdecken, or, at all events, in league with the prince of terror, Davy Jones.

They had already been two days thus watching, after having ascertained, by sending the boats up the river, that the slaver was not there. Captain Staunton, knowing the man with whom he had to deal, was aware that his only chance of capturing him was by extreme caution. He had therefore furled all the sails of the brig in the way we have described, that she might not be discovered by the slaver till the fellow had got close up to her, and he then hoped to be able, without a long chase, to bring her to action. Each night, as soon as it grew dusk, the “Sylph” made sail and stood in-shore, in order better to watch the coast, and before daylight she was again at her former post. It has been asserted that the African cruisers have allowed the slavers to get into port, and have not attempted to capture them till they have got their slaves on board, in order either to gain the head-money, or to make more sure of their condemnation; but if this was ever done, Captain Staunton was not the person to do so; he knew, moreover, that the man who commanded the slaver he was in search of would not yield her up without a struggle, and, for the sake of saving many lives which must otherwise inevitably be sacrificed, he was anxious to bring her to action before she got her slaves on board. The officer of the watch continued pacing the deck with his spy-glass under his arm, every now and then hailing the masthead to keep the lookouts on the alert, but the same answer was each time given.

“Nothing in sight, sir.”

Thus the day wore on. Towards the evening the breeze, which had since the morning been sluggish, increased considerably; but as the current which is to be found in nearly every part of the ocean set in an opposite direction to it, the brig did not materially alter her position. A fresh hand had just relieved the look-out at the masthead at eight bells in the afternoon watch. His eyes, from not being fatigued, were sharper than his predecessor’s, and he had scarcely glanced round the horizon, when he hailed the deck with words which roused everybody up—

“A sail in sight!”

“Where away?” asked the officer of the watch. The brig’s head was now tending on shore.

“Right over the starboard quarter, sir,” was the answer.

“Call the captain, Mr Wildgrave,” said the second lieutenant, who had charge of the deck, to the midshipman of the watch.

“Which way is she standing?” asked the officer.

“Directly down for us, sir,” was the answer.

In five seconds the captain himself was on deck, and the remainder of the officers soon after appeared. The first lieutenant went aloft with his glass, and on his return pronounced the stranger to be a large square-rigged vessel, but whether a man-of-war, a slaver, or an honest trader, it was difficult to say, though he was inclined to suppose her belonging to either of the two former classes, from the broad spread of canvas she showed. On she came towards them, probably ignorant of their vicinity, as, stripped as they were, they would not be perceived by her till long after she was seen by them.

“What do you now make her out to be, Mr Collins?” inquired the commander of the first lieutenant, who had again returned, after a second trip to the masthead.

“A large schooner, at all events, sir; and if I mistake not, she is the ‘Espanto.’”

“Pipe all hands on deck, then, for we shall soon be discovered, and must make sail in chase.”

The men were in a moment at their stations, and in silence waited the orders of their commander. Still the stranger came on, her sails slowly rising, as it were, from out of the ocean. She was now clearly seen from the deck of the “Sylph.” Apparently there was a very bad lookout kept on board her, or else she was not the vessel they supposed, as otherwise the British cruiser must before this have been perceived by her.

Captain Staunton and his officers stood watching her with almost breathless anxiety, with their glasses constantly at their eyes, ready to observe the first indication of any alteration in her course. Nearer and nearer she approached, with studding-sails alow and aloft, on either side. Suddenly they were observed to be taken in, and the vessel’s course was altered to the southward.

“Aloft there, and make sail!” shouted the commander, in a quick tone. The men, with alacrity, sprang up the rigging; the sails were let fall, the tacks were sheeted home, and in a minute the “Sylph,” under a spread of canvas, was standing on a bowline in chase of the stranger.

The Spanish Maiden.

We must now shift our scene to a different part of the world, and to a period much antecedent to that of which we have hitherto been speaking. The spot to which we allude is on the eastern coast of South America, in the northern part of that vast territory colonised by the inhabitants of Spain. There is a beautiful bay, or rather gulf, surrounded by lofty and picturesque cliffs, with deep ravines running up between them and several haciendas, or large farm-houses, on the surrounding ground, generally picturesquely situated, with a view of the sea in the distance. Several vessels lay at anchor, proudly pre-eminent among which was a frigate, from whose peak the ensign of Great Britain floated in the breeze.

Some way inland was a mansion of considerable size, though only one story, surrounded with deep verandas—the style of architecture general in the country. It stood at the head of a ravine, towards which the windows of its principal rooms opened, so that the inhabitants enjoyed a fine view of cliffs and rocks, and trees of every form and hue, between which a sparkling torrent found its way to the ocean, which was seen beyond the shipping in the harbour. In a room within the house, a beautiful girl was seated close to the window, but she looked not on the scene without. Her eyes were turned downwards, for at her feet knelt a youth; his glance met hers; and there was a wildness in his look, an expression of pain on his brow, which seemed to demand her pity. He was dressed in the British uniform, the single epaulet on his shoulder betokening that he held the rank of lieutenant; but his complexion was swarthy in the extreme, and his tongue spoke with facility the language of Spain.

“Hear me, beloved one!” he exclaimed, passionately pressing her hand to his lips. “My ship sails hence in a few days, but I cannot tear myself from you. For your sake I will quit my profession, my country, and the thing men call honour, and will run the risk of death, if I am retaken,—all—all for your sake. Do you love me, dearest one?”

The girl smiled faintly, and her eyes filled with tears. He again pressed her hand to his lips.

“Yes, yes; I feel that I am blessed, indeed,” he continued in the same tone. “But you must conceal me, beloved one. My life is in your hands. There will be a strict search made for me in every direction when I am missed. You will hear vile tales invented to induce those who might be sheltering me to give me up, but believe them not. Will you promise to be my preserver, my guardian angel, my idol, and I will live but to show my gratitude?”

Where is the woman’s heart which could resist such an appeal? The maiden’s doubts and hesitations were gradually disappearing.

“But we have seen little of each other, señor. Your love for a poor girl like me cannot be so strong as for my sake to make you give up all men hold most dear. The sacrifice is surely not worth the price. I do not even know your name.”

“Call me Juan, then,” he answered. “But if my fiery, ardent love meets no return, I will quit you; though, perchance, to suffer death. On board yonder accursed ship I cannot live. I am hated there; and hate in return.”

“Oh, no, señor! I will not expose you to such danger,” answered the maiden. “I have heard sad stories of that ship. Even yesterday, it is said, one of the officers murdered another, and that the murderer has fled into the country.”

The young man started and turned pale, but instantly recovering himself, he looked up affectionately into her countenance.

“But do you believe the tale?” he asked.

“I cannot but believe, señor,” she answered; “one of our slaves saw the murdered man on the beach where he fell, and the dagger sticking in his bosom.”

“But how can you suppose from that circumstance that an Englishman did the deed.”

“Because the dagger was such as the young officers wear,” answered the girl; “and they were seen walking together.”

“Know you the name, then, of the supposed murderer?” he asked.

“I could not pronounce it if I did,” she said.

“It matters not—but believe not the tale—at all events, you would not believe me guilty of such a deed?”

“Oh, heavens, certainly not!” she replied, casting a glance which told plainly the secret of her heart.

He saw that the victory was gained, and clasping her to his bosom, he urged her to form a plan for his concealment.

“No one saw me approach the house,” he observed, “so you will not be suspected; yet hasten, for should I now be observed, our difficulties would be increased.”

Where woman’s wit is sharpened by love, she finds no difficulties in serving him she loves. In a short time the stranger was concealed within the roof of the mansion, where she might, without exciting suspicion, constantly communicate with him.

Juanetta, having thus obeyed the impulse of her heart, returned to her seat near the window to meditate on the act she had performed, and the responsible office she had undertaken.

“Yet who is the stranger to whom I have given my heart?” she thought; “he loves me, surely, or he would not tell me so; and I love him—he is so handsome, so eloquent—he narrates adventures so surprising—he has done such daring deeds. It is strange, too, that he should seek to leave the ship, and that another officer should have committed a murder—oh, horrible! what fierce, bad men those on board must be, except my Juan!”

Poor girl! she was young, loving, and ignorant of the wickedness in the world, or she would have suspected even him. Her meditations were interrupted by the appearance of her father, accompanied by the alcalde, and two officers in British uniforms. They were conversing earnestly as they passed the widow, and they thus did not observe her.

“There can be no doubt of it, señor,” observed the alcalde to one of the English officers: “the murder must have been committed by him—his flight proves it.”

“Where can he have concealed himself?” said the officer. “I would give a high reward to whoever discovers him, for such a crime must not go unpunished.”

“He must still be wandering about near the coast, for without a horse—and I cannot learn that any person has supplied him with one—he cannot have escaped into the interior. The scouts also I sent out bring no intelligence of him.”

On hearing these words Juanetta turned pale, for dreadful suspicions crossed her mind; but she had vowed to protect the stranger, and she felt the necessity of appearing calm. She had scarcely time to compose herself before her father and his guests entered the apartment. Refreshments were ordered, and as she was obliged to busy herself in performing the duties of a hostess, her agitation was not observed. During the repast she listened eagerly to gain further information, but what she heard only served to increase her doubts and fears. At length her father, telling her that he would soon return, took his departure with his guests.

Unhappy Juanetta! she dared not believe what yet her reason told her was too true. Left alone, she burst into tears. They afforded some relief to her aching heart, and when calmness had again returned, she hastened to the place where she had concealed her dangerous guest. As she went, she resolved to tell him that she would see him no more, yet to assure him that her promise given, he was safe while under her father’s roof. She thought she would confess all that had passed to her father, and trusting to his generosity, entreat him to aid her in favouring the escape of the suspected criminal.

Fortunate for her had she been firm in her resolve. Alas! that passion should too often triumph over the dictates of reason! yet who can fathom the deep well of a woman’s heart? Surely not she herself, while it remains free from the rubbish, the wickedness, the knowledge of the world, those things which choke it up and foul its pure waters. Juan lay sleeping on the hard floor, yet so lightly, that he started the moment she slowly raised the trap-door which opened into the chamber, and grasping a pistol on which his hand had rested, he sprang to his feet. When he saw who was his visitor, his glance became less fierce, but still he did not quit his hold of his weapon. He was about to speak, but she, placing her finger to her mouth, signified to him to be silent till she had carefully closed the place of ingress.

“I have come, señor, to bid you prepare for instant flight.” She spoke in a low tone, and her voice faltered. “You cannot remain here in safety, for I have heard dreadful stories, and I feel sure you will be sought for here. They cannot be true; I know they cannot; but yet I wish they had not been spoken.”

“Should all the world desert me, my Juanetta will still believe me true,” exclaimed the young man as he approached her and knelt at her feet. “Do not credit those tales, dearest; they are told by my foes and tyrants to destroy me; but my vengeance will yet alight on their heads. Yet what care I what they they say or do while you, sweet angel, are my protector?”

He took the maiden’s hand, and she did not withdraw it. He pressed her hand to his lips, and his imploring glance met her eyes, already suffused with tears. She smiled, for she could not believe him false; that youth with his gallant air and bold look; crime cannot be an inhabitant of a figure so noble, she thought.

An arch-traitor was within the garrison, and the deceiver was victorious over the simple maiden. She dared not remain long in his company, lest her absence might betray her guest. To one person alone did she confide her secret, a black slave who had attended her from a child, and loved her faithfully. Her word was his law, and Mauro promised that no harm should befall the stranger. His own conceptions of right and wrong were not very clear, nor did he make very minute inquiries as to the truth of the story his mistress told him. He believed that the Englishman had been ill-treated, and had avenged himself, and he was acute enough to discover that his young mistress loved the handsome stranger. He therefore considered it his duty to please her to the utmost of his power.

The Deserter’s Dream.

Left again alone, Juan’s weary limbs sank once more beneath the power of sleep; but though the frame was still, the mind refused to be at rest. He dreamed that he was again a boy, young, innocent, and happy; but yet all the time a consciousness of the bitter truth mocked the vain illusion, like some dark phantom hovering over him; he felt and knew that the dream was false, still it seemed vivid and clear like the reality.

He thought that he lay at the feet of his fond and gentle mother, while his proud father smiled at his youthful gambols. It was in a princely hall, decked with all the luxury wealth can supply; other children were there, but he was the eldest and best beloved, the inheritor of almost boundless riches—of title and power. He had early learned his own importance; foolish nurses had not been slow to give him the baneful lesson; and while his parents believed him to be all their hearts could wish, the noxious seeds were already taking root. Years rolled on; he had gained knowledge at school, and beneath the care of his tutor, but, as regards self-government or religious feelings, he was still less educated than the poorest peasant on his father’s broad domains. At last the truth had burst on his father’s mind. His son was passionate, headstrong, self-willed, and, worse, deceitful. Every means of reclaiming him had been tried in vain, and he had determined to send him to sea under a strict captain, who promised to curb, if not to break, his spirit, if severity could influence him.

Young Hernan stood before his father, while his mother sat overpowered with grief. The carriage was waiting which was to convey him to Portsmouth. He was unmoved, for filial affection had been swallowed up by selfishness, and he fancied that he was about to lead a life of freedom and independence. He had yet to learn what a man-of-war was like. His mother pressed him to her heart, and his father strove to bless him as he turned to quit the room, for he was still his son.

The carriage rolled off, and in a few hours he was on board the ship which was to be his home and school for three long years. He learned many a lesson, it is true, but the great one came too late for him to profit by it. The first three years of his naval career passed by, and many a wild act had he committed, such as had often brought him under the censure of his superiors. That he was unreformed his father felt too surely convinced, and he was accordingly again sent to sea.

He was no longer a boy, and the irregularities of that age had grown into the vices of manhood. Yet among his equals he had friends, and, knowing their value, he took care to cultivate them. The most intimate was Edward Staunton, his superior in age by two years—one whose generous spirit, believing that he had discovered noble qualities in his companion, longed to win him back to virtue. Together they paced the deck in the midnight watch, and spoke of their future prospects, till even Hernan believed that he had resolved to amend. There are calm and often happy moments in a sailor’s life, when all the dangers of their floating home, except the watch on deck, are wrapped in sleep; and then many a youth pours into his attentive shipmate’s ears the tale of his love, his hopes and fears, and pictures the beauty of the girl he has left behind—the lady of his heart, with whom he fondly fancies he shall some day wed. Such a tale did Staunton tell; and Hernan listened carelessly at first, but afterwards with interest, as the ardent lover, delighting in the picture he was conjuring up, described the surpassing beauty of his mistress.

“Then you must introduce me to your lovely Blanche, and let me judge whether she is as fair as you paint her,” said Hernan to his companion; and Staunton, guileless himself, promised to gratify his wish.

“I shall not allow you to break your word, remember,” added Hernan.

“Never fear,” answered Staunton, laughing. “But see what a sudden change has come over the sky while we have been speaking! We shall have a reef in the topsails before many minutes are out.”

It was true. When they began their watch the sky was studded with a million stars, the dark sea was calm, and a gentle breeze filled the sails of the noble frigate. Now wild clouds were coursing each other across the arch of heaven, the light foam flew over the ocean, and the ship heeled over to the rising blast.

Scarcely had he spoken, when the voice of the officer of the watch roused his sleeping men with the order to furl the topgallant-sails quickly, followed by that to take a reef in the topsails. Hernan’s duty had led him aloft. He was careless in keeping a firm hold. The ship gave a sudden lurch, and he found himself struggling in the wild waters. He could swim, but the fall had numbed his limbs, and the ship flew past him. Despair was seizing him, when he heard the cry which arose from the deck of “a man overboard?” echoed by a hundred voices. He was sinking beneath the waves, when he felt a friendly hand grasping his arm, and once more he rose to the surface of the water, and the voice of Edward Staunton cheered him to fresh exertions. He saw, too, the bright light of the life-buoy, which floated at a short distance only from them. It was a fearful thing, though, to be left thus alone on that stormy sea, for the dim outline of the frigate was scarcely visible, and she might be unable to fetch again, while the light continued burning, the spot where they were. For his sake, Staunton had thus risked his life. With great exertions Staunton dragged him to the life-buoy, and hanging on to it, they anxiously watched the approach of the frigate.

“The boat has been swamped, and we shall be left to perish miserably here,” exclaimed Hernan. “Curses on my fate!”

“No,” cried Staunton; “hark, I hear the shouts of the people in the boat pulling towards us. The frigate must have gone far to leeward before she could be hove-to to lower one.”

Again the shouts were heard, and a dark object emerged from the obscurity which surrounded them. In a few minutes they were on board, and scarcely was the boat hoisted in than down came the tempest with tenfold fury, and vain would then have been any attempt to save him had he still been struggling in the waves. He was profuse in his professions of gratitude to Staunton, and he thought himself sincere.

The frigate returned home, her crew were paid off, and Staunton and his friend received their promotion.

“And now, Staunton, you must keep to your word, and introduce me to your beautiful friend, Miss Blanche D’Aubigné,” said Hernan, after they had been some time on shore, and had met by chance in London.

“Gladly,” answered Edward; “I have told her all about you, and she will be most glad to see you.”

So they went together to the village where the fair girl resided; it was at no great distance from the country-seat of Sir Hernan Daggerfeldt, the father of Edward’s friend. Staunton had won his promotion by his own exertions; and another step, his commander’s rank, was to be gained before he could hope to make Blanche his bride. Such was the decree of her father, who had given an unwilling consent to their union, and he felt that he had no right to murmur at the decision. A short stay on shore was all he could hope to enjoy, before he must again go afloat for two or three more weary years; but she was still very young, and he confided in her truth and love.

This Hernan knew; he was surprised and delighted when first introduced to Miss D’Aubigné, for her beauty far surpassed his expectations. He thought her far more lovely than any one he had ever met, when, with artless simplicity, she received him as the friend of her betrothed. Edward went to sea, and Hernan took up his abode at his father’s seat. Every week his visits to the village of Darlington grew more frequent, and Blanche unsuspectingly received him with pleasure, while her father, who knew his prospects, welcomed him cordially.

Hernan knew that Blanche looked on him as a friend of her intended husband, and he at first thought not of inquiring into his own feelings regarding her. Soon, however, a fierce passion sprang up in addition to the simple admiration he at first had felt. Indeed, he scarcely attempted to conceal it; but she was too pure-minded and unsuspecting to perceive the existence of the feelings she had inspired.

Thus matters went on till even she could no longer deceive herself as to Hernan’s real feelings. Horrified at the discovery, she refused to see him more, and Hernan saw that he must make a bold stroke or lose her forever. He called falsehood and treachery to his aid. He went to her father; he spoke of his own ardent love, of his future wealth, of the position he could offer; then he continued to express his regret that Edward, his friend, was unworthy of her, that he had expressed his anxiety to break off the connection, but was unwilling to wound her feelings by doing so abruptly, and therefore intended to write, when he had reached his station, to free her from her engagement. Mr D’Aubigné listened, and believed what he wished to be true; but Blanche was long incredulous, and refused to credit the tale of her intended’s disloyalty. At last, however, the cruel letter came; it was enclosed in one to Hernan. It spoke of the impolicy of early engagements, of the misery of married poverty, of the difficulty of governing the affections, and of the danger of wedding when love has begun to decay.

Hernan watched the effect of the letter, and congratulated himself on its success; still Blanche disbelieved her senses, but dared not utter her suspicions. Hernan knew, too, that it was so, yet he trusted in the versatility of his talents to bring his schemes to a successful issue.

Her father’s influence was exerted in his favour, and Blanche was told that she must discard her former lover from her heart. She had loved too truly, however, to obey the command, and she determined not to wed another till she had heard from his own lips that he was indeed changed.

Hernan Daggerfeldt knelt at the feet of Blanche D’Aubigné. He had seized her hand, and was pressing it with rapture to his lips, while she in vain endeavoured to withdraw it.

“Rise, sir, rise,” she said; “you wrong me—you wrong him who is away—your friend, the preserver of your life. While he lives, I am his, and his alone!”

“I do not wrong him,” he answered. “His nature is fickle, and if he no longer loves you, will not woman’s pride teach you to forget him?”

“I know not that he no longer loves me,” she replied.

“Did not his letter convince you?” he asked.

“That letter! No, sir,” she replied, rising proudly from her seat, and a smile of unwonted bitterness curling her lip. “That letter was a forgery.”

“On my sacred word, on my soul, it was not!” he cried, vehemently. “It is you who wrong me and my devoted love. Be mine, and let me enjoy the only heaven I seek. If I speak not the truth, may the Powers above strike me this moment dead at your feet?” Blanche shuddered at his words. At that instant a dark form seemed to rise up between them, and to gaze with threatening aspect at Hernan, while it shielded Blanche from him. Soon it assumed the form of Edward Staunton, and beckoning Hernan to follow, slowly receded from the room. Even the deceiver trembled, and daring not to disobey, followed the phantom.

It led him through dark chambers, beneath roaring waterfalls, along dizzy heights, whence the sea-birds could scarce be seen in the depths below, on the wild shore, where the fierce waves dashed with terrific fury, while the tempest raged, and the lightnings flashed around his head, and then with a derisive shriek which sounded high above the furious turmoil, disappeared amid the boiling ocean.

“Such, traitor, shall be thy fate!” were the words it spoke.

Again Hernan dreamed that Blanche had promised to be his,—a prize bought at the cost of further perjury. Edward for long had been unheard of; he was still a rover in far-off climes. Mr D’Aubigné was satisfied and rejoiced at the thoughts of finding a wealthy husband for his daughter. Hernan was with his intended bride when a messenger arrived, breathless with haste, to summon him to the deathbed of his parent.

He hurried thither to listen to a tale the old man falteringly whispered into his ear; it was enough to freeze up the current in his veins. A stigma was on his birth, and instant precautions were necessary, or the fatal secret would be discovered which would consign him to poverty and disgrace.

“You are my child,” said the proud baronet, “yet for long my wife had borne me none; at length one came into the world and died. You took its place, and my wife believed you to be her own offspring. The change was ill-managed, and the deceit is discovered by one who is my enemy, and will be yours. I fancied that no one knew it, till some years ago he came and convinced me that he was aware of the truth. He then told me that should you be worthy to succeed to my rank and fortune, the secret should die with him; but if not, my first lawful child, whom he insisted on educating under his own inspection, should be declared to have his rights. Though the terms seemed hard, I was obliged to yield to his demands, and have ever since been his slave. By his orders you were sent to sea, and will be compelled shortly again to go; and by his orders I have made you acquainted with the dreadful tale I have now told you. I know him well, and you too must become his slave. He will probably insist on your again going to sea, and you must obey him, or rue the consequences.”

Scarcely stopping to close his father’s eyes, who died shortly after this disclosure, Hernan hurried off to endeavour to propitiate the arbitrator of his destiny. The old man was inflexible. He insisted on his forthwith returning to sea, and refused to sanction his marriage with Blanche. Hernan had good cause to suspect that his character was seen through; he dared not disobey. His appointment to the frigate soon arrived, and framing an excuse to Blanche, he prepared for his departure. Blanche received the account without any regret, for though she was prepared to obey her father, she did not love Hernan, as he well knew. Her heart was still with one whom she had been told was false to her. The frigate on board which Hernan Daggerfeldt was the junior lieutenant sailed for the coast of South America. Hernan felt that he was no favourite with his brother-officers; his fierce temper and overbearing manner was one cause, while his constant scoffs at religion and honour was another. When off Rio, they fell in with a frigate carrying despatches to England. It was a dead calm, and a boat from her was sent on board them to learn intelligence from home. Two officers were in the boat; one was Staunton. Hernan in vain endeavoured to avoid him. Staunton had a thousand questions to ask, which Hernan might be able to answer respecting his beloved Blanche. Was she well? Had she received his letters?—none of hers had reached him. Hernan made the most plausible answers he could invent. They spoke in the presence of two of his brother-officers, and one of them, an old friend of Staunton’s, knew the truth. Accordingly, drawing him aside, he told him at once that he believed Hernan had been speaking falsehoods. Staunton’s indignation knew no bounds, and he taxed Hernan with his duplicity and falsehood, though the sanctity of the quarter-deck prevented him from proceeding to extremities. Hernan defended himself from the accusation, though he felt that he was discovered, and he determined to revenge himself on the man who had unmasked him to Staunton. He, however, bided his time; but he suspected that by some means or other more of his secrets might be known to his shipmate.

The frigate had been for some time on the coast of America, when, receiving some damage in a heavy gale, she put into the harbour of — to refit. She lay there for some time, and the officers were constantly, when duty allowed, on shore. It was a dark night, when Hernan, accompanied by young Selwyn, the friend of Staunton, was returning, after an excursion into the country, on board. They had left their horses at the town, and were walking along the beach on foot; young Selwyn thoughtlessly alluded to Staunton and Blanche D’Aubigné, and while he spoke the spirit of a demon entered into Hernan Daggerfeldt’s heart. A sharp cry awoke the stillness of night—a deed had been done no power on earth could recall. He fled he knew not whither; vipers seemed twining round his heart; burning coals were raining on his head, and while heavy weights were clogging his limbs, a thousand fierce bloodhounds urged him to fly. He awoke, the perspiration standing in large drops on his brow, while he gasped for breath; yet there he still lay in the loft where Juanetta had concealed him. Was all that had occurred an empty dream, or was it the re-acting of a dreadful reality?

The Flight.

The following morning Juan, or rather Hernan Daggerfeldt, was awoke by the entrance of Señor Ribiera’s black slave, with a basket of provisions.

“Why does not your mistress come to me herself?” inquired Hernan, who dreaded being abandoned by the only human being in whom he could trust.

“Donna Juanetta is with her father, and till he goes out she cannot come to see you,” answered the slave. “He is a stern man, and were he to discover that you are here without his leave, and that his daughter loved you, he would kill you without ceremony. Ah, señor! you do not know what these Spanish gentlemen are capable of.”

“Well, you must take care that he does not discover I am here till that cursed ship in the harbour has sailed away; and now listen to me—what is your name, though?”

“Mauro, at your service, señor,” said the slave.

“There, Mauro—there is a piece of gold. You shall have a larger piece by and by. It will go towards buying your freedom.”

“My freedom!” muttered the African. “What does that mean?—Ah, yes, I know. It would be of no value to me now. Had it come when I was yet young, and could have returned to those I loved across the ocean, I should have prized it. Now they are all dead, and those I love best are in this house. My mistress told me to do your bidding. What is it you require of me, señor?”

“First, I wish you to procure me a suit of Spanish clothes, fit for a gentleman to appear in, and then you must take this uniform, coat, and hat, and as soon as it is dark, carry them down to the seashore, and place them as if the waves had thrown them there. They will certainly be discovered, and it will appear that I have been drowned, and then no further search will be made after me.”

“A very good idea, señor,” said Mauro, rubbing his hands with pleasure, for he was delighted to be employed in a scheme by which those in authority, whom he looked upon as oppressors, might be deceived. Such is the feeling of slaves in general.

While her father took his siesta, Juanetta visited her prisoner, and Hernan employed the time in endeavouring to convince her of his love for her, and his innocence of the crime of which he was suspected. In both he succeeded too well.

In the evening Mauro returned with the suit of clothes he had purchased; and Hernan having exchanged them for his own, pierced the latter with his sword, and deliberately drawing blood from his arm, soaked them in it.

Mauro, who well understood what he was to do, wrapped them up in a bundle, and as soon as it was dark carried them off.

We will pass over several days, during which Daggerfeldt remained concealed without any one in the house suspecting that he was in the garret.

At last one morning Mauro came in rubbing his hands with delight. “You are free, señor, you are free!” he exclaimed; “the big ship with the many guns is even now sailing out of the harbour, and all you have got to do now is to come down to beg Señor Ribiera’s pardon for living so long in his house without his leave, and to marry his daughter.”

“Curses go with her!” ejaculated Hernan, fiercely. “I will still wreak my vengeance on some of those who sail on board her. But tell me, Mauro, did your lady say I might venture into her father’s presence?”

“Not exactly, señor, and perhaps it might be as well to prepare the old gentleman for your appearance, as he yet believes, like the rest of the world, that you are food for the sharks.”

“Then, my good Mauro, go and urge her to come here to concert the best way to release me. I pant once more to stretch my limbs on the open shore, and to breathe the pure air of heaven.”

Some time elapsed after the slave had gone to fulfil his mission before Juanetta appeared. She then came with a sad countenance and tears in her eyes.

“Oh, señor!” she said, “the ship has sailed, and I hoped that the news would have made us both happy; but, alas! when I told my father what I had done, and how I had preserved your life from those tyrants, he stormed and raved, and declared that I had behaved very wickedly, and that he would deliver you up to the authorities. Fortunately I did not tell him that you were still here; but, as Mauro had cautioned me, I led him to suppose that you had made your escape up the country.”

“That was a happy idea of yours, my Juanetta,” said Daggerfeldt. “Your father must in some way be gained to our wishes. You are his only child, and he is enormously rich, you say—plenty of gold stored up in bars in his house. Stay, I must think over the subject. Sit down by me, and I will unfold my plans.”

He was silent for some time, and then he continued, while Juanetta, who was incapable of fathoming the depths of his deceit, listened to him without suspicion.

“Now, Juanetta, dear, you must not be startled by the plan I am going to propose. From what you tell me, your father is prejudiced against me, and will not willingly give his consent to our marriage, so we must marry first, and ask his forgiveness afterwards. He will then, I have no doubt, pardon us, and give us as much gold as we may require. Now, as I have no money, and no priest will marry us without, we must contrive to borrow some of his. We can return it afterwards, you know. I propose, therefore, that you show me some night where he keeps his gold, and then I will take a little of it, as much as we may require, and then we will fly together to the nearest place where we can find a priest to unite us. Shall we not do so, dearest? The plan may seem to you dangerous and wrong, but let no fears alarm you. We will afterwards explain our motives, and the old man will forgive you.”

Poor Juanetta, had she known this world and the wickedness in it, would have flown with horror from the betrayer; but she was ignorant of its evil ways—she listened and hesitated. No arguments which sophistry could invent were left untried. The deceiver was victorious.

That night the keys of the old man’s money-chests were stolen from beneath his pillow. The following morning he found them where he had placed them, and, unsuspecting, did not think of counting his hoarded gold.

His daughter dared not again speak to him of the stranger she had preserved. He believed that he had long ago escaped into the interior, and forbore to make further inquiries about him. Daggerfeldt was no longer an inhabitant of his house.

A foreign merchant, of considerable wealth at command, had arrived, it was said, from the interior, and had taken up his abode in the town. He had become the purchaser of a large schooner, which was taking in a cargo of goods for the African coast. Don Manuel Ribiera, on hearing this, invited the stranger to his house, for he himself was a dealer in slaves, and wished to make some arrangements respecting the return cargo.

On the unexpected appearance of the stranger, Donna Juanetta started; but her presence of mind quickly returned, for she felt the importance of discretion. Her father observed her momentary confusion, and apologised to his guest, attributing it to her being unaccustomed to receive strangers.

Soon afterwards, some business called Señor Ribiera from the room, and Juanetta was left alone with their guest.

“Oh, Juan, how could you venture here?” she exclaimed to the pretended merchant, who was no other than Daggerfeldt. “My father will discover you, and your ruin and mine must follow.”

“No fear, dearest. He is blinded by the prospect of profit,” answered Hernan. “He has, too, scarcely seen me before, and then only in uniform. It was also necessary to run some risks to gain our ends. I have made all the necessary arrangements, and this night you are to be mine. The cost, however, has been considerable, and we must borrow a little more from your father’s money-chests to pay the priest who is to unite us.”

Daggerfeldt had scarcely arranged his plans with his credulous dupe when Señor Ribiera returned. As may be supposed, he was induced to arrange a plan to dispose of his slaves on his return on terms highly advantageous to the old slave-dealer; and after being entertained magnificently, he was conducted to his sleeping apartment. Instead of retiring to rest, Daggerfeldt employed himself in loading his pistols and listening attentively for the arrival of some one apparently, but not a sound disturbed the silence of the night. At last, losing patience, he opened his door, and was met by Juanetta. The poor girl was pale and trembling.

“Here are the keys,” she said; “but, oh, señor, I do not like this work—surely it is very wicked!”

“Pretty fool,” he answered, abruptly, “it is too late to recede now. There is nothing to alarm you. Wait in this room till I return.” Saying this, he was about to leave her, when footsteps were heard approaching the house. He listened attentively.

“It is right,” he observed; “those are some people I have engaged to assist us in our flight.”

Just then some men sprang into the room through the open window. Poor Juanetta uttered a cry of terror, but it was instantly silenced by Daggerfeldt, who ordered two of the men to take charge of her while the rest followed him to the chamber of Don Ribiera. The unhappy girl listened, horror-struck and bewildered. There was a cry and a groan, and soon afterwards Daggerfeldt returned, accompanied by the men carrying several heavy chests between them.

“Onward,” said the traitor, “and you, my fair lady, must accompany us. The ship is waiting to bear us to far-off lands, where you may become my bride.”

The next morning, the new slave schooner was seen in the offing, and when people went to the house of Don Ribiera, he was found dead in his bed, his money-chests were gone, and his daughter had fled, while his slaves were only just awaking from a heavy sleep, for which none of them could account. Mauro, too, had disappeared, and all the watch-dogs were dead.

Chapter Fourteen.

The Black Slaver (continued)—The Chase—The Slaver—The Capture—The Escape—The Pursuit.

The Chase.

We left her Britannic Majesty’s brig “Sylph” in chase of a strange sail on the coast of Africa. The wind was from the westward, and she was standing on a bowline to the southward, with the coast clearly seen broad on the lee-beam. Captain Staunton ordered every expedient he could think of to be tried to increase the speed of his vessel, for the stranger was evidently a very fast sailer, though it was at first difficult to say whether or not she was increasing her distance from them. At all events, the British crew soon saw that it would be hopeless to expect to come up with the stranger before dark, for the sun was just sinking below the horizon, and the thick mists were already rising over the wooded shore, and yet they appeared to be no nearer to her than they were when they first made sail in chase. It was a magnificent sailing breeze, just sufficient for both vessels to carry their topgallant-sails and royals without fear of springing their spars, and the sea was perfectly smooth, merely rippled over by the playful wind. Indeed, as the two vessels glided proudly along over the calm waters, they appeared rather to be engaged in some friendly race than anxious to lead each other to destruction. All the officers of the “Sylph” were on deck with their glasses constantly at their eyes, as the last rays of the sun tinged the royals of the chase, and so clearly was every spar and rope defined through that pure atmosphere, that it was difficult to believe that she was not within range of their guns. Captain Staunton and his first lieutenant walked together on the weather-side of the deck.

“Do you think she is the ‘Espanto,’ Mr Collins?” asked the captain.

“I have no doubt about it, sir,” answered the officer addressed. “I watched her narrowly when we chased her off Loanda the last time she was on the coast, and I pulled round her several times when she lay in the harbour of St. Jago da Cuba, just a year and a half ago.”

“She has had a long run of iniquity,” said the captain; “two years our cruisers have been on the look-out for her, and have never yet been able to overhaul her.”

“That Daggerfeldt must be a desperate villain, if report speaks true,” observed the lieutenant; “I think, sir, you seemed to say you once knew him.”

“I did, to my cost,” answered Captain Staunton; “that man’s life has been a tissue of treachery and deceit from his earliest days. He once disgraced our noble service. He murdered a shipmate and ran from his ship on the coast of America. It was reported for some time that he was dead, by his clothes having been found torn and bloody on the shore, and his family, fortunately for them, believed the story. It was, however, afterwards discovered that he had been sheltered by a Spanish girl, and, in gratitude for his preservation, he carried her off, robbed her father of all his wealth, and either frightened him to death or smothered him. The unhappy girl has, it is said, ever since sailed with him, and it is to be hoped she is not aware of the enormity of his guilt. Pirate and slaver, he has committed every atrocity human nature is capable of.”

“A very perfect scoundrel, in truth, sir,” answered Mr Collins. “It was said, too, I remember, that he was going to marry a very beautiful girl in England. What an escape for her!”

“No, he was not going to marry her!” exclaimed the captain, with unusual vehemence. “Her father, perhaps, wished it, but she would never have consented. Collins, you are my friend, and I will tell you the truth. That lady, Blanche D’Aubigné, was engaged to me, and never would have broken her faith to me while she believed me alive. By a series of forgeries, Daggerfeldt endeavoured to persuade her that I was false to her, though she would not believe him. On my return home she is to become my wife. We were to have married directly I got my promotion, but I was so immediately sent out here that I was able to spend but one day in her society. I wished to have secured her a pension in case this delightful climate should knock me on the head, but she would not hear of it. Poor girl, I have left her what little fortune I possess, Collins; I could not do less. Those who live on shore at ease can’t say we enjoy too much of the pleasures of home, or don’t earn the Queen’s biscuit. Bless her Majesty!”

“I don’t know that, sir. There are, I hear, though I never fell in with any of them, a set of lying traitors at home, who say we are no better than pirates, and want to do away with the navy altogether. If they were to succeed in their roguish projects, there would be an end of Old England altogether, say I.”

“They never will succeed, Collins, depend upon that. There is still too much sense left in the country; but if her Majesty’s government were to employ her cruisers in any other part of the world than on this pestiferous coast, the cause of humanity would benefit by the change. For every prize we capture, ten escape, and our being here scarcely raises the price of slaves in the Cuban and Brazilian markets five dollars a head; while the Spaniards and Portuguese, notwithstanding their treaties, do all they can to favour the traffic. Do we gain on the chase, do you think, Collins?”

“Not a foot, I fear, sir,” answered the lieutenant. “That brig is a fast craft, and though I don’t believe, as some of the people do, that the skipper has signed a contract with Davy Jones, she is rightly called by them the ‘Black Slaver.’”

“If the breeze freshens, we may overhaul her, but if not, she may double on us in the dark, and again get away,” observed the captain. “Take care a bright look-out is kept for’ard.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” answered the lieutenant, repeating the order and adjusting his night-glass; “she hasn’t altered her course, at all events.”

By this time daylight had totally disappeared, although a pale crescent moon in the clear sky afforded light sufficient for objects to be distinguished at some distance. Few of the officers turned in, but the watch below were ordered to their hammocks to recruit their strength for the services they might be required to perform on the morrow, as Captain Staunton had determined, should the wind fail, to attack the chase in his boats. When the enemy is well-armed and determined, this a very dangerous operation, and in the present instance there could be no doubt that he who commanded the “Black Slaver” would not yield without a desperate resistance. Lookouts were stationed at the mastheads as well as forward, and every eye was employed in endeavouring to keep her in sight—no easy task with the increasing darkness—for a light mist was gradually filling the atmosphere, and the moon itself was sinking into the ocean. The breeze, however, appeared to be increasing; the brig felt its force, and heeled gracefully over to it as the water bubbled and frothed against her bows.

“What are the odds we don’t catch her after all?” said young Wildgrave to his messmate; “I hate these long chases, when one never comes up with the enemy.”

“So do I,” answered his companion. “But to tell you the truth, I have a presentiment that we shall come up with her this time, and bring her to action too. She has escaped us twice before, and the third time will, I think, be fatal to her. By-the-by, where is she though?”

“Fore-yard, there!” sang out the first lieutenant, “can you see the chase?”

“I did a moment ago, sir;—no, sir, I can see her nowhere.”

A similar answer was returned from the other lookouts. She was nowhere visible.

The Slaver.

The “Black Slaver” well deserved her name. Her hull was black, without the usual relief of a coloured ribbon; her masts and spars were of the same ebon hue, her cargo was black, and surely her decks were dark as the darkest night. She was a very large vessel, certainly upwards of three hundred tons, and also heavily armed with a long brass gun amidships, and ten long nines in battery, besides small brass swivel-guns mounted on her quarter, to aid in defending her against an attack in boats.

Her crew was composed of every nation under the sun, for crime makes all men brothers, but brothers who, Cainlike, were ready any moment to imbrue their hands in each other’s blood; and their costume was as varied as their language—a mixture of that of many nations. A mongrel Spanish, however, was the language in which all orders were issued, as being that spoken by the greater number of the people. She was a very beautiful and powerful vessel, and all the arrangements on board betokened strict attention to nautical discipline. For more than two years she had run her evil career with undeserved success, and her captain and owner was reputed to be a wealthy man, already in possession of several estates in Cuba. Slaving was his most profitable and safe occupation, mixed up with a little piracy, as occasion offered, without fear of detection. Several slavers had unaccountably disappeared, which had certainly not been taken by English cruisers, and others had returned to the coast complaining that they had been robbed of their slaves by a large armed schooner, which had put on board a few bales of coloured cottons, with an order to them to go back and take in a fresh cargo of human beings. The “Espanto” was more than suspected of being the culprit; but she was always so disguised that it was difficult to bring the accusation home to her, while they themselves being illegally employed, could obtain no redress in a court of law.

She had for some time been cruising, as usual, in the hopes of picking up a cargo without taking the trouble of looking into the coast for it, when, weary of waiting, and being short of water and provisions, the captain determined to run the risk of procuring one by the usual method.

From the ruse practised by the “Sylph,” she was not seen by his lookouts till he was nearly close up to her. He was in no way alarmed, however, for he recognised the British man-of-war, and knowing the respective rate of sailing of the two vessels, felt certain, if the wind held, to be able to walk away from her. To make certain what she was, he had stood on some time after he had first seen her, a circumstance which had, as we mentioned, somewhat surprised Captain Staunton and his officers. Having ascertained that the sail inside of him was the “Sylph,” he hauled his wind, and making all sail, before an hour of the first watch had passed, aided by the darkness, he had completely run her out of sight. When he stood in he had been making for the Pongos River; but being prevented from getting in there, he determined to run for the Coanza River, some forty miles further to the south, before daybreak, and as the mouth is narrow, and entirely concealed by trees, he had many chances in his favour of remaining concealed there while the British man-of-war passed by. A slave-agent, also, of his resided in the neighbourhood, who would be able to supply him at the shortest notice, and at moderate prices, with a cargo of his fellow-beings. At this rendezvous he knew there would be a look-out for him, and that there were pilots ready to assist him in entering the river.

“Square the yards and keep her away, Antonio,” he sung out to his first mate, a ferocious-looking mulatto, who was conning the vessel. “We are just abreast of — Point, and Diogo, if he has his eyes open, ought to see us.”

The helm was kept up, the yards were squared, and the vessel stood stem on towards the shore.

Before long the dark line of a tree-fringed coast was visible, when she was again brought to the wind; her lower sails were furled, and she was hove-to under her topsails.

“We must make a signal, or the lazy blacks will never find us out, señor captain,” observed Antonio to his chief.

“Yes, we must run the risk: we shall not be in before daylight if we do not, and the enemy will scarcely distinguish from what direction the report of the gun comes. Be smart about it though.”

A gun from the lee quarter was accordingly discharged, the dull echoes from which were heard rebounding along the shore, and directly afterwards a blue-light was fired, the bright flame giving a spectre-like appearance to the slaver and her evil-doing crew. They might well have been taken for one of those phantom barks said to cruise about the ocean either to warn mariners of coming danger or to lure them to destruction.

Soon afterwards a small light was seen to burst out, as it seemed, from the dark line, and to glide slowly over the water towards them. Gradually it increased, and as it approached nearer, it was seen to proceed from a fire burning in the bow of a large canoe pulled by a dozen black fellows. When it came alongside, two of them scrambled on board, and recognising the captain, welcomed him to the coast. Their language was a curious mixture of Spanish, Portuguese, English, and African.

“Ah, señor captain, berry glad you et Espanto, come esta nocha, viento es favoravel, for run up de river Diogo—me vos on the look-out you, sabe.”

Having thus delivered himself, the chief pilot went aft to the helm with much the same air as one of his European brethren, habited in Flushing coat and tarpaulin hat, although the only garment he boasted was a blue shirt, secured at the waist by a piece of spun-yarn, and a red handkerchief bound round his head.

“Up with the helm, then square away the yards!” sung out the captain, and the vessel, under the direction of the negro, was standing dead on to the apparently unbroken line of dark shore.

It required great confidence in the honesty and knowledge of the pilot for the crew not to believe that he was running the schooner on shore, for such a thing had been more than once before done.

“Remember,” whispered Antonio, as he passed him, “if the vessel touches, my pistol sends a ball through your head.”

“No tien duvida, señor, contremestre,” answered Quacko, quite unmoved by the threat, as being one to which he was well accustomed.

“Viento favoravel, rio fundo. Have de anchor pronto to let go.”

The bowsprit of the schooner was now almost among the mangrove bushes.

“Stivordo!” sung out the pilot.

A yellow line of sand was seen over her quarter. This seemed to spring up from the sea on either side, like dark, shapeless phantoms, eager to destroy the slaver’s crew, the spirits of those their cruelty had sent from this world. Taller and taller they grew, for so calmly did the vessel glide on, that she appeared not to move, yet the broad open sea was completely shut out from the view of those on board; a narrow dark line, in which the reflection of a star was here and there visible, was the only water seen as still, on the schooner moved.

“Bombordo!” sung out the pilot.

The helm was put to port, and the schooner glided into another passage, her yards, as they were squared away or braced up to meet the alterations in her course, almost brushing the branches of the lofty trees. For some minutes more she ran on, till the stream grew suddenly wider, and a little bay, formed by a bend of the shore, appeared on the starboard hand, into which she glided. The anchor was let go, the topsails were furled, and so entirely was she concealed by the overhanging boughs, that a boat might have passed down the centre of the stream without seeing her.

At dawn the next morning a busy scene was going on on board and round the slaver. Her crew, aided by a number of negroes, were employed in setting up her rigging and fitting slave-decks, while several canoes were assisting her boats in bringing water and provisions alongside. Thus they were employed without cessation for two days. There was no play, it was all hard, earnest work. It is a pity they were not labouring in a good cause instead of a bad one.

In the mean time the King of —, as he was called, in reality the principal slave-dealer and greatest rogue in the district, was collecting the negroes who had been kidnapped by him or his allies, from whom he had bought them in the neighbouring provinces—some as they were quietly fishing in their canoes on the coast, others as they were seated beneath the shade of the palm-tree in their native forest, or were coming from the far interior with a load of oil or ivory, to sell to the nearest trader—untutored savages, who perhaps had never before seen the face of a white man, or the blue dancing ocean. It is no wonder that they paint the Devil white, and believe the sea is the passage to his realms. Eight hundred human beings were thus collected to be conveyed in that fell bark to the Far West, there to wear out their lives in hopeless slavery.

The greater part of the fourth day was spent in receiving half the number on board, and stowing them below. This operation was performed by men whose especial trade it is. The unhappy wretches are compelled to sit down with their legs bent under them, so closely packed that they cover but little more space than the length of their feet, between-decks, little more than a yard high; and thus they remain, bolted down to the decks, the whole voyage, a few only being allowed to come up at a time to be aired, while the smallest quantity of water possible is afforded them to quench their burning thirst.

The Capture.

The work for the day was nearly concluded, and the captain of the slaver was walking by himself beneath the awning spread over the after-part of the deck, when he observed a canoe suddenly dart out of the main stream into the bay where the schooner lay concealed. It was soon alongside, when a black jumped on board.

“Señor capitan, you must be pronto,” he said. “Big man-of-war come, big canoe, mucho hombres, come up river.”

“Ah, have they found me out?” muttered the captain to himself. “I’ll give them a warm reception if they do come. Very well, Queebo,” he said aloud, “now pull back and watch them narrowly. Take care they don’t see you, and come and report their movements to me.”

At a signal all the crew were summoned on board, the awning was handed, boarding-nettings were triced up, the guns were double-shotted and run out, and a thick screen of boughs was carried across the part of the bay so as still further to conceal the schooner from the eye of any stranger. Two guns were also sent on shore and planted in battery, so as to command the entrance of the bay. Every other precaution was likewise taken to avoid discovery; all fires were extinguished, and the blacks were ordered to remove from the neighbourhood.

By the time these arrangements had been made, the scout returned to give notice that two boats had entered the river, and were exploring one of the numerous passages of the stream. The captain on this ordered the scout to remain on board, lest he might betray their whereabouts to the enemy. He had no wish to destroy the boats, as so doing would not benefit him; concealment, not fighting, was his object. When night, however, came on, he sent out the scout to gain further intelligence. Scarcely had the man gone, when he returned, and noiselessly stepped on deck.

“Hist, señor, hist!” he whispered. “They are close at hand, little dreaming we are near them.”

“Whereabouts?” inquired the captain.

“On the other side of the long island which divides the middle from the southern stream,” was the substance of the reply.

“We’ll attack them then, and either kill or make them all prisoners. They may be useful as hostages,” muttered the captain, and calling Antonio to him, he ordered him to man two boats with the most trustworthy of their people, and carefully to muffle the oars. This done, both boats left the schooner, under his command, in the direction indicated by the scout.

They pulled across the channel to a thickly-wooded island indicated by the scout. The negro landed, and in a few minutes came back.

“Dere dey are, señor,” he whispered; “you may kill all fast asleep; berry good time now; no make noise.”

On hearing this, the slavers, all of whom were armed to the teeth, advanced cautiously across the island, by a path with which Queebo seemed well acquainted. The black pointed between the trees, and there was seen the head of a man, fast asleep in the stern-sheets of a boat. Just then a light rustling noise was heard, and a figure was seen advancing close up to where the slavers were crouching down, ready for the command of their officer to fire.

He advanced slowly, looking out for the very path apparently by which they had gained the spot. He reached within almost an arm’s length of the captain. The impulse was irresistible; and before the stranger was aware any one was near him, he was felled to the ground, and a handkerchief was passed over his mouth, so that he could not utter a cry for help. Two other men, who were doing duty as sentinels on shore, were in like manner surprised and gagged, without uttering a sound to alarm the rest. The slavers then advanced close up to the nearest boat, and pouring a volley from their deadly trabucos into her, killed or wounded nearly all her crew. A larger boat was moored at some little distance farther on, and her people being aroused by the firing, they at once shoved off into the stream, which the survivors of the other also succeeded in doing. They then opened a fire on the slavers, but sheltered as they were among the trees, it was ineffectual.

The contest was kept up for some time; but reduced in strength as the crews of the boats were, they were at last obliged to retreat, while the slavers returned with their prisoners to the schooner. As the slavers’ boats were left on the other side of the island, which extended for more than a mile towards the sea, they were unable to follow their retreating enemy had they been so inclined; but in fact they did not relish the thought of coming in actual contact with British seamen, as they had good reason in believing the enemy to be, although weakened and dispirited by defeat.

When the prisoners, who had not uttered a word, were handed up on deck, the captain ordered lights to be brought, for he had no longer any fear of being discovered. One evidently, by his uniform, was an officer; the other two were seamen. The captain paced the deck in the interval before lights were brought, grinding his teeth and clinching his fists with rage, as he muttered to himself,—

“He shall die—he wears that hated uniform: it reminds me of what I once was. Oh, this hell within me! blood must quench its fire.”

A seaman now brought aft a lantern; its glare fell as well on the features of the prisoner as on that of the slave captain. Both started.

“Staunton!” ejaculated the latter.

“Daggerfeldt!” exclaimed the prisoner.

“You know me, then?” said the captain of the slaver, bitterly; “it will avail you little, though. I had wished it had been another man; but no matter—you must take your chance.”

The slaver’s crew were now thronging aft.

“Well, meos amigos,” he continued, in a fierce tone, “what is to be done with these spies? You are the judges, and must decide the case.”

“Enforca-los—hang them, hang them—at least the officer. The other two may possibly enter, and they may be of service: we want good seamen to work the vessel, and these English generally are so.”

“You hear what your fate is to be,” said Daggerfeldt, turning to Captain Staunton. “You had better prepare for it. You may have some at home to regret your loss. If you have any messages, I will take care to transmit them. It is the only favour I can do you.”

While he spoke, a bitter sneer curled his lip, and his voice assumed a taunting tone, which he could not repress.

The gallant officer, proud in his consciousness of virtue, confronted the villain boldly.

“I would receive no favour, even my life, from one whose very name is a disgrace to humanity. Even if the message I were to send was conveyed correctly, it would be polluted by the bearer. It would be little satisfaction for my friends to know that I was murdered in an African creek by the hands of a rascally slaver.”

While Staunton was uttering these words, which he did in very bitterness of spirit, for, knowing the character of the wretch with whom he had to deal, he had not the remotest hope of saving either his own life or that of his people, the rage of Daggerfeldt was rising till it surpassed his control.

“Silence!” he thundered, “or I will brain you on the spot!”

But Staunton stood unmoved.

“Madman, would you thus repay me for the life I saved?” he asked, calmly.

“A curse on you for having saved it,” answered the pirate, fiercely, returning his sword, which he had half drawn from its scabbard. “My hand, however, shall not do the deed. Here, Antonio Diogo, here are the spies who wish to interfere in our trade, and would send us all to prison, or to the gallows, if they could catch us.”

“The end of a rope and a dance on nothing for the officer, say I,” answered the mulatto mate. “See what his followers will do; speak to them in their own lingo, captain, and ask them whether they choose to walk overboard or join us.”

While he was speaking, some of the crew brought aft the two British seamen, with their hands lashed behind them. Others, headed by Antonio, immediately seized Captain Staunton, and led him to the gangway, one of the men running aloft to reeve a rope through the studding-sail sheet-block on the main-yard. Staunton well knew what the preparations meant, but he trembled not; his whole anxiety was for the boats’ crews he had led in the expedition which had ended so unfortunately, and for the two poor fellows whose lives, he feared, were about also to be sacrificed by the miscreants.

The British seamen watched what was going forward, and by the convulsive workings of their features, and the exertions they were making to free their arms, were evidently longing to strike a blow to rescue him. Daggerfeldt was better able to confront them than he had been to face Staunton.

“You are seamen belonging to a man-of-war outside this river, and you came here to interfere with our affairs?”

“You’ve hit it to an affigraphy, my bo’,” answered one of the men, glad, at all events, to get the use of his tongue. “We belongs to her Majesty’s brig ‘Sylph,’ and we came into this here cursed hole to take you or any other slaver we could fall in with; and now you knows what I am, I’ll just tell you what you are—a runaway scoundrel of a piccarooning villain, whom no honest man would consort with, or even speak to, for that matter, except to give him a bit of his mind; and if you’re not drowned, or blown up sky high, you’ll be hung, as you deserve, as sure as you’re as big a rascal as ever breathed. Now, put that in your pipe, my bo’, and smoke it.”

While he was thus running on, to the evident satisfaction of his shipmate, who, indifferent to their danger, seemed mightily to enjoy the joke, Daggerfeldt in vain endeavoured to stop him.

“Silence!” he shouted, “or you go overboard this moment!”

“You must bawl louder than that, my bo’, if you wants to frighten Jack Hopkins, let me tell you,” answered the undaunted seaman. “What is it you want of us? Come, out with it; some villainy, I’ll warrant.”

The captain of the slaver ground his teeth with fury, but he dared not kill the man who was bearding him, for he could not explain to his crew the nature of the offence, a very venial one in their eyes, and he wanted some good seamen.

“I overlook your insolence,” he answered, restraining his passion. “My crew are your judges. You have been convicted of endeavouring to capture us, and they give you your choice of joining us, or of going overboard; the dark stream alongside swarms with alligators. That fate is too good for your captain: he is to be hung.”

“Why, what a cursed idiot you must be to suppose we’d ship with such a pretty set of scoundrels as you and your men are,” answered Jack Hopkins, with a laugh. “I speak for myself and for Bob Short, too. It’s all right, Bob, I suppose?” he said, turning to his companion. “There’s no use shilly-shallying with these blackguards.”

“Ay, ay; I’m ready for what you are,” replied Bob Short, who had gained his name from the succinctness of his observations apparently, rather than from his stature, for he was six feet high, while the name by which Jack Hopkins was generally known on board was Peter Palaver, from his inveterate habits of loquacity.

“Well, then, look ye here, Mr Daggerfeldt, I knowed you many years ago for an ill-begotten spawn of you knows what, and I knows you now for the biggest scoundrel unhung, so you must just take the compliments I’ve got to give you. Now for the matter of dying, I’d rather die with a brave, noble fellow like our skipper than live in company with a man who has murdered his messmate, has seduced the girl who sheltered him from justice, and would now hang the man who saved his life. Your favours! I’ll have none on ’em.”

The fierce pirate and slaver stood abashed before the wild outbreak of the bold sailor, but quickly recovering himself, livid and trembling with rage, he shouted out to his crew—

“Heave these fools of Englishmen overboard; they know more of our secrets than they ought, and will not join us. Send this talking fellow first.”

“If it comes to that, I can find my tongue too, let me tell you,” exclaimed Bob Short; “you’re a murderous, rascally, thieving—”

“Heave them both together,” shouted Daggerfeldt.

“Stay,” said Antonio, who was refined in his cruelty; “let them have the pleasure of seeing their captain hang first, since they are so fond of him. He well knows what their fate will be, and perhaps he would rather they went overboard than joined us.”

“Do as you like, but let it be done quickly,” answered Daggerfeldt. “I’m sick of this work, and we must be preparing to get out of the river, or their friends will be sending in here to look for us.”

Hopkins and Short did not understand a word of this conversation, and finding themselves brought close up to where their captain stood engaged in his devotions, and preparing like a brave man for inevitable death, they believed that they were to share his fate.

“Well, I’m blowed if that ain’t more than I expected of the beggars,” whispered Jack Hopkins to his companion; “they’re going to do the thing that’s right after all, and launch us in our last cruise in the same way as the captain.”

“Jack, can you pray?” asked Bob Short.

“Why, for the matter of that I was never much of a hand at it,” answered Jack; “but when I was a youngster I was taught to thank God for all his mercies, and I do so still. Why do you ask?”

“I was thinking as how as the skipper is taking a spell at it, whether we might ask him just to put in a word for us. He knows more about it, and a captain of a man-of-war must have a greater chance of being attended to than one of us, you see, Jack.”

Poor Bob could never thus have exerted himself had he not felt that he should only have a few words more to speak in this life. Jack looked at him in surprise.

“I’ll ask him, Bob, I’ll ask him; but you know as how the parson says, in the country we are going to all men are equal, and so I suppose we ought to pray for ourselves.”

“But we are still in this world, Jack,” argued the other; “Captain Staunton is still our captain, and we are before the mast.”

He spoke loud, and Captain Staunton had apparently overheard the conversation, for he smiled and looked towards them. He had been offering up a prayer to the throne on high for mercy for the failings of the two honest fellows, whose ignorance it was now too late to enlighten. Antonio was a pious Catholic, and, villain as he was, he was unwilling not to give the chance of a quiet passage into the other world to his victims.

“What are you about there?” shouted Daggerfeldt; “is this work never to end?”

“The men are praying, señor, before they slip their cables for eternity,” answered Antonio.

“Is there an eternity?” muttered the pirate, and shuddered.

On Captain Staunton’s turning his head, on which the light from the lantern fell strongly, Antonio believed it was the signal that he was prepared,—“Hoist away!” he shouted, in Spanish; but at that instant a light female form rushed forth from the cabin, and seizing the whip, held it forcibly down with one hand while she disengaged the noose from the captain’s neck.

“Oh, Juan! have you not murders enough on your head already that you must commit another in cold blood?” she exclaimed, turning to Daggerfeldt, “and that other on one who saved your life at the risk of his own. I knew him—before all my misery began, and recognised him at once. If you persist, I leave you; you know me well, I fear not to die; Antonio, you dare not disobey me. Unreeve that rope, and leave me to settle with our captain regarding these men.”

The slaver’s crew stood sulky and with frowning aspect around her, yet they in no way interrupted her proceedings, while Daggerfeldt stood a silent spectator in the after-part of the vessel.

“Unreeve that rope! again I say,” she exclaimed, stamping on the deck with her foot. The order was obeyed without the captain’s interference. “Your lives are safe for the present,” she said, addressing the Englishmen. “I know that man’s humour, and he dares not now contradict me. I am the only thing who yet clings to him, the only one he thinks who loves him, the only being in whom he can place his trust; that explains my power.” She spoke hurriedly and low, so that Staunton alone could hear her, and there was scorn in her tone. “Cast those men loose,” she continued, turning to the crew, while with her own hands she undid the cords which lashed Staunton’s arms, and as she did so she whispered, “Keep together, and edge towards the arms-chest. There are those on board who will aid me if any attempt is made to injure you.”

Saying this she approached the captain of the slaver; she touched his arm: “Juan,” she said, in a softened tone, totally different from that in which she had hitherto spoken; “I am wayward, and have my fancies. I felt certain that your death would immediately follow that of those men. I was asleep in my cabin, and dreamed that you were struggling in the waves, and they, seizing hold of you, were about to drag you down with them.”

Daggerfeldt looked down at her as she stood in a supplicating attitude before him. “You are fanciful, Juanetta; but you love me, girl.”

“Have I not proved it?” she answered in a tone of sadness; “you will save the lives of these men?”

“I tell you I will. We will carry them in chains to Cuba, and there sell them as slaves.”

“You must let them go free here,” she answered.

“Impossible, Juanetta; do you wish to betray me?” he asked, fiercely. “Go to your cabin. The men shall not be hurt, and they will be better off than the blacks on board.”

She was silent, and then retired to her cabin, speaking on her way a word to a negro who stood near the entrance. “Mauro,” she said, “watch those men, and if you observe any signs of treachery, let me know.”

The black signified that he comprehended her wishes, and would obey them.

The Escape.

Captain Staunton and his companions were not allowed to remain long at liberty; for as soon as the lady had retired, at a sign from Daggerfeldt, the slaver’s crew again attempted to lash their arms behind them, not, however, without some resistance on the part of Hopkins and Short. The most zealous in this work was the negro Mauro, who contrived, as he was passing a rope round Captain Staunton’s arm, to whisper in his ear, “Make no resistance, señor, it is useless. You have friends near you. Tell your followers to keep quiet. They can do themselves no good.”

Staunton accordingly told his men to follow his example, when they quietly submitted to their fate. Before this, he had contemplated the possibility of their being able to succeed in getting arms from the arms-chest, and either selling their lives dearly, or jumping overboard and attempting to reach the shore. In most slavers the lower deck is devoted entirely to the slaves and the provisions, the men sleeping under a topgallant-forecastle, or sometimes on the open deck, and the captain and mates under the poop deck. There was, therefore, no spare place in which to confine the prisoners, and they were accordingly told to take up their quarters under an awning stretched between two guns in the waist. This was better accommodation than they could have expected, for not only were they sheltered partially from the dew, but were screened from the observation of the crew, and were not subject to the suffocating heat of the between-decks.

A night may, however, be more agreeably spent than on a hard plank, up an African river, with a prospect of being sent to feed the alligators in the morning, and the certainty of a long separation from one’s friends and country, not to speak of the nine hundred and ninety-nine chances out of a thousand of one’s losing one’s health, if not one’s life, by the insatiable yellow-fever.

The reflections of Captain Staunton were most bitter. He thought not of himself, but of her he had loved so long and faithfully; she would believe him dead, and he knew how poignant would be her grief. He felt sure that she would not be faithless to his memory, but months, even years, might pass before he might escape, or have the means of informing her of his existence. While these ideas were passing through his mind, it was impossible to sleep. There were, too, the midnight noises of the African clime: the croaking of frogs, the chirrup of birds, the howl of wild beasts, the cries, if not of fish, of innumerable amphibious animals of flesh and fowl, and, more than all, the groans and moans of the unhappy beings confined in their noisome sepulchre below; all combined to make a concert sounding as might the distant echoes of Pandemonium. At length, however, towards the morning, nature gave way, and he forgot himself and his unfortunates in slumber. It had not lasted many minutes when he was aroused by a hand placed on his shoulder, while a soft hush was whispered in his ear. At the same time he felt that there was a knife employed in cutting the ropes which bound his arms. Something told him that the person performing this office was a friend, so he did not attempt to speak, but quietly waited to learn what, he was next expected to do. Again the voice whispered in his ear,—

“Arouse your companions, if possible, but beware that they do not speak aloud; caution them in their ear as I did you—their heads are near where yours lies.”

The voice which spoke, from its silvery tones, Staunton felt certain was that of a female, as was the hand which loosened his bonds. Without hesitation, therefore, he did as he was desired, and putting his mouth down to Hopkins’s ear, he ordered him on his life not to utter a word. Jack was awake in a moment, and alive to the state of affairs. They had more difficulty in arousing Bob Short, who uttered several very treacherous groans and grunts before he was quite awake, though he fortunately did not speak. Had Captain Staunton been aware that a sentry was actually posted outside the screen, he would have trembled for their safety. Fortunately the man was fast asleep, reclining against the bulwarks—a fact ascertained by Jack Hopkins, who poked his head from under the screen to ascertain how the coast lay. Not a sound was heard to give notice that any of the crew were stirring on deck. Staunton, feeling that his best course was to trust implicitly to his unseen guide, waited till he received directions how to proceed. He soon felt himself pulled gently by the arm towards the nearest port, which was sufficiently raised to enable him to pass through it. On putting his head out, he perceived through the obscurity a canoe with a single person in it, hanging on alongside the schooner. His guide dropped noiselessly into it, and took her place in the stern; Staunton cautiously followed, and seating himself in the afterthwart, found a paddle put into his hands; Jack and Bob required no one to tell them what to do, but quickly also took their places in the boat. As soon as they were seated, the man who was first in the canoe shoved her off gently from the side of the schooner; and while the guide directed their course, began to paddle off rapidly towards the centre of the stream. So dexterously did he apply his oar, that not a splash was heard, though the canoe darted quickly along through the ink-like current without leaving even a ripple in her wake. Not a word was uttered by any of the party; every one seemed to be aware of the importance of silence, and even Peter Palaver forebore to cut a joke, which he felt very much inclined to do, as he found himself increasing his distance from the black slaver.

The Pursuit.

The canoe held her silent course down the dark and mirror-like stream towards the sea. Not a breath of wind moved the leaves of the lofty palm-trees which towered above their heads, casting their tall shadows on the calm waters below, while here and there a star was seen piercing as it were through the thick canopy of branches; the air was hot and oppressive, and a noxious exhalation rose from the muddy banks, whence the tide had run off. Now and then a lazy alligator would run his long snout above the surface of the stream, like some water demon, and again glide noiselessly back into his slimy couch.

“Tell your people to take to their paddles and ply them well,” said the guide, in a louder tone than had hitherto been used.

Staunton was now certain that it was Juanetta’s voice—that of the lady who had preserved his life.

“We are still some distance from the sea, in reaching which is our only chance of safety; for if we are overtaken—and the moment our flight is discovered, we shall be pursued—our death is certain.”

The instant Bob and Jack had leave to use their paddles they plied them most vigorously, and the canoe, which had hitherto glided, now sprang, as it were, through the water, throwing up sparkling bubbles on either side of her sharp bows.

“Pull on, my brave men,” she exclaimed to herself, more than to the seamen, “every thing depends on our speed. The tide is still making out, and if we can clear the mouth of the river before the flood sets in all will be well.”

She spoke in Spanish, a language Staunton understood well. Her eye was meantime turning in every direction as her hand skilfully guided the boat.

“There are scouts about who might attempt to stop us if they suspected we were fugitives. I have, however, the pass-word, and can without difficulty mislead them if we encounter any. Your own people, too, may be in the river looking out for the schooner.”

“I think not,” answered Staunton. “We had lost one of our boats, and as I am believed dead, my successor (poor fellow, how he will be disappointed!) will, if he acts wisely, not attempt to capture the ‘Espanto’ except with the ‘Sylph’ herself.”

“The greater necessity, then, for our getting out to sea. It is already dawn. Observe the red glare bursting through the mist in the eastern sky, just through the vista of palm-trees up that long reach. We shall soon have no longer the friendly darkness to conceal us.”

As she was speaking a large canoe was seen gliding calmly up the stream, close in with the bank. The people in her hailed in the negro language, and the man who was first in the canoe promptly answered in the same.

“Ask them if they have seen the English man-of-war,” said Juanetta.

The negroes answered that she was still riding at anchor off the mouth of the river.

“We shall thus be safe if we can reach the open sea,” she observed; “but we have still some miles to row before we can get clear of the treacherous woods which surround us; and perhaps when our flight is discovered, our pursuers may take one of the other channels, and we may find our egress stopped at the very mouth of the stream. This suspense is dreadful.”

“We may yet strike a blow for you, and for our own liberty, señora,” answered Staunton. “It was fortunate the obscurity prevented the people in the canoe from discovering us.”

“That matters little. No one would venture to stop me but that man, that demon rather in human disguise, Daggerfeldt, as you call him,” she replied, bitterly, pronouncing the name as one to which she was unaccustomed. “Ah, señor; love—ardent, blind, mad love—can be turned to the most deadly hatred. Criminal, lost as I have been, I feel that there is a step further into iniquity, and that step I have refused to take. The scales have fallen from my eyes, and I have seen the enormity of my wickedness, and have discovered the foulness of my wrongs. From his own lips the dreadful information came. In the same breath he acknowledged that he had murdered my father and deceived me. As he slept he told the dreadful tale; the sight of you conjured up the past to his memory; other murders he talked of, and treachery of all sorts attempted. He mocked, too, at me, and at my credulity. I learned also that he still contemplated your destruction as well as mine. I who had preserved his life, who had sacrificed my happiness here and hereafter for his sake, was to be cast off for another lady fairer and younger, so it seemed to me, but I could not understand all his words, for sometimes he spoke in his native language, sometimes in Spanish. Enough was heard to decide me. I had long contemplated quitting him. I knew that it was wrong remaining, but had not strength before to tear asunder my bonds, till the feeling that I might rescue you, and make some slight reparation to heaven for my wickedness, gave me strength to undertake the enterprise. There, señor, you know the reason of your liberation; my trusty Mauro, who has ever been faithful, provided the means.”

She spoke in a hurried tone, and her sentences were broken, as if she hesitated to speak of her disgrace and misery, but yet was urged on by an irresistible impulse. Even while she was speaking her eye was on the alert, and her hand continued skilfully to guide the canoe. The stars had gradually disappeared, sinking as it were into a bed of thick leaden-coloured mist, which overspread the narrow arch overhead, while in the east a red glow appeared which melted away as the pale daylight slowly filled the air. It was day, but there was no joyousness in animated nature, or elasticity in the atmosphere, as at that time in other regions. A sombre hue tinted the trees, the water, and the sky; even the chattering of innumerable parrots, and the cries of those caricatures of men, many thousands of obscene monkeys, appeared rather to mock at than to welcome the return of the world to life.

The canoe flew rapidly on. Suddenly Juanetta lifted her paddle from the water; her ears were keenly employed.

“Hark!” she said, “cease rowing; there is the sound of oars in the water. Ah! it is as I thought. There is a boat endeavouring to cut us off by taking another channel; she is still astern of us though, but we must not slack our exertions.”

Captain Staunton redoubled his efforts, as did his men on his telling them they were pursued. After the story he had heard, he was now doubly anxious to rescue the unfortunate girl from the power of the miscreant Daggerfeldt. They now entered a broader reach of the river below the fork, where the channel which Juanetta supposed their pursuers had taken united with the one they were following. They had got some way down it when Staunton observed a large boat emerging from behind the woody screen. Juanetta judged from his eye that he had caught sight of the boat.

“Is it as I thought?” she asked, calmly.

Staunton told her that he could distinguish a boat, evidently pursuing them, but whether she belonged to his ship or to the slaver, he could not judge.

“We must not stay to examine; if we were mistaken we should be lost,” she observed; “but we have the means of defending ourselves—see, I had fire-arms placed in the bottom of the canoe, and here are powder-horns under the seat. Mauro has carefully loaded them, and if they attempt to stop us we must use them.”

On they pulled, straining every nerve to the utmost, but the canoe was heavily laden, and the boat gained on them. Staunton trusted that their pursuers might be his own people, but his hope vanished when one of them rose; there was a wreath of smoke, a sharp report, and a bullet flew over their heads and splintered the branch of a tree which grew at the end of a point they were just then doubling.

“Aim lower next time, my bo’, if you wish to wing us,” shouted Jack Hopkins, who saw no use in longer keeping silence.

“Ah!” exclaimed Juanetta, “the blue sea—we may yet escape.”

As she spoke, another shot better aimed took effect on the quarter of the canoe, but did no further injury. It showed, however, that there were good marksmen in the boat intent on mischief, and that they were perilously near already. For some time they were again shut out from their pursuers, but as the latter doubled the last point, they had, too evidently, gained on them.

“If any one again rises to fire, you must take also to your arms, señor,” said Juanetta, a shudder passing through her frame; “and if it is he, kill him—kill him without remorse. He has shown none. That rifle at your feet was his—it was always true to its aim.”

She had scarcely ceased speaking, when a figure stood up in the boat. It seemed to have the likeness of Daggerfeldt. Staunton seized the rifle to fire—he was too late. Ere he had drawn the trigger, a flash was seen, and Juanetta, with a wild shriek, fell forward into the canoe. Staunton fired; the man who had sent the fatal shot stood unharmed, but the oar of one fell from his grasp, and got entangled with those of the others. This would have enabled the canoe to recover her lost ground, had not Mauro, on seeing his beloved mistress fall, thrown up his paddle, exclaiming that he wished to die with her.

“She may yet be saved if you exert yourself,” cried Staunton, in Spanish; “row—for your life row; I will attend to your mistress.”

Urged by the officer’s commanding tone, the negro again resumed his paddle. Staunton, still guiding the canoe, raised Juanetta, and placed her back in the stern-sheets—she scarcely breathed. The ball had apparently entered her neck, though no blood was to be seen. He suspected the worst, but dared not utter his fears lest Mauro should again give way to his grief. Several other shots were fired at them from the boat, which was rapidly gaining on them. They were close on the bar, in another moment they would be in clear water.

The slaver crew shouted fiercely; again a volley was fired, the balls from which went through and through the sides of the slight canoe, without wounding any one, but making holes for the water to rush in. One more volley would sink them, when a loud cheerful shout rung in their ears, and two boats with the British ensign trailing from the stern were seen pulling rapidly towards them.

Jack Hopkins and Bob Short answered the hail; the pirates, too, saw the boats, they ceased rowing, and then pulling round, retraced their course up the river. The canoe, with the rapid current, flew over the bar, and had barely time to get alongside the barge of the “Sylph,” when she was full up to the thwarts. We need not say that his crew welcomed Captain Staunton’s return in safety with shouts of joy, after they had believed him dead.

With the strong current then setting out of the river it was found hopeless to follow the slaver’s boat. They were soon alongside the brig.

Poor Juanetta was carried carefully to the captain’s cabin, watched earnestly by Mauro. The surgeon examined her wound.

“Her hours are numbered,” he said. “No art of mine can save her.”

The Action.

Calm and treacherously beautiful as was the morning on which Captain Staunton regained his ship, scarcely had she got under way to stand in closer to the mouth of the river, in order to watch more narrowly for the schooner, should she attempt to run out, than a dark cloud was seen rising over the land. It appeared on a sudden, and extended rapidly, till it spread over the whole eastern sky.

“I fear that it will not do with the weather we have in prospect to send the boats up the river again to retrieve our defeat, Mr Collins,” said Captain Staunton, pointing to the threatening sky.

“I think not, sir, with you,” answered the lieutenant; “in fact, if I may advise, the sooner we shorten sail the better, or we may have it down upon us before we are prepared.”

“You are right, Mr Collins; shorten sail as soon as you please,” said the captain.

“All hands shorten sail,” was sung along the decks.

“Aloft there”—“Lay out”—“Be smart about it”—“In with every thing”—“Let fly”—“Haul down”—“Brail up”—“Be smart, it will be down upon us thick and strong, in a moment”—“Up with the helm”—“Look out there aloft”—“Be smart, my lads.”

Such were the different orders issued, and exclamations uttered in succession by the officers.

A moment before, the sea was smooth as glass, and the brig had scarcely steerage-way. Now the loud roaring of the angry blast was heard, and the flapping of the yet unfolded canvas against the masts; the ocean was a sheet of white foam, and the sky a canopy of inky hue. Away the brig flew before it, leaving the land astern, her sails were closely furled, and she remained unharmed, not a spar was sprung, not a rope carried away, not a sail injured. Thus she flew on under bare poles till the squall subsided as quickly as it had arisen, and sail was again made to recover the ground they had lost.

Land was still visible, blue and indistinct, but many fears were naturally entertained lest the slaver, which had already given them so much trouble, should have got out of the river with her living cargo, and by keeping either way along shore, have escaped them. For some minutes the wind entirely failed, and curses loud and deep were uttered at their ill luck, when, as if to rebuke them for their discontent, the fine fresh sea-breeze set in, and, with a flowing sheet, carried them gayly along.

Every eye was employed in looking out for the slaver, for they could not suppose she would have lost the opportunity of getting out during their absence. They were not kept long in suspense.

“A sail on the starboard bow,” cried the look-out from the masthead.

“What is she like?” asked the first lieutenant.

“A schooner, sir. The slaver, sir, as we chased afore,” answered the seaman, his anxiety that she should be so making him fancy he could not be mistaken.

“The fellow must have sharp eyes indeed to know her at this distance,” muttered the lieutenant to himself with a smile; “however, I suppose he’s right. We must not, though, be chasing the wrong craft while the enemy is escaping. Which way is she standing?” he asked.

“To the southward, sir, with every stitch of canvas she can carry,” was the answer.

The officer made the proper official report to the captain.

“We must be after her at all events,” said Captain Staunton. “Haul up, Mr Collins, in chase. Send Mr Stevenson away in the barge to watch the mouth of the river.”

The brig was forthwith brought to the wind, the barge in a very short space of time was launched and manned with a stout crew well-armed and provisioned, and she shoved off to perform her duty, while the “Sylph” followed the strange sail. The man-of-war had evidently an advantage over the stranger, for while the sea-breeze in the offing blew fresh and steady, in-shore it was light and variable.

On perceiving this, Captain Staunton kept his brig still nearer to the wind, and ran down, close-hauled, along the coast, thus keeping the strength of the wind, and coming up hand over hand with the stranger, who lay at times almost becalmed under the land. The breeze, however, before they came abreast of her reached her also, and away she flew like a startled hare just aroused from sleep.

“Fire a gun to bring her to,” exclaimed the captain; “she shall have no reason to mistake our intentions.”

The British ensign was run up, and a gun was discharged, but to no effect. Two others followed, which only caused her to make more sail; and by her luffing closer up to the wind, she apparently hoped to weather on them, and cross their bows. She was a large schooner, and by the way sail was made on her, probably strongly-handed, so that there could be little doubt that she was the vessel for which they were in search.

“Send a shot into the fellow,” exclaimed the captain; “that will prove we are in earnest, and make him show his colours.”

The shot clearly hit the schooner, although the range was somewhat long, but it did slight damage. It had the effect though of making him show his ensign, and the stripes and stars of the United States streamed out to the breeze.

“Those are not the fellow’s colours, I’ll swear,” said Mr Collins, as he looked through his glass. “Another shot will teach him we are not to be humbugged.”

“Give it him, Collins, and see if you can knock away any of his spars,” said the captain. “We must follow that fellow round the world till we bring him to action, and take or sink him. He’ll not heave-to for us, depend upon that.”

“Not if Daggerfeldt is the captain,” answered the first lieutenant.

“I think she is his schooner; but he is so continually altering her appearance that it is difficult to be quite certain.”

“Though I was some hours on board of her, as I reached her in the dark, and left her before it was light, I cannot be certain,” observed Captain Staunton, as he took a turn on the quarter-deck with his officer. “By the by, there is that poor girl’s black attendant; he will know the vessel at all events. Tell him to come up and give us his opinion.”

The lieutenant went into the captain’s cabin, and soon after returned, observing,—

“He will not quit his mistress, sir; and the surgeon tells me he has sat by her side without stirring, watching every movement of her lips as a mother does her only child. As no one on board can speak his language but you, sir, we cannot make him understand why he is wanted on deck.”

“Oh, I forgot that: I will speak to him myself,” answered the captain. “Keep firing at the chase till she heaves-to, and then see that she does not play us any trick. Daggerfeldt is up to every thing.”

Captain Staunton descended to his cabin. Juanetta lay on the sofa, a sheet thrown over her limbs, her countenance of a corpse-like hue, but by the slight movements of her lips she still breathed. The black hung over her, applying a handkerchief to her brow to wipe away the cold damps gathering there. Her features, though slightly sunk, as seen in the subdued light of the cabin, seemed like those of some beautiful statue rather than of a living being. The surgeon stood at the head of the couch, endeavouring to stop the haemorrhage from the wound.

“I dare not probe for the ball,” he whispered, as if the dying girl could understand him; “it would only add to her torture, and I cannot prolong her life.”

“And this is thy handiwork, Daggerfeldt—another victim of thy unholy passions,” muttered the captain, as he gazed at her for a moment. “Poor girl, we will avenge thee!”

He had considerable difficulty in persuading Mauro to quit his mistress; but at length the faithful black allowed himself to be led on deck. He looked round, at first bewildered, as if unconscious where he was; but when his eye fell on the schooner, it brightened up, as if meeting an object with which it was familiar, and a fierce expression took possession of his countenance.

“Es ella, es ella, señor!” he exclaimed, vehemently. “It is she, it is she—fire, fire—kill him, kill him, he has slain my mistress!”

A gun was just then discharged, the shot struck the quarter of the schooner, and the white splinters were seen flying from it. On seeing this he shouted with savage joy, clapped his hands, and spat in the direction of the slaver, exhibiting every other sign he could think of, of hatred and rage. Having thus given way to his feelings, the recollection of his mistress returned, and with a groan of anguish he rushed down below.

The two vessels had been gradually drawing closer to each other, in consequence of the schooner luffing up to endeavour to cross the bows of the brig, and if she could, to get to windward of her, the only chance she had of escaping. The eyes of the officers were fixed on her to watch her movements.

“She’s about—all right!” shouted the captain. “Give her a broadside while she is in stays, and knock away some of her spars. Fire high, my lads, so as not to hurt her hull.”

The brig discharged her whole larboard battery, and the fore-topmast of the schooner was seen tumbling below.

“By Jingo, we’ve dished him!” exclaimed Jack Hopkins, to his chum, Bob Short; “and I’m blowed, Bob, if it wasn’t my shot did that ere for him. I never lost sight of it till it struck.”

“Maybe,” answered Bob; “hard to prove, though.”

The schooner had sufficient way on her to bring her round before the topmast fell, and she was now brought into a position partially to rake the brig, though at the distance the two vessels were from each other, the aim was very uncertain.

That Daggerfeldt had determined to fight his vessel was now evident, for the flag of the United States being hauled down, that of Spain was run up in its stead, and at the same moment a broadside was let fly from the schooner. The shot came whizzing over and about the brig, but one only struck her, carrying away the side of a port, a splinter from which slightly wounded Bob Short in the leg.

“Ough!” exclaimed Bob, quietly binding his handkerchief round the limb without quitting his post, “they’re uncivil blackguards.”

“Never mind, Bob,” said Jack Hopkins, “we’ll soon have an opportunity of giving them something in return. See, by Jingo, we’ve shot away his forestay! we’ll have his foremast down in a jiffy. Huzza, my boys, let’s try what we can do!”

Whether Jack’s gun was well aimed it is difficult to say, but at all events the shot from the brig told with considerable effect on the rigging of the schooner. The brig did not altogether escape from the fire of the enemy, who worked his guns rapidly; but whenever a brace was shot away it was quickly again rove, so that she was always kept well under command. The loss of her fore-topmast made the escape of the schooner hopeless, unless she could equally cripple her pursuer; but that she had not contrived to do, and accordingly, as the two vessels drew closer together, the fire from each took more effect. Daggerfeldt, to do him justice, did all a seaman could do, and in a very short space of time the wreck of his topmast was cleared away, and he was preparing to get up a new one in its place. The sea was perfectly smooth, and the wind gradually fell till there was scarcely enough to blow away the smoke from the guns of the combatants, which in thick curling wreaths surrounded them, till at intervals only could the adjacent land and the ocean be seen.

Although Daggerfeldt could scarcely have hoped to succeed either in escaping or coming off the victor, he still refused to haul down his colours, even when the “Sylph,” shooting past ahead of him, poured in her whole broadside, sweeping his decks, and killing and wounding several of his people. Dreadful were the shrieks which arose from the poor affrighted wretches confined below, although none of them were injured. The “Sylph” then wore round, and, passing under her stern, gave her another broadside, and then luffing up, ran her alongside—the grappling-irons were hove on board, and she was secured in a deadly embrace. The miserable blacks, believing that every moment was to be their last, again uttered loud cries of horror; but the slaver’s crew, some of whom fought with halters round their necks, still refused to yield, and, with cutlass in hand, seemed prepared to defend their vessel to the last, as the British seamen, led on by their captain, leaped upon the decks. Staunton endeavoured to single out Daggerfeldt, but he could nowhere distinguish him; and after a severe struggle, in which several of the Spaniards were killed, he fought his way aft, and hauled down the colours.

At that instant a female form, with a white robe thrown around her, was seen standing on the deck of the brig; the crew of the slaver also saw her, and, believing her to be a spirit of another world, fancied she had come to warn them of their fate. The energies of many were paralysed, and some threw down their arms and begged for quarter. A loud, piercing shriek was heard.

“I am avenged, I am avenged!” she cried, and sank upon the deck.

It was Juanetta. Mauro, who had followed her from the cabin, threw himself by her side, and wrung his hands in despair. They raised up her head, and the surgeon felt her pulse. She had ceased to breathe.

No further resistance was offered by the crew of the slaver. Eight hundred human beings—men, women, and children—were found stowed below, wedged so closely together, that none could move without disturbing his neighbour. Some had actually died from sheer fright at the noise of the cannonading.

Instant search was made for Daggerfeldt; he was nowhere to be found, and the crew either could not or would not give any information respecting him. The prize was carried safely to Sierra Leone, where she was condemned; the slaves were liberated, and became colonists; and Captain Staunton, and his officers and crew, got a handsome share of prize-money.

The “Sylph” was in the following month recalled home, and a few weeks afterward the papers announced the marriage of Captain Staunton, RN, to Miss Blanche D’Aubigné.

Chapter Fifteen.

Corunna—Oporto—Pull up the Douro—Notice of the Siege of Oporto—Line-of-Battle Ship.

Porpoise’s story lasted out the gale. We were not sorry to see the conclusion of the latter, though it left old ocean in a very uncomfortable state for some time. A downright heavy gale is undoubtedly a very fine thing to witness—at least the effects are—and every man would wish to see one once in his life; but having experienced what it can do, and how it makes the ocean look and human beings feel, a wise man will be satisfied, at all events if he is to fall in with it in a small cutter in the Bay of Biscay when that once is over. I’ve had to go through a good many in the course of my nautical career; and though I’ve often heard sung with much gusto—

“One night it blew a hurricane,

The sea was mountains rolling,

When Barney Buntline turned his quid,

And cried to Billy Bowline:

“‘Here’s a south-wester coming, Billy;

Don’t you hear it roar now?

Lord help ’em, how I pities those

Unhappy folks ashore now!

“‘While you and I upon the deck

Are comfortably lying,

My eyes! what tiles and chimney-tops

About their heads are flying!’”

I mustn’t quote more of the old song; for my own part I like a steady breeze and a smooth sea, when plates and dishes will stay quietly on the table, and a person may walk the deck without any undue exertion of the muscles of the leg.

The gale had driven us somewhat into the bay, and finding it would cause us little delay to look into Corunna, we determined to go there. The entrance to the harbour is very easy—a fine tall lighthouse on the south clearly making it. We brought up off the town, which is situated along the circular shore of a bay something like Weymouth. After paying our respects to the consul, we mounted a troop of steeds offered us for hire, and galloped off to inspect the chief scenes of the engagement between the English and the French, when the former retreated under Sir John Moore. On our return we visited his tomb, situated on the ramparts on the sea side of the town; the tomb is surrounded with cannon, with their muzzles downward—a fit monument to the hero who sleeps beneath. Carstairs did not fail to repeat with due effect—

“Not a sound was heard; not a funeral note.”

They are truly magnificent lines, rarely equalled. Some, however, of a like character appeared lately on Havelock, which are very much to my taste.

But where am I driving to with my poetry and criticism? We got on board the same night, and made sail by daybreak the next morning. We looked into the deep and picturesque Gulf of Vigo, and thought the town a very nasty one, in spite of its imposing castle on the top of a hill. Had we come from the south we might have formed a different opinion of the place. We hove-to off Oporto, and should have gone in, but though exempt from harbour-dues, we found that the pilotage would be heavy, and that we might have some difficulty in getting out again over the bar which has formed across the mouth of the Douro. The city stands on a granite hill on the north side of the river, and about three miles from the sea. Fortunately for us, while we were hove-to there, the steamer from England came in sight, and we were able to obtain a passage on shore in the boats which brought off the mail bags. Hearty, Bubble, and I formed the party; Carstairs and Porpoise remained to take care of the ship. Away we pulled with the glee of schoolboys on a holiday excursion; the boat was large, but of the roughest description—with the stem and stern alike—probably not changed since the earliest days of the Portuguese monarchy; she was double-banked, pulling twelve oars at least. The men mostly wore red caps, with a coloured sash round their waists, and had shoeless feet; some had huge wooden slippers, almost big enough to go to sea in. Many of them were fine-looking fellows, but they were very unlike English sailors, and oh! how they did jabber. To those who understood them their observations might have been very sensible, but to our ears their voices sounded like the chattering of a huge family of monkeys in their native woods. The view before us consisted of the blue shining sea, a large whitewashed and yellow-washed village to the north, called St. Joâo da Foz, with a lighthouse on a hill at one end of it, a line of black rocks and white breakers before us, and to the south a yellow beach with cliffs and pine-trees beyond, and a convent, and a few of the higher standing houses and churches of Oporto in the distance. When we got near the white foam-topped rollers, all the jabbering ceased, our crew bent to their oars like men worthy of descendants of Albuquerque’s gallant crew; and the boat now backed for an instant, now dashing on, we were in smooth water close under the walls of a no very formidable-looking fortress. A little farther on we landed at a stone slip, at the before-mentioned village, among fishwomen, and porters, and boatmen, and soldiers, and custom-house guards, and boys, all talking away most vociferously. As we had no luggage to carry, we were allowed to look about us. What we should have done I scarcely know, had not Bubble, who never failed to find acquaintance in every place, recognised an English gentleman who had come down to the river to embark for the city. Bubble’s friend was invaluable to us; he first invited us to go up the river in his boat, and pointed out numerous spots of interest on the way. The boat was a curious affair; it had a flat bottom and sides, and narrowed to a rising point forward. The greater part was covered with a wooden awning painted green, and supported by wooden stanchions; and the seats run fore and aft round the sides; it had yellow curtains to keep out the sun or rain; the crew, three in number, stood up with their faces to the bow, pressing against the oars; two stood on a deck forward, and one, who occasionally brought his oar in a line with the keel, rowed aft. Dressed in red caps with red sashes, and mostly in white or blue-striped garments, they had a picturesque appearance.

Although the civil war which overthrew despotism, and planted the present line on the throne, had occurred so long before, our new friend spoke of it with as much interest as if it had but lately been concluded. Such an occurrence, indeed, was the great event in the lives of a generation.

On the south side of the entrance of the river is a long sandbank; on the north side is the castle of Foz, or the mouth. This castle was built by the Pedroites, and it was literally the key on which depended the success of the enterprise. Had it been taken, the communication with the sea and Oporto would have been cut off, and the Liberals would have been starved out. For the greater portion of the time occupied by the struggle, Dom Pedro’s followers held little more than the city of Oporto and a line of country on the north bank of the Douro scarcely a mile wide, leading from the city to the sea. They held the lighthouse at the north point of the village; but a few hundred yards beyond was a mound on which the Miguelites erected a strong battery. Not a spot along the whole line but what was the scene of some desperate encounter; and most certainly the Portuguese Constitutionalists of all ranks, from the highest to the lowest, fought as bravely as men could fight in the noblest of causes. Heaven favoured the right, and in spite of apparently overwhelming hosts opposed to them, of disease and gaunt famine, they won their cause, and the mother of the present enlightened King of Portugal ascended the throne.

But I am writing the cruise of the “Frolic,” and not a history of Portugal. Still I must dot down a few of our friend’s anecdotes. While the north side of the river was held by the Constitutionalists, the south was in the hands of the Miguelites, and the two parties used to amuse themselves by firing at each other across the stream, so that it was dangerous to pass along the lower road by daylight.

On one occasion, the Miguelites, wishing to attack the castle, brought a number of casks to the end of the spit of sand at the entrance of the river, and erected a battery on it, but they forgot to fill the casks with sand or earth; when morning broke there was a formidable battery directly under the walls of the castle. Some unfortunate troops were placed in it to work the guns; all went very well till the guns of the castle began to play on it, and then a few shots sent the entire fabric to the four winds of heaven, and either killed the soldiers placed in it, or drove them flying hurry-skurry across the sand, where many more were picked off by the rifles of the Constitutionalists.

What could be more unpleasant than having on a hot day to run along a heavy shingly beach, with a number of sharpshooters taking deliberate aim at one’s corpus? Happy would he be who could find a deep hole into which to roll himself out of harm’s way.

The banks of the Douro are picturesque from the very entrance. On either side are broken cliffs; on the south covered with pine-groves, on the north with yellow, white, and pick houses and churches, and orange-groves. On the south we passed the remains of the old convent of St. Antonio, where once the jovial monks feasted and sang and prayed, well supplied with the spoils of the sea. Here pious fishermen used to stop and ask a blessing on their labours, on their way down the river, and on their return they failed not to offer the choice of their spoil to the worthy friars. The gardens of the convent were profusely ornamented with statues of curious device, and flowers, and vases, and orange-trees, and grottoes, and temples; all now swept away by the scythe of war—the convent walls now forming part of a manufactory. The monks have disappeared from Portugal, and few people regret them less than the Portuguese. At best they were drones; and, if we are to credit one-quarter of the tales told of them, they continued to do no little amount of evil in their generation. On the same side of the river, but much higher up, where the Douro forces its way between two lofty cliffs, on the summit of the southern one, stands the once very celebrated convent of the Sierra. From beneath its walls the Duke of Wellington led his army across the river into Oporto, and drove Marshal Soult out of the city. This convent, and its surrounding garden, was the only spot held by the Pedroites, and most heroically held it was, against the whole army of the usurper Miguel, led by his best generals. Day after day, and night after night, were his legions led to the attack, and as often were they repulsed by the half-starved defenders of its earth-formed ramparts. We may speak with pride of the siege of Kars and of Lucknow, and of many another event in the late war; but I hold that they do not eclipse the gallant defence of the Portuguese Constitutionalists of the Sierra convent. Below the convent the two banks of the river are now joined by a handsome iron suspension-bridge, which superseded one long existing formed of boats. The city stands below this point, rising on the converse steep sides of a granite hill, and with its numerous church-steeples, its tinted-walled houses, its bright red roofs interspersed with the polished green of orange-trees in its gardens, is a very picturesque city. Along its quays are arranged vessels of various sizes, chiefly Portuguese or Brazilians, those of other nations anchoring on the other side, in the stream, to be away from the temptations of the wine-shops. On the south side is a bay with gently sloping shores; and here are found the long, low, narrow lodges in which are stowed the casks of Port wine, which has perhaps made Portugal and the Portuguese more generally known to Englishmen of all classes than would have been done by the historical associations connected with that beautiful country.

As Bubble’s friend was on his way to visit his wine-pipes, he took us first to Villa Nova, the place I have been speaking of. One lodge he showed us contained three thousand pipes, ranged in long lines, two and three pipes one above another, which, at fifty pounds a pipe, represents a capital of one hundred and fifty thousand pounds. Some of the English houses are said to have two or three times that quantity; but of course the young wine is not of the value I have mentioned. The Port wine is grown on the banks of the Douro, in a district commencing about fifty miles above the city. It is made in the autumn, and remains in large vats on the farms till the spring, when it is put into casks, and brought down in flat-bottomed boats to the lodges at Villa Nova. Here it is racked and lotted to get rid of impurities, and has brandy put to it to keep it. Our friend assured us that Port wine will not keep for any length of time without brandy; the experiment has been tried over and over again. The only way to make it keep for a short time is to rack it constantly; but then it becomes spiritless, vapid, and colourless. To one conclusion we came, that Port wine in the lodge at Villa Nova and Port wine out of decanter at an English dinner-table are very different things; for Port wine racked and lotted for the English market, and kept some years In a temperate cellar, is undoubtedly vastly superior to the juice of the grape before it is so prepared.

Having satisfied our curiosity, with our friend as guide, we crossed the river to Oporto. We landed at a gateway in the brown old wall of the city, which runs along the river and up the hill to the east and west, surmounted by high, pointed battlements of a very Moorish appearance, though the Moors did not plant their conquering standard so far north as Oporto. Passing along a very narrow, cool, dirty, and somewhat odoriferous street, we entered a wide, well-paved one, called the Rua Nova. In the middle of it congregate the merchants every afternoon, at the exchange hour, to transact their public business. At the end of the street is a fine stone building, called the Factory House, a sort of club belonging to the English, who become members by election. High above the end of the street, on a hill covered with houses, rises the old cathedral of Oporto. We found our way to it along some narrow, twisting streets, with oriental-looking shops on either side—tinmen and goldsmiths and shoemakers and stationers—a line of each sort together. The cathedral, as well as all the churches we saw at Oporto, were rather curious than elegant.

For the greater part of our walk we were continually ascending along tolerably well-paved and clean streets, with stone houses and wide, projecting balconies, some with stone, others with iron balustrades. We passed through a street called the Street of Flowers; the chief shops in it were those of jewellers, who showed us some very beautiful filigree work in gold—brooches and ear-rings and rings. We next found ourselves in a square at the bottom of two hills, with wide streets running up each of them, and a church at their higher ends. One has a curious arabesque tower, of great height, which we saw a long way out at sea, called the Torre dos Clerigos. Going up still higher we reached a large parade ground, with barracks at one end, and near them a granite-fronted church, called the Lappa, where, in an urn, is preserved the heart of the heroic Dom Pedro—the grandfather of the present King of Portugal. Oporto is full of gardens, which make the city spread over a wide extent of ground. We were agreeably surprised with its bright, clean, cheerful look. Built on a succession of granite hills, which afford admirable materials for the construction of its edifices, it has a substantial comfortable look. It is also tolerably well drained, and wayfarers are not much offended with either bad sights or smells. The variety of the costume of the inhabitants gives it a lively look; for although gentlemen and ladies have taken to French fashions, the townspeople still generally wear the graceful black mantilla, or coloured or white handkerchief over their heads, while the peasantry appear with broad-brimmed hats and cloth jackets, gay-coloured petticoats, and a profusion of gold ear-rings and chains. There are beggars, but they are not very importunate, and the smallest copper coin seemed to satisfy them. Our friend told us that he has seen a Portuguese gentleman, wanting a copper, take his snuff-box and present it to a beggar, who would take a pinch with the air of a noble, and shower a thousand blessings on the head of the donor in return. “The truth is, that the Portuguese as a nation are the kindest people I have ever met,” observed our friend. “They think charitably and act charitably, and do not despise each other; they are kindly affectionate one to another. A good government and a reformed church would make them a very happy people.”

Our walk through the city was a hurried one, as we wished to be on board again before dark. We passed near a large palace, with some ugly visages garnishing the front. Here Dom Pedro lived, and here Marshal Soult’s dinner had been prepared, when the Duke of Wellington entered the city and ate it up. We found a boat ready to carry us down the river, which we reached by a steep, winding road. Our friend kindly insisted on accompanying us.

At Foz a catria was prepared by our friend’s directions to put us on board the yacht. Oh, how refreshing to our olfactory senses, after the hot air of the streets, was the fresh sea-breeze as we reached the mouth of the river, and once more floated on the blue Atlantic! The sun descended beneath the far western wave in a blaze of glory, such as I have seldom seen equalled in any latitude; the glow lit up the Lappa church, the Clerigos tower, and the Sierra convent in the distance, suffusing a rich glow over the whole landscape. All sail was set, but we made little way through the water; a calm succeeded, and then the hot night-wind came off the land in fitful gusts, smelling of parched earth and dry leaves. Having stood off the land sufficiently to clear every danger, we kept our course. The night was somewhat dark, and we had all turned in, leaving the mate in charge of the watch.

I know not what it was made me restless and inclined to turn out, and breathe the fresher air on deck; probably I was heated with the long and exciting excursion of the day. As I put my head up the companion-hatch, sailor-fashion, I turned my eyes towards every point of the compass. Did they deceive me? “Hallo, Sleet, what’s that?” I exclaimed. “Port the helm; hard aport, or we shall be run into.” What was the look-out about? Where were Sleet’s eyes? All, I suspect, were asleep. There, directly ahead of us, like some huge phantom of a disordered dream, came gliding on a line-of-battle ship, her tall masts and wide-spreading canvas towering up into the sky—a dark pyramid high above our heads; our destruction seemed inevitable. With a hail which horror made sound more like a shriek of despair, I summoned all hands on deck. Happily, the man at the helm of the yacht obeyed my orders at the moment, and the agile little craft slipped out of the way as the huge monster glided by, her side almost touching our taffrail, and her lower studding-sail booms just passing over our peak—so it seemed; our topmast, I know, had a narrow squeak for it.

“What ship’s that?” shouted Porpoise, springing on deck.

“Her Britannic Majesty’s ship ‘Megatherium,’” so the name sounded.

“Then let a better lookout be kept aboard her Britannic Majesty’s ship ‘megatherium’ in future, or the Duke of Blow-you-up will have to report to the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty,” replied Porpoise, through the speaking-trumpet. “I hauled in the duke just to frighten them a bit,” he added; “they wouldn’t care for the plain mister. The chances are that some of the lookouts had their eyes shut, and the officer of the watch had gone to freshen his nip a bit. No one dreams of danger on a fine night like this, and if a few small fishing-boats had been run down, no one would have heard any thing about it; there would be just a cry and a shriek from the drowning people, and all would be over. There’s more danger of being run down on a calm night like this than in a gale of wind, when everybody has his eyes open.”

“What cutter is that?” hailed some on board the ship, through a speaking-trumpet, before Porpoise had done speaking.

“Bow-wow-wow! I leave you to guess,” he answered.

By this time the vessels were so far apart that a hail could scarcely be distinguished, and so we separated. I only hope those who deserved a reprimand got it, and that any of my brother-officers, or other sea-going men who read these pages, will take the hint, and have as bright a lookout kept in fine weather as in foul.

Chapter Sixteen.

Cintra—The Tagus—Lisbon—Cadiz—Gibraltar—Sandgate again—Old Friends—News of my Heroine.

Two days after our narrow escape, as the rising sun shed his bright rays over the world of waters, we again made the land a little to the northward of the Rock of Lisbon. We could see with our glasses the vast convent and palace of Mafra, built by that debauched devotee, Don John V. He had a notion, not uncommon at the present day, that, by rearing edifices of brick and mortar, he might thus create for himself a few stepping-stones towards heaven. The building shows a front of seven hundred feet at least towards the sea, with a lofty portico in the centre, and is capable of quartering all the troops in the kingdom. When monks dwelt there they must have had ample space for exercise.

Soon afterwards we came under the rocky heights of Cintra. They surround a perfect oasis, rising from the arid plains about Lisbon. Every one knows Cintra on account of its Convention, not over creditable to its executors; its convent cut out of the rock, and lined with cork to keep the old monks warm; and its palace, built by the talented and eccentric Beckford, now a mass of ruins. We just got a glimpse through a break in the rocks of its cork, orange, and citron groves, surrounded with sweet-scented shrubs.

Passing the Bay of Cascaes, a fresh breeze carried us by the white circular Bugio Fort, standing on a rock at the mouth of the Tagus, and with a fair tide we ascended the river.

In our company were a number of craft of all sorts, carrying flags of all nations. Iron-moulded and weather-stained Indiamen, and Brazilian ships surrounded by boats full of people, who had come out to welcome relations and friends after a long absence; men-of-war, with their polished sides and snowy, wide-spreading canvas; heavily laden and heavy-looking English merchant-brigs, more esteemed for capacity than for speed, like London aldermen; tub-shaped, yellow-sided Dutchmen, laden with cargoes more formidable in appearance than in reality. Instead of being bomb-shells or round-shot, proving, on nearer inspection, to be Dutch cheeses, to be dreaded only by those of weak digestion.

Contrasted with the heavy-looking foreign vessels were the Portuguese rascas, employed chiefly in the coasting trade, with their graceful, high-pointed, lateen sails, sharp bows, and rounded decks, and the native schooners or hiates, with hulls not destitute of beauty, but rigged with masts raking at different angles, and gaffs peaked at unequal heights. There were also numberless sloops, and schooners, and boats of various sorts, the most curious being the Lisbon fishing-boat, shaped like a bean-pod, curving up at stem and stern, with a short rounded deck at either end, and a single high lateen sail. A pilot whom we received on board off the Bugio Fort took us close to the white tower of Belem, and its Gothic church at the western end of Lisbon, and brought us to an anchor among a crowd of other vessels off Blackhorse Square. Lisbon rising on several hills from the waters of the wide-flowing Tagus—here many miles across—is noted as a very picturesque city; its white buildings glittering in the sun, crowned by the dark frowning castle, and surrounded by suburbs intermixed with gardens filled with richly-tinted orange-trees and flowers of many hues.

Gold and Silver Streets are handsome streets; and there are some fine palaces, and the Opera House is a respectable edifice, and has, moreover, a very good opera; but, though improved of late years, we were told, in cleanliness, it is still a very dirty city, and the lower orders have a marked inferiority to those we saw at Oporto. They are a darker, smaller race, with much Moorish blood in their veins, without any mixture of the nobler Gothic stream from which the inhabitants of the north have sprung. They are the fellows who have gained for the Portuguese the character of being assassins and robbers, which certainly those in the north do not deserve. However, a strong government, liberal institutions, and a street police have pretty well put a stop to such proceedings even there.

The best account I have ever read of Lisbon and its people, as they were before the French Revolution changed affairs not a little in most of the countries of Europe, is to be found in Beckford’s “Visit to the Convents of Alcobaça and Batalha,” and in his “Tour to Italy and Portugal.” There is a rich, racy humour in his descriptions, which has seldom been surpassed. At one of the convents a dance is proposed for the entertainment of the illustrious strangers, and while a few act as musicians, the greater number of the oleaginous, obese monks tuck up their frocks, and begin sliding and whirling and gliding about with as much gusto as a number of school-girls at play. But we must be off to sea again.

We lionised Lisbon, and paid a visit to Cintra, but as no adventure occurred worthy of note to any of our party, I will not enter into details.

Once more the “Frolic” breasted the waves of the Atlantic, her course being for fair Cadiz. On the third day after leaving the Tagus, we dropped our anchor off that bright, smiling city. Its flat-roofed houses give it somewhat of an eastern look, but it is far cleaner than any eastern city. The houses are built after the Moorish fashion, and very like the residences excavated at Pompeii. The colouring of the outside is more in accordance with the taste of the luxurious Romans in the days of their degeneracy, than with that of the ancient Greeks, which made them satisfied with softer hues; while the interior, on the other hand, is as cool and simple as the purest taste can make it. No sooner had we furled sails than all hands were eager to go on shore, to have a glimpse at the often talked of mantilla-wearing, fair, flirting, fascinating Gaditanas. The gig was lowered, and on shore we went.

We were not disappointed in the appearance of Cadiz. The streets are narrow, that the sun of that torrid clime may not penetrate into them, and those only who have lived in a southern latitude can appreciate the luxury of having a cool, shady road in which to walk. Verandas in front of every window reach nearly half-way overhead; they are closely barred, and sometimes glazed, so that no impertinent eye can penetrate their recesses. These verandas are full of flowers, and overhung with ivy or other luxuriant creepers.

The fronts of the houses are ornamented with various colours, as red, blue, yellow, green, and other tints; while the separation between each house and each floor is marked by lines of red, thus giving the whole street a singularly bright and cheerful appearance.

The gateway is the pride of a Cadiz house. Many we passed were very handsome. It was pleasant to look through them into the interior, where the column-surrounded patios with cool, sparkling fountains in their centres, and shrubs and flowers of every hue, were indeed most refreshing to the senses. Every house is a square, with one or more patios in the centre, their only roof the bright blue sky. Into this court of columns all the rooms of the house open. Shade and coolness are the great things sought for in that clime.

We wandered up and down the narrow streets till we began to wish that some one would take compassion on us and ask us in; but nobody did, and our only satisfaction was the belief that we created a mighty sensation in the bosoms of numberless lovely damsels whose bright eyes we saw flashing at us through the thickly-barred jalouses.

“Ah, my good fellows, but you did not see their small noses, thick lips, and swarthy skins,” observed that unsentimental fellow, Bubble, thus cruelly depriving us of the only consolation we enjoyed. The fact was that at that early hour of the day no one goes abroad who can stay at home, except, as the Spaniards say, dogs and Englishmen, putting the canine tribe before the biped. Fatigue drove us into a café, where we took some refreshment, and in the evening we were somewhat repaid by watching the crowds of bewitching damsels and gay cavaliers, who sauntered forth to enjoy the cool air, and each other’s conversation.

Cadiz is joined to the mainland by a narrow strip of sand, deprived of which it would be an island. Opposite to it, across the bay, is Port St. Mary’s, the port of Xeres, where the sherry wine is embarked.

The next day we visited that place to taste some of its celebrated wines. We were much captivated with some deliciously dry Mansanilla, inferior as it is in flavour, however, to the still more valuable Amontillado.

But interesting as was our visit to Cadiz to ourselves, attractive as were its far-famed dames, and delicious as were its wines, my readers will undoubtedly rather hear some of the more stirring events of our cruise.

Away, away, once more we went, bounding over the blue ocean. We were, however, destined not to find ourselves so soon inside the Mediterranean as we expected. A dead calm came on, and for many hours we lay sweltering under a sun not much less fierce than that of the tropics.

It was very tantalising to remain thus almost in sight of the entrance of that classic sea we all wished to behold, and yet not be able to get there. Once within the influence of that strange current which from age to age has unweariedly flowed into that mighty basin, and yet never has filled it, we should have advanced with sufficient rapidity. Another whole day tried our patience, and Hearty had begun to declare that, after all, he thought the Mediterranean could not be worth visiting, when, on the morning of the third day, a breeze sprung up, and the cutter began to slip through the water towards the Straits.

The chief strength of the current is in the centre, far out of reach of shot and shell from the shore on either side. I mention this because many people have a notion that the fortress of Gibraltar defends the entrance to the Straits. The fact is, that the narrowest part is seven and a quarter miles wide; but that narrowest part we passed through at a distance of fifteen miles from Gibraltar, before we reached it. We did not, indeed, see the Rock before we had passed the Narrows.

The distance from the Rock to Ceuta, opposite to it on the African coast, is twelve miles.

Gibraltar is formed by a tongue of land three miles long and one broad, with a sandbank joining it to the main, and terminating with a high promontory. No one ever expected to make it defend the Straits, even before steamers were introduced. The heaviest guns are turned towards Spain; at the same time the sea-side is made inaccessible by scarping. Below the Rock is a belt of level land, on which the modern town is built. The Rock has the form of a lofty ridge with three elevations on it, one at each end, and one in the centre. That in the centre is the highest, and has the flagstaff planted on it. When we landed, we went through the wonderful galleries excavated in the Rock. These excavations have been going on since the time of the Moors, who, I believe, made by far the largest number of them.

They were wonderful fellows, those Moors. I have always felt a vast respect for them when I have beheld their remains in the south of Spain. The reason of their success is, that they were always in earnest in whatever they undertook. However, I don’t want to talk here about the Moors. Gibraltar is a very curious place, and well worth a visit; with its excavated galleries, its heavy guns, its outward fortifications, its zig-zag roads, its towers and batteries, its narrow streets, its crowded houses, its ragged rocks, and its troops of monkeys, the only specimens of the family of simia, which reside, I believe, in a wild state in Europe. Gibraltar, in reality, from its geological formation, belongs rather to Africa than to Europe, it being evidently cut off from the African mountains, and having no connection with those of Europe.

It is a question for naturalists to solve how the monkeys came there—I don’t pretend to do so. We brought up in Gibraltar Bay, where the yacht lay very comfortably, and so do now our men-of-war. Should, however, a war break out with Spain, they would find the place too hot to hold them, as the bay is completely commanded by the Spanish coast, where batteries could speedily be erected, nor could the Rock afford the ships any protection.

Now I have talked enough about Gibraltar; I’ll however just describe it, like a big tadpole caught by the tail as it was darting away towards Africa. We spent some pleasant days there, and were very hospitably treated by some military friends in the garrison. Malta, the Isles of Greece, and the Levant, was our destination. I did not fail to make inquiries respecting Sandgate; and, curious enough, I fell in with a merchant who had in his youth fought in the Greek War of Independence. He told me that a youth of that name, and who in every way answered Sandgate’s description, had come out from England and joined the patriot forces. He was a brave, dashing fellow, but most troublesome from his unwillingness to submit to any of the necessary restraints of discipline, and utterly unprincipled. He had, however, plenty of talent, and managed to ingratiate himself with some of the Greek chiefs, though the more respectable, as did the English Philhellenes, stood aloof from him.

“The truth is,” said my friend, “many of those Greek chiefs had been notorious pirates themselves, and I have no doubt Sandgate learned his trade from them.”

“I suspect very strongly that the man you describe and Sandgate are one and the same person,” I remarked. “It is curious that I should so soon have gained a clew to him.”

The next day I again met my friend. “I have some further account of Sandgate to give you,” said he, taking me by the button; “he’ll give some little trouble before his career is closed, I suspect. My Smyrna correspondent is here, and he tells me that he knew of Sandgate’s being there, and of his selling his yacht. He served with me in the war, and knew him also: consequently, when he made his appearance he kept his eye upon him. He traced him on board a vessel, in which he went to one of the Greek islands. From thence he crossed to a smaller island owned by a chief who had once been a notorious pirate, and was strongly suspected of still following the same trade in a more quiet way. There he lost sight of him; but several piracies had been committed during the spring by a craft which it was suspected had been fitted out in the island in question.”

“We certainly have in a most unexpected way discovered a clew to Mr Sandgate’s whereabouts and course of life,” I remarked. “It would almost read like a romance were it to be put into print.”

“Oh, we have had many heroes of that description from time to time in the Mediterranean,” replied my friend. “There was that fellow Delano, who was hung at Malta a few years back, he was an Englishman—or a Yankee, I believe rather. How many piracies he had committed I do not know before he was found out, but at last he tried to scuttle a brig, which did not go down as he thought she had, so happily his intended victims escaped and informed against him. He was captured by a man-of-war’s boat’s crew, and he and his followers were carried in chains to Malta. Then there was a very daring fellow, a Greek, Zappa by name, who commanded a brig, and on one occasion attacked an Austrian man-of-war which he believed had treasure on board, and took her. Then there has been no end of Greek pirates of high or low degree. Gentlemanly cut-throats, princes and counts with fleets under their command, down to the disreputable owners of small boats which lie in wait behind headlands to rob unwary merchantmen who cannot defend themselves. Oh! the Mediterranean has reason to be proud of the achievements of its mariners from the times of the pious Aeneas down to the present day.”

From all I heard of Sandgate, indeed, I felt more and more thankful that Miss Manners had so fortunately escaped from his power.

Nothing worthy of note occurred to us during our very pleasant stay at Gibraltar. The day before we had arranged to leave the place, who should we fall in with but Jack Piper, a lieutenant in the navy, and a friend and old messmate of Tom Mizen’s. “Why, I thought we had left you at Plymouth!” I exclaimed as I wrung his hand.

“So you did,” he answered; “but I had been ordered to come out here and to join my ship. You know old Rullock, Mizen’s uncle. He had just before commissioned the ‘Zebra’ brig, for this station, and as she was the first vessel to sail, I got a passage in her. We had a fast run, and they only put me on shore here yesterday while she has gone to Malta. We had Mrs and Miss Mizen on board, and Mrs Mizen’s niece, Miss Susan Simms” (Jack, I knew, rather affected Miss Susan, and he looked very conscious as he mentioned her name). “Very nice girl,” he continued; “so kind of her, too, to come out just at an hour’s notice to take care of her cousin, Miss Rullock, you know. You haven’t heard, perhaps, that they are rather alarmed about Miss Laura. Caught a cold, somewhat ugly symptoms. Think her consumptive, so it was judged best to bring her out to spend a winter at Malta, and as her uncle was coming, the opportunity was a good one.”

“Ah! this news will be matter of interest to Hearty,” thought I. “We shall now see whether his feelings for Miss Mizen had any root, or whether he was affected by a mere passing fancy.”

“Poor girl! I am sorry to hear of her illness,” said I aloud. “Malta is as good a place as she could come to, and I hope the change will do her good. We shall see her there, I dare say. Have you any commands for the ladies?”

“Say I hope that my ship will be there before long,” answered Piper, absolutely blushing through the well-bronzed hue of his cheek.

He had been appointed as first lieutenant of the “Thunder,” sloop-of-war. She was expected at the Rock every day. Jack Piper was not very dissimilar in appearance and manner to Porpoise, and he was the same sort of good-natured, frank, open-hearted fellow—just the man to do a gallant, noble action, and not to say a word about it, simply because it would not occur to him that it was any thing out of the way. There are plenty of such men in the service, and England may be proud of them.

On quitting Piper I went on board the yacht, where we had agreed to assemble in the evening, to be ready for a start by daybreak. Should Hearty not have heard of the “Zebra’s” touching at the Rock, I resolved to say nothing about the matter. If he really was in love with Miss Mizen, I might chance to spoil him as a companion, and if he did not care about her, there was no harm done.

Chapter Seventeen.

A Suspicious Sail—An Expected Visit from an Uninvited Stranger—We Prepare to Receive him.

The Rock of Gibraltar was fading from our sight in the far distance, as the sun in a blaze of glory went down into his ocean bed between the pillars of Hercules. The yacht lay in a dead calm, her canvas idly flapping for want of more useful employment, while every spar and rope was reflected in the mirror-like surface of the watery expanse; yet she was not immovable, for the current which runs in at the mouth of the Mediterranean was sending her on at the rate of some knots an hour, over the ground pretty well in her direct course. We sat on deck and smoked our cigars, and spun many a yarn, and told many an adventure of bygone days. It was with difficulty that we could persuade ourselves to turn in, so enjoyable was the cool sea atmosphere after the burnt-up, baked, oveny air of the old Rock.

The next morning, when we came on deck, although there had not been an air in all the heavens, as Snow informed us, we had sunk Gibraltar completely beneath the sea. That day passed much like the previous one. Now and then a light breeze from the westward filled the cutter’s sails, and made her step through the water at a speed which must have astonished some of the ancient fish, which looked up at her from out of their caverned homes beneath the waves. As the day wore on we made out, away to the westward, the mastheads of a brig. As we gradually rose them it appeared that she was a polacca-rigged brig, probably a Greek laden with corn, bound out of the Straits, perhaps to supply the insatiable maw of old England with food. We had just made this discovery when we were summoned to dinner. To people who have nothing to do, any small thing affords subject of interest. I remember a story of two noblemen, shut up at a country inn on a rainy day, betting large sums on the speed of two small flies running over a pane of glass, and of others equally wise, staking larger amounts than many a naval and military officer receives in his life-time, on two spots of rain, the bet being a drawn one by the drops uniting. When we returned on deck after dinner no change had taken place. The canvas of the cutter gave every now and then an idle flap, while the sails of the Greek brig seemed very much in the same humour. We, however, were so far better off than the stranger, because the current was sweeping us, slowly indeed, but still in the direction we wanted to go, while it was carrying her away from it. Still we appeared by some mysterious influence to near each other. It was not, however, for some time that we discovered that her crew were towing her ahead, and that she had also long sweeps out, which probably sent her through the water two or three knots an hour.

“I thought those Greek seamen were idle dogs, who would not think of taking so much trouble as these fellows appear to do, even to save their lives.”

“Oh, there’s little enough to be said in their favour,” replied Porpoise. “These fellows want to get through the Straits, as they fancy they shall find a fair wind outside, so they take a little trouble now in the hopes of perfect idleness by and by.” Odd as it may seem, I could not help fancying that there was something strange about that brig, yet what it was of course I could not tell.

“Well, I shall always think favourably of the industry of Greeks, after watching those fellows,” said Carstairs.

The strange brig kept creeping up closer and closer to us; still, except an occasional glance which we took of her, as being the only object in sight, she appeared in no way to excite the interest of my messmates. I, however, as I remarked, clearly remember to have had a strange feeling of doubt and mistrust as I looked at her. It is impossible to account for similar sensations, experienced frequently by people on various occasions; had she been a rakish-looking, low, black schooner, with a wide spread of canvas, met with in the latitude of the West Indies, I might very naturally have guessed her to be a pirate or slaver; but the brig in sight was a harmless, honest-looking trader, and still I could not help frequently during the day looking at her, very much as I should have done had she been of the character of the craft I had described.

“Bubble!” exclaimed Hearty, “you know that you have promised us a tale of your own composition, and you have very frequently been missed from the deck and found pen in hand in the cabin, covering sundry sheets of paper, and when we have been wrapped in slumber you have been supposed to have sat up continuing your work. Come, man, have compassion on our curiosity, and give us the result of your lucubrations.”

“Oh, no! spare my blushes,” answered Will, with a comic sentimental look: “I don’t aim at the world-wide celebrity of an author: I am content to please a select circle of friends like yourselves. Who would read a story published under the signature of Will Bubble? No! I say, let me float on adown the quiet stream of insignificance. The post of safety is a humble station—hum!”

“Over-modesty, over-modesty, Will,” answered Hearty. “Pluck up courage, man; you will do well if you try.”

The best of the joke was, that the rogue, as I well know, had for many a year past been dabbling in literature, and often had I enjoyed a quiet laugh when reading an article from his pen.

“Well, perhaps some day I’ll try,” said he, demurely.

“Hillo! what can the fellow be wanting?” exclaimed Porpoise, interrupting our talking (I won’t call it conversation).

We all turned our eyes in the direction in which he was looking. The brig had lowered a boat, which with rapid strokes was pulling towards us.

“She seems to have a good many hands in her,” he added, holding his glass to his eye. “I don’t quite like the look of her.”

“Nor do I either, I confess,” said I. “There are some craft in this sea not altogether honest, we must remember, though they are generally met with higher up towards the Levant.”

“What ought we to do, then?” asked Hearty.

“Just serve out the cutlasses and pistols, and cast the guns loose,” said Porpoise. “Tell the people to keep an eye on the strangers, and if more than two or three attempt to come on board, to tumble them into their boat again. There’s not the slightest danger if we put on a bold front, but if we are caught napping, I would not be answerable for the consequences.”

Chapter Eighteen.

The Stranger Comes on Board—The Greek Chief—A White Squall—What Has Become of the Brig?—The Suspicious Stranger again—Preparations for a Fight.

The advice Porpoise gave seemed so rational that although it might have gone somewhat against the grain with so thorough a John Bull as Hearty to put himself in a posture of defence before he was attacked, Snow was summoned aft to superintend the distribution of the contents of the arm-chest. The men buckled on their cutlasses with looks of no small glee, snapping the locks of their pistols to try them before loading, as they eyed the advancing boat.

“There’s no fear, gentlemen, but what they’d give an account of twice the number of chaps as are aboard that craft, if they ever come to close quarters,” said Snow, approvingly casting his eye over the crew.

I could not help thinking the same, for a finer set of broad-shouldered, wide-chested fellows I never saw, as they stood around us with their necks bare, and the sleeves of their blue shirts tucked up above the elbows, handling their weapons with the fond look which a child bestows on a newly-given toy.

“Go forward again, my men, and keep on the opposite side to which the boat comes,” said Porpoise.

“Just stand about as if you did not suspect there was any thing wrong; very likely there may not be, you know, and perhaps the Greek has lost his reckoning, and is sending aboard us only to ask his whereabouts.”

“A craft like that wouldn’t send away a boat with twelve men in her, or more, to ask such a question,” observed Snow to old Sleet; “I know better nor that.”

“You may well say so,” answered the old man. “I’ve heard of such rum tricks being played, that I always like to be prepared for squalls.”

I must say that after the strange misgivings I had experienced in the early part of the day, when the polacca-brig first hove in sight, I was well satisfied to see the yacht put in a perfect state of defence. It was more than possible that the stranger might after all be an honest trader, and that her crew might be not a little surprised to find an English yacht with so formidable an appearance. Still again, I have always seen the wisdom of not despising an antagonist, and of being as prepared as circumstances will allow for any emergency.

The boat, a heavy launch, was meantime advancing towards us. I examined her narrowly with my glass; she had what looked very like a gun mounted in the bows, though a capote, or piece of dark canvas, was thrown over it. She pulled twelve oars, beside which three or four other people sat in the stern-sheets. I observed Porpoise, who had been, as may be supposed, attentively watching the boat, go up to the foremost gun, and draw the shot.

“Carpenter,” said he, to Chips, “bring me up a shovel of old nails and bits of iron.”

The articles in question were soon brought to him, and he proceeded forthwith to load the gun with them up to the muzzle.

“Sleet,” said he, “you have charge of this gun; if our friends there show fight, and I give the word, slap this mouthful right in among them; it will soon bring them to reason, I guess.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” answered the old man, slapping the breech of his gun with a quiet smile, “I’ll make her speak, depend on’t.”

Thus prepared, we awaited the arrival of the suspicious-looking strangers. Had there been any wind, we might easily have prevented their coming on board by running out of their way, but as it was we could not help ourselves without fighting. In a few minutes more they pulled alongside, rather awkwardly; however, we did not order them to keep off, as it was agreed it would not be wise to show any suspicion of them. They were all dressed in the Greek costume; one of the men who sat in the stern-sheets, a full-bearded fellow, with a capote thrown over his shoulders and a fez on his head, stood up in the boat, and in broken English asked to come on board.

“Oh! let him,” said Hearty, who began to fancy we had been over-cautious. “There can’t possibly be any harm.”

The side was accordingly manned, and our friend with the capote, followed by two less ill-looking fellows, stepped unceremoniously on board.

“I speak to de captain,” said the stranger, in a blunt tone.

“I am the captain, at your service,” answered Porpoise, standing before him, and preventing his farther advance on deck.

“Oh! I come to know where you come from,” said the Greek stranger, casting his eyes furtively round the deck, as if to discover the state of defence in which we might be.

The look of our sturdy fellows, with their cutlasses by their sides, might possibly have surprised him, and at all events he must have seen that there was little chance of surprising us.

“We come from England,” answered Porpoise, bluntly. “A civil question requires a civil answer, but I don’t know by what right you ask it.”

“Where you bound for?” continued the Greek, not noticing the last remark it seemed.

“Malta, Alexandria, Smyrna, and a few other places up the Levant,” said Porpoise.

“Ah! will you take letter for me? You do me great favour,” said the Greek, putting his hand in his bosom.

While the Greek was speaking, I had been eyeing him narrowly from the after-part of the vessel, where I had placed myself. Most of my readers have heard of the famed Vanderdecken, the terrible Flying Dutchman, who in his phantom ship goes cruising about to the southward of the Cape of Good Hope, sailing right into the eye of the heaviest gale. When he falls in with a vessel, he comes aboard, and requests a packet he presents may be taken on shore. Just such another as Vanderdecken did our present visitor appear, except that the Dutchman is habited in a somewhat different costume to the Greek, in broad-brimmed hat, big-buttoned waistcoat, and wide breeches. By the way Porpoise looked at him, I had a notion some such idea was passing through his mind. Perhaps he suspected that the gentleman had a pistol instead of a letter inside the folds of his vest. The boat’s crew meantime sat scowling at us, and surveying the vessel with a no friendly look; I guessed, indeed, that nothing would have given them greater pleasure than to have been able to jump on board, and to cut all our throats.

“We shall be happy to take your letter or any commands on shore,” answered Porpoise, putting his hand in his pocket in imitation of the Greek.

The stranger furtively eyed the movement of his hand, as much as to say, “Why, have you got a pistol there likewise?”

However, withdrawing his own hand from his bosom, he exclaimed, “Ah! I have by some omission left my letter on board.”

The man spoke with as downright an English pronunciation as I ever heard in my life. Pretty well for a Greek, thought I, stepping forward to examine his features more narrowly. I had had my suspicions from the time he stepped on board; so, it appeared, had Tom Newton. There could be very little doubt about the matter; the man who stood before us in the guise of a Greek, was no other than the ci-devant pirate—slaver—smuggler, the outlaw Miles Sandgate. I thought his keen eye glanced at my countenance for a moment, as if he recognised me; but so completely did he maintain his self-possession, that he did not exhibit the slightest sign of fear or hesitation. He bit his lips though, as if he found that he had betrayed himself by speaking English too fluently, and he instantly fell back into his former mode of expression. Porpoise had either not remarked his slip of the tongue, or thought it best not to comment on it.

“I go send letter aboard,” he continued, stepping back a pace as if to be ready to spring into his boat. His crew in the mean time had begun to vociferate something I could not understand. He replied to them in the same language, and I have no doubt it was to tell them that their enterprise was fruitless, and that it was not quite so easy to catch the crew of an English yacht napping as they might have supposed. He still hesitated to take his departure. Some plan or other was passing through his fertile, ever-active brain. Perhaps he did not suspect that I had recognised him. However, whatever might have been his intentions, he was summoned hurriedly into the boat by his crew. He turned hastily round and cast his eye to the northward, so did I and Porpoise. There, rising out of the water as it were, was a small white cloud, which, as we looked, every instant increased in size.

“You’d better shorten sail, or you’ll repent it,” exclaimed the seeming Greek, as he leaped into his boat.

The crew pulled lustily away in the direction of their own vessel. Nothing comes on so rapidly and gives so little time for preparation as does a white squall in the Mediterranean. Porpoise, taking the advice offered, gave the necessary orders. All hands rushed to the halliards and downhauls, but before a rope could be let go the squall was upon us. A drill of white foam came rushing towards the cutter, driven on by some irresistible power, which at the same time curled up the whole hitherto calm and shining sea into rolling, breaking waves. Our eyes were almost blinded with the salt mist which dashed over us. Terrific was the blow we received. The cutter having no steerage-way offered a dead resistance to it. Over she went as does a stately tree, its stem cut through by the woodman’s deadly axe and saw.

“Hold on! hold on for your lives!” sung out Porpoise.

There was good reason. I thought she would never rise again. The water rose up her decks. We began to look at boats and spars as the only hope of safety. Then shrouds and stays and bolts gave way, and the stout mast cracked off at the deck with a loud crash; and the little craft rising on an even keel floated in safety, but presented a forlorn wreck compared to the gay and gallant trim in which she had lately appeared. Not a moment was to be lost in ascertaining whether the cutter had received any vital damage, and in endeavouring to put her to rights. Everybody was busily engaged in the work. Hearty and our landsmen friends took the matter very coolly.

“Just sing out where you want us to lend a hand, and we are four men,” cried Hearty, pulling and hauling away with a will, while we were getting in the wreck of our mast and spars.

The drag of the rigging astern brought the vessel up into the wind’s eye, and then she lay pitching and bobbing away into the short seas, sending the spray flying over us like a regular shower-bath, and surrounding us with a mist impervious to the sight. It was heavy work, and as part of the bulwarks had been knocked away there was no little danger of being washed overboard. Where, however, all labour with a will, the hardest task is soon performed; and no fellows could have worked harder than did our crew of yachtsmen. Before, however, the craft was in any way put to rights, the squall and its effects on the sea had completely passed away, but night coming down had shrouded us in total darkness. No one had thought of the Greek brig or her boat, and now not a glimpse of either was to be perceived.

What had become of her? Had the boat with the rascal Sandgate been swamped? Had the brig been caught by the squall and gone down? Such had been the fate of many a craft in the Mediterranean. When we had got the yacht somewhat to rights we made inquiries among the men, but no one had observed her. Old Sleet, it was said, had watched the boat pulling away for her even during the hurly-burly of the squall. I therefore called him up to examine him more particularly.

“When we was on our beam-ends, and I thought we was over for good, still I couldn’t help keeping my eye on the boat,” said the old man; “I can’t say as how I liked the look of that ere curious chap the Greek captain who came aboard us, and as for his crew, a bigger set of cut-throats I never saw. Well, thinks I to myself, if the boat goes to the bottom, and all her people goes in her, there’s no great harm done: but if she floats and gains the brig, they may just come back when we are not prepared for them, and try to knock us all on the head; but, says I to myself, there’s no use talking about it, for the gentlemen won’t believe such a thing possible, and I shall only get laughed at for my pains.”

I was very much inclined to agree with the old man, that if our Greek friend had escaped drowning, and could discover our whereabout, he would be apt to try his hand at playing us some scurvy trick; but I said nothing to this effect. I, however, resolved to speak to Porpoise, so that we might be prepared to resist any attack he might attempt to make on us. Porpoise was rather inclined to laugh at my fears.

“My belief is that the fellow went to the bottom,” he replied. “Serve him right, too, if he is the rascal you suppose him; or if he got aboard his ship he saw enough of us to know that we should prove rather a tough morsel, should he attempt to swallow us.”

A council of war having been called, it was resolved that we should try to get back to Gibraltar as fast as we could. To effect this, however, it would be necessary to rig jury-masts, and this could not very well be done till daylight. We proposed turning the cutter into a schooner or lugger, and happily, as we had saved most of our spars and canvas, we expected to have no great difficulty in getting sufficient sail on her to navigate with ease the poor little closely-shorn craft.

I have often had in my naval career to pass through nights of toil and anxiety, and this gave every promise of being one of that character. In a few hours we had gathered in all our ruffled feathers, or, in other words, our masts and spars and sails and rigging; and having stowed them along the decks as best we could, there we lay floating helplessly like a log on the water. Not having discarded my suspicions of the polacca-brig, notwithstanding my fatigue I felt no inclination to go to sleep. I now was left in charge of the deck while Porpoise and the rest of my messmates turned in, all standing. I walked the deck for some time, ever and anon turning my gaze upward to the dark blue vault of heaven glittering with a thousand stars, each but a centre of some mighty system, each more complex and marvellous, probably, than our own. I thought of the all-potent Being who made them as well as all the wondrous specimens of animal life which dwell on this globe we call our own, and my heart swelled with gratitude to Him who had preserved me and my shipmates from the danger to which we had been exposed. My spirit, as I thought, seemed to take its flight through the calm atmosphere, and to wander far far away among those distant spheres. How long it was away I know not. I was not conscious of the existence of my body on the surface of the globe. A splash aroused me from my reveries. It was caused by a fish leaping out of its liquid home to avoid some monster of the deep wishing to make a supper off it. It called me back to earth and things earthly. My first impulse was to cast my eye round the horizon. It was rather a circumscribed one at that hour of darkness. Once I made the full circuit and could see nothing. I took a few more turns on deck, and again I swept my eye round the watery circle more slowly than before. As I reached the south-eastern point of the heavens I was certain I saw a dark object. I rubbed my eyes. The sails of a vessel appeared before me, rising up like a thin dark pencil-line against the sky. I wetted my fingers and held up my hand. The cold struck it on that side. Whatever she might be she was well to windward of us. I took the night-glass, which hung on brackets just inside the companion-hatch. She was still too far off to enable me to make out what she was. I had not, however, forgotten my suspicions of the polacca. The stranger was evidently approaching us. If she was the Greek, her crew would scarcely resist the temptation of attempting to plunder us. Still I felt that my suspicions were almost absurd, and I did not like to arouse my friends without some better grounds for my fears. I, however, felt it would be wise not to run the risk of being taken altogether unprepared. I therefore went up alongside old Snow—so we called him, though he was young enough to be old Sleet’s son. I was not long in waking him up to the proper pitch of caution by narrating a variety of stories about pirates and slavers and savages, and such like gentry, with a due admixture of instances where people from carelessness were caught napping and lost their lives.

“Now,” said I, “let us get these spars cleared away enough to work the guns. The watch on deck will do it without rousing the rest. We’ll have a supply up of round-shot and ammunition. The people have not restored their pistols and cutlasses to the arm-chest. Send a couple of hands to collect them all ready, and then if yonder stranger proves to be the polacca, and wishes to taste our quality, we’ll let her have her will, and show her what we are made of.”

I spoke thus confidently that there might be no risk of taking any of the pluck out of the people. I cannot say, however, that I at all liked the notion of a brush with the well-manned and probably well-armed polacca-brig in our present dismantled condition, however little I might have feared her at close quarters had we been all to rights. I watched the approach of the stranger, therefore, with no little anxiety. She was evidently bearing right down upon us, though, as there was but little wind, her progress was slow. The hours of the night wore on. I was leaning against the wreck of the mast which lay fore and aft along the deck, and at length I fell asleep. I do not know how long I had slept when I heard Porpoise’s voice close to me.

“Hillo, Brine! what in the name of wonder is that away there to windward?” he exclaimed.

“The polacca-brig, there’s no doubt about it,” I answered, as I beheld a vessel like a dark phantom stealing up towards us. I then explained to him the preparations I had made in case the brig should really be of the piratical character we suspected, and at the same time inclined to attack us. This relieved his mind not a little. My belief, however, was that the Greek might not have seen us. She might, of course, have calculated our whereabouts. Perhaps even now she might not see us. Perhaps, also, as Porpoise suggested, if the boat was swamped in the squall, the rest of the crew would probably cruise about to look for their companions. He agreed with me, therefore, that we need not yet rouse up Hearty and our other two friends. By the by, in consequence of all the delays we must endure, I was doubly glad that we had not told Hearty of Miss Mizen’s expedition to Malta. It would have made him undergo them with much less than his usual philosophy, I suspect.

“I doubt if even now the brig sees us,” said I as I watched her through the night-glass. So low down in the water as we were, she was very likely to miss us.

“See, she is passing us,” exclaimed Porpoise, after we had watched her for some time. “It is just as well she should miss us, for in our present state we could not exactly do ourselves justice.”

“Perhaps after all our friends may be very well disposed, and in no way inclined to do us any harm,” said I, not that I could in reality divest myself of the idea that the polacca was commanded by Sandgate, and that he would have delighted to do us all the mischief in his power. With daylight, however, I don’t think I should fear him, even now, I thought to myself.

It still wanted nearly an hour to sunrise, and daylight in that clime does not come very long before the glorious luminary of day rushes up from his ocean bed. We hoped by that time that the brig would have pretty well run us out of sight. Still neither Porpoise nor I felt inclined to go below again. We intended, indeed, to rouse out all hands to get up the jury-masts the moment we had light to work by. We, however, were not so clear of danger as we fancied. The brig had got about a mile to leeward of us, when we saw her brace up her yards, and, close-hauled, she stood back so as soon to fetch us. There was no longer any time to spare.

“Rouse up all hands fore and aft,” sung out Porpoise, with a stentorian voice.

In a minute every one was on deck busily employed in casting loose the guns, in priming pistols, and buckling on cutlasses.

“If the fellow will but come to close quarters, we have no reason to fear him,” exclaimed our gallant skipper, surveying his crew with no little pride.

“I only wish we may have a brush with him,” added Hearty; “it would tell well in the Club; only I wish we had our mast standing.” I cannot say that I participated altogether in the satisfaction of my friends. The brig, if she did attack us, I knew, we must find an ugly customer, and the pirates could only venture to do so with the full intention of sending every one of us, with the yacht into the bargain, to the bottom, on the principle that dead men tell no tales.

The Greek was not long in showing us his intentions. No sooner had he got us within range of his guns, than brailing up his courses and lowering his topsails, he opened his fire upon our almost helpless craft. Happily for us his gunnery was very bad, and he evidently had a fancy for long bowls, and a wholesome dread of coming to close quarters with us. Our people went cheerily to their guns, not a bit afraid of our big enemy.

“Only just do ye come on, ye confounded scoundrels, and we’ll just give ye a taste of what we are made of,” sung out Tom Hall, a broad-shouldered fellow, standing six feet high or more in his stockings, as he shook his cutlass in an attitude of defiance at the enemy; and no one was better able to give an account of them than he would have been when the day’s work was over.

Will Bubble threw off his coat, fastened a silk handkerchief round his waist and another round his head, and worked away at his little gun in fine style. Carstairs did the same in a more deliberate manner, whistling the fag end of a hunting song. If we had possessed guns four times the size of ours, I verily believe, crippled as were, we should very soon have sent our antagonists to the bottom, instead of running the risk of going there ourselves. Finding his shot fall short or wide of us, he ran on a little way, and then tacking, stood closer up to us.

Chapter Nineteen.

The Engagement—Our Desperate Condition—A Friend in Sight—Our Enemy Flies—Malta.

By this time the first faint streaks of early dawn had appeared in the sky; but in that latitude the sun does not take long to get above the horizon, and daylight was on us almost as soon as the brig had again got us within range of her guns. Two or three shots struck our hull, and at the same time the enemy opened a fire of musketry on us; but the pirates did not prove themselves better marksmen with their small-arms than they had hitherto done with their heavier guns.

“Oh, I wish the rascals would but attempt to run us aboard!” exclaimed Hearty. “To think of their impudence in daring to knock holes in the side of my yacht!”

“There spoke a true Briton,” observed Bubble as he once more ran out his gun. “He does not think any thing of being shot at; but the idea of having his property injured, or his home invaded, rouses all his anger. Here goes though; I’ll see if we can’t pay them off in their own coin, with some change in our favour.”

Will was a capital marksman, and as cool as a cucumber, which was more than most of our men were, though not one was wanting in pluck. He pulled the trigger, and as I watched to see the effects of his fire, I saw two men fall on the pirate’s deck, while some white splinters flying from the mainmast showed us that the shot had, as well, done some damage to the vessel herself.

“Hurra! bravo, Bubble!” I shouted, and the crew echoed my cry, which, rising in full chorus, must have reached the ears of our enemy, and showed them that we were not likely to prove as easy a prey as they might have fancied. “Another such a shot as that, and I believe they will up helm and be off,” I exclaimed.

“I’ll do my best,” answered Bubble, fanning himself with his broad-brimmed hat, for the weather was very hot, and he had been making, for him, somewhat unusual exertions.

Will now trained his gun with great care: a great deal depended on a fortunate shot. “If we could but bring down one of his masts, or make a hole through his sides, we should win the day even now,” he exclaimed, kneeling down to aim with more deliberation; “a ten-pound note to the man who wounds a mast, or sends a shot between wind and water.” As he afterwards acknowledged, the ten pounds was truly a widow’s mite with him, for he hadn’t another such sum in his locker to back it.

“I’ll make it twenty,” cried Hearty, who really seemed to enjoy the excitement of the adventure; “come, let us see who will win it.”

“I have,” cried Bubble, jumping up and clapping his hands like a schoolboy, as he watched with intense eagerness his shot strike the hull of the brig just at the water-line, sending the white splinters flying in every direction.

“Fairly won, Bubble, fairly won!” we all exclaimed; “if they don’t plug that hole pretty quickly, they will soon find their jackets wetter than they like.”

In return for the mischief we had done him, the pirate let fly his whole broadside at us. He was every instant drawing nearer and nearer, either to give his guns more effect, or to attempt carrying us by boarding. He probably fancied that we were by this time weakened by loss of men, as he very likely was not aware of the little effect produced by his own guns. Dismasted as we were, and low in the water, we presented, indeed, a somewhat difficult mark to hit. The pirate’s approach gave us another advantage, as we were now able to bring our own musketry into play, which somewhat made up for the lightness of our guns. We had a great advantage also in the rapid way we were able to load our guns, which were of brass, while our opponents’ were probably of iron. Our muskets, too, were kept constantly at work; Ruggles, the steward, and Pepper, the boy, being set to load them as fast as they were discharged, while Carstairs had a first-rate rifle, with which he picked off every fellow whose red cap appeared above the bulwarks with as much sang froid as he would have knocked over a partridge on the 1st of September.

As our yachtsmen had had no practice with their guns, they were not particularly good shots, so that none of them surpassed Bubble in the accuracy of their aim, greatly to his delight. The enemy’s shot now began to fall rather thicker around us, while two or three of our people were hit with their musket-balls. None of them were hurt sufficiently to make them leave the deck; we could not, however, expect that this state of impunity would long continue. I every now and then turned an eye on Bubble to watch his energetic proceedings, though I had enough to do to load and fire away with my own musket. On a sudden, as he jumped up to watch the effect of his shot, I saw him stagger back and fall on the deck; I sprang forward to raise him up, “Oh, it’s nothing, nothing,” he exclaimed, turning, however, at the same time very pale; “only the wind of a shot or a little more; but it’s a new sensation; took me by surprise; just set me on my legs again, and I shall be all to rights soon.”

This, however, was more than I could do, poor fellow. He had been hit, and badly too, I was afraid; I sent Ruggles down for a glass of brandy and water. “Just bring up a flask, and a jug of water also,” said I, “others may want it.” Bubble was much revived by the draught, and binding a handkerchief over his side, which was really wounded, though not so badly as I feared, with the greatest pluck he again went to his gun.

During this interval the enemy had ceased firing, having shot some way ahead of us, but he now again tacked, and, looking well up to windward, stood towards us on a line which would enable him to run us aboard, if he pleased, or to strike us so directly amidships, that there was every probability of his sinking us. This last proceeding was the one most to be feared, and I felt sure that he would not scruple so to do. I could not tell if my friends saw the terrific danger we were in; I thought not, for they went on peppering away with their fire-arms, and laughing and cheering, as if the whole affair was a very good joke. I confess that my heart sank within me as I contemplated the fate which awaited us. “How soon will those gay and gallant spirits be quenched in death,” I thought. “How completely will our remorseless enemies triumph. They have all this time been merely playing with us as a cat does with a mouse.” Five minutes more would, I calculated, consummate the catastrophe. A minute had, however, scarcely passed, when I saw the brig square away her yards; and putting up her helm, off she went before the wind. Her courses were let fall; topgallant-sails were set, studding-sails and royals soon followed. Every stitch of canvas she could carry was got on her, while not the slightest further attention did she pay to us. I rubbed my eyes, for I could scarcely believe my senses. We, however, continued firing away as long as there was the chance of a shot reaching her, and then our men set up such a jovial, hearty cheer, which if it could have reached the ears of the pirates, would have convinced them that we had still an abundance of fight left in us.

What had caused the enemy so suddenly to haul off was now the wonder. At all events, I trust that we were thankful for our unexpected deliverance. When I pointed out to my companions the danger we had been in, they at once saw it themselves. Porpoise had seen it, indeed, all along, but had concealed his apprehension as I had done mine.

“The rascal found we were too tough a morsel to swallow, so thought he had better let us alone at once,” said Hearty.

“I cannot think that,” I observed; “he had some other reason, depend on it.” I was right; the mystery was soon solved. All hands at once set to work to fit and rig the jury-masts, when we were called from our occupation by a cheer from Bubble, whose wound made it clearly dangerous for him to exert himself in any way.

“A sail, a sail!” he exclaimed; “a big ship, too, I suspect.”

I looked in the direction in which he pointed away to windward, where the topsails of a ship appeared rising above the horizon; from their squareness I judged her to be a man-of-war. The rising sun just tinged the weather-side of her canvas, as she bore down on us with a streak of light which made her stand out in bold relief against the deep blue sky. The pirate crew had, of course, seen her from aloft long before we could have done so. She was welcome in every way, as she would probably enable us to get into port. The only provoking part of the business was, that the pirate would in all probability get away with impunity. Had she but come on the scene an hour earlier, she would, probably, have been down upon us before either we or the pirate could have seen her, and would most assuredly have nabbed our amigo.

“Never mind,” said Porpoise, “the fellow can scarcely get out of the Straits, even if he wishes it, and if I ever fall in with him within the boundaries of the Mediterranean, I have no fear of not knowing him again; we shall hear more of him by and by, depend on it.”

Our fighting had given us an appetite, so we went to breakfast with no little satisfaction, though we had not much time to spare for it. Bubble would not acknowledge that his wound was of consequence, though he let me look to it, as I did to the hurts of the other poor fellows who were hit. From the appearance they presented, I was truly glad that there was a good prospect of their having surgical aid without delay. They did not know, as I did, that their wounds would be far more painful in a few hours than they were at that time, so they made very light of them. As the stranger drew nearer, we made her out to be a sloop-of-war, and the ensign flying from her peak showed her to be British; she had been standing so as to pass a little way to the westward of us. When, however, she made us out, which she did not do till she was quite close to us, she altered her course and was soon hove-to, a few cables’ length to leeward. A boat was lowered, and, with an officer in the stern-sheets, came pulling towards us.

“What in the name of wonder is the matter?” exclaimed the officer, standing up and surveying us with no little surprise.

“Why, Sprat, the matter is that we have been dismasted in a white squall, which would have sent many a craft to the bottom,” answered Porpoise, who in the officer recognised an old shipmate; “we since then have been made a target of by a rascally pirate, whose mastheads have scarcely yet sunk beneath the horizon.”

“If that is the case, we must see if we cannot catch her,” answered Lieutenant Sprat, who was second lieutenant of the corvette.

“What, sir! leave us rolling helplessly about here like an empty tub?” exclaimed Hearty, in a dolorous tone. “But never mind, if you think you can catch her, I dare say we can take care of ourselves.”

“I’ll report the state of things to Captain Arden, and learn what he wishes,” quoth Lieutenant Sprat, as he pulled back to his ship.

In another minute the corvette’s jolly-boat was seen leaving her side, while she, putting up her helm, stood away in the direction the pirate had taken. The jolly-boat soon came alongside, with a midshipman and six men.

“Captain Arden has sent me with the carpenter’s mate and some of his crew to help you in,” quoth Master Middie, addressing Porpoise; “we’ll soon get a new mast into you, and carry you safely to old Gib, or wherever you want to go.”

Porpoise looked at him, and evidently felt very much inclined to laugh. He was one of the shortest lads in a midshipman’s uniform I ever saw; but he was broad-shouldered, and had a countenance which showed clearly that he very well knew what he was about.

“Thank you,” answered Porpoise; “we shall be much beholden to you I doubt not, though we should have been glad if your captain had sent us a doctor as well. May I ask your name, young gentleman?”

“Mite, sir; Anthony Mite,” answered the midshipman, a little taken aback at Porpoise’s manner.

The old lieutenant did not quite like his patronising airs.

“I thought so,” observed our worthy skipper; “your father was a shipmate of mine, youngster, and you are very like him.”

“In knowing my father you knew a brave man, I hope, sir, you will allow,” replied Master Mite, with much spirit.

“But I did not know that you were in the service. A better or braver fellow never stepped,” answered Porpoise, warmly, putting out his hand. “I’ve no doubt you are worthy of him, youngster. We’ll have a yarn about him by and by. However, just now, we must try to get the craft in sailing trim again.”

Small as the young midshipman was in stature, he soon made it evident that he was of the true stuff which forms a hero. He was here, there, and everywhere, pulling and hauling, directing and encouraging. So rapid were his movements, that his body seemed ubiquitous, while the tone of his voice showed that he was well accustomed to command and to be obeyed. We had no reason to complain of either the officer or labourers Captain Arden had sent us. Meantime I had been keeping my eye on the proceedings of the corvette. She at first stood away steadily to the northward and eastward, in the direction the brig had taken, and it seemed evident that she had her in sight; then she altered her course to the westward, but finally disappeared below the horizon, steering nearly due north.

“If the man-of-war has still the brig in sight, the latter must be making for some Spanish port, where the pirates hope to lie concealed till the search for them is over,” I thought to myself. “However, Sandgate, if he really is the commander, is up to all sorts of dodges, and will very likely, somehow or other, manage to make his escape.”

As may be supposed, we watched very anxiously for the re-appearance of the corvette, but the sun went down, and we saw nothing of her. However, we had by this time got up apologies for three masts, and, moreover, managed to make sail on them.

It was a great satisfaction to feel the poor little barkie once more slipping through the water, though at a much slower pace than usual.

As I feared, both Bubble and the men who had been wounded began, towards midnight, to complain somewhat of their hurts. While we were all sitting round the table in the cabin at supper, before turning in, Hearty, as Porpoise had done, expressed his regret that Captain Arden had not sent us a surgeon.

“Oh, we didn’t know that any one was hurt,” observed Mr Mite. “But never mind, I understand something of doctoring. I can bleed in first-rate style, I can tell you. Don’t you think I had better try my hand?”

“Thank you, they have been bled enough already, I suspect,” answered Hearty. “I’m afraid no one on board can do much good to them. I only pray the wind may hold, and that we may soon get into Gibraltar.”

But Master Mite was not so easily turned aside from his purpose of trying his hand as a surgeon. He begged hard that he might, at all events, be allowed to examine the men’s wounds.

We of course assured our young friend that we did not doubt his surgical talents; but still declined allowing him to operate on any of the yacht’s crew. We were not sorry, however, to let him take the middle watch, which he volunteered to do, for both Porpoise and I and old Snow were regularly worn out. The wind held fair, and there was not much of it. The night passed away quietly, and when morning broke we saw the corvette standing after us. She had been, as I expected, unsuccessful in her chase of the Greek brig. She had made all sail after a craft which she took for her, but on coming up with the chase, discovered her to be an honest trader laden with corn. She now took us in tow, and in the afternoon we reached the Rock.

Hearty very soon heard that the “Zebra” had gone on to Malta, with Miss Mizen on board, and from the way he received the information, I suspected that his feelings towards her were of a warmer character than I at first supposed. He was very anxious to be away again, and urged on Porpoise to do his utmost to expedite the refitting of the yacht. Fortunately, we were able to procure a spar intended for the mast of a man-of-war schooner, and which was not refused to the application of an MP. In a week the little craft was all to rights again, and once more on her way to that little military hot-house—the far-famed island of Malta.

Chapter Twenty.

Valetta—A Glimpse of the Pirate.

Malta lay basking on the bright blue ocean, looking very white and very hot under the scorching rays of a burning sun, as, early in the afternoon, we stood towards the entrance of the harbour of Valetta. Passing St. Elmo Castle on our right, and Fort Ricasoli on our left, whose numberless guns looked frowning down upon us, as if ready, at a moment’s notice, to annihilate any enemy daring to enter with an exhibition of hostile intent, we ran up that magnificent inlet called the Grand Harbour.

Malta Harbour has been so often described, that my readers will not thank me for another elaborate drawing. Only, let them picture to themselves a gulf from three to four hundred yards across, with several deep inlets full of shipping, and on every conspicuous point, on all sides, white batteries of hewn stone, of various heights, some flush with the water, others rising in tiers one above another, with huge black guns grinning out of them, the whole crowned with flat-roofed barracks, and palaces and churches and steeples and towers, with a blue sky overhead, and blue water below, covered with oriental-looking boats, and lateen-rigged craft, with high-pointed triangular sails of snowy whiteness, and boatmen in gayly-coloured scarfs and caps, and men-of-war, and merchant-vessels—and a very tolerable idea will be formed of the place.

Valetta itself, the capital, stands on a hog’s back, a narrow but high neck of land, dividing the Grand Harbour from the quarantine harbour, called, also, Marsa Muceit. The chief streets run in parallel lines along the said hog’s back, and they are intersected by others, which run up and down its steep sides. In some parts they are so steep that flights of steps take the place of the carriage-way. The best known of these steps are the Nix Mangiari Stairs, so-called from the troops of little beggars who infest them, and assure all passers-by that they have had nothing to eat for six days. “Oh, signori, me no fader no moder; me nix mangiari seis journi!” An assertion which their fat cheeks and obese little figures most undeniably contradict. Few people will forget those steep steps who have had to toil to the top of them on a sweltering day, not one, but three or four times, perchance; nor will those noisy, lazy, dirty beggars—those sights most foul—those odours most sickening—fade from his memory.

We ran up the harbour and dropped our anchor not far from the chief landing-place, abreast of Nix Mangiari Steps. There were several men-of-war in the harbour. Among them was our old friend the “Trident.”

“If Piper sees us, we shall soon have him on board to tell us all the news,” observed Porpoise. “I don’t think Master Mite will forget us, either, if he can manage to come. Our good things, in the way of eating and drinking, made no slight impression on his mind, whatever he may have thought of us as individuals. If he has an opportunity, that little fellow will distinguish himself.”

While stowing sails, the rest of the party having gone below to prepare for a visit to the shore, my eye, as it ranged round the harbour, fell on the sails of a Greek brig, which was just then standing out of the galley port. I looked at her attentively, and then pointed her out to Snow, who was so earnest in seeing that his mainsail was stowed in the smoothest of skins, that he had not observed her.

“What do you think of her?” said I.

“Why, sir, if she isn’t that rascally craft which attacked us, she is as like her as one marlinspike is to another!” he exclaimed, slapping his hand on his thigh. “I’ll be hanged but what I believe it is her, and no mistake about it.”

“I think so, too. Call Mr Porpoise,” said I.

Porpoise jumped on deck with his coat off, and a hairbrush in each hand, to look at her.

“I couldn’t swear to her; but she is the same build and look of craft as our piratical friend,” he answered. “Hang it! I wish that we had come in an hour or two sooner; we might have just nabbed her. As it is, I fear, before we can have time to get the power from the proper authorities to stop her, she will be far away, and laughing at us. At all events, there is not a moment to be lost.”

By this time all hands were on deck, looking at the Greek brig; but all were not agreed as to her being the pirate. However, the gig was lowered, and we pulled on shore, to hurry up as fast as we could to the governor’s palace, to make our report, and to get him to stop the brig before she got out of the harbour.

Landing among empty casks and bales on the sandy shore, we hurried up Nix Mangiari Stairs, greatly to the detriment of Porpoise’s conversational powers, and then on to the residence of the governor, once the palace of the Grand Master of the far-famed Knights of Malta; a huge square structure, imposing for its size, rather than for the beauty of its architecture. The governor was within, and without delay we were ushered through a magnificent suite of rooms into his presence. He received us politely, but raised his eyebrows at the account of our adventure with the pirate, and seemed to insinuate that yachting gentlemen might be apt to be mistaken, and that we had perhaps after all only found a mare’s-nest.

“But, hang it, sir,” exclaimed Hearty, “the villain fired into us as fast as he could; and that gentleman, Mr Bubble, and several of my people, were hit. There was no fancy in that, I imagine.”

“Ah, I see; that alters the case,” said the governor. “We will send and stop the brig; but understand, that you will have to prove that she is the vessel which fired into you; and, if she is not, you must be answerable for the consequences.”

“By all manner of means,” sung out Hearty. “I suppose the consequences won’t be very dreadful.”

“Hang the consequences,” he exclaimed, as soon afterwards we were left to ourselves, to await the report from the telegraph-station. “I cannot bear to hear these official gentlemen babbling of consequences when rogues are to be punished, and honest men protected. A thing must be either right or wrong. If it’s right, do it—if it’s wrong, let it alone. I hate the red-tape system which binds our rulers from beginning to end. We must break through it, and that pretty quickly, or Old England will come to an end.”

We were all ready enough to argue with Hearty in this matter, though the said breaking through an old deep-rooted system is more easy to propose than to carry into effect.

After we had waited some time, word was brought to the palace that, as I expected would be the case, the suspicious brig had got out of the harbour; and was out of the range of the guns on the batteries before the message had reached them. A gun was fired to bring her to, but of course she paid no attention to the signal. Once more we were ushered into the presence of the governor. He was very civil and very kind, be it understood.

“Your best course is to go to the admiral, and tell him your story, and perhaps he will send a man-of-war after her.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Hearty, rising. “We will do as you advise; though I fear, before a man-of-war can get under way, our piratical friend will be safe from pursuit.”

“It matters little. He is very certain to be caught before long; and we will have him hung at his own yard-arm, like some of his predecessors,” observed the governor, politely bowing us out.

“Humph!” muttered Hearty, as we descended the superb steps of the palatial abode. “It matters not, I suppose, how many throats may be cut, and how many rich cargoes sent to the bottom, in the mean time. Hang official routine, I say again. We must get these things altered in Parliament.” (Note.)

The admiral was living on shore, and to his residence we repaired as fast as our legs would carry us, with the thermometer at 90.

“I wish that we had taken the law into our own hands, and made chase after the fellow in the yacht,” exclaimed poor Porpoise, wiping the perspiration from his forehead. “A few hours’ fighting would have been better than this hot work.”

“All very well if we could prove that she was the vessel which attacked us; but if it should have turned out that we were mistaken, we should have been in the place of the pirates, and have been accused of murder, robbery, rapine, and all sorts of atrocities,” remarked Bubble. “No, no; depend on it, things are better as they are. Retribution will overtake the fellows one of these days.”

The admiral’s abode was reached at last; but the admiral was not at home, though his secretary was. The admiral had gone into the country, and would not return till the cool of the evening. The secretary received us very politely, though he seemed rather inclined to laugh at our suspicions.

A pirate sail into Malta Harbour,—beard the lion in his den! The idea was too absurd. It was scarcely possible that any pirates could exist in the Mediterranean. A few had appeared, from time to time, it was true; but several had been hung, and the example had proved a warning to other evil-doers. He would, however, as soon as the admiral returned, mention the circumstance to him, and if he thought fit he would undoubtedly send a vessel in chase of the suspected polacca.

Such was the substance of the worthy secretary’s remarks to us. We could not go in search of the admiral, as it was uncertain where he was to be found, so, very little satisfied with our morning’s work, we left the house.

“What shall we do next?” exclaimed Hearty. “There seems to be no chance of our catching Master Sandgate.”

“Oh, by all means, let us go on board and get cool,” answered Porpoise.

“Certainly,” said Bubble, “I want to look out some zephyr clothing. One can bear nothing thicker than a cobweb this sultry weather.”

So on board we went, and lay each man in his cabin with all the skylights off, and wind-sails down, an awning over the deck, and a punkah invented by Bubble, kept working, which sent a stream of air through every portion of our abode, so that we were far more comfortable than we could have been anywhere else. When yachting I always make a point of going everywhere in the yacht, and living on board her, scarcely ever entering an hotel. We thus spent two or three hours—some reading, others smoking or talking, Bubble every now and then giving vent to his feelings in snatches of song. I am not certain that we did not all drop asleep. We were aroused from our quietness by the sound of footsteps on deck, and by the descent of the steward into the cabin.

“Please, sir, that young gentleman that came aboard from the sloop-of-war, after we lost our masts, wants to know if he may come below to see you,” said he to Hearty.

“By all means,” cried Hearty, springing up; “glad to see him.”

Master Mite had followed the steward, and heard the last observation.

“Thank you, sir,” quoth he, helping himself to a seat. “Glad to see you, too. Scarcely thought you would be here so soon. Just in time for a grand ball. You’ll like it. We can take you there. I’m a great favourite with the signora. Told me to bring all my friends—the more the better—very hearty people for Smaitches. That’s what we call the Maltese here, you know. I saw your craft come in, and wanted to come on board before, but couldn’t. A midshipman is not always his own master, you know. At last I got leave from our jolly old first, Tom Piper. He told me to say that he would come as soon as he could. I know that he wants to press you to come to the ball, also.”

Thus did the young midshipman run on. Hearty told him that he should be very happy to go to his friend’s house under his chaperonage, and that so should we all, which mightily pleased Master Mite.

“That’s right,” he exclaimed. “It will be jolly good fun, I can tell you. There are some very nice English people, too, great friends of mine. Such a splendiferous girl, too—a Miss Mizen—came out with her uncle, old Rullock, in the ‘Zebra.’ I dance with her whenever I can. If you could but see her I’m sure you’d say my taste was very good. Some people think that she is cut out by another fine girl, a Miss Jane Seton; but I don’t. Jane’s all very well in her way, very fine to look at, and all that sort of thing; but to say the truth, she’s rather addicted to snubbing midshipmen, and that we don’t approve of. As for her mother, she wouldn’t touch one of us with a boarding-pike. She’s a terrible old harridan, and that’s not in Jane’s favour. Oh, no, give me Laura Mizen for my money, and all our mess say the same. She’s the toast of the mess just now, I can tell you.”

While the youngster was running on thus I watched Hearty’s countenance. He fairly blushed, and looked more pleased and astonished and puzzled than I had ever seen him before in my life. He evidently did not like to stop the boy, though he winced at hearing Miss Mizen spoken of as the toast of the mess. He was astonished, and clearly delighted at hearing that she was so near him, for, as may be remembered, I had not told him that she and her mother had come out to Malta, nor did he hear of the circumstance during our stay at Gibraltar. Dinner was soon brought on the table, and Tom Mite did not fail to do ample justice to it.

“Well, you yachtsmen do live like princes,” quoth the young gentleman, as he quaffed his cool claret. “When I come into my fortune, I’ll get a yacht, and cut the service. Then, if Miss Mizen, or some other fine young girl like her, will have me, she shall become the rover’s bride. Oh, wouldn’t it be jolly! Here’s to her health in the mean time.”

I could stand the joke no longer, and burst into a fit of laughter.

“What’s the matter?” asked Tommy, guessing he might have been saying something he had better not have said.

“Only that Captain Rullock and his sister and niece are great friends of ours, and that they will be highly flattered at the high estimation in which they are held by your mess,” I answered.

Mite, who had plenty of tact, very adroitly replied, “Well, gentlemen, I hope that you will come to the ball, and meet your friends.”

His invitation was backed by Lieutenant Piper, who soon afterwards came on board, and it was arranged that we should call alongside the “Trident” for them just before sunset.

Note. Let no one suppose that this incident is intended to reflect on any particular governor of Malta. It is, unhappily, only too characteristic of many of our governors, ambassadors, and consuls, and other authorities in various parts of the world, both at home and abroad. Certainly, old Tom, well-known to fame, would not have so acted.

Chapter Twenty One.

A Ball—What Occurred at it—The Greek Count—Mrs Skyscraper.

We were conducted by our friends to a handsome palace in one of the principal streets of Valetta. The ball-room was full of naval and military officers in uniform, and ladies in dresses of every hue and gossamer texture. Many were fair and blooming, but the dark skins and flashing eyes of a southern clime predominated.

Hearty and I walked in together. He cast a glance eagerly round the room. Laura Mizen against the field, as Carstairs would say, thought I. How will she receive him, however, is the question? We men are too often apt to forget that point. He was not long in finding her; he walked up hastily, and put out his hand. She looked up, a gleam of pleased surprise lighted up her eyes, and a slight blush suffused her cheek, and then she put out her hand with the same frankness he had offered his. All right, I thought; that is just as people should meet; they will understand each other very soon. Miss Mizen had entirely overlooked me when meeting Hearty, which, however complimentary to him, might, under some circumstances, have hurt my feelings.

After allowing them to talk a little, I went forward and was cordially received as his friend. I was surprised that Carstairs and Bubble had not found their way to that end of the room. On returning towards the door, after exchanging a few words with some old naval acquaintance, I caught sight of him bending over a lady who was leaning back in an arm-chair flirting with her fan. Her face was thus hidden from me, but on getting nearer I beheld no less a personage than Mrs Skyscraper; at a little distance was Bubble, carrying on an animated conversation with Miss Jane Seton, greatly to the chagrin, as it appeared, of a magnificently dressed Albanian who stood near them. The stranger’s face was turned away from me, so that I could not see the expression of his countenance; but the convulsive clutch which he ever and anon made at the handle of his jewel-hilted dagger showed the irritation of his feelings; and so strongly did this movement impress me with his evil intentions, that I kept my eye fixed on his weapon to hold him back should he attempt to do any mischief. Just at that moment Mite came up to me.

“This is fun, isn’t it?” quoth my young friend. “Now to my mind there’s a fine woman, the one Mr Carstairs is talking to; but by Jupiter Ammon she’s cut out by that girl there Mr Bubble has ranged up alongside. She’s superb, isn’t she? What a Juno-like head! Still, do you know that I don’t think I should quite like to offend her. She looks as if she could twitch a fellow by the ear pretty sharply. Look there now, there’s another girl, she’s much more to my mind, though she has nothing of the stunner about her. The primrose style is what I like, or the violet, if that’s more to your taste—quiet and neat. Now, that’s what I should call that little fair girl there. I say, I must just try and have a dance with her; I ought to, for the skipper made me toe and heel it with a little Smaitch girl, who was wonderfully heavy to haul about; and as she didn’t understand a word I said, and as I couldn’t make out a word she said, there was no great fun in it.”

Thus the youngster ran on somewhat flippantly, perhaps, drawing off my attention from Bubble and the Greek. I was, however, conscious that the latter had turned his head and looked at me. Directly afterwards he walked off to another part of the room. As I was neither lazy nor too old to dance, nor blind to the charms of beauty, I was soon after this engaged in moving about to the sound of music among the laughing throng. Among others, the fair Jane honoured me with her hand. I found her any thing but a lively companion; somewhat absent, and far from haughty as before. Had the avenging Nemesis of an unrequited passion punished her for her treatment of my friend Loring? It looked very like it; she answered my most brilliant sallies of wit by monosyllables, and smiled faintly, putting her bouquet to her nose—but I am certain the sweets therein conveyed no sensation to her olfactory nerves. What was the matter with her I could in no way make out. I was leading her to a seat, somewhat weary with my vain endeavours to arouse her, when we encountered Sir Lloyd Snowdon, one of the officers of the garrison, and evidently an admirer of hers.

“It’s all arranged, Miss Seton; we have fixed to have the pic-nic to-morrow. Mrs Seton has promised and so has Mrs Mizen, and Mrs Rowley, and Mrs Grey, and her daughters, and that charming personage Mrs Skyscraper only waits to be asked.” I recollected the pic-nic we had had to Netley, when my friend Loring had apparently made such way into the good graces of the fair Jane, but she made no sign to betray any recollection of the event. I was acquainted with Sir Lloyd, and he knew Hearty well, so he invited all our party to join the pic-nic on the morrow. Old Rullock of the “Zebra” of course was asked, and so was Captain Arden of the “Trident,” and requested to bring some of their officers, rather an unusual stretch of military politeness at Malta, where midshipmen, and even lieutenants, are held often in but slight estimation.

We were to visit the old capital of Citta Vecchia and the catacombs, and the grotto of St. Paul’s, and then to go on to a sheltered bay on the seashore, where the operation of dining was to be performed. The whole plan was soon arranged, and everybody was pleased. I was talking to Mrs Skyscraper when Sir Lloyd Snowdon came up to us.

“By the by,” said he to the widow, “I quite forgot to ask your friend the Greek Count; can you, my dear madam, tell me where he is to be found? I would remedy my neglect.”

“Indeed, I cannot,” answered the lady with a toss of her head; “I saw Count Gerovolio, but I have not watched his proceedings.”

“Oh, Mrs Skyscraper—Mrs Skyscraper!” thought I, “what were your eyes about when they wandered just now so often towards Miss Seton and that finely dressed Albanian?” I had missed the fair Jane after supper, and heard her mother inquiring for her. I had wandered out on a narrow terrace which ran under the windows of a long corridor, to enjoy the fresh air and the moonlight. As I passed under one of the windows, I saw two figures standing in the recess. One I saw was Count Gerovolio, the other I felt sure was Miss Seton. I would not have willingly been an eavesdropper, but I could scarcely help hearing what was said. I was arrested, also, by finding that the speakers were conversing in English.

“Beautiful girl,” exclaimed the Count, in a tone of deep devotion, “you have enslaved me completely. I sought you but for my amusement, and you have thrown your golden chains around me, so that I could not break from them if I would.”

“Oh! who are you?” exclaimed Miss Seton, in an agitated tone. “You did not tell me you could speak English. Surely you are not an Englishman.”

“Whatever I am, I am a Greek at heart and by adoption,” answered the stranger, with a slight hesitation in his voice. “I was first led to the shores of that classic land to fight for the cause of her long-oppressed children. My sword raised me to my present position. Let that suffice you. And now, lovely girl, do not longer hold me in torturing suspense. You know how deeply, how earnestly, I love you. Your mother, you tell me, will not consent to our union. Fly with me at once. My beautiful vessel waits off the coast to receive us on board, and to convey us to a land of freedom and romance; and where, emancipated from the trammels of the cold, calculating world, we may enjoy that bliss reserved for so few on earth.”

Miss Seton’s answer I could not hear. I could scarcely believe that she could be influenced by such palpable sophistry. Still I knew that there are moments when even the wisest among the daughters of Eve, thrown off their guard by the wiles of the Evil One, are ready to listen to his most barefaced falsehood; if they trust to their own strength—their own wisdom—and seek not protection from the only source whence it can come. “Oh, you consummate scoundrel!” I muttered to myself, as I retreated to the doorway, whence I had come out. I had no longer a doubt as to the identity of the pretended Greek. I resolved to put the matter to the test. Entering the house, I walked briskly along the gallery, towards the window where I had seen the two speakers. Miss Seton was there—more like a statue than a living being—leaning against the wall, with her hands pressed to her forehead; but the pretended Greek was gone.

“Miss Seton,” said I, going up to her, “tell me what has become of Mr Sandgate.”

“I know not of whom you speak,” she answered. “I know no one of that name.”

“The man in the Greek dress,” I replied, calmly, for I felt that much depended on my tone and manner.

“What! do you know him?” she asked in a faltering voice.

“I do,” said I; “and, Miss Seton, I would save you from him. He is worthless. He lives with a halter around his neck, and he will some day find it hauled taut.”

She stood perfectly silent for some time. I allowed her to remain so that she might regain her composure. She did this in a wonderfully short space of time. I suspected that her feelings were not very acute.

“You know my secret. I throw myself on your generosity, and I am sure that you will not betray me, Mr Brine.”

“Indeed, you may trust me, Miss Seton,” I replied; “I shall rejoice at being the means of saving you from a very great danger. Let me entreat you, therefore, not to see that man again on any account. Keep close to your mother, and let nothing separate you from her. Another time I will tell you his history, and you will see that you have reason to be guarded.”

“Oh, tell me now, tell me now!” she exclaimed. “I will follow your advice; but I would hear all about him, and then shut him out of my thoughts forever.”

I saw that she was right, so I told her briefly all I knew about Sandgate. She shuddered several times at the narrative. She was not particularly romantic, and fully alive to the advantages of a good position, thanks to her mother’s instruction. Though she had seen no great objection to becoming a Greek countess, she had reason to be thankful at having escaped falling into the power of a villain of the stamp of Sandgate. “Now let me lead you to Mrs Seton,” I replied, offering my arm. She took it. Hers trembled as it pressed mine.

“Why, Jane, my dear, you look very ill; what is the matter?” exclaimed the old lady, starting up with a look of real alarm in her countenance. I believe she loved her daughter, and fancied she showed it by helping her to make what she called a good match.

“Oh, nothing, nothing—the heat, I believe,” she answered, turning still paler. “I think that I had better leave the room.”

Her mother thought so likewise. I found their carriage. They lived not far off; so, following on foot, I watched them till they were safely within their own doors. On returning to the ball-room I heard Mrs Skyscraper making anxious inquiries as to what had become of Count Gerovolio.

“Never mind, we shall see him to-morrow at the pic-nic. He promised to be there,” she observed. I saw from the look Carstairs gave that the Count had better behave himself should he venture to make his appearance, which I did not think very likely.

Chapter Twenty Two.

Our Malta Pic-nic—The Catacombs—The Pirate in Sight—Sandgate again Escapes us—Our Expedition with the Men-of-war—Return from our Fruitless Cruise.

My friends were not a little astonished when I told them, on getting on board the yacht, that Sandgate was in the island. The question was, how to catch him. We had no moral doubt whatever that he had come on board our vessel with the intention of plundering us, and that he had afterwards endeavoured to send us to the bottom by attacking us in the polacca-brig; still no one could swear to the fact. We were not certain that the brig which left the harbour that morning was the one which had engaged us—we could not prove that he belonged to her; scarcely, indeed, could we expect to induce the authorities to believe that the Greek Count and Sandgate the smuggler were one and the same person.

“Take my advice,” observed Carstairs; “don’t let us fash ourselves on the subject, but give the rogue a long rope, and he will soon hang himself.”

We all agreed to the wisdom of this remark, and resolving to wait the course of events, turned in and went to sleep.

A large and merry party set off to the scene of the pic-nic, some in calèches, and others in carriages of higher pretensions, and vehicles of all sorts, and others on horseback. I will not stop to describe the scenery. Stone walls, and here and there an orange grove, form its chief characteristics. It is wonderful that there is any cultivation, considering that the greater portion of the soil has been brought from other lands. That which is produced on the island is formed from the crumbling away of the surface of the rock of which it is composed.

Our party met by agreement near the gates. Hearty, greatly to his satisfaction, managed to undertake the escort of Mrs Mizen and her daughter; the widow fell to the lot of Carstairs, and I took charge of Mrs and Miss Seton.

“Oh! but where is Count Gerovolio?” exclaimed Mrs Skyscraper, as we were driving off. “I fully expected to have him of our party. Has anybody seen him? Miss Seton, do you know what has become of him?”

Poor Jane for a moment looked dreadfully disconcerted at hearing the name of the impostor; but she soon recovered her self-possession, and I did my best to rattle on, so as to draw off the attention of her mother and Mr Mite, who had been admitted as a fourth in the carriage. Mrs Skyscraper looked about in vain for the Count; I thought that he would scarcely have the boldness to make his appearance. Our drive, as far as we four ill-matched beings were concerned, was any thing but a pleasant one. Old Mrs Seton was annoyed at not having Sir Lloyd Snowdon, or any other eligible gentleman, to act the suitor to her daughter.

Poor Jane could not drive away her own bitter thoughts. Mite would infinitely rather have been in the company of one of his jolly little Maltese acquaintances, and I felt oppressed at being the keeper of a young lady’s secret. At last we arrived at the spot where our lionising was to commence—the old capital of the island, Citta Vecchia, and had to descend from our conveyances.

The structure would delight a connoisseur in mediaeval antiquities, for a more ancient-looking collection of tumbledown houses I never saw collected together. Here stand the first palace of the Grand Masters, and the cathedral of Malta, celebrated for the pertinacity with which its bells are rung. But the great sight we had all come to see was the catacombs. Guides and lights were procured, and the whole party descended to them. Incongruous, indeed, seemed the light dresses of the ladies, the glittering uniforms of the officers, and the merry laughter of the party, with the solemn, silent gloom of this vast receptacle for the dead. These catacombs consist of long galleries or streets cut in the rock, extending a great distance, and intersecting each other at right angles about fifteen feet beneath the surface of the ground. The gloom, the chilly, confined atmosphere, the dark shadows, the mysterious passages and recesses, the undefined shapes which flitted before us, were ill calculated to dispel poor Miss Seton’s melancholy. She walked on, however, silently by my side, avoiding rather than courting the attention of Sir Lloyd Snowdon, who at length joined us, and who, seeing this, devoted himself with much tact to her mother.

“If you have any intention, Sir Lloyd,” thought I, “you’ll win the day, notwithstanding the present appearance of matters.”

We could hear behind us the cheery voice of Captain Rullock, and every now and then a laugh from Hearty, who seemed to be in high spirits.

“He feels that he does not stand ill in the good graces of Miss Mizen, I suspect,” thought I. “Most sincerely do I rejoice at it; for though not to be compared in point of beauty to the lovely girl by my side, she will make him a very far better wife. Her straightforward honesty, her modesty, her bright intelligence, her well-cultivated mind, her unvarying good temper, her genuine wit, her loving disposition, are certain to secure her husband’s affections and respect.”

Little did the lady by my side dream of the comparison I was drawing, and yet I verily believe that she might have been not much inferior to Miss Mizen in all those womanly qualities, had they not been crushed or perverted by the false system of education which her mother had adopted. Such were the somewhat incongruous thoughts which passed through my mind in the catacombs of Citta Vecchia. I ought to have been duly oppressed with the gloom of the place, and to have thought of nothing but ghost-like forms flitting through the mysterious passages. I do not know what my companion was thinking about, but she sighed deeply and sadly. That sigh touched my heart with pity, and reminded me how little I had attempted to do to restore her mind to a state of composure.

We had, as I said, walked on somewhat ahead of the rest of the party, and old Rullock and Hearty had just hailed us to return, when directly before us appeared the figure of a man who was evidently endeavouring to conceal himself in one of the niches cut in the rock. It had, however, been blocked up, and he was frustrated in his intention. He wore a large cloak, such as the Italians call a feriuoligio, with which he was attempting to hide his head, but the light of the torch carried by our guide fell directly on him, and revealed the features of Miles Sandgate.

He must have guessed that he was known, for he advanced a step or two rapidly towards us, but then, whatever were his intentions, he must have changed them, for he retreated as hurriedly, and was lost to view amid the surrounding gloom. I knew that Miss Seton had discovered him by the way in which her arm trembled in mine, and most certainly she would have fallen had I not supported her.

“I fear, Miss Seton, that the atmosphere of this place oppresses you; we will get out of it as soon as possible,” said I.

“Thank you, thank you,” she answered, leaning heavily on my arm. “I long for a breath of fresh air; I shall be better then.”

Sir Lloyd Snowdon was much concerned at finding that Miss Seton was unwell, and the whole party hurried to the mouth of the catacombs.

It was very provoking to have Sandgate almost within one’s very grasp, and yet not to have the power of punishing him.

On reaching the open air, Miss Seton at first nearly fainted. Restoratives of all sorts were recommended by her friends, but before any could be applied, she recovered, and endeavoured to laugh off any disagreeable inquiries as to the cause of her attack. The exertion necessary to do this still further aroused her, and she speedily became one of the most lively and animated of the party. I saw that she could now do very well without me, so I retired from her side. Sir Lloyd Snowdon took my place. He was enchanted, and abandoned himself to the happiness of the moment. She saw her advantage, and not unmindful of her wise mother’s instructions, seemed resolved to make the most of it. Still I thought that I detected at times the signs of unnatural spirits, and forced laughter, and I would not have answered for the consequences had the so-called Count Gerovolio appeared in the midst of us with a hundred well-armed followers, and summoned her to accompany him.

From the catacombs we drove to the Grotto of St. Paul, which is at no great distance. Whether the apostle to the Gentiles ever took shelter within it matters but little; the monks of old decreed that he did, and therefore a fine statue of white marble has been placed within it, and the faithful have been encouraged to offer their gifts at his shrine. The statue stands in the farthest from the entrance of three grottoes, one within the other. We looked at them very much in the way that people in general look at sights with very little interest, but thinking it necessary to give utterance to certain set expressions of surprise or admiration. The most interesting sight was a portion of the cavern which resembles the nave of a church, overgrown with verdure. It is surprising that vegetation should flourish in such a position.

When we had all satisfied our curiosity, we proceeded to a small sheltered bay, where the most important part of the day’s entertainment was to be performed. There was no great beauty of scenery, but the blue sea, and the pure sky, and the fresh salt breeze, and the rugged rocks, made it pleasant to the sight and feelings; and as most of the party had very good appetites, and tolerably clear consciences, we were altogether very merry. Captain Rullock, Hearty, Bubble, and Mite did their best to make it so. Miss Mizen was naturally very happy; so was her mamma, for Hearty had that day very palpably declared his intentions. Sir Lloyd Snowdon was happy because he thought he had won the beauty of the season; and Mrs Seton, because she fancied that the great object of her life was on the point of being accomplished.

Several vessels had been for some time in sight, but we had been so much engaged in our own immediate occupation, that neither I nor any of the other naval men had paid them much attention.

The heavier portion of the feast had been concluded, and sparkling wines filled our glasses, and luscious grapes our plates. Bubble had been called on for a song, and Sir Lloyd Snowdon for a speech, when we were somewhat startled from our propriety by a loud exclamation from Porpoise.

“Why, by the Lord Harry, there’s that rascally polacca-brig again!” he cried, pointing to a vessel which was standing under full sail in-shore.

Our pocket-telescopes were in instant requisition. The vessel in question was a polacca-brig, of the same size, and paint and build, and appearance aloft as the one which had attacked us; but still it was impossible to be certain as to whether the vessel in sight was the pirate or not. Porpoise was the only person who was positive as to her being so. Hearty was inclined to side with him. Still, what was to be done? Captains Rullock and Arden were ready enough to go in chase of her, but their ships were on the other side of the island, and by the time they could have got back to Valetta and obtained permission from the admiral, and been under way, the suspicious brig would have been far away again.

This discussion once more nearly upset poor Miss Seton, but she seemed relieved, and recovered somewhat of her vivacity when it was resolved not to take any notice of the stranger. I, of course, as she did, could not help connecting the brig in sight with the appearance of the pretended Count Gerovolio in the catacombs. He had, I suspected, been hiding there for some reason or other, till he could get on board his vessel.

After a little time the fun of the pic-nic went on as before. I, however, not being in love, nor having any lady to whom it was necessary to pay exclusive attention, kept my eyes about me, and every now and then swept the line of the coast with my telescope, while I also did not neglect to watch the movements of the brig. As she came clearly into the plane of my glass, I observed a dark cloth on her fore-topgallant-sail, which I suddenly recollected to have remarked on the same sail of the brig from which Sandgate boarded us, as she lay becalmed before the squall came on. This to my mind was conclusive evidence; but my suspicions were further confirmed by seeing the polacca-brig lower her topgallant-sails, and bring her head up to the wind. When hove-to, she lowered a boat, which, well-manned, at once made for the shore. I said nothing, but narrowly watched the point for which she was steering. As she drew near, I saw a figure climb a rocky point and waive to her. The dress and air of the person left no doubt on my mind that he was no other than the Greek count, or rather Miles Sandgate. It was, indeed, provoking to see the rascal escaping before our very sight. Had we taken upon ourselves to make chase after him, he would have got on board the boat before we could have reached him. Still I felt that I ought to point out the state of things to Rullock and Arden, and let them judge what should be done.

“Go in chase after the fellow, by all means,” they exclaimed; “we must not be too sanguine as to catching our bird, or proving him a culprit if we do catch him, but still we’ll try.”

It was arranged, therefore, that while the ladies and military men, and non-combatants, should take their time to return, we naval men should hurry back to Valetta, and take the necessary steps to go in chase of the pirate. Hearty looked at Miss Mizen and thought he should very much like to stay with her, but his manhood would not let him; so he, with Bubble and Carstairs, settled to go away in the yacht. Mrs Skyscraper made an effort to detain the latter, but her admirer was not a man to shirk work where any was to be done, so he set off with the rest of us. This time we were more successful in finding the admiral. He was eager as we could be to catch the pirate, and instantly ordered the “Trident” and “Zebra” to go in chase of her. When last seen, after Sandgate, or the man we supposed to be him, had got on board, she was standing to the southward and east, with the wind from the northward; in which direction she would ultimately shape her course it was impossible to say. Calculating that she might probably be still hovering about the island, the “Trident” was ordered, after leaving the harbour, to beat round to the northward of Malta; while the “Zebra” was to keep to the southward, so as to intercept her, should she steer a course for the Straits. It was arranged that the “Frolic” should accompany the “Zebra,” but to keep to the nor’ward of her, within telegraph distance.

“This is exciting,” exclaimed Bubble, as we bowled along in company with the brig-of-war, away from Malta Harbour. “It seems like real work, going in chase of a pirate; only I hope that he may not give us the go-by in the dark.”

The sun sank into the ocean before we had rounded Gozo, so that we were not able to see what vessels were to the eastward of us. We kept, however, a very bright lookout on either hand, so that we thought no vessel could pass between us and the land on one side, or us and the “Zebra” on the other. We were to stand on till we fell in with the “Trident” at daylight, and then the three vessels, spreading wide apart, were to continue the chase all day, and return or not at discretion.

It was at first a lovely night, starlight and bright, with just such a breeze that we could carry our gaff-topsail, and yet the cutter scarcely heeled over to it.

None of us felt inclined to go below, notwithstanding the fatigues of the day and the previous night. Hearty, of course, had pleasant thoughts; Porpoise was eagerly watching for the pirate; I was running over the events of the day, and Bubble was whistling, while Carstairs was, I suspect, pondering on the advisability of proposing to Mrs Skyscraper.

At first we had been very loquacious, but the silent solemnity of the night had an influence on all of us, and by degrees our remarks grew less and less frequent, till we were found standing, in meditative mood, in different parts of the vessel. The hours of the night passed by, and still we all kept the deck far later than was our usual custom. Towards midnight, either from a mist rising, or from some other cause, the darkness very much increased.

“If this continues we shall have to shorten sail, or we shall be running into some craft or other,” observed Porpoise, who was no great admirer of romance, and would rather all the time have been listening to a jovial song.

“Yes, indeed,” said I; “very little chance, though, of falling in with our roving friend, even should he be in the neighbourhood.”

“We’ll get the gaff-topsail off her, Mr Snow,” said Porpoise; “the brig will be shortening sail, and if we do not, we shall be running ahead of her.”

The order was given, and the hands had gone aloft to execute it, when an exclamation from the look-out forward made us open our eyes.

“A sail ahead, on the starboard-bow!” he shouted, with startling energy.

We looked in the direction indicated.

“Luff—luff all you can,” cried Porpoise, with equal animation. “Luff! or she’ll be into us.”

The helm was put down; happily the gaff-topsail had not been taken in, and the cutter, having good way on her, shot up to windward. Close on our quarter appeared, towering up, it seemed, into the sky, a wide spread of canvas. The stranger rushed on past us, the white foam hissing and bubbling at her bows.

“What vessel is that?” shouted Porpoise.

I thought I heard a shout of derisive laughter in return. The next moment, as she came beam on, I distinctly made her out to be a Greek polacca-brig.

“The pirate—the pirate!” shouted all hands.

“We had a near chance of being run down by the rascal,” cried Porpoise; “but we must be after him as soon as we can let the ‘Zebra’ know in what direction to make chase.”

To do this we had to edge away to the southward, firing our guns to call the attention of the man-of-war brig. This was not so easy to do as might be supposed. We stood on and on, blazing away to no effect. We reached the track of the brig, but still we did not find her.

It was difficult to say what we should do next. Daylight came, and we had the satisfaction—a very poor one, thought I—of seeing her hull down to the eastward, while we had every reason to believe that the chase was merrily bowling away to the westward. There was no use going after the pirate brig by ourselves, so that all that we could do was to make sail in the hopes of catching up our friend.

Porpoise bit his nails with vexation. Hearty wanted to get the matter over to return to Malta.

It was noon before we came up with the “Zebra.” This we should not have done had she not hove-to for us. We then had to wait for the “Trident,” which appeared to the northward, standing towards us.

We were all so confident that the polacca-brig which passed us in the night was the pirate, that our naval friends were obliged to be convinced, so we all hove about, and stood back the way we had come in chase.

I think it better to make a long story short. We crowded every thing we could carry, and the little “Frolic” behaved beautifully alongside her big companions, shooting somewhat ahead of them in light winds, and keeping well up with them when there was a sea on.

We scarcely expected that the pirate would attempt to get through the Gut, and therefore we might hope to pick him up inside it. I could not help suspecting, however, that all the time Mr Sandgate was laughing at us in his sleeve, and that we should see no more of him. So it proved. Ten days were fruitlessly expended in the search, and at the end of that time we were all once more at anchor in Malta Harbour.

Hearty very speedily reconciled himself to the disappointment in the society of Miss Mizen. Carstairs was soon at the feet of Mrs Skyscraper, while I went to inquire for Miss Seton; but as I found Sir Lloyd Snowdon occupying her entire attention, I paid a short visit, and went to dine with Piper on board the “Trident.”

Chapter Twenty Three.

Ladies Aboard—Our Crew’s Dread of the Consequences.

We had not been many days in harbour, when Rullock received orders to take a cruise to the westward to practise his crew, who, being mostly raw hands quickly raised at Plymouth, required no little practice to turn them into men-of-war’s men.

As plenty of sea-air had been prescribed for Miss Mizen, and change of scene—not that I think she now required either—it was arranged that she and her mother should take a cruise in the “Zebra.” Had Mrs Mizen been his wife instead of his sister, Captain Rullock could not have taken her, as the rules of the service do not allow a captain to take his wife to sea with him, though he may any other man’s wife, or any relative, or any lady whatever.

Under such circumstances, it was not to be supposed that the “Frolic” would remain at anchor. Accordingly she put to sea with the brig-of-war. Carstairs, however, had metal more attractive to his taste at Valetta, so decided on remaining on shore. We did not fail to miss him, and to wish for his quaint, dry, comic remarks, and apt quotations from Shakespeare. Never, certainly, was a party better constituted than ours for amusing each other, all of us having that indispensable ingredient of harmony, perfect good humour; and had not that arch mischief-maker Cupid found his way among us, we should have continued in united brotherhood till the yacht was laid up.

A light breeze brought off faintly the sound of the evening gun from the castle of St. Elmo, as, in company with the “Zebra,” we stood away from Malta to the westward. Hearty walked his deck with a prouder air and firmer step than was his wont. Nothing so much gives dignity to a man as the consciousness of having won the affections of a true, good girl. His eye was seldom or never off the brig, even after the shades of night prevented the possibility of distinguishing much more than her mere outline, as her taut masts and square yards, and the tracery of her rigging appeared against the starlit sky. He had charged Porpoise to have a very sharp look-out kept that we might run no chance of parting from our consort; but, not content with that, he was on deck every half-hour during the night to ascertain that his directions were obeyed.

“I say, Bill, the gov’nor seems to fancy that no one has got any eyes in his head worth two farthing rushlights but hisself, this here cruise,” I heard old Sleet remark to his chum, Frost. “What can a come over him?”

“What, don’t you know, Bo?” answered Bill; “I thought any one with half an eye could have seen that. Why, he’s been and courted the niece of the skipper of the brig there, and soon they’ll be going and getting spliced, and then good-bye to the ‘Frolic.’ She’ll be laid up to a certainty. It’s always so. The young gentlemen as soon as they comes into their fortunes goes and buys a yacht. We’ll always be living at sea, say they. It goes on at first very well while they’ve only friends comes aboard, but soon they takes to asking ladies, and soon its all up with them. Either they takes to boxing about in the Channel, between the Wight and the main; for ever up and down anchor, running into harbour to dine, and spending the day pulling on shore, waiting alongside the yacht-house slip for hours, and coming aboard with a cargo of boat-cloaks and shawls, or else, as I have said, they goes and gives up the yacht altogether.” Old Sleet gave a munch at his grub and then replied,—“But if I don’t judge altogether wrong by the cut of this here young lady’s jib, I don’t think she’s one of those who’d be for wishing her husband to do any such thing. When she came aboard of us, t’other day, she stepped along the thwarts just as if she’d been born at sea. Says I to myself, when I saw her, she’s a sailor’s daughter, and a sailor’s niece, and should be a sailor’s wife; but if what you say is true, Bo, she’s going to be next door to it, as a chap may say, and that’s the wife of a true, honest yachtsman. No, no, there’s no fear, she won’t let him lay up the ‘Frolic,’ depend on’t.”

“Well, I hope so,” observed Frost; “I should just like to have a fine young girl like she aboard, they keeps things alive somehow, when they are good, though when they are t’other they are worse than one of old Nick’s imps for playing tricks and doing mischief.”

“You are right there again, and no mistake, Bo,” answered Sleet. “I once sailed with a skipper who had his wife aboard: I never seed such goings on before nor since. The poor man couldn’t call his soul his own, or his sleep his own. She was a downright double-fisted woman, a regular white sergeant. She wouldn’t allow a drop of grog to be served out without she did it, nor a candle end to be burned without logging it down; she almost starved the poor skipper—she used to tell him it was for his spirit’s welfare. He never put the ship about without consulting her. One day, when it was blowing big guns and small-arms, she was out of sorts, and says he—

“‘Molly, love, I think we ought for to be shortening sail, or we may chance to have the masts going over the sides.’

“‘Shorten sail?’ she sings out, ‘let the masts go, and you go with them, for what I care. Let the ship drive, she’ll bring up somewhere as well without you as with you.’

“The poor skipper hadn’t a word to say, but for his life he daren’t take the canvas off the ship.

“‘My love, it blows very hard,’ says he again, in a mild, gentle voice.

“‘Let it blow harder,’ answers the lady; and you might have supposed it was a boatswain’s mate who’d swallowed a marlinspike who spoke.

“Presently down came the gale heavier than ever on us. Crack, crack, went the masts, and in another second we hadn’t a stick standing.

“‘Where’s the ship going to drive to, now?’ asks the skipper, turning to his wife. ‘I’ve been a fool a long time, but I don’t mean to be a fool any longer; just you get the ship put to rights, or overboard you go.’

“‘How am I to do that same?’ asks Mrs Molly, very considerably mollified; ‘I don’t know how.’

“‘Then overboard you goes,’ says the skipper, quite coolly, but firmly. ‘If the wind shifts three or four points only we shall have an ugly shore under our lee, which will knock every timber of the ship into ten thousand atoms in no time, and you may thank yourself for being the cause of the wreck.’

“‘Oh, spare my life, spare my life, and I’ll never more interfere with the duty of the ship,’ cries the lady, in an agony of fear.

“The captain pretended to be softened. ‘Well,’ says he, ‘take the oaths and go below, and I’ll think about it.’

“Mrs Molly, as we always called her, sneaked to her cabin without saying another word. All hands set to work with a will, and obeyed the skipper much more willingly than we had ever done before. We got jury-masts up, and carried the ship safely into port, but from that time to this I’ve always fought shy of a ship with petticoats in the cabin, and so I always shall, except I happen to know the sort of woman who wears them.”

I was much amused with old Sleet’s remarks, and in most respects I agreed, with him.

A day or two afterwards the crew had their suspicions confirmed by the appearance of Mrs and Miss Mizen on the deck of the cutter. In the mean time Hearty had been constantly on board the brig-of-war. He dined on board every day, as indeed we all did, only we dined in the gun-room, and he with the captain and ladies. The accommodation, however, on board the brig was rather confined, and as the weather promised to continue fine, he became naturally anxious to get them on board the yacht. At last he broached the subject. Old Rullock did not object; the ladies finding that there was nothing incorrect in the proceeding were very willing; and to give them more accommodation, an exchange was effected between them and Bubble, who took up his quarters on board the brig. I should have gone also, but Porpoise begged I would remain and keep him company, so I doubled up in his cabin to give the ladies more accommodation. Hearty took Snow’s berth, and the old man was very glad on such an occasion to swing in a hammock forward. The thought of those days are truly sunny memories of foreign seas.

Miss Mizen, by her kind and lively manners, her readiness to converse with the crew, her wish to pick up information about the sea and the places they had visited, and their own histories, and her unwillingness to give trouble, soon won the love of all on board; while her mother, whose character was very similar to her daughter’s, was a general favourite, and I heard old Sleet declare to Frost that the old lady wasn’t a bit like Mrs Molly Magrath, and as for the young girl she was an angel, and old as he was he’d be ready to go round the world to serve her, that he would.

“Now don’t you think Mr Hearty, that you could find some one who can spin a regular sea matter-of-fact yarn about things which really have been?” said Miss Mizen, one fine afternoon, with one of those sweet smiles which would have been irresistible, even if a far more important request had been made.

The owner of the “Frolic” thought a little. “Yes, by the by, I have it,” he exclaimed; “one of the men I have on board is a first-rate yarn-spinner. Once set his tongue a going, it is difficult to stop it, and yet there is very little romance about the old man. He has, I conclude, a first-rate memory, and just tells what he has seen and heard. I’ll call him aft, and will try what we can get out of him.”

Hearty on this went forward, and after a little confab with the crew, returned with old Sleet, who, instead of being bashful, was looking as pleased as Punch in his most frolicsome humour, at the honour about to be done him. Without hesitation he doffed his hat, threw his quid overboard, smoothed down his hair, and began his tale. I must confess that I have not given it in his language, which was somewhat a departure from the orthodox vernacular, and might weary my readers.

“Now, gentlemen and ladies all, I’m going to tell you—”

How Joe Buntin Did the Revenue.

The “Pretty Polly” was the fastest, the smartest, and the sweetest craft that sailed out of Fairport; so said Joe Buntin, and nobody had better right to say it, or better reason to know it, he being part owner of her, and having been master of her from the day her keel first touched the water. She was a cutter of no great size, for she measured only something between thirty and forty tons; she had great beam for her length, was sharp in the bows, rising slightly forward, and with a clean run; she was, in fact, a capital sea-boat, fit to go round the world if needs be—weatherly in a heavy sea, and very fast in smooth water, though the nautical critics pronounced her counter too short for beauty; but Joe did not consider that point a defect, as it made her all the better for running in foul weather, which was what he very frequently wanted her to do. She carried a whacking big mainsail, with immense hoist in it, and the boom well over the taffrail. Her big jib was a whopper with a vengeance, and her foresail hoisted chock up to the block. She had a swinging gaff-topsail very broad in the head, and a square-sail to set for running, with prodigious spread in it; so that, give the “Pretty Polly” a good breeze, few were the craft of anything like her own size she couldn’t walk away from. In fact, anybody might have taken her for some dandified yacht, rather than for a humble pilot-boat, which the number on her mainsail proclaimed her to be. Now the “Pretty Polly,” like other beauties, had her fair weather and her foul weather looks, her winter as well as her summer suit. She had her second, and third, and storm-jibs, a trysail of heavy canvas, and even a second mainsail, with a shorter boom to ship at times, while her standing and running rigging was as good as the best hemp and the greatest care could keep it, for every inch of it was turned in under Joe’s inspection, if not with his own hand. Joe Buntin loved his craft, as does every good sailor; she was his care, his pride, his delight, mistress, wife, and friend. He would talk to her and talk of her by the hour together; he was never tired of praising her, of expatiating on her qualities, of boasting of her achievements, how she walked away from such a cutter—how she weathered such a gale—how she clawed off a lee-shore on such an occasion; there was no end to what she had done and was to do. She was, in truth, all in all to Joe; he was worthy of her, and she was worthy of him, which reminds us that he himself claims a word or two of description. He had little beauty, nor did he boast of it, for in figure he was nearly as broad as high, with a short, thick neck, and a turn-up nose in the centre of his round, fresh-coloured visage; but he had black, sparkling eyes, full of fun and humour, and a well-formed mouth, with strong white teeth, which rescued his countenance from being ugly, while an expression of firmness and boldness, with great good nature, made him respected by all, and gained him plenty of friends. Joe sported a love-lock on each side of his face, with a little tarpaulin hat stuck on the top of his head, a neat blue jacket, or a simple blue guernsey frock, and an enormously large pair of flushing trousers, with low shoes; indeed, he was very natty in his dress, and although many people called him a smuggler—nor is there any use in denying that he was one—he did not look a bit like those cut-throat characters represented on the stage or in print-shops, with high boots, and red caps, and cloaks, and pistols, and hangers. Indeed, so far from there being any thing of the ruffian about him, he looked and considered himself a very honest fellow. He cheated nobody, for though he broke the revenue laws systematically and regularly, he had, perhaps, persuaded himself, by a course of reasoning not at all peculiar to himself, that there was no harm in so doing; possibly he had no idea that those laws were bad laws, and injurious to the country; so out of the evil, as he could not remedy it, he determined to pluck that rosebud—profit—to his own pocket. Remember that we are not at all certain that he actually did reason as we have suggested; we are, we confess, rather inclined to suspect that he found the occupation profitable; that he had been engaged in it from his earliest days, and therefore followed it without further troubling his head about its lawfulness or unlawfulness. So much for Joe Buntin and his cutter the “Pretty Polly.”

His crew were a bold set of fellows, stanch to him, and true to each other; indeed, most of them, as is usual, had a share in the vessel, and all were interested in the success of her undertakings; they were quiet, peaceable, and orderly men; their rule was never to fight, the times were too tranquil for such work, and a running noose before their eyes was not a pleasant prospect. They trusted entirely to their wit and their heels for success, and provided one cargo in three could be safely landed, they calculated on making a remunerating profit.

The days when armed smuggling craft, with a hundred hands on board bid defiance to royal cruisers, had long passed by, for we are referring to a period within the last six or eight years only, during the last days of smuggling. Now the contraband trade is chiefly carried on in small open boats, or fishing craft, affording a very precarious subsistence to those who still engage in it. After what has been said it may be confessed that the “Pretty Polly” was chiefly employed in smuggling, though her ostensible, and, indeed, very frequent occupation, was that of a pilot-vessel.

Now we must own that in those days we did not feel a proper and correct hatred of smugglers and their doings; the dangers they experienced, the daring and talent they displayed in their calling, used, in spite of our better reason, to attract our admiration, and to raise them to the dignity of petty heroes in our imagination. The dishonest merchant, the dealer in contraband goods, the encourager of crime, was the man who received the full measure of our contempt and dislike—he who, skulking quietly on shore, without fear or danger, reaped the profits of the bold seaman’s toil.

Fairport, to which the “Pretty Polly” belonged, is a neat little town at the mouth of a small river on the southern coast of England. The entrance to the harbour is guarded by an old castle, with a few cannon on the top of it, and was garrisoned by a superannuated gunner, his old wife and his pretty grand-daughter, who performed most efficiently all the duties in the fortress, such as sweeping it clean, mopping out the guns, and shutting the gates at night. Sergeant Ramrod was a good specimen of a fine old soldier, and certainly when seeing his portly figure and upright carriage, and listening to his conversation, one might suppose that he held a higher rank than it had ever been his fate to reach. He had seen much service, been engaged in numerous expeditions in various parts of the world, and went through the whole Peninsular war; indeed, had merit its due reward, he should, he assured his friends, be a general instead of a sergeant, and so being rather an admirer of his, we are also apt to think—but then when has merit its due reward? What an extraordinary hoisting up and hauling down there would be to give every man his due! Sergeant Ramrod always went by the name of the Governor of Fairport Castle, and we suspect rather liked the title. He was, in truth, much better off than the governors of half the castles in the world, though he did not think so himself; he had no troops, certainly, to marshal or drill, but then he had no rounds to make or complaints to hear, and his little garrison, composed of his wife and grandchild, never gave him a moment’s uneasiness, while he might consider himself almost an independent ruler, so few and far between were the visits of his superior officers.

The town of Fairport consists of a long street, with a few offshoots, containing some sixty houses or so, inhabited by pilots, fishermen, and other seafaring characters, two or three half-pay naval officers, a few casual visitors in the summer months, a medical man or two, and a proportionate number of shopkeepers. The castle stands at one end of the town, close to the mouth of the river, the tide of which sweeps round under its walls, where there is always water sufficient to float a boat even at low tide. In the walls of the castle are a few loopholes and a small postern-gate or port to hoist in stores, and close to it is a quay, the chief landing-place of the town. Here a revenue officer is stationed night and day to prevent smuggling, though there are certain angles of the castle-wall which he cannot overlook from his post. This description we must beg our readers to remember.

One fine morning, soon after daybreak in the early part of the year, Joe Buntin and his crew appeared on Fairport quay with their pea-jackets and bundles under their arms, and jumping into their boat pulled on board the “Pretty Polly.” Her sails were loosened and hoisted in a trice, the breeze took her foresail, the mainsail next filled, the jib-sheet was flattened aft, and slipping from her moorings she slowly glided towards the mouth of the river. The jib-sheet was, however, immediately after let go, the helm was put down, and about she came—in half a minute more, so narrow is the channel, that she was again about, and at least six tacks had she to make before she could weather the westernmost spit at the entrance of the harbour, and stand clear out to sea.

“I wonder which of the French ports she’s bound to now,” observed a coast-guard man to a companion who had just joined him on the little quay close to the castle. “After some of her old tricks, I warrant.”

“We shall have to keep a sharp look-out after him, or he’ll double on us, you may depend on it,” replied the other; “Joe Buntin’s a difficult chap to circumvent, and one needs to be up early in the morning to find him snoozing.”

“More reason we shouldn’t go to sleep ourselves, Ben,” said the first speaker; “I must report the sailing of the ‘Pretty Polly’ to the inspecting commander, that he may send along the coast to give notice that she’s out. Captain Sturney would give not a little to catch the ‘Pretty Polly,’ and he’s told Joe that he’ll nab her some day.”

“What did Joe say to that?”

“Oh, he laughed and tried to look innocent, and answered that he was welcome to her if he ever found her with a tub of spirits, or a bale of tobacco in her.”

“I’ll tell you, though, who’d give his right hand and something more, to boot, to catch Master Joe himself, or I’m very much mistaken.”

“Who’s that?”

“Why, Lieutenant Hogson, to be sure. You see he has set his eyes on little Margaret Ramrod, the old gunner’s grandchild, but she don’t like him, though he is a naval officer, and won’t have any thing to say to him, and he has found out that Joe is sweet in that quarter, and suspects that if it weren’t for him, he himself would have more favour. Now, if he could get Joe out of the way, the game would be in his own hands.”

“Oh, that’s it, is it? Well, I think the little girl is right, for Joe is a good fellow, though he does smuggle a bit; and as for Lieutenant Hogson, though he is our officer, the less we say about him the better.”

While this conversation was going on, the “Pretty Polly” had reached down abreast of the quay, when Buntin, who was at the helm, waved his hand to the coast-guard men, they in return wishing him a pleasant voyage and a safe return.

“Thank ye,” answered Joe, laughing, for he and his opponents were on excellent terms. “Thank ye, and remember, keep a bright look-out for me.”

The cutter then passed so close to the castle that her boom almost grazed its time-worn walls. Joe looked up at the battlements, and there he saw a bright young face, with a pair of sparkling eyes, gazing down upon him. Joe took off his tarpaulin hat and waved it.

“I’ll not forget your commission, Miss Margaret. My respects to your grandfather,” he sang out.

There was not time to say more before the cutter shot out of hearing. The flutter of a handkerchief was the answer, and as long as a human figure was visible on the ramparts, Joe saw that Mistress Margaret was watching him. Now, it must be owned, that it was only of late Joe had yielded to the tender passion, and it would have puzzled him to say how it was. He had been accustomed to bring over trifling presents to the little girl, and had ingratiated himself with the old soldier, by the gift now and then of a few bottles of real cognac; but he scarcely suspected that his “Pretty Polly,” his fast-sailing craft, had any rival in his affections.

The day after the “Pretty Polly,” sailed, Margaret was seated at her work, and the old dame sat spinning in their little parlour in the castle, while Mr Ramrod was taking his usual walk on the quay, when a loud tap was heard at the door.

“Come in,” said the dame, and Lieutenant Hogson made his appearance.

Now, although by no means a favourite guest, he was, from his rank and office, always welcomed politely, and Margaret jumped up and wiped a chair, while the dame begged him to be seated. His appearance was not prepossessing, for his face was pock-marked, his hair was coarse and scanty, and sundry potations, deep and strong, had added a ruddy hue to the tip of his nose, while his figure was broad and ungainly. He threw himself into a chair, as if he felt himself perfectly at home. “Ah, pretty Margaret! bright and smiling as ever, I see. How I envy your happy disposition!” he began.

“Yes, sir, I am fond of laughing,” said Margaret, demurely.

“So I see. And how’s grandfather?”

“Here he comes to answer for himself, sir,” said Margaret, as old Ramrod appeared, and, welcoming his guest, placed a bottle and some glasses before him, while Margaret brought a jug of hot water and some sugar. The eyes of the lieutenant twinkled as he saw the preparations.

“Not much duty paid on this, I suspect, Mr Ramrod,” he observed, as he smacked his lips after the first mouthful.

“Can’t say, sir. They say that the revenue does not benefit from any that’s drunk in Fairport.”

“A gift of our friend Buntin’s, probably,” hazarded the officer.

“Can’t say, sir; several of my friends make me a little present now and then. I put no mark on them.”

“Oh, all right, I don’t ask questions,” said the lieutenant.

“By the by, I find that the ‘Pretty Polly’ has started on another trip.”

“So I hear, sir,” said Ramrod.

“Can you guess where she’s gone, Miss Margaret?” asked the officer.

“Piloting, I suppose, sir,” answered the maiden, blushing.

“Oh, ay, yes, of course; but didn’t he talk of going anywhere on the French coast?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Margaret, “he said he thought he might just look in at Cherbourg.”

“And how soon did he say he would be back?” asked the officer.

“In four or five days, sir,” said Margaret.

The lieutenant was delighted with the success of his interrogations, and at finding the maiden in so communicative a mood; so mixing a stiffer tumbler of grog than before to heighten his own wits, he continued, “Now, my good girl, I don’t ask you to tell me any thing to injure our friend Buntin, but did he chance to let drop before you where he proposed to make his land-fall on his return—you understand, where he intended to touch first before he brings the ‘Pretty Polly’ into Fairport?”

“Dear me, I did hear him talk of looking into — Bay; and he told Denman, and Jones, and Tigtop, and several others to be down there,” answered Margaret, with the greatest simplicity.

“I don’t think the girl knows what she’s talking of, Mr Hogson,” interposed old Ramrod, endeavouring to silence his grand-daughter. “But of course any thing she has let drop, you won’t make use of, sir.”

“Oh, dear, no! of course not, my good friend,” answered Mr Hogson. “I merely asked for curiosity’s sake. But I must wish you good afternoon. I have my duties to attend to—duty before pleasure, you know, Mr Ramrod. Good-by, Miss Margaret, my ocean lily—a good afternoon to you, old hero of a hundred fights;” and, gulping down the contents of his tumbler, with no very steady steps the officer took his leave.

As soon as he was gone, Ramrod scolded his grandchild for her imprudence in speaking of Buntin’s affairs.

“You don’t know the injury you may have done him,” he added; “but it never does to trust a female with what you don’t want known.”

“Perhaps not, grandfather,” said Margaret, smiling archly. “But Joe told me that I might just let it fall, if I had an opportunity, that he was going to run a crop at — Bay, and I could not resist the temptation when Mr Hogson asked me, thinking I was so simple all the time. I’m sure, however, I wish that Joe would give over smuggling altogether. It’s very wrong, I tell him, and very dangerous; but he promises me that if he can but secure two more cargoes, he’ll give it up altogether. I’m sure I wish he would.”

“So do I, girl, with all my heart; for it does not become me, an officer of the government, to associate with one who constantly breaks the laws; but yet, I own it, I like the lad, and wish him well.”

Margaret did not express her sentiments; but the bright smile on her lips betrayed feelings which she happily had never been taught the necessity of controlling.

Mr Hogson esteemed himself a very sharp officer; and, as he quitted the castle, he congratulated himself on his acuteness in discovering Buntin’s plans. He had spies in various directions, or rather, people whom he fancied were such, though every one of them was well-known to the smugglers, and kept in pay by them. By them the information he had gained from Margaret was fully corroborated, and accordingly he gave the necessary orders to watch for the cutter at the spot indicated, while he collected a strong body of men to seize her cargo as soon as the smugglers attempted to run it. His arrangements were made with considerable judgment, and could not, he felt certain, fail of success, having stationed signalmen on every height in the neighbourhood of — Bay, to give the earliest notice of the smugglers’ approach. As soon as it was dark, he himself, with the main body of coast-guard men, all well-armed, set off by different routes, to remain in ambush near the spot. While they lay there, they heard several people pass them on their way to the shore, whom they rightly conjectured were those whose business it was to carry the tubs and bales up the cliffs to their hides, as soon as landed. The night was very dark, for there was no moon, and the sky was cloudy; and though there was a strong breeze, there was not sufficient sea on to prevent a landing; in fact, it was just the night the smugglers would take advantage of. Mr Hogson, having stationed his men, buttoned up his pea-jacket, and drawing his south-wester over his ears, set off along the shore to reconnoitre. He rubbed his hands with satisfaction when he perceived a number of people collected on the beach, and others approaching from various directions.

“I’m pretty sure of forty or fifty pounds at least,” he muttered, “and if I can but nab Master Joe himself, I’ll soon bring his coy sweetheart to terms, I warrant. Ah! the cutter must be getting in with the land, or these people would not be assembling yet.”

Just then a gleam of bright light shot forth from the cliffs, at no great distance from where he was standing; it was answered by the gleam of a lantern from the sea, which was instantly again obscured. He watched with intense anxiety, without moving for some minutes, when he thought that he observed two dark objects glancing over the waters towards the shore. His difficulty was to select the proper moment for his attack. If he appeared too soon, the people on shore would give notice, and the boats would return to the cutter; if he did not reach them directly after they touched the shore, he knew from experience that he should certainly find them empty, a minute or two sufficing to carry off the whole cargo. At last he had no doubt that the smugglers were at hand; and, as fast as his legs could carry him, he hurried back to bring up his men.

We must now return to the “Pretty Polly.” Besides Joe Buntin, the crew of the cutter consisted of Dick Davis, Tom Figgit, and Jack Calloway, as thorough seamen as were ever collected together, and all of them licenced pilots for the Channel, each having a share in the craft; then there were, besides them, twice this number of men shipped on certain occasions, who, though they received a share of the profits, had no property in her. Joe had determined to run great risks this voyage, in the hopes of making large profits, and had invested a large part of his property in the venture, which his agent had prepared ready for shipment at Cherbourg. The wind shifted round to the nor’ard, and the “Pretty Polly” had a quick run across the Channel. The evening of the day she left Fairport, she was riding at anchor in the magnificent harbour of Cherbourg. As soon as they arrived, he and his mates went on shore, and the agent, not expecting him that evening, being out of the way, they betook themselves to a café on the quay, overlooking the harbour. Joe always made himself at home wherever he went, and although he had no particular aptitude for learning languages, he managed, without any great difficulty, to carry on a conversation in French, and his thorough good nature and ready fund of humour gained him plenty of friends among the members of the great nation.

The house of entertainment into which the Englishmen walked, is entitled “Le Café de la Grande Nation.” The room was large, and had glass doors opening on the quay, through which a view of the harbour was obtained. It was full of little round tables, with marble slabs, surrounded with chairs, and the walls were ornamented with glowing pictures of naval engagements, in which the tricolour floated proudly at the mastheads of most of the ships, while a few crippled barks, with their masts shot away, and their sails in tatters, had the British ensign trailing in the water. The prospect before them was highly picturesque. Directly in front was an old tower, the last remnant of the ancient Walls of Cherbourg. Beyond, spread out before them, was the broad expanse of its superb harbour, capable of containing all the fleet of France. In the centre, where labourers were busily at work, was the breakwater, the intended rival of Plymouth, one entrance guarded by the Fort of Querqueville, the other by that of Pelée; and on the western shore, guarded by numerous ranges of batteries, was the naval arsenal and dockyard, the pride of the people of Cherbourg, and which, when finished, is intended to surpass any thing of the kind possessed by the perfide Anglais.

Joe and his friends, having ordered some eau de vie and water, and lighted their cigars, took their seats near the door. They did not stand much on ceremony in passing their remarks on all they saw, particularly at the men-of-war’s men who were strolling about the town.

“My eyes, Dick,” exclaimed Tom Figgit, “look at them fellows with their red waistcoats and tight jackets, which look as if they were made for lads half their size, and their trousers with their sterns in the fore part. Just fancy them going aloft.”

“They are rum enough, but, to my mind, not such queer-looking chaps as the sodgers,” answered Dick.

“Do you know, Dick, that I’ve often thought that a Frenchman must be cast out of quite a different mould to an Englishman? The clothes of one never would fit t’other. It has often puzzled me to account for it.”

“Why, Tom, it would puzzle one if one had to account for all the strange things in the world,” answered the other. “You might just as well ask why all the women about here wear caps as big as balloons; they couldn’t tell themselves, I warrant.”

Just then their conversation was broken off, that they might listen to Joe, who had entered into a warm discussion with the boatswain, or some such officer of one of the French ships-of-war, on the relative qualities of their respective navies. The salle was full at the time of naval and military officers of inferior grades, douaniers, gens-d’armes, and worthies of a similar stamp, all smoking, and spitting, and gesticulating, and talking together.

“Comment, Monsieur Buntin,” said the Frenchman; “do you mean to say that you have got an arsenal as large as le notre de Cherbourg in the whole of England?”

“I don’t know how that may be,” answered Joe, quietly; “Portsmouth isn’t small, and Plymouth isn’t small, but perhaps we don’t require them so big. We get our enemies to build ships for us.”

“Bah,” exclaimed the Frenchman, shrugging his shoulders; “les perfides!”

Just then a fine frigate was seen rounding Point Querqueville. Like a stately swan slowly she glided through the water till, when she approached the town, her rigging was crowded with men, her courses were clewed up, her topsails and topgallant-sails were furled, and she swung round to her anchor. She was a model of symmetry and beauty, and the Frenchmen looked on with admiration.

“There,” exclaimed Joe’s friend, “n’est-ce pas que c’est belle? Have you got a ship in the whole English navy like her?”

“I don’t know,” answered Joe, innocently. “But if there came a war, we very soon should, I can tell you.”

“Comment?” said the Frenchman.

“Why you see, monsieur, we should have she.”

“Sare!” exclaimed half a dozen Frenchmen, starting up and drawing their swords. “Do you mean to insult La Grande Nation?”

Whereupon Tom Figgit and Dick Davis, though they did not exactly comprehend the cause of offence, jumped up also, and prepared for a skirmish, which might have ended somewhat seriously for the three Englishmen, had not Joe’s agent at that moment appeared and acted as a pacificator between them, Joe assuring them that he had no intention of insulting them or any one of their nation, and that he had merely said what he thought would be the case.

Joe did not spend a longer time than was absolutely necessary at Cherbourg, and as soon as he got his cargo on board, the “Pretty Polly” was once more under way for England. Her hold was stowed with much valuable merchandise, chiefly silks, laces, and spirits. She had also on deck a number of empty tubs, and a few bales filled with straw. As soon as he had got clear of the land, the wind, which had at first been southerly, shifted to the south-west, and it soon came on to blow very fresh. This he calculated would bring him upon the English coast at too early an hour for his purpose, so when he had run about two-thirds of his distance, he lay to, with his foresail to windward, waiting for the approach of evening.

As he walked the deck of his little vessel, with Tom Figgit by his side, he every now and then broke into a low quiet laugh. At last he gave vent to his thoughts in words.

“If we don’t do the revenue this time, Tom, say I’m no better than one of them big-sterned mounsieurs. What a rage that dirty spy, Hogson, will be in! Ha, ha, ha! It’s a pleasure to think of it.”

Tom fully participated in all his leader’s sentiments, and by their light-hearted gaiety one might have supposed that they had some amusing frolic in view, instead of an undertaking full of peril to their personal liberty and property. All this time a man was stationed at the masthead to keep a look-out in every direction, that no revenue-cruiser should approach them without due notice, to enable them to get out of her way.

We must now return to Lieutenant Hogson. As soon as he felt certain that the boats had landed, he hurried down with his men to the beach. His approach was apparently not perceived, and while the smugglers were actively engaged in loading themselves with tubs and bales of goods, he was among them.

“Stand and deliver, in the king’s name,” he shouted out, collaring the first smuggler he could lay hands on, his men following his example.

For a moment the smugglers appeared to be panic-struck by the suddenness of the attack; but soon recovering themselves, as many as were at liberty threw down their loads and made their escape.

“Seize the boats,” he added. “Here, take charge of this prisoner.” And rushing into the water, he endeavoured to capture the boat nearest to him; but just as he had got his hand on her gunnel, the people in her, standing up with their oars in their hands, gave her so hearty a shove, that, lifting on the next wave, she glided out into deep water, while he fell with his face into the surf, from which he had some difficulty in recovering himself with a thorough drenching; the other boat getting off in the same manner. In the mean time, signals had been made by the revenue-men stationed on the neighbouring heights, that the expected run had been attempted, and the coast-guard officers and their people from the nearest stations hurried up to participate in the capture. Some came by land, while others launched their boats in the hopes of cutting off the “Pretty Polly” in case she should not have discharged the whole of her cargo.

With muffled oars and quick strokes they pulled across the bay; but if they expected to catch Joe Buntin, or the “Pretty Polly,” they certainly were disappointed; for although they pulled about in every direction till daylight, not a sign or trace of her did they discover. Not so unfortunate, however, was Lieutenant Hogson, for although he did not capture his rival, he made a large seizure of tubs, and several bales of silk, as he supposed, and a considerable number of prisoners, which would altogether bring him in no small amount of prize-money. One prisoner he made afforded him considerable satisfaction. It was no other than Tom Figgit, who, having jumped out of the boat with a tub on his back, was seized before he had time to disengage himself from his load, and this, with many a grimace, he was now compelled to carry.

“I hope you’ve made up your mind for a year in Winchester jail, Master Tom,” said Mr Hogson, holding a lantern up to his face. “It isn’t the first time you’ve seen its inside, I warrant.”

“It would be, though; and what’s more, I intend to spend my Christmas with my wife and family,” answered Tom, doggedly.

The prisoners were now collected, and marched up to the nearest coast-guard station, but there were so many tubs and bales that the coast-guard men were obliged to load themselves heavily with them; for it was found that should only a small guard be left to take charge of them, the smugglers would carry them off. The wind whistled coldly, the rain came down in torrents, and the revenue people and their prisoners had a very disagreeable march through the mud up to the station, Tom Figgit being the only person who retained his spirits and his temper—though he grumbled in a comical way at being compelled to carry a tub for other people, and insisted that he should retain it for his trouble at the end of his journey. When he reached the guard-house, he slyly tumbled the tub off his shoulders, and down it came on the ground with so heavy a blow that it was stove in. The names of the prisoners were now taken down in due form, and they were told they must be locked up till they could be carried before a magistrate, and be committed to jail for trial. As soon as the officer had done speaking,—

“Please, sir,” said Tom, “there’s one of the tubs leaking dreadfully, and if it isn’t looked to, it will all have run out before the morning; though for the matter of that, it doesn’t smell much like spirits.”

“Bring me a glass,” said the lieutenant, who, wet and cold, was longing to have a drop of spirits. “I’ll soon pass an opinion on your eau de vie, Master Tom.”

Tom smiled, but said nothing, while one of the men brought a glass and broached the leaky tub.

“Show a light here,” said Tom. “Well, I can’t say as how it’s got much of the smell of spirits—hang me, if I can make it out.”

Tom filled the glass, and, with a profound bow, worthy of a Mandarin, presented it to the officer. Lieutenant Hogson was thirsty, and, without even smelling the potion, he gulped it down.

“Salt water, by George!” he exclaimed, furiously, spitting and spluttering it out with all his might, and giving every expression to his disgust.

Tom, forgetful of the respect due to a king’s officer, burst into a fit of uproarious laughter.

“Well, I warned you, sir. I told you there was something odd about it—ha, ha, ha—and now you find what I said was true—ha, ha, ha!”

“What do you mean, you scoundrel?” cried the lieutenant, stamping furiously. “How dare you play such a trick?”

“Nothing, sir, nothing,” answered Tom, coolly; “you see I should have been very much surprised if there had been any thing else but salt water; for you see we was bringing those tubs on shore, full of sea-water, for a poor old lady who lives some way inland, and her doctors ordered her to try sea-bathing on the coast of France; but as she couldn’t go there herself, you see, she has the water carried all the way from there to here. It’s a fancy she has, but it’s very natural and regular, and we get well paid for it, sir.”

“Do you, Master Tom, actually expect me to believe such a pack of gross lies?” stammered out the lieutenant, as well as his rage would let him.

“I don’t know, sir,” answered the smuggler; “some people believe one thing, some another, and I hope you won’t think of keeping us here any longer, seeing as how we’ve done nothing against the law in landing tubs of salt water for old Missis Grundy up at Snigses Farm, sir. You may just go and axe her if what I says isn’t as true as gospel. It might be the death of her if she didn’t get her salt water to bathe in, you know, sir.”

“Old Missis Grundy! I never heard of her before,” exclaimed the lieutenant, growing every moment more angry; “and Snigses Farm, where’s that, I should like to know?”

“Why, sir, you see it’s two or three miles off, and rather a difficult road to find,” answered Tom, winking at his companions. “You first go up the valley, then you turn down by Waterford Mill, next you keep up by Dead Man’s Lane, and across Carver’s Field, and that will bring you about a quarter of the distance.”

“Why, you scoundrel!” exclaimed the lieutenant, who recognised the names of these places, and knew them to be wide apart, “you impudent rogue, you—why, you are laughing at me!”

“Oh, no, sir,” answered Tom, demurely, pulling a lock which hung from his bullet-shaped head, “couldn’t think of laughing at you; besides, sir, you knows one can’t always make one’s face as long as a grave-digger’s apprentice’s.”

“I’ll make it long enough before I’ve done with you, Master Tom, let me tell you,” exclaimed the officer. “Now let us see what are in those other casks and bales.”

“What, all them that your people have had the trouble of carrying up here?” cried Tom. “Lord! sir, the tubs, of course, is all full of salt water, too, for Missis Grundy.”

“We shall soon see that, my fine fellow,” answered the officer, thinking Tom had only told the tale to annoy him; but to make sure, seizing a gimlet, with his own hands he broached tub after tub, his face elongating as he proceeded, and the visions of his prize-money gradually vanished from his eyes. Tom and the other smugglers looking on all the time with a derisive smile curling their lips, though prudence prevented their saying any thing which might further exasperate the lieutenant.

At last, with an angry oath, he threw down the gimlet. They one and all contained nothing more potent than salt water. He then, with eager haste, anticipating disaster, tore open the bales. They were composed solely of straw and a little packing cloth.

“Them be life-buoys, sir,” said Tom, quietly. “We carries them now always, by the recommendation of the Humane Society.”

The smugglers now burst into fits of laughter at the rage and disappointment of the outwitted officer, and even his own men could scarcely restrain their tittering at his extravagances. There was, however, not a shadow of excuse for detaining the smugglers. They had a full right to land empty tubs and life-buoys at any hour of the night, and they had not offered the slightest resistance when captured by the coast-guard. In fact, as Tom expressed it while narrating his adventures with high glee to Joe Buntin, they “fairly did the revenue.”

The next morning, the “Pretty Polly” appeared beating up towards Fairport, and before noon she was at her moorings, and Joe was exhibiting a variety of pretty presents to the delighted eyes of Miss Margaret Ramrod. Rumours were not long in reaching her ears that one of the largest runs which had been known for ages had been made on the coast at some little distance from Fairport, the very night Lieutenant Hogson seized the tubs of salt water; and Joe confessed that he had only one more trip to make before he settled for life.

We need not detail the events of the next few days in the quiet town of Fairport. Those we have narrated served for conversation to the good people for full nine days, and during that time poor Mr Hogson never once ventured to show his face inside the castle-walls, for he had a strong suspicion, though an unjust one, that pretty Mistress Margaret had something to do with his disappointment. For her credit, however, we are certain that she was innocent of any intentional falsehood. Joe suspected that Mr Hogson would attempt to pump her; so, as we have seen the contents of a bucket of water thrown down a ship’s pump to make it suck, Joe took care that the lieutenant should get something for his pains, by telling the young lady to answer, if she was asked, that she had heard him say that he intended landing at — Bay.

For the three following weeks Joe Buntin contrived to spend several days on shore in the society of Sergeant Ramrod’s family, though the “Pretty Polly” during that time made several trips down Channel, and was very successful in falling in with some large East Indiamen, the pilotage money of which was considerable; and besides that she landed several rich passengers who paid well, so that Joe was rapidly becoming a wealthy man. He would have been wise to stick to his lawful and regular calling; but there was so much excitement in smuggling, and the profits of one trip were so much more than he could gain in several winters’ hard toil, that he could not resist the temptation. Had he taken the trouble of comparing himself with others, he would, we suspect, have considered himself a more honest man than the railroad speculators of the present day.

It was again the last quarter of the moon, and the nights were getting dark, when the “Pretty Polly” once more left her moorings in Fairport Harbour. Now it must not be supposed that she ran over at once to the coast of France, and taking in a cargo, returned as fast as she could to England. Joe was not so green as to do that. He, on the contrary, as before, cruised about the Channel till he had put two of his pilots on board different vessels, and, to disarm suspicion, they took very good care to present themselves at Fairport as soon after their return as possible; and even Mr Hogson began to fear that there was very little prospect of making prize-money by capturing the “Pretty Polly,” or of wreaking his vengeance on Joe.

As soon as the last ship into which he had put a pilot was out of sight, Joe shaped his course for Cherbourg, where he found a cargo of tubs ready for him, but he this time did not take any silks in his venture. In a few hours he was again on his way across the Channel. The weather was very favourable. Now some people would suppose that we mean to say there was a clear sky, a smooth sea, and a gentle breeze. Far from it. It blew so fresh that it might almost be called half a gale of wind; the clouds chased each other over the sky, and threatened to obscure even the stars, which might shed a tell-tale light on the world, and there was a heavy sea running; in truth, it gave every promise of being a dirty night. Nothing, however, in this sublunary world can be depended upon except woman’s love, and that is durable as adamant, true as the pole-star, and unequalled. The “Pretty Polly” was about fifteen miles from the land, and Joe and Tom Figgit were congratulating themselves on the favourable state of the weather, when the breeze began to fall and veer about, and at last shifted round to about east-south-east. Gradually the sea went down, the clouds cleared off, and the sun shone forth from the blue sky bright and warm.

“Now this is what I call a do,” exclaimed Tom Figgit, in a tone of discontent. “Who’d have thought it? Here were we expecting the finest night Heaven ever made for a run at this time of the year, and now I shouldn’t be surprised that there won’t be a cloud in the sky just as we ought to be putting the things on shore.”

“It can’t be helped, Tom,” answered Joe; “our good-luck has not done with us yet, depend on it.”

“I wish I was sure of it,” replied Tom, who was in a desponding mood;—he had taken too much cognac the night before. “Remember the story about the pitcher going too often to the well getting a cracked nose. Now, captain, if I was you I’d just ’bout ship and run back to Cherbourg till the weather thickens again. We should lay our course.”

“Gammon, Tom. What’s the matter with you?” exclaimed Joe. “One would suppose that you had been and borrowed one of your wife’s petticoats, and was going to turn old woman.”

“You know, captain, that I’ve very little of an old woman about me, and that it’s for you I’m afeared more than for myself,” replied Tom, in a reproachful tone. “A year in jail and the loss of a few pounds is the worst that could happen to me, while you would lose the vessel and cargo, and something else you lay more value on than either, I suspect.”

“Well, well, old boy, we’ll be guided by reason,” said Joe. “We won’t run any unnecessary risks, depend on it. I’ll just take a squint round with the glass to make sure that no cruiser has crept up to us with this shift of wind.”

Saying this, Joe carefully swept the horizon with his telescope, but for some time it rested on nothing but the dancing sea and the distant land. At last, however, his eye caught a glimpse of what, to him, appeared a very suspicious-looking sail dead to windward.

“What do you make her out to be?” he asked, handing the glass to Tom Figgit, and pointing towards the sail, which appeared no bigger than a sea-gull’s wing gleaming in the rays of the sun. Tom took a long look at her.

“She’s a big cutter, and no mistake,” he answered, still keeping his eye to the tube. “And what’s more, she’s standing this way, and coming up hand over hand with a fresh breeze. I don’t like the cut of her jib.”

“Let’s have another squint at her,” said Joe, taking the glass from the mate’s hand: then letting it come down suddenly, and giving a slap on his thigh, he exclaimed, “You are right, Tom, by George; and what’s more, if I don’t mistake by the way her gaff-topsail stands, she’s the ‘Ranger’ cutter which we gave the go-by in the winter, and they’ve vowed vengeance against us ever since.”

Davis and Calloway then gave their opinion, which coincided with the rest, nor did there appear to be any doubt that the approaching vessel was the “Ranger.”

The wind, as we said, had fallen, but there was still a considerable swell, the effects of the past gale, which made the little vessel pitch and tumble about, and considerably retarded her progress. Joe now scanned his own sails thoroughly to see that they drew well, and then glanced his eye over the side of the cutter to judge how fast she was going through the water. He was far from satisfied with the result of his observations.

“It won’t do,” he remarked; “we must be up slick, and run for it, or she’ll be overhauling us before dark. If we was blessed with the breeze she’s got, we wouldn’t mind her. Rig out the square-sail boom, bend on the square-sail. Come, bear a hand my hearties, be quick about it. None of us have much fancy for a twelvemonth in Winchester jail, I suppose. That’ll do; now hoist away.”

And himself setting an example of activity, the helm being put up, the main-sheet was eased off, a large square-sail set, and the cutter, dead before the wind, was running away from her supposed enemy. The square-topsail was next hoisted, and every stitch of canvas she could carry was clapped on, and under the influence of the returning breeze, the “Pretty Polly” danced merrily over the waters, though not at all approaching to the speed her impatient crew desired. Tom Figgit shook his head.

“I thought it would be so,” he muttered. “I knowed it when I seed the wind dropping. Well, if it weren’t for Joe, and to see that blowed coastguarder, Hogson, a-grinning at us, and rubbing his paws with delight, I shouldn’t care. If we might fight for it it would be a different thing, but to be caught like mice by a cat, without a squeak for life, is very aggrawating, every one must allow.”

Tom had some reason for his melancholy forebodings, for the “Pretty Polly” most certainly appeared to be out of luck. Do all she could, the “Ranger,” bringing up a fresh breeze, gained rapidly on her. The people in the revenue-cruiser had evidently seen her soon after she saw them, and, suspecting her character, had been using every exertion to come up with her. They had, in fact, long been on the watch for her, and quickly recognised her as their old friend. The smugglers walked the deck, vainly whistling for a wind, but, though they all whistled in concert, the partial breeze refused to swell their sails till it had filled those of their enemy. Nothing they could do, either wetting their sails, or altering her trim by shifting the cargo, would make the “Pretty Polly” go along faster. One great object was to retain a considerable distance from her till darkness covered the face of the deep, when they might hope more easily to make their escape.

As the sun went down the heavens grew most provokingly clear, and the stars shone forth from the pure sky, so that the smugglers saw and were seen by the revenue-cutter, and the character of the “Pretty Polly” was too well-known by every cruiser on the station to allow her to hope to escape unquestioned. Still Joe boldly held on his course. He never withdrew his eye from his pursuer, in order to be ready to take advantage of the slightest change in her proceedings, but he soon saw that he must make the best use of his heels and his wits, or lose his cargo. Poor Joe, he thought of his charming Margaret, he thought of his good resolutions, he thought of Tom’s evil prognostications, but he was not a fellow to be daunted at trifles, and he still trusted that something in the chapter of accidents would turn up to enable him to escape.

The breeze at last came up with the “Pretty Polly,” but at the same time the “Ranger” drew still nearer. All their means of expediting her movements had been exhausted, every inch of canvas she could carry was spread aloft, and even below the main-boom and square-sail-boom water sails had been extended, so that the craft looked like a large sea-bird, with a small black body, skimming, with outspread wings, along the surface of the deep. The land, at no great distance, laid broad on their beam to the starboard. With anger and vexation they saw that all their efforts to save their cargo would probably be fruitless.

“It can’t be helped, my lads,” cried Joe; “better luck next time. In with all that light canvas. Be smart about it, stand by the square-sail halliards—lower away; hoist the foresail again; down with the helm, Bill, while we get a pull at the main-sheet. We must run into shoal water and sink the tubs. It will come to that, I see.”

As Joe said, there was no time to lose, for the revenue-cruiser was now a little more than a mile distant, looming large in the fast-increasing obscurity of night. There promised, however, to be too much light during the night for them to hope to elude the sharp and practised eyes of her lookouts. While the smuggler, with the wind nearly abeam, was running in for the land, her crew were busily employed in getting the tubs on deck, and slinging them in long lines together, with heavy weights attached, over the side, so as to be able, by cutting a single lanyard, to let them all sink at once. No sooner did they alter their course than their pursuer did the same. They had, at all events, gained the important advantage of escaping being overhauled in daylight. They now stood steadily on till they got within a quarter of a mile of the land, the revenue-cutter not having gained materially on them. By this time every tub was either on deck or over the side.

“Starboard the helm a little, Tom—steady now!” sung out Joe; “we’ll have the marks on directly; I can just make out Pucknose Knoll and Farleigh church steeple. Now mind, when I sing out cut, cut all of you.”

It was not without some difficulty that the points he mentioned could be distinguished, and none but eyes long accustomed to peer through darkness could have seen objects on the shore at all. His aim was to bring certain marks on the shore in two lines to bisect each other, at which point the tubs were to be sunk, thus enabling him to find them again at a future day.

“Starboard again a little, Tom—steady now—that will do—luff you may, luff—I have it. Cut now, my hearties, cut!” he exclaimed, and the next moment a heavy splash told that all the tubs slung outside had been cut away, and sunk to the bottom. “Stand by to heave the rest overboard,” he continued, and a minute afterwards, with fresh bearings, the remainder of the cargo was committed to the deep. “Now let’s haul up for Fairport, and get home to comfort our wives and sweethearts. Better luck next time.”

With this philosophical observation, Joe buttoned up his pea-jacket, and twisted his red comforter round his neck, determined to make himself comfortable, and to bear his loss like a man. By the “Pretty Polly’s” change of course she soon drew near the “Ranger,” when a shot from one of the guns of the latter came flying over her masthead. On this significant notice that the cruiser wished to speak to her, Joe, not being anxious for a repetition of the message, let fly his jib-sheet, and his cutter coming round on the other tack, he kept his foresail to windward and his helm down, thus remaining almost stationary. A boat soon pulled alongside with the mate of the cruiser, who, with his crew, each carrying a lantern, overhauled every part of the vessel’s hold, but not even a drop of brandy was to be found, nor a quid of tobacco.

“Sorry, sir, you’ve taken all this trouble,” said Joe, touching his hat to the officer. “I thought, sir, you know’d we was a temp’rance vessel.”

It was diamond cut diamond. The officer looked at Joe, and burst out laughing, though disappointed at not making a seizure.

“Tell that to the marines, Mister Buntin,” he answered. “If you hadn’t, half an hour ago, enough spirits on board to make the whole ship’s company of a line-of-battle ship as drunk as fiddlers, I’m a Dutchman.”

“I can’t help, sir, what you thinks,” replied Joe, humbly; “but I suppose you won’t detain us? We wants to get to Fairport to-night, to drink tea with our wives and nurse our babies.”

“You may go, my fine fellow, and we will bring in your tubs in the morning,” answered the mate, as he stepped into his boat.

“Thank ye, sir,” said Joe, making a polite bow, but looking very much inclined to expedite his departure with a kick, but discretion withheld him.

“Let draw!” he sang out in a voice which showed the true state of his feelings, beneath his assumed composure; “now about with her.”

In a short time after, the “Pretty Polly” was safely moored in Fairport River.

The next morning at daybreak, the “Ranger” was seen hovering in rather dangerous proximity to the spot where the tubs had been sunk. She was then observed to get her dredges out, and to be groping evidently for the hidden treasures. In the course of the day, Joe and his crew had the mortification to see her come into the harbour with the greater part of their cargo on board. Of course they all looked as innocent as if none of them had ever before seen a tub, for there was nothing to betray them, though it was not pleasant to see their property in the hands of others. The revenue-cutter then hauling alongside the quay, sent all the tubs she had on board up to the castle, where they were shut up securely while she went back to grope for more.

Joe watched all these proceedings with apparently calm indifference, walking up and down all the time on the quay, with a short pipe in his mouth, and his hands in his pockets. No sooner, however, had darkness set in, than he and his companions might have been seen consulting earnestly together, and going round to the most trustworthy of their acquaintance. What was the subject of their consultations may hereafter be guessed at. Their plans, whatever they were, were soon matured, and then Joe repaired to pay his accustomed visit to Sergeant Ramrod and his grand-daughter.

Joe Buntin was, as I have hinted, not the only lover Margaret Ramrod possessed, which was, of course, no fault of hers. One of them, for there might have been half-a-dozen at least, was James Lawson, a coast-guard man, belonging to Fairport; and if he was aware that he was a rival of his superior officer it did not afflict him. As it happened, he was stationed at the castle to guard the tubs which had been captured in the morning. Having seen that every thing was safe, he soon grew tired of watching on the top of the castle, for it was a dark, cold night, with a thick, driving rain, and a high wind, so he persuaded himself that there could be no harm looking into Sergeant Ramrod’s snug room, lighted up by pretty Margaret’s bright eyes, and warmed by a blazing fire. The sergeant welcomed him cordially, and Margaret mixed him a glass of hot brandy and water, while discussing which, a knock was heard at the castle-gate, on which Mistress Margaret, throwing her apron over her head, ran out to admit the visitors. She was absent a minute or more; probably she had some difficulty in again closing the gates on so windy a night: at last she returned, followed by no less a person than Joe Buntin, and his shadow, Tom Figgit.

A smile stole over Margaret’s pretty mouth as she watched Joe, who looked as fierce as he could at Lawson, and by Ramrod’s invitation, sat himself down directly opposite the revenue-man. Lawson was not to be stared out of countenance, so, notwithstanding Joe’s angry glances, he firmly kept his post. Tom Figgit quietly sipped his grog, eyeing Lawson all the time much in the way that a cat does a mouse she is going to devour, so that at last the revenue-man, feeling himself rather uncomfortable, he scarcely knew why, helped himself thoughtlessly to another stiff glass. Joe laughed and talked for all the party, and told several capital stories, contriving in the interval to whisper a word into Margaret’s ear, at which she looked down and laughed slyly. She was soon afterwards seen filling up the coast-guard man’s glass, only by mistake she poured in Hollands instead of water. The error was not discovered, and Lawson became not only very sagacious, but brave in the extreme. After some time he recollected that it was his duty to keep a look-out from the top of the castle, and accordingly rose to resume his post. Joe on this jumped up also, and wishing the old couple and their grand-daughter good-night, took his departure, followed by Tom; Sergeant Ramrod and Lawson closing the gates securely behind them.

No sooner were Joe and his mate outside the walls than they darted down a small alley which led to the water, and at a little sheltered slip they found a boat, with a coil of rope and some blocks stowed away in the stern-sheets. Joe, giving a peculiarly low whistle, two other men appeared crawling from under a boat, which had been turned with the keel uppermost on the beach, and then all four jumping in, pulled round underneath the castle-wall to a nook, where they could not be observed from the quay even in the daytime.

It was, as we have mentioned, blowing and raining, and as dark as pitch, so that our friends had no reason to complain of the weather. After feeling about for some time, Joe discovered a small double line, to which he fastened one of the stouter ropes, and hauling away on one end of it, brought it back again into the boat. Who had rove the small line we cannot say, but we fear that there was a little traitor in the garrison; perhaps Joe or Tom had contrived to do it before they entered the sergeant’s sitting-room.

“Hold on fast,” Joe whispered to his comrades; “I’ll be up in a moment.” Saying this, he climbed up the rope, and soon had his face flush with the summit of the castle-walls. Looking round cautiously, he observed no one, so he climbed over the parapet, and advanced across the platform to the top of a flight of steps which communicated with the lower part of the building. He looked over the railing, but his eyes could not pierce the gloom, so he descended the steps, and had the satisfaction to find Lawson fast asleep at the bottom of them, sheltered from the rain by one of the arches. “All’s right: he won’t give us much trouble, at all events,” he muttered to himself; and returning to the parapet he summoned his companions. Two other boats had now joined the first, and, one after the other, twelve smugglers scaled the walls. Others were, it must be understood, watching at various points in the neighbourhood, to give the earliest notice of the approach of the coast-guard. Joe stationed two men by the side of Lawson to bind and gag him if he awoke, which he was not likely to do, while the rest proceeded with their work.

They soon contrived to break open the door of the store, opening from the platform, where the tubs had been deposited; then each man, carrying one at a time, like ants at their work, they transported them to the parapet of the castle-wall. From thence, with great rapidity, they were lowered into the boats, and then conveyed round to the foot of a garden belonging to an uninhabited house, which, of course, had the character of being haunted by spirits. Joe and his friends worked with a will, as much delighted with the thought of doing the revenue as at recovering their property.

The greater number had been thus secured when the rain ceased, and the clouds driving away, the smugglers were afraid of being seen by their opponents. They therefore secured the door of the nearly empty store, and all descending, unrove the rope from the breech of the gun to which it had been fastened, so as to leave no trace of their proceedings.

The next morning Lawson, on recovering from his tipsy slumbers, seeing the door closed, reported that all was right. Mr Hogson was the first person to make the discovery that all was wrong, and his astonishment and rage may be more easily imagined than described. Nearly every tub of the rich prize had disappeared; and the lieutenant swore he was certain that wicked little vixen, Margaret Ramrod, had something to do with it.

Neither Sergeant Ramrod nor Lawson could in any way account for it; and as it would have been a subject of mirth to all their brother-officers, who would not have shared in the prize, the authorities of Fairport thought it wiser not to say much on the subject. Several persons were suspected of having had a hand in the transaction; but the smugglers were known to be too true to each other to afford the remotest chance of discovering the culprits.

Soon after this Joe Buntin married Margaret Ramrod; and, wonderful to relate, forswore smuggling ever after. Whether her persuasions, or from finding it no longer profitable, had most influence, is not known; at all events, he is now one of the most successful and active pilots belonging to Fairport, and though he does not mention names, he is very fond, among other stories, of telling how a certain friend of his did the revenue.

As soon as old Sleet had finished his story, which was much more effective when told by him than as it now stands written down by me, he scraped his right foot back, made a swing with his hat, and was rolling forward, when Hearty cried out, “Stop, stop, old friend, your lips want moistening after that long yarn, I’m sure. What will you have, champagne, or claret, or sherry, or brandy, or rum, or—”

The honest seaman grinned from ear to ear.

“Grog,” he answered, emphatically. “There’s nothing like that to my mind, Mr Hearty. It’s better nor all your French washes put together.”

Due praise was bestowed on Joe Buntin’s history, but he evidently thought the extra glass of grog he had won of far more value.

“Health to you, gentlemen and ladies all, and may this sweet craft never want a master nor a mistress either,” he rapped out; then fearing he had said something against propriety, he rolled away to join his messmates forward.

Chapter Twenty Four.

The Polacca-Brig again—The “Zebra” in Chase—Reflections on Africa and the Slave-Trade.

It was now time for the officers of the “Zebra” to return on board their ship. Another night and day passed away much in the same manner as its predecessors. All this time we were edging over to the African coast. Miss Mizen was rapidly recovering her strength, indeed she could no longer be declared an invalid, and it was very evident that a sea-life perfectly agreed with her.

Though I missed Bubble’s fun and anecdotes, and his merry laugh and good-natured visage, I must confess that I much enjoyed the society of the two ladies. Mrs Mizen was a kind-hearted, right-minded, good-natured, sensible, motherly woman, without a particle of affectation or nonsense of any sort. She had seen a good deal of the world, and of the people in it, and could talk well of what she had seen. Under present circumstances, indeed, I preferred her, as a companion, to her daughter. Barring the difference of age, they were very like each other. Miss Mizen also treated me with the utmost frankness and kindness as the friend of her intended husband, and I often enjoyed a pleasant conversation with her, though, of course, it more frequently fell to my share to entertain her mother.

While the fine weather lasted, the life we led was excessively pleasant; but as winter was now rapidly approaching, we knew that we must look out for squalls and heavy seas. We had, as I before remarked, been making our way to the westward along the African coast, now making the land, and then standing off again at night-time.

One morning when daylight broke, we found ourselves rather in-shore of the brig. As I came on deck to relieve Porpoise, I saw her signalising. We got the signal-book.

“What is Rullock talking about?” asked my brother-officer, as I was looking over the leaves of Harriot’s well-known work.

“A suspicious sail to the north-west. Stay where you are. I shall chase, but be back by nightfall,” said I; on which Porpoise ordered the answering signal to be hoisted.

The brig now crowded all sail, but as she kept away I saw that the bunting was again at work.

“If we do not appear by noon to-morrow, return to Malta,” said I, interpreting the flags. “And so our pleasant cruise will be up: but all things pleasant must come to an end. I wish it could have lasted longer.”

“Well, Porpoise, what do you make of the stranger he is after?”

“By — that she is no other than our friend the Greek polacca-brig,” he exclaimed, almost letting his glass fall from aloft, where he had gone to get a look of the vessel the brig was chasing. “I have a great mind to rouse Hearty up, and get him to disobey orders, and go in chase of her also. I don’t like the thoughts of the pirate being captured without our being present.”

“Remember that we have ladies on board, and I don’t think Hearty will be inclined to run the risk of carrying away our spars or mast for any such gratification,” I remarked. “He’ll be for obedience in this case, depend on it.”

“That’s the worst of having ladies on board,” answered Porpoise with a sigh. “But, I say, they have been rather more alive on board the brig than I should have given them credit for. How could they have suspected that the polacca out there was our friend?”

“You forget that Will Bubble is on board, and probably he was on deck, and aloft, indeed, at sunrise, and made out the Greek,” I answered, not that I considered that there was any want of strict discipline or sufficient alertness kept on board the brig, though the crew were any thing but first-rate specimens of men-of-war’s men.

By the by, that reminds me that I should like to say a few words about manning the navy. But I won’t, though, simply because the subject is just here somewhat out of place. We are off the northern coast of Africa in a yacht with some ladies on board, and they might be bored, and we have to watch the proceedings of the brig-of-war and the vessel of which she is in chase. Only I would strongly urge any members of parliament, or other law-makers, or persons of influence, whose eyes may glance over these pages to think, and talk, and do very seriously about the matter. It will not bear letting alone or sleeping over. Something must be done, and at once. I’ve known ships-of-war go to sea with not a quarter of the men seamen—because seamen were not to be got. How would it fare with us had we to engage in a downright earnest naval war? Our men, it will be answered, will fight like Britons; so they will, I doubt not, but is it just to oppose landsmen to the well-trained seamen of other nations? Is it just to the able seamen to make them do the work which should be shared by others? But now we will again look after the brig-of-war and the chase.

The polacca, as soon as she saw that the British man-of-war was in pursuit of her, made all sail to the northward and westward. Old Rullock was evidently determined that she should not escape from any neglect on his part of carrying enough sail. Royals and studding-sails were quickly set, and under a wide spread of snow-white canvas away stood the “Zebra,” leaving us jogging slowly on, with the purpose of returning to the spot whence we started. Hearty’s surprise, as may be supposed, was very considerable, and so was that of his lady guests, when they found that the brig had run away from us.

“However, Mrs Mizen, I suppose we must obey orders, must we not?” said he, with a shrug of his shoulders. “If you do not blame Captain Rullock for his treachery, I am sure that I do not, since he has left with me hostages of so much value for his safe return.”

Mrs Mizen and her daughter seemed to think the affair a very good joke, only they could not understand why the cutter should not go in chase of the polacca as well as the brig-of-war.

“Perhaps the captain wishes to have all the honour of capturing the pirate by himself without our assistance,” observed Porpoise; “I suppose the fellow will show fight should he come up with him.”

“No fear of that,” I remarked. “The truth is, I suspect, that Captain Rullock feared, that had he allowed the yacht to proceed in chase of the pirate, we might have come up with her before he could, and had to bear the brunt of the action. He probably would not have cared very much about that, had there been only four yachting gentlemen on board to be shot at, but the case was very different when his sister and niece might be placed in danger.”

“He did very right. There can be no dispute about it,” said Hearty. “We must bear our disappointment like men, and during breakfast we will consider what amusement we can afford our guests, to recompense them for the absence of the brig in the landscape—or rather seascape we ought to call it—for little enough of the land have we had this cruise.”

We had a great deal of amusing conversation during breakfast. It is a pleasant meal everywhere, if people are well and in spirits, and nowhere is it more pleasant than at sea under the same provisions.

“What do you say to a look at the African coast, Mrs Mizen?” exclaimed Hearty. “We could get there very soon—could we not, Porpoise?”

“We should be well in with the land, so as to have a good view of it before the evening, and if the wind holds, we might be back here before the brig-of-war returns to look for us,” was the answer.

“Capital; then let us stand in there at once,” said Hearty. “It is a fine, mountainous, bold coast, very picturesque. You will have your sketching things ready, I hope,” he added, looking at Miss Mizen. He had not learnt to call her Laura when any one else was present.

Miss Mizen said she would get her drawing-board and colour-box ready, and Porpoise went on deck to put the cutter’s head to the southward. A steady breeze from the south-west enabled us to stand in for the land close-hauled. As we rapidly approached it, the mountains, with their lofty peaks and wooded sides, seemed to rise out of the water like the scene at a theatre, till the lower lands at their base—rocky, undulating heights, and even the seashore—became clearly visible.

“How very different is this scenery from the common notion of Africa!” said Miss Mizen, as, with Hearty’s help, she was arranging her sketching-board, to make a view of the coast. “I have hitherto always pictured it to myself as a country of arid sands and dense jungle.”

“You’d find jungle enough and sand enough in many parts, Miss Mizen, where I have been,” observed Porpoise. “But both in the north and south there are districts which will vie in fertility with most in the world. Just think of Egypt; what an abundance of corn does that produce! All along this north coast are many fertile districts: so there are on the west coast, only it is rather too hot there to be pleasant; and then at the Cape and Natal are to be found spots rich in various productions.”

“You draw a glowing picture of the country, Mr Porpoise,” observed Mrs Mizen.

“I do, ma’am, because the country deserves it,” he answered. “The world owes a great deal to Africa, and I should like to see every possible attempt made to repay it by continued and strenuous efforts for the civilisation of her people. The work is a very great one, there is no doubt about that, and a few feeble and isolated efforts will not accomplish it. The merchant princes of England must take the matter up, and send out several expeditions at the same time. The officers should be experienced, energetic men, the vessels well supplied with merchandise, and well-armed to protect it. But what can we hope for while the abominable slave-trade still flourishes? England is doing her best to put it down, but she is but ill supported by other nations. America, with all her boasting about freedom, protects and encourages those engaged in it; while France, professing to be the most civilised and liberal of countries, does the same. Spain and Portugal only occasionally pretend to interfere with a very bad grace, and secretly aid and abet the wretches carrying it on under their flag. I say, at any cost and at every cost, England must put it down. No matter if she goes to war with all the world to do so. It will be a glorious war for the most holy cause, and honest men will be able to pray with sincerity and faith, that heaven will protect her in it.”

“I am very glad to hear you speak so, Mr Porpoise,” said Mrs Mizen; “I will answer for it, that no war would be so popular among the women of England as a war against slavery and the slave-trade. No one worthy of the name of an Englishwoman would refuse to sell her jewels and every thing of value to support it.”

“That’s the spirit that will put it down, ma’am,” exclaimed Porpoise, enthusiastically. “When we sailors know that we have the prayers and good wishes of the ladies of England with us, we should very soon sweep all our enemies from the seas.”

The rest of the party responded in most respects to these sentiments. Hearty suggested that much might be hoped for from a wise and firm diplomacy, and by calmly waiting the course of events.

“No, no,” answered Porpoise. “That’s what the people in parliament say, when they want to shelve a question. Do nothing, and let affairs take their own course. It’s a very easy way of doing nothing, but that is not like you, Mr Hearty. You would manage the matter in a very different way, I’m sure, if it was left to you.”

“I should be very much puzzled if the question were left for me to decide it,” said Hearty. “What do you think I should do?”

“Oh, I will soon tell you what you would do,” replied Porpoise. “Why, you would look out for all the energetic, dashing officers you could find, and send them to the coast in command of as many fast steamers, and other small craft, with orders to overhaul every suspicious sail they could find on the coast. Then you would have a whacking big fleet in the Channel, and several others in different parts of the world. You would not forget to keep your coast defences in good order, and to have a compact well-disciplined army on shore, and a numerous trained militia, ready to call out at a moment’s notice. That’s what you and every other sensible man would do, Mr Hearty, and then I think we need have no fear that any one would causelessly attempt to molest us, or that we should be unable to make other nations keep their treaties with us.”

“Bravo, Porpoise, bravo!” cried Hearty. “I wish that you were Prime Minister, or First Lord of the Admiralty, or Dictator, or something of that sort for a short time. I doubt not but that you would get things in prime order in a very short time.”

While this conversation was going on, we were rapidly drawing in with the coast. Miss Mizen made two or three very masterly sketches, though the blue sea and water filled up the larger portion of the paper. The less there is in a subject the more does it exhibit a master’s talent if the picture is interesting.

A fresh breeze had been blowing all day, but towards evening the wind fell, and the cutter lay floating idly on the water. We were assembled after dinner as usual on deck, laughing, talking, yarn-spinning, and occasionally reading aloud, enjoying the moments to the full, and little dreaming of what a few short hours were to bring forth.

Evening was about to throw its dusky veil over the African shore. The idle flap of the mainsail showed us that there was a stark calm. A fish would occasionally leap out of the water, or the fin of some monster of the deep might be seen as it swam by in pursuit of prey, or a sea-bird would come swooping past to ascertain what strange craft had ventured into its haunts, ere it winged its way back to its roosting-place for the night, amid the crags of the neighbouring headland.

I was taking a turn on deck, when, as I looked over the side and measured our distance from the land, it appeared to me that, although the calm was so complete, we had considerably decreased our distance from it. Walking forward, I asked Snow if he had remarked any thing particular.

“Why, yes, sir; I was just going to speak to you or Mr Porpoise, about the matter,” he answered. “I’ve been watching the land for an hour or more past, and it strikes me that there is a strong current, which sets in-shore to the westward hereabouts; it’s just the sort of thing, which, if we hadn’t found out in time, might have carried us much too close in on a dark night to be pleasant; as it is, if a breeze doesn’t spring up, and we continue to drift in, we must just get the boats out and tow her head off shore, so there’ll be no great harm come of that.”

“You are right,” said I; “there’s little doubt about it; I’ll mention the matter to Mr Porpoise, and he’ll approve of what you propose. But I do not think there’s any use in letting the ladies know, or they’ll be fancying all sorts of dreadful things—that they are going to be cast on shore, or eaten up by lions, or murdered by savages. I should not like to give them any uneasiness which can be helped.”

I watched the old man’s countenance while I was speaking, to ascertain what he really thought about the matter. The truth was that I was not quite satisfied myself with our position. I had been along that coast some years before, looking into several of the ports; and I remembered that the Moors inhabiting the villages just above there, bore anything but a good character. I began to blame myself, when too late, for not having thought of this before. When the brig-of-war was with us, it mattered little; for no pirates would have ventured to come out to attack her: they would have known that she would have proved a dear bargain, even if they could ultimately have taken her, and very little value to them if taken, but with a yacht the case was different. We could not fail to appear a tempting prize, and easily won. Had we, however, been without ladies on board, we should, I expect, all have enjoyed the fun of showing the rascals that they had caught a Tartar, and am fully certain that we should have been able to render a good account of them.

I remember that these ideas crossed my mind as I walked the deck, waiting for an opportunity of speaking to Porpoise, who was still engaged in conversation with Mrs Mizen; then I burst into a fit of laughter at the thought of the ideal enemy I had so busily conjured up to fight with. Porpoise, who just then joined me, inquired the cause of my merriment.

“It suddenly occurred to me that we were off a somewhat ill-famed part of the coast, and I could not help fancying I saw half-a-dozen or more piratical row-boats come stealing out from under the cliffs there, with the intention of cutting our throats and rifling the vessel,” I answered; “but of course it is a mere fancy. I never heard of an English yacht being attacked by pirates hereabouts, and it would be folly to make ourselves anxious about such a bugbear.”

Now even while I was saying this I was not altogether satisfied in my own mind about the matter. If, as I before said, we had had only men on board, we might have fought to the last, and could only then have been killed; but should we be overpowered, the fate of the women committed to our charge would be too horrible to contemplate.

“I’m glad that you think there is no cause for apprehension,” said I to Porpoise. “Still it might be as well to keep a sharp look-out during the night, and should a breeze spring up, to give the coast a more respectful offing.”

“I’ll do that same,” he answered. “I feel no inclination to turn in myself, so that should any of the natives of whom you are suspicious be inclined to visit us, they may not find us altogether unprepared.”

The ladies soon after this retired to their cabin; we only then had an opportunity of mentioning the subject to Hearty. He rather laughed at the notion, but begged that he might be called when the fighting began. After taking a few turns on deck, he also turned in, and Porpoise was left in charge of the deck. I, after a little time, went to my cabin; it seemed too ridiculous to lose my night’s rest for the sake of an idea. I had slept about a couple of hours, when I awoke by hearing the sound of Porpoise’s voice. He was standing directly over my skylight, which, on account of the heat of the weather, was kept off.

“Can you make any thing out, Snow?” he asked.

“I think I can now, sir. It seems to me that there are four or five dark spots on the water, just clear of the shadow of that headland in there,” was the answer. “I can’t just make out what they are for certain.”

I was on deck in a few seconds, with my night-glass at my eye pointed in the direction indicated.

“What think you of their being row-boats?” said I. “They look wonderfully like them.”

“I can’t say that they are not,” answered the old man. “They may be rocks just showing their heads above water. But what, if they are boats, can they be doing out there at this time of night?”

“Coming to pay us a visit, perhaps,” I remarked. “We really should be prepared in case of accidents, Porpoise. By timely preparations we averted danger once before, when otherwise, in all probability, we should have had our throats cut. Do not let us be less wise on this occasion.”

“Certainly not,” said Porpoise; “and as discretion is the better part of valour, we will try and tow the cutter offshore. It will prolong the time till our visitors can overtake us, and will give us a better chance of having a breeze spring up. If we get that, we shall be able to laugh at any number of such fellows. They are only formidable when they can find a vessel becalmed. After all, I don’t say that those are pirates, and if it were not for the ladies on board, we would very quickly learn the truth of the case.”

The thorough John Bull spoke out in these remarks. Porpoise did not at all like the idea of flying from an enemy under any circumstances, and as he had to do it, he wished to find every possible reason for so doing.

“Turn the hands up and get the boats out, Snow; we’ll see what towing will do,” he continued. “You see that this current is setting us far too much in-shore, and, at all events, it is necessary to get a better offing before daybreak, lest no breeze should spring up in the morning to carry us back to the spot where Rullock was to find us.”

Three boats were got into the water and manned forthwith; Porpoise, Hearty, Snow, and I, being the only people remaining on board. The crews gave way with a will, and the cutter soon began to slip through the water. She went along, probably, faster than the current was carrying her in an opposite direction. These arrangements being made, I took another scrutiny of the suspicious objects under the land. I had no longer any doubt in my mind that they were boats, and that they were pulling out to sea towards us. It was now time to call up Hearty. We had seen no necessity before this of making him unnecessarily anxious, and the noise of lowering the boats had not roused him; indeed, he would have slept through a hurricane, or while a dozen broadsides were being fired, I verily believe, if not called. He was brisk enough, however, when once roused up. As I expected, he was very anxious at the state of affairs.

“We were thoughtless and unwise to stand in so close to this shore,” he remarked. “Brine, my friend, we must sink the cutter or blow her up rather than yield to those villains!”

He spoke with much emotion, and I could sincerely enter into his feelings. He did not utter a word of complaint against Porpoise or me, though I think he might have had some reason in blaming us for allowing the cutter to get into her present condition. He paced the deck with hurried steps, looking every now and then anxiously through the glass towards the objects we had observed, and then he would hail the boats.

“Give way, my lads—give way!” he shouted; “if any one knocks up, I’ll take his place.”

Again he looked through his glass.

“Can they be rocks?” he exclaimed. “I seen no alteration in their appearance.”

“I do, though, I am sorry to say,” I answered. “They have got considerably more out of the shade of the land since I first saw them.”

This became very evident after some time; nor could Hearty any longer doubt the fact. I counted five of them, largish boats (I suspected), each pulling some twenty oars or more, probably double-banked. Very likely each boat carried not much fewer than sixty men—fearful odds for the “Frolic” to contend with. The “Zebra” would not have found them altogether contemptible antagonists, if, as I said, my suspicions were correct as to their size. Still, I hoped that I might be mistaken; we could not be certain as to their object. They might be mere fishing-boats magnified by the obscurity, or coasters which had pulled out in the expectation of getting a breeze in the morning to carry them alongshore, or to get into some current which might set in the direction in which they wished to go. All these ideas I suggested to Hearty; still my original notion outweighed all others in my mind. Indeed I have always found it wisest to take the point of view which requires the most caution; precautions can, at the worst, only give a little trouble; the neglect of them may bring ruin and misery. On this principle I was most anxious to get as far as possible from the shore. No one was idle. Happily the ladies slept on, so that we had not the additional pain at feeling that they were left in a state of anxiety. Porpoise took the helm; Snow went forward to direct the boats how to pull; while Hearty and I busied ourselves in getting out the arms, arranging the ammunition, loading the guns, and muskets, and pistols; indeed, in making every preparation for a desperate struggle. The boats came on very warily. I suspected that we had been seen in the afternoon from the shore, and that as we appeared a tempting prize, the expedition had been planned to capture us.

“A very short time longer will settle the question,” said I to Hearty. “We must endeavour to keep them at a respectful distance as long as we can; should they once get alongside they would overpower us with their numbers. Happily these sort of gentry are as great cowards as they are scoundrels, and a firm front is certain to make them consider whether the profit is likely to be worth the risk of a battle.”

I have gone through a good many anxious moments in the course of my life, but never did I feel more apprehension for the result of an adventure than I did for that in which we were at present engaged. A waning moon had now risen, and showed us very clearly the number and character of the strangers—whether friends or foes was hereafter to be decided. Another look at them through my night-glass showed me that they were large boats, as I had suspected, and full of men.

“There is little use in making any farther efforts to escape,” said I to Hearty; “I would hoist in the boats and serve out some grog to the men. They want something after their exertions, though they do not require Dutch courage to defend the ship.”

Porpoise agreed to my suggestions; they were immediately put into execution. The men threw off their grog as coolly as if they had been about to sail a match at a regatta, instead being about to engage in deadly fight.

“Here’s to your health, Mr Hearty, and gentlemen all, and may we just give those scoundrels out there a thorough good drubbing if they attempt to attack us,” quoth Snow, in the name of his shipmates.

“Thank you—thank you, my men,” answered Hearty; “you’ll act like true-hearted Englishmen, and what men can do you’ll do, I know, to protect the helpless women we have on board. I won’t make you a long speech, you don’t want that to rouse your courage, but I do ask you not to yield while one man of us remains alive on deck.”

“That’s just what we are resolved to do, Mr Hearty; no fear, sir,” answered all hands, and they would have cheered lustily, had I not restrained them for two reasons: I was unwilling to awaken the ladies sooner than was necessary, and also should the pirates have expected to surprise us, it would be a great advantage if we, on the contrary, should be able to surprise them. I mentioned this latter idea to my companions, and they immediately entered into it. The Moors had been too far off to allow them to perceive us hoisting in the boats, so they could not tell but that we were all fast asleep on board. Accordingly, the guns were loaded up to the muzzle with langrage and musket-balls; pistols and cutlasses were served out to the men, and it was encouraging to see their pleased manner as they stuck the one into their belts, and buckled the other round their waists. Some had, in addition, muskets, and a reserve of small-arms was placed amidships to be resorted to in case of necessity. The men then went and lay down so as to be effectually concealed under the bulwarks: Porpoise and I only walked the deck, as if we were the ordinary watch, and we agreed to pretend to be looking seaward when the boats drew near, as if unconscious of their approach. Meantime Hearty went below to perform the painful task of informing the ladies of our dangerous position. He did it with his usual tact.

“Mrs Mizen,” I heard him say, “I must beg you and Miss Mizen to dress, but not to come on deck. We have got too close in-shore, and some Moorish boats appear to be coming off to us; they may not mean to do us any mischief, but it is as well to be prepared, and we do not intend to allow them to come too near to us.”

There was a short pause. I heard no exclamations of surprise or terror—no cries, or lamentations, or forebodings of evil, but Mrs Mizen simply answered in a firm voice:—

“We trust, then, Mr Hearty, to you and your companions to defend us, and may a merciful God give you strength to fight and beat off our assailants!”

“That’s a speech worthy of a true heroine,” exclaimed Porpoise, who had likewise overheard it. “Just the thing to strengthen our nerves, and to put true courage into us. I trust, Mrs Mizen, we shall not be long in beating off the pirates,” he added, looking down the skylight; “do you, in the mean time, keep snug below, and don’t mind the uproar.”

“Now, my lads, be ready; we mustn’t let the blackguards get on board to frighten the ladies, mind that. When I give the word, be up and at them.”

Porpoise having thus delivered himself, in accordance with our plan, pretended to be intently looking over the taffrail. The row-boats were all the time drawing disagreeably near, and I had no longer in my mind any doubt as to their character and intention. We, also, were anxiously looking out for a breeze which might enable us to meet them at greater advantage. I took a glance at the compass; as I did so I felt a light breeze fan my cheek; it came from the westward. The cutter’s head was at that time tending in-shore, for as soon as the boats had been hoisted in she had again lost all steerage-way, and had gradually gone round. Again the puff of air came stronger, and she gathered sufficient steerage-way to enable us to wear round just before the boats reached us. The pirates must have thought that we were very blind not to perceive them. Silently they pulled towards us in two columns: we let them approach within a quarter of a cable’s length. Just as a tiger springs on his prey, they pulled on rapidly towards us, evidently expecting to catch us unprepared.

“Now, my lads, up and at them?” sung out Porpoise, in imitation of the speech of a somewhat better-known hero.

Our jolly yachtsmen did not require a second summons. Up they sprang to their allotted duties.

“Steady!” added Porpoise, “take aim before you fire. Those forward aim at the headmost boats; let the after guns give account of those coming up next astern. Now give it them.”

The orders were comprehended, and executed promptly and well. Cries and groans and shouts from the row-boats followed the simultaneous discharge from our great-guns and small-arms. The pirates ceased rowing, and a second intervened before they fired in return, but their shot generally flew wide of us, our unexpected commencement of the action having evidently thrown them into not a little confusion. For an instant it occurred to me that we might have been too precipitate, and that perhaps after all they might not have been pirates, but for some reason or other had come off to us at that unseasonable hour. It was therefore, in one respect, a positive relief to me when they began to fire, and I discovered their real character. Still undaunted, on they came. Before, however, they could get alongside, our people had time to load again and fire; this time not a shot but took effect. The Moors did not relish the dose; some attempted to spring on board, but were driven back by pike and cutlass into the sea, Hearty setting the example of activity and courage by rushing here and there, cutting and thrusting and slashing away, so that he did the work of half a dozen men. Indeed I may say the same without vanity of all on board, or we could not have contended for a minute against the fearful odds opposed to us. The low deck of a yacht, it must be remembered, does not present the difficulties to assailants which even a brig-of-war or an ordinary high-sided merchantman is capable of doing. Ours was literally a hand-to-hand fight without the slightest protection, our slight bulwarks alone separating us from our enemies when they once got alongside. Happily the breeze increased, and giving us way through the water, the Moorish boats having failed to hook on to us, we once more slipped through them. Some of the men in the bows continued firing at us, but a little delay occurred before the rest could get out their oars to follow the cutter. The chiefs of each boat appeared to be holding a consultation, and I only hoped that they would come to the decision that the grapes were sour, or rather that the game was not worth the candle to play it by, as the Frenchmen say, and give up the pursuit. But they were not so reasonable; they probably thought that if we fought so desperately we had something on board worth fighting for; not considering that our lives and liberties were of very much consequence, and so they showed a resolution once more to attempt to overhaul us. This hesitation was much to our advantage, as it enabled us once more to load our guns up to the muzzle, and to take a steady aim as they came up. In all my fighting experience I have come to the conclusion that there is no system equal to that of waiting for a good opportunity, mustering all resources, and then, once having begun the attack, to continue at the work without relaxing a moment till the day is won. The Moorish pirates did not follow this course. At last came the tug of war. Their fury and thirst for vengeance was now added to their greed for plunder, and the boats ranged up on either side of the little “Frolic” with seemingly a full determination on the part of their crews to overpower us at once.

“Steady, my good lads, steady!” shouted Porpoise. “Remember, fire as before, and then load again as fast as you can.”

Off went our guns with good effect; while Hearty and I, and three or four others, armed with muskets, blazed away with them, taking up one after the other as fast as the steward could load them. The report of the guns must have been heard on shore, and far out to sea over that calm water, while the bright flashes lighted up the midnight air. Musket-balls and round-shot don’t often fly about without doing some damage; and while ours were telling pretty well among the thickly crowded boats of the Moors, we were not altogether free from harm. Two of our people had been wounded. One of them fell to the deck, and, from the way the poor fellow groaned, I was much afraid that he was mortally hurt. I drew him close to the companion-hatch, that he might, in a slight degree, be protected from further injury; but we were too hard pressed to spare any one for a moment from the deck to take him below. Hearty was passing close to me, when, by the flash of the guns, I saw him a give a sudden, convulsive movement with his left arm. I felt sure he was hit. I asked him.

“Oh, nothing, nothing,” he answered. “Don’t say a word about it. I can fight away just as well as ever, and that is all I care about just now.”

One of our chief efforts was to prevent the Moorish boats from hooking on to us. This they frequently attempted to do, and each time the lashings they tried to secure were cut adrift. I was indeed surprised to find them so pertinacious in their attack, for a resolute resistance at the commencement will generally compel those sort of gentry to give up an enterprise, unless they are certain a great deal is to be gained by it.

The breeze was now increasing, and old Snow stood at the helm, with his left hand on the tiller, and his right hand wielding a cutlass, with which, aided by another man, he kept at bay any of the Moors who attempted to climb on board over the stern. Still, so overmatched were we by numbers, that I felt even then, in spite of our determined resistance, that the result was very doubtful. I almost sickened at the thought; but I was very certain that, before such a sad consummation should occur, not a man of us would be left alive on the deck.

“And then, should the day be evidently going against us, should no help remain—not a shadow of hope—would it be right to blow up the vessel, and preserve those innocent ones below from an ignominious slavery—from a worse than death?”

“Impious man,” responded a voice within me, “think not to rule the providences of thy Creator. Do not evil that good may come of it. Who can tell what means he has in store, even at the very last moment, to preserve those whom, in his infinite wisdom, he has resolved to preserve?”

I felt the frailty of human thoughts and human intentions, and banished the terrible idea from my mind. Still I could not feel but that our case, to outward appearance, was very desperate. Porpoise himself was wounded, I found, though the pain he suffered did not allow him for a moment to relax in his defence of the vessel. His voice was heard everywhere as loud and cheering as before, encouraging our crew to persevere.

Once more the pirates drew off.

“Huzza, huzza!” shouted all hands; “they have had enough of it.”

But no.

“Load your guns, load your guns?” shouted Porpoise. “Don’t trust to them.”

It was fortunate this was done. With terrific cries and yells they for a third time gave way towards us, completely hemming us in, so that some boats going ahead almost stopped the vessel’s way through the water. Keeping up their hideous yells, firing their pistols, and flourishing their scymitars, they flung themselves headlong on board. Many were driven back, but their places were speedily filled by others. The physical power of the cutter’s crew, exerted so long to the utmost stretch, was almost failing, when, far in the offing, to the northward, the bright flash of a gun was seen, followed shortly afterwards by another and another. I pointed them out to Hearty.

“There’s help coming, my lads!” he shouted. “Never fear; but let’s have all the glory of the fight to ourselves, and drive these scoundrels off before it arrives. Huzza, huzza! Back with them! No quarter! Cut them down! Drive them into the sea?”

All this time he was most completely suiting the action to his words. At last some of the pirates saw the flashes.

The morning light was just breaking in the east, for the action had endured far longer than it has taken to describe it. They must have suspected that they foreboded no good to them, and that the sooner they were off the better. Orders were shouted out by the chiefs. Those who could obeyed them, and, leaping back, the boats in a body shoved off from us; but some unfortunate wretches were still clinging to our bulwarks. They fought as they clung with all the fanaticism of Mohammedans; but our seamen made quick work of them, and in less than two minutes not one was left alive. The grey light of dawn showed us the dark boats pulling in-shore, and as the sun arose its early beams lighted up the canvas of a man-of-war brig, close-hauled, laying up towards us. Our people shouted lustily when they saw her; and Hearty, forgetting his wound and his begrimed and war-stained appearance, hurried below to assure his charges of their safety. We quickly recognised the “Zebra,” and were not long in getting within hail of her, when Rullock, accompanied by Bubble, came on board of us, to inquire into the particulars of our adventure.

Old Rullock at first was somewhat inclined to be angry with us for getting so close in-shore, and Will almost pulled his hair off in his vexation that he had not been with us to share in the honours of the fight and defence.

Our loss had been serious; the poor fellow who had been the first wounded had died just before sunrise, and the surgeon of the brig pronounced the other cases to be somewhat bad. Porpoise’s was a flesh-wound—the advantage, as he observed, of being a fat man; but he forgot that if he had not been fat he might not have been wounded at all. Hearty, though he made light of his hurt, was very much injured; and the surgeon, with a somewhat significant look, advised him to get on shore as fast as he could, and to get carefully nursed for a time.

“You’ll have no great difficulty to get some one to nurse you,” he remarked.

I really believe that he did not think so badly of the case as he pretended. Be that as it may, we made the best of our way to Malta Harbour, where we all took up our abode on shore, while the cutter was undergoing some necessary repairs. The brig also requiring repairs, Rullock took lodgings, and in the most considerate way had Hearty conveyed to them, and invited his sister and niece to stay with him—a very indelicate proceeding, I dare say; but the jolly old sailor observed, “Who was so fit to look after a wounded man as the girl he was going to marry, and in whose defence he was wounded? A fig for all such rigmarole prudisms, say I.” As the parties concerned did not disagree with him, so the matter was arranged to the satisfaction of everybody.

Chapter Twenty Five.

The Bachelors at Sea—The Ionian Islands—Return to Malta—Sad News—Homeward-Bound—Horrible Suspicions—The Pirate’s Handiwork—A Burning Ship—Traces of our Friends—The Rescue—The Bachelors Become Benedicts, and thus Terminates in the Most Satisfactory Manner Imaginable the Cruise of the “Frolic.”

It took nearly two months before Hearty recovered even partially from his wound; and at the end of that time, the “Frolic” being ready for sea, the surgeons insisted that to re-establish his health he must take a trip away for a few weeks in her. This proceeding became somewhat more necessary, as the “Zebra” had been ordered off to the Levant, and he could not well remain the guest of Mrs Mizen during Captain Rullock’s absence. Among the lovely isles of Greece, then, it was resolved we would take a cruise. Both Carstairs and Bubble joined us: the former, in his usual way, had been carrying on with Mrs Skyscraper; but the widow had been unable to hook him firmly; indeed, as Bubble observed, he was somewhat a big fish to haul on shore. He, on his part, also, could not tell whether the lady cared for him or not. In my opinion she did, but could not quite make up her mind to lose her liberty.

Once more we five jolly bachelors were afloat together, on our passage to Greece. Hearty was in fair spirits. The fresh air after the confinement of a sick-room, raised them, in spite of himself; indeed, considering that he was certain of Laura’s affection, and hoped in a few months to be united to her, though parted from her for a brief space, he had no reason to be melancholy. We had a fine run to the eastward. What words can describe the picturesque beauties of Corfu and the Albanian Coast—the classic associations of Athens and the varied forms of the isles and islets scattered over the Aegean Sea! Bubble and I revelled in them; but it must be owned that Carstairs, and even Hearty, thought more of the wild fowl and snipes and woodcocks to be shot in the marshy valleys or thyme-covered heights, than of their pictorial effects, or classic association.

Whenever we were at sea our people kept a very sharp look-out for Sandgate’s polacca-brig, in the hopes that she might be cruising in those parts. After, however, the various pranks he had played in the Mediterranean, I suspected that he would have shifted the scene of his exploits to some other part of the globe.

Greece and her islands, lovely and interesting as they are, have been so often described by more graphic pens than mine, that I do not think my readers would thank me for filling my pages with an account of what we saw.

We had not much personal communication with the Ionians. What we saw and what we heard of them did not raise them especially in our estimation. However, what could be expected of a race so long under the dominion of Venice, during the worst times of her always nefarious system of policy? By the Venetian system discord was fermented among all the states subject to Turkish rule, and miscreants of all classes who could help to effect that object were protected and supported. Crime was thus openly encouraged; the assassin who had committed ten murders was only sent to the galleys for the same number of years; and any one speaking disrespectfully of any person high in office was actually punished with the infliction of a like sentence. The young men of the noble families were brought up in Italy, and while they learned all her vices, were taught to despise their native land, and to forget their mother-tongue. Falsehood, revenge, a foolish vanity, a love of political intrigue, were but some of their most glaring vices; justice was openly sold; public faith was unknown; their peasants were grossly ignorant; their nobles were without honour; and their merchants were destitute of integrity; while their priests were generally illiterate and immoral in the extreme. Heu mihi! a pretty picture of a people. Well, I fancy they have improved somewhat under British protection; and when I was among them I do not believe they were so bad as all that. Still they were in an unsatisfactory state, and a very difficult people to govern. They may have improved still more now; and I hope they have.

We sailed about from island to island, and visited them all in their turn. First we went to that of the ancient Teleboans; once conquered by King Cephalus, who gave it his name, and whose descendants for many generations reigned over them—so Bubble informed us; and we were not a little interested in visiting various cyclopic remains, and among them those of the ancient city of Cranii. The island is very rugged and mountainous; the highest mountain, that of Montagna Negra, being upwards of three thousand feet above the level of the sea. We spent a couple of days also at the handsome city of Zante, the capital of the island of that name, famous for the longevity of its inhabitants, and its currants, oil, wine, and fragrant honey. Santa Maura, once known as Leucadia, was our next resort. Little cared we for its classical recollections, but far more interested were we in visiting the tomb of the gallant Clarke, who fell under the walls of its fortress, which was attacked by the English in 1810, under General Oswald. The island is separated from the main land by a narrow channel. There is a curious natural mole running out from the island, which has exactly the appearance of being the work of art. We all anticipated much pleasure in visiting Ithaca, the birth-place and patrimony of Ulysses; but when we got there none of us felt inclined to envy him his rugged, inhospitable-looking territory, and were not surprised that he was anxious to get a footing in a more fruitful portion of the globe. Still it is a very romantic and picturesque spot; and produces the vine, orange, lemon, and other fruits in abundance.

Pasco also we saw, once noted as a retreat for pirates, and Cerigo and Cerigotto; and thus, having made the tour of the Septinsular republic, we sailed back to Malta, with the anticipation of a hearty welcome from the friends we had left behind there. How glittering white looked the houses of the city! how blue the water, how gay the caps and sashes and jackets of the boatmen as they pulled about in their fancifully painted boats, and came vociferating alongside as we beat up the harbour of Valetta, and dropped our anchor not far from the landing-place. We all of us hastened on shore; Hearty to see his betrothed, and I to take care of him; Carstairs to throw himself at the feet of Mrs Skyscraper; Bubble, as he himself said, to see that no one got into mischief; and Porpoise to order certain stores for the cutter. Hearty and I walked up at once to Mrs Mizen’s lodgings. He knocked hurriedly at the door. Perhaps some of my readers know how a man feels under similar circumstances—I don’t.

An Italian servant appeared, a stranger. “Que vuole, signori?” he asked.

“Are Mrs or Miss Mizen at home?” inquired Hearty, in an agitated voice, not heeding the man’s question. “Do you understand me? An English lady and her daughter?”

“Oh, capisco, capisco!” answered the Italian, running away up stairs.

I thought he was going to announce our arrival; but he speedily returned holding a letter. I saw that the address was in a lady’s handwriting as he delivered it to Hearty. Hearty opened it with a trembling hand. His countenance assumed a look of blank disappointment as he read its contents. As soon as he had glanced hurriedly through it, he began and read it over again; and then as he held it in his hand his eye still rested on it.

“What has occurred, my dear fellow?” I asked, anxiously.

I must confess—and oh! my fair readers! don’t be angry with me, an old bachelor—I did truly suspect that it was the old story, and that the fair Laura had for some reason or other thought better of it; that she had heard something against her intended’s character, and believed it; or that Sir Lloyd Snowdon, or somebody else, whose metal was more attractive, had stepped in and cut him out. I say these ideas glanced through my mind. They were very wrong and very disparaging to the sex, and most unjustifiable, and I was quite angry with myself for entertaining them, but I had seen so much that was bad in the world that they came in spite of me—I crave for pardon. I had also seen much that was good, and noble, and excellent; examples of the most devoted, self-sacrificing, all-enduring affection, and I ought at once to have remembered those examples and balanced them against all my evil suspicions. I did not, however, at that time; so I waited with no small amount of anxiety for Hearty’s answer.

“They are gone,” he replied; “gone away to England.”

Then my suspicions are correct, I thought.

“It is a very sad case, I fear. Soon after we sailed, Mrs Mizen received notice of Tom Mizen’s illness, and the next post brought out such alarming accounts that she and her daughter resolved at once to return home. A fine fast-sailing merchant-brig, the ‘Success,’ was on the point of sailing, so, as a journey by land through Italy and France would be injurious to Laura, they determined to go by her. What was their surprise on going on board to find the other berths occupied by Mrs Seton and her daughter, and Mrs Skyscraper, who, for some business matters connected with property left them, had to go England. Miss Mizen wrote as they were on the point of sailing, and the people of the house took charge of the letter to deliver to me. She speaks in favourable terms of the brig and of the master, Captain Hutchins, so I trust that they may have a good passage home. But it is disappointing. You’ll not mind, my dear fellow, sailing at once to follow them? I am afraid there is no chance of catching them at Gibraltar, but if the ‘Frolic’ behaves as well as usual, we may get to England almost as soon as they do. Not that I wish that either—I would far rather the ‘Success’ had a speedy passage. I am certain also Carstairs will be ready to start; and as for Bubble, he’ll wish to do what is reasonable; so I suppose there is nothing to prevent our sailing as soon as we have got a fresh supply of water, and a few more provisions on board.”

I assured my friend that I was perfectly ready to go to sea that very hour, if the necessary preparations for the voyage could be made; and volunteered at once to go in search of Porpoise, to hasten what was required to be done; while he himself went to his bankers, and settled a few bills he had left unpaid. On my way I encountered Carstairs, who had received no notice of the widow’s departure, and was therefore still engaged in searching for her, as much puzzled as Hearty had at first been. I never saw a fellow more taken aback than he was when I communicated the truth to him, and he directly became all eagerness to put to sea. What his feelings were I cannot exactly tell. I suspect that his confidence in the durability of Mrs Skyscraper’s regard for him was not quite up to the mark of Hearty’s for that of his intended.

“Why hasn’t she written to me, to tell me what she was going to do, and why has she hurried away to England? Hang it, they are all alike, I suppose, and delight to make fools of us poor men. Now let us go and hunt up Porpoise. Bubble said he should tend to him while I was paying my visit to my—my—hang it, to the widow, I mean.”

Poor fellow, he was sadly put out I saw. Porpoise was soon found; and when he heard the state of the case, he set to work as if life and death depended on it, in getting the cutter ready for a long voyage. He had plenty of lieutenants in us three gentlemen; and while one went off in one direction another started away in an opposite one to order what was required, and to see the orders executed, while the crew did their part with right good will. Water and coals, and stores and provisions, were soon alongside, and quickly hoisted on board and stowed away below. Hearty was surprised and highly gratified when he got on board and found what was done.

“Where there’s a will there’s a way,” is a very true saying; and “If you want a thing done, go and do it yourself,” is another. The Portuguese say, “If you want a thing go, if you don’t want a thing send.”

That very evening, with a fair wind, we were running out of Malta Harbour. Away glided the “Frolic” over the moonlit Mediterranean, with every stitch of canvas she could carry set alow and aloft. We had a sharp look-out kept ahead so that we might avoid running down any boat, or running into any vessel; while the three landsmen agreed to keep watch with Porpoise and me, to add to the number of hands on deck. Porpoise prognosticated a very rapid passage home, and certainly, from the way we commenced it, we had reason to hope that he would not prove a fallacious seer. We speedily lost sight of Malta, and its rocks and fortifications; with its scanty soil and swarthy population, and noisy bells, and lazy monks, without any very great regret on our part. We had altogether passed a pleasant, and not unexciting time there; and I, for my part, look back to those days with fewer regrets as to the way I spent them than I do to some passed in other places. I am somewhat inclined to moralise. I must own that often and often I wish that I could live my early days over again, that I might employ them very differently to what I did. Deeply do I regret the precious time squandered in perfect idleness, or the most puerile frivolities, if not in absolute wickedness; time which might have been spent in acquiring knowledge which would have afforded the most intense and pure delight in benefiting my fellow-creatures; which would have assuredly afforded me happiness and peace of mind in the consciousness that I was doing my duty. But ah! time has gone by never to be recalled; but happily it may be redeemed while health and strength and vigour of mind remain. Often have I thought to myself, “Why was I sent into the world? Why was I endued with an intellect—with a heart to feel—a soul to meditate on things great and glorious—with powers of mind which I am conscious are but in embryo, and which but await separation from this frail body to comprehend some, if not all, the great mysteries of nature! Surely I was not placed here merely to kill time—to amuse myself—to employ my faculties in trifles; still less, to indulge myself in mere animal gratification. No, no; I am certain of that. I was sent here as a place of trial—as a school where I might learn my duties—as a preparation for a higher sphere.” When I understood this, the great problem of existence was at once solved; difficulties vanished; the whole government of the world at once seemed right and just and reasonable; and my thoughts, feelings, tastes, and aspirations became changed. I was led to look upward as to the only source of happiness, and a pure and unfailing source it has ever since proved to me.

Brother yachtsmen who may glance your eye over these pages, meditate seriously on this matter. As you walk the deck on your midnight watch, looking up ever and anon into the dark sky where flit countless numbers of brilliant stars to guide you on your path across the ocean, ask yourself the question, “Why was I sent into this world?” and do not be satisfied till you have found an answer, and resolved to profit by it.

I do not pretend that I thought much about this matter when I was on board the “Frolic,” yet now and again some thoughts of the sort did flash across my mind, but my companions rallied me on my seriousness and they vanished.

But to my history: away sailed the saucy little “Frolic” over the blue waters of the Mediterranean. We laughed and sang and chatted, much as usual, and Carstairs quoted to as good effect as in days of yore; but we failed entirely in our long stories, for our pens had been idle, and our imaginations were much at fault. What we might have done I do not know, had not a reality occurred which effectually put all fiction to flight.

We were about half-way between Malta and Gibraltar, a succession of light winds having made old Snow confess that he was afraid his prognostications of a rapid passage were not likely to be realised, when one forenoon when I came on deck, I found Porpoise scrutinising through his glass an object which he had discovered on the water nearly right ahead of us.

“What is it, do you think?” I asked.

“I can’t quite make out,” he answered, handing me the telescope. “It looks to me like the hull of a dismasted ship—an ugly thing to run foul of on a dark night with a heavy gale blowing.”

“You are right as to its being a ship’s hull, I am pretty certain,” I answered. “We shall be up to it soon, and that will settle the question.”

Some of the people, however, declared that what we saw was a rock or an island, and others that a dead whale had floated in through the Straits. As we approached, however, our opinion was found to be the correct one, and then it became a subject of discussion as to what she could be.

“She is a good-sized craft, whatever she is,” observed Hearty, who had joined us on deck. “Is she an English or foreign vessel do you think?”

“English by her build,” replied Porpoise, observing her narrowly through the glass; “I cannot make it out. I see no one on board. How she came into that state puzzles me.”

“My dear fellow, have you any idea what sort of a vessel the ‘Success’ is? Does any one on board know her?” exclaimed Hearty, suddenly turning pale, and literally trembling from head to foot, as all sorts of horrible suspicions and fears flashed through his mind.

Inquiries were made, but no one recollected to have seen the brig in which our friends had taken their passage. We did our best to calm Hearty’s apprehensions, but under the circumstances they were very natural, and in spite of all we could say, they rather increased than diminished, as we approached the wreck. Carstairs shared them, but, being of a far less excitable temperament, in a much less degree; indeed, Hearty seemed to look on him as being very callous and insensible, for not making himself as miserable as he felt.

The breeze was very light, and our progress seemed terribly slow to the impatient feelings of our kind-hearted host. His glass was never for a moment off the wreck; indeed we were all of us constantly looking at her, in the hopes of seeing some one appear. The afternoon was drawing well on, before we got up to her. The instant we approached her, two boats were lowered, and Hearty and I jumped into the first, and away we pulled as fast as the men could bend to their oars—the men evidently entering fully into the feelings of their master. I went with him that I might really look after him, should his worst anticipations be realised. We were soon alongside, and in an instant scrambled on board.

The masts, and rigging, and sails, hung over the side; the former in their fall having carried away the bulwarks and smashed the boats. I saw before we got on board, that she had lost her masts with all sail set, in some unaccountably lubberly way it seemed. The sea had washed away some of her spare spars and the caboose, but she had apparently righted directly her masts went, and there seemed no reason why she should have been deserted by her crew. As we pulled up under the stern, we looked out for a name painted there, but a sail hung over it, and if there was a name it was not perceptible. Hearty, the moment he was on board, rushed with frantic haste along the deck, to ascertain the important fact, and very nearly fell overboard in his attempt to remove the sail, till others could aid him. The sail was soon dragged aside, and as we hung down over the taffrail, a large S appeared, there could be no doubt of it. There was the word “Success” of London. I had to help my friend on board again.

“What can have happened! What can have happened!” he exclaimed, as soon as he could find words to speak.

“Why, I trust that they fancied the brig in a much worse condition than she appears to us to be, and that they quitted her in the boats, or some other craft which was fortunately passing soon after the catastrophe.” But as I spoke, our eyes fell on the shattered boats, and I recollected that the former hypothesis could not be correct. “They must have fallen in with some vessel,” I remarked to Hearty. “The ladies were happily conveyed on board her, but why the crew deserted the ship I cannot say.”

“But where can they have gone to—what port can they have put into—what sort of vessel can they be on board?” exclaimed Hearty, almost frantic with agitation. “It’s very dreadful.”

By this time the other boat had got alongside, with Carstairs, Bubble, and Porpoise in her. Together we commenced a search over the deserted vessel. The appearance of the cabin again raised our doubts as to the reason of the desertion. The ladies had evidently been at work just before the catastrophe. Their work-baskets were on the floor, with their work, in which needles were sticking; and needle-cases, thimbles, and reels of cotton, skeins of silk and worsted, and similar articles, were strewed about.

As I looked more minutely into the state of affairs, I observed that every thing of value had been carried off; not a silver spoon or fork, not a piece of plate of any description remained. The ladies’ jewels were all gone. This was what was to be expected, but I was also certain that they would not leave their daily work behind. I did not increase Hearty’s apprehensions by pointing this out to him. Carstairs all the time, though he took matters in a very different way, seemed to be much alarmed and anxious. I saw the chronometer, sextants, charts, compasses, and every thing in the captain’s cabin had been carried off. The ship’s log and manifest could nowhere be found, nor indeed could any of her papers.

From the cabin we went to the hold, and there also the cargo had evidently been disturbed, and I judged that a considerable quantity had been carried away; a few bales of silk and velvet only remaining. This was a very suspicious circumstance. Still, had there been time to remove any thing, the captain would of course have carried away what was likely to be of most value. The forepeak was next searched. The seamen’s chests had been broken open, and the contents of many of them were strewed about—why the men did not use their keys was surprising. Still, in their hurry they might not have had time to find them. Hearty went about looking into every hole, and making his observations on all he saw. He had collected every thing belonging to the ladies as treasured relics, and had them packed and conveyed on board the “Frolic,” while Carstairs took charge of all Mrs Skyscraper’s property, and sighed over it with a look of despair, and we were about to quit the vessel, when one of the men declared that he heard a voice proceeding from the fore-hold. Forward we all went again. Certainly there was a groan. Guided by the sound, and by removing some of the cargo, we arrived at a space where lay a human being. We lifted him up, and carried him out of the dark noisome hole, and the fresh air speedily revived him. At first his startled look showed that he did not know what to make of us, but by degrees he recovered his senses, though his first words increased our apprehensions.

“What! are you come back again? Don’t murder me!—Don’t murder me!” he exclaimed, with a look of terror.

“Murder you, mate! What should put that into your head?” asked one of our men who was supporting him.

By pouring a little brandy and water down his throat, he in a short time recovered altogether. He told us that he had been the cook of the brig. He was an old man, and almost worn out, and that this was to have been his last voyage.

“Well, gentlemen,” he continued, “when I see a number of young ladies come on board, and their mothers to look after them, and no parson to make Davy Jones angered like, which he always is when any on ’em gets afloat, says I to myself, we shall have a fine run of it home, and the chances are that the ‘Success’ will make a finer passage than she ever did before. Well, we hadn’t been two days at sea before we falls in with a polacca-brig, which speaks us quite civil like, and a man aboard, though he was rigged like a Greek, asks us in decent real English, quite civil like, what passengers we’d got aboard. So, thinking no harm, we told him, and he answered ‘that he’d keep us company, and protect us, for that to his knowledge there was a notorious pirate cruising thereabouts, and that if he fell in with us he might do us an injury.’ The captain did not seem much to like our new friend, and would rather have been without his company, but as he sailed two knots to our one, we couldn’t help ourselves, do ye see. For two days or more he kept close to us, and then it fell almost to a calm, and what does he do, but quietly range up alongside with the help of some sweeps he had, and before we knew where we were, he had thrown some two-score or more of cut-throats aboard of us, who knocked some of our crew down, drove others overboard, and very soon got possession of the brig. I was ill below, but I popped my head up to see what was happening, and when I found how things were going, thinks I to myself, the best thing I can do is to be quiet; if they cut my throat, they may as well do it while I’m comfortably in bed as struggling away on deck. Instead, however, of turning into my berth again, I thought that I’d just go and stow myself away in the hold under the cargo, where they wouldn’t be likely to look for me, so there I went, and there I’ve been ever since. I felt the ship some time afterwards thrown on her beam-ends, and thought she’d be going down, but she very soon righted. I felt the masts shaken out of her, but I could not tell what else had happened. I tried to get out to see, but the cargo had shifted and jammed me in so tight that I couldn’t break my way out. I suppose I should have died if you hadn’t come to help me, gentlemen.”

“But can you not tell what became of the passengers and crew?” exclaimed Hearty, interrupting him.

“No more than the babe unborn, sir,” answered the old man; “I suppose they were all carried aboard the pirate. From what I know of some of our crew, I don’t think they would have much minded joining the villains, and several I myself saw killed and hove overboard.”

This fearful information gave us still more concern than we had felt from what we had already discovered. There was some cause for hope before, now there was none. There was no doubt whatever that our friends had fallen into the power of the villain Miles Sandgate. Grown desperate, it was impossible to say to what extremes he might not venture to go. Still I had less apprehension for the fate of Mrs and Miss Mizen than for that of Jane Seton. It could scarcely be expected that he would again let her out of his power. I was offering what consolation I could to Hearty as well as to Carstairs on these grounds, in which I was joined by Bubble, whose heart was overflowing with commiseration for them and those they were so deeply interested in, when Hearty suddenly exclaimed,—

“But, my dear fellow, is it not possible that the same squall which struck this vessel and reduced her to a wreck may have struck the pirate, and sent her and all on board to the bottom? or can you answer me that this is not possible? Still it may have preserved them from a worse fate. Oh, horrible, horrible!”

“I do not think it is probable that people so thoroughly acquainted with these seas should not have been forewarned in time to guard against even the most sudden squall. There are always some indications; only those who do not regard them are the sufferers. Just as likely after he had rifled the brig, Sandgate (for I doubt not that he is the culprit) may have put the passengers on shore somewhere or other, and made some plausible excuse for having taken them on board his vessel. I think, in truth, that for the sake of making friends at court, he is much more likely to have treated them with perfect civility than to have ventured in any way to insult or injure them.”

All the time I was trying to persuade myself that I was speaking what I thought; but I must own that I had very serious apprehensions for their safety. There was no object in remaining longer on board the wreck. To prevent any vessels running into her, for that night at all events, we secured a large lantern with a burner full of oil to the stump of the mainmast. We were very unwilling to quit her, but we could not venture to leave anybody on board to look after her till we could despatch a vessel to bring her into Gibraltar, lest before this could be done a gale might spring up, and she might founder. So, taking Tom Pancake, the old man we had found, on board with us, we returned to the cutter. We forthwith held a council of war, when it was resolved to steer a direct course for Gibraltar, that we might then get vessels sent out in all directions to look for the daring pirate. I never saw any one suffer so much as did Hearty. A few nights of the anxiety he was now doomed to suffer would, I feared much, not only turn his head grey, but completely prostrate him. Carstairs suffered a good deal, but his regard for Mrs Skyscraper was of a very different character to the deep affection Hearty entertained for Miss Mizen; and if he was to lose her, I suspected that he would have no great difficulty in supplying her place as the queen of his affections. No sooner had we left the unfortunate ship, than a fresh breeze had sprung up, and before sunset we had run her completely out of sight. For all the first part of the night the breeze lasted, and we made good way on our course for Gibraltar. For a long time poor Hearty would not turn in; but at last I persuaded him to lie down and take some of that rest which he so much required. I also went below, but I was restless, and just as the middle watch was set, I returned on deck. Porpoise and Bubble were there. I found them watching a bright glare which appeared in the sky. I considered a moment our whereabouts.

“That must be from a ship on fire,” I exclaimed.

“There is no doubt about it,” replied Porpoise. “She has been blazing away for the last hour or more, I fear, for all that time I have observed that ruddy glow in the sky. I hope we may be in time to render some assistance to the unfortunate crew.”

The wind freshened even still more as we advanced towards the burning ship, but not enough for our impatience. Hearty and Carstairs were called, and when they came on deck they exhibited equal eagerness with the rest of us; indeed, Hearty seemed for a time almost to forget his own anxiety in his zeal in the cause of humanity. Surely we seldom know even our most intimate friends without seeing them tried under a variety of circumstances. Sometimes I must own that I have been sadly disappointed in them; at other times I have been as agreeably surprised by the exhibition of self-denial, courage, warmth of heart, and judgment, which I did not believe to exist in them. Such was the case with my friend Hearty.

We got the boats ready to lower the instant we should be close enough to the vessel. The interval which elapsed before we drew up to her was one of great anxiety. All sorts of ideas and fears crossed our minds, and at all events we felt that many of our fellow-creatures might be perishing for want of our assistance. Through our glasses, as we drew on, we discovered that the greater part of the vessel was enveloped in flames; the poop alone was not entirely consumed, though the devouring element had made such progress that the people were already seeking for a momentary safety by hanging on to the taffrail quarters.

“Stand by to shorten sail!” sang out Porpoise.

The square-sail and gaff and square-topsail were taken in, and the foresail being hauled up to windward, and the jib-sheets let fly, the cutter was hove-to and a boat instantly lowered. As before, Hearty and I went in her, while the other gig immediately followed us.

Our appearance took the poor wretches by surprise, as from the darkness of night our approach had not been perceived. They raised a cry to implore us to hasten to their assistance. Our men shouted in return. They needed no cry to urge them to exertion. By the bright glare of the flames we saw that the men clinging to the wreck were by their costume Greeks, while the hull itself had a foreign appearance. The vessel was a brig, we observed. The foremast had already fallen, the flames were twisting and twining in serpentine forms along the yards and up to the very maintop-gallant masthead. Some, as I said, were still clinging to the wreck, others had leaped overboard, and were hanging on to spars and oars and gratings, and a few were in a boat floating near the vessel; but she appeared to be stove in, and to have no oars or other means of progression.

With all these people, blinded with terror and eager to save their lives, it was necessary to use much precaution to prevent ourselves from being swamped by too many leaping on board at a time. The first thing was to rescue those who were in the most imminent danger of being burned. While we pulled under the stern, and as the people dropped into the water picked them up, the other boat hauled those on board who were already floating, and seemed most to require help. We had got most of the people off the burning wreck, but two still hung on to the burning taffrail, and seemed unwilling to trust themselves in the sea.

“Never fear, jump, jump, my lads!” sung out our men; then turning to the Greeks whom they had saved, added, “Tell them to jump in your own lingo; they don’t understand us.”

The Greeks said something about “Inglesi,” but I did not understand what they meant. At last, however, the flames rushing out from the stern ports and along the deck, gave them no alternative, and they had to throw themselves into the water, whence we quickly picked them out, and with a boat loaded almost to sinking, returned on board the cutter. I was especially struck by the appearance of the two men last saved. Certainly they were much more like Englishmen than Greeks. No sooner, however, did the old man we had saved from the “Success” see them than he exclaimed, “What mates! is that you? How did you get aboard there? Why, as I live, that craft must be the Greek pirate which plundered us, and carried off the ladies.”

The worst suspicions which had been floating through my mind were confirmed by these remarks. Poor Hearty seemed thunderstruck. Carstairs had not yet returned. The men could not deny their identity, and they instantly began to offer excuses for having been on board the Greek.

“Never mind that!” exclaimed Hearty. “Tell me, my men, where are the ladies? what has become of them? Help us to find them, and all will be overlooked. They could not have been left to perish on board the burning vessel.”

“We can’t say much about it, sir,” answered one of the men, who seemed to be the most intelligent. “We were forward when the fire broke out, and it was with great difficulty that we managed to crawl aft. When we got there we found that a raft had been built and lowered into the water, and that the boats had been got out, and that several people were in them. Some got away, and we don’t know where they went, but we towed two of them after us. One was swamped and went down, and the other, as you saw, was stove in. What became of the other two we don’t know; we believe that the ladies were in them, but we can’t say for certain; all we know is, that we did not see them on the deck, or in either of the other two boats, when we got aft; still we believe that nearly half the people on board, in one way or another, have been lost.”

Then, supposing the seaman spoke the truth, there was still hope; but how dreadful at the best must be the condition of our friends, exposed in open boats with the most lawless of companions! While we were still examining the men, Carstairs and the rest returned on board. He had also with him one of the crew of the “Success,” who, on being examined, corroborated the statement of the other two. The character of the men whose lives we had preserved was now clear; but, wretches as they were, and deserving of the heaviest punishment, we could not have avoided saving them from drowning, even had we known the worst at first. Scarcely were they all on board before every portion of the burning vessel was enveloped in flames. Porpoise all the time was fortunately not forgetful of the safety of the cutter, and, having let draw the foresail, we had been standing away from her. Suddenly there was a fiercer blaze than before—a loud, deafening report was heard, the remaining mast and deck lifted, the former shooting up into the air like a sky-rocket surrounded by burning brands, and then down again came the whole fiery mass, covering us, even at the distance we were, with burning fragments of wreck, and then all was darkness, and not a remnant of the polacca-brig remained together above water. After the character we had heard of the rescued crew, without giving them any warning, we suddenly seized them, and, lashing their arms behind them and their legs together, made them sit down in a row under the bulwarks. They seemed to be very much surprised at the treatment, but we did not understand their expostulations, and should not have listened to them if we had. We, however, served out provisions to them, and they very soon seemed reconciled to their fate. The three English seamen vowed that they had been kept on board the brig by force, and, as we would fain have believed this is to be the case, we did not treat them as prisoners, though we kept a very sharp eye on their movements; so, especially, did old Pancake, who appeared to have no little dread lest they should play him some scurvy trick in return for his having betrayed them.

These arrangements were very quickly made. The most important consideration, however, was the best method to pursue in order to discover what had become of the raft reported to have been made, and the missing boat. Unless by those who have been placed in a similar situation, the nervous anxiety and excitement which almost overcame every one of us would be difficult to be conceived. Hearty thought of sending the boats away to range in circles round the spot, in the chance of falling in with the raft or boat; but Porpoise overruled this proposal by assuring him that the raft could only have gone to leeward, and that the boat probably would be found in the same direction. Keeping, therefore, a bright lookout, with a light at our masthead, we kept tacking backwards and forwards so as to sweep over every foot of the ground to leeward of the spot where the fire first burst out. We had hinted to the English seamen taken from the pirate that their future prospects depended very much on the success which might attend our search. They accordingly gave us all the information and assistance in their power, by showing us how the pirate had steered from the moment the fire was discovered, and how far she had gone after her captain had placed the ladies on the raft. Nothing could we discover during the night. Hearty was in despair; so was Carstairs; only he was rather inclined to be savage than pathetic in his misery. Daylight came; as the dawn drew on nothing could be seen but the clear grey water surrounding us. Then, just as we had gone about and were standing once more to the westward, the sun rose from his ocean bed, his beams glancing on a small object seen far away on our port bow.

“Huzza! huzza!” shouted Bubble, who was the first to bring his glass to bear on it. “Some people on a raft! There is no doubt on the subject. White dresses, too! It may be the ladies! It must be! Oh, it can’t be otherwise! Keep up your spirits, Hearty, my dear fellow; all will go well! It will, Carstairs, I tell you! Don’t be cast down any more! I think I see them waving!”

Thus the worthy Bubble ran on, giving way to the exuberance of his feelings and sympathy for his friends. Every yard of canvas the cutter could carry was pressed on her, and each moment rapidly decreased our distance from the raft; for that a raft it was, or a piece of a wreck, there could be no doubt. Our telescopes were kept unchangeably fixed on it. It was with no little apprehension, however, as we drew nearer, that I perceived that there were but three persons on it. One was standing up; the other two were seated on benches, or chests, or something of the same size, secured to the raft. The figure standing up was that of a man in the Greek costume; the other two were females. I had little doubt in my own mind who they were. As we got still nearer I fancied that, under the Greek cap, I could distinguish the features of Miles Sandgate. The features of the ladies were more difficult to make out, but I heard Hearty exclaim, “Yes, it is her—it is her!” meaning Miss Mizen; and I felt sure he was right. But who was the other person? The figure was not like that of either Mrs Mizen or Mrs Seton, but whether it was Jane Seton or Mrs Skyscraper was the question. Poor Carstairs, he must have felt that, in all probability, it was Miss Seton. What would Sandgate do when he found himself thus completely brought to bay? It was a serious question, for he had the two ladies entirely in his power, and, had he chosen, might, holding them as hostages, make any terms with us he pleased. I saw him watching the approaching cutter. He must have recognised her as soon as she hove in sight. Yet he did not quail, but stood up boldly confronting us. Then he seemed to be addressing one of the ladies. I looked again; I was certain she was Jane Seton; and I clearly recognised Miss Mizen. Jane had given her hand to Laura. The pirate seemed to be urging her to fulfil some request; he half knelt before her with uplifted hands; then he sprang up, with a look of bitter reproach. By this time the cutter was close up to the raft, and a boat was on the point of being lowered. Again, with an imploring gesture, the pirate urged his suit. Miss Seton shook her head. He seized her hand. She struggled violently. It appeared that, in his rage, he was about to drag her into the water. He would have succeeded, had not Miss Mizen held her hand and drawn her back.

Hearty and Bubble were in the boat pulling rapidly to the raft. The pirate let go Miss Seton’s hand, and drew himself up to his full height; he seemed to be uttering some strong reproaches. The bows of the boat were almost touching the raft, the oars were thrown in. At that moment the pirate, uttering a fearful cry (and if ever I heard the cry of a madman that was one), turned round, and plunged headlong into the water. Down, down, he sank! Scarcely an eddy marked where he had sprung in, with such determination had he endeavoured to reach the bottom. I watched for him, but he never rose again. Such was the dreadful end of Miles Sandgate. The next moment Hearty was on the raft, and had clasped Laura Mizen in his arms, while Miss Seton was borne fainting into the boat by Bubble. They were quickly conveyed on board, while the raft and its freight were allowed to go adrift. The two young ladies were immediately carried to the cabin, where Laura rapidly described to Hearty all that had occurred. Poor Miss Seton, however, required their whole attention, and for the moment drew them off from all thoughts about themselves. Not that Miss Mizen for a moment forgot her mother and her other companions, and it was a relief to us all to find that she had seen them placed in the first boat which had left the vessel just before they had been carried by Sandgate to the raft. He intended, it seemed, to have taken possession of one of the other boats, and when she was swamped he managed to get on the raft, and clear away from the burning vessel before any one else reached it, while he left the rest of his companions in crime to perish without an attempt to afford them aid. The general opinion was that the boat would be steered to the southward, for the purpose of making the Moorish coast, where the pirates fancied that they might find protection.

“The chances are that they will all get murdered if they reach it,” observed Porpoise; “but we must try and catch them up before they get there.”

Fortunately we had the whole day before us. All sail was again made on the cutter; the sun rose high in the heavens; tolerably hot came down its beams on our heads. At noon a meridional observation was taken, and just as we were shutting up our sextants, Bubble, who was keeping a sharp lookout on every side, sang out that he saw a speck on the water almost ahead of us. I went immediately with my glass aloft. After waiting a little time I made out distinctly that the speck was a boat. As we drew on we made out that the boat was strongly manned, and that the people in her were doing their utmost to keep ahead of us. They could not have known what the “Frolic” was made of to suppose that they had a chance of escaping. The breeze freshened. Hard as they were pulling, hand over hand we came up with them. There were women in the boat, or we should have sent a shot after her to stop her way; we ran a gun out to frighten them. On we stood; the women in the boat now first observed us.

“Oh, help us! help us! help us!” they shrieked out.

We required no summoning, however. There were three ladies, we saw, the number we expected to find. We soon ran up alongside the boat, though it required nice steering not to sink her. Our earnest hopes and wishes were realised. In the stern-sheets sat Mrs Mizen and Mrs Seton, and, to the very great relief of poor Carstairs, the fair Mrs Skyscraper. The pirates saw that they had not a prospect of escape, so they threw in their oars, and quietly allowed us to get alongside them, and to hook on their boat to us. I need not describe the joy of the two mothers at finding their daughters safe, or that of the daughters at seeing their mothers; nor will I do more than touch on the effect which the risk she had endured, and the satisfaction Carstairs displayed at having her restored to him, worked on the heart of the widow.

We very soon got to Gibraltar, where we at once landed our very troublesome prisoners. Mrs Mizen had written to England to desire that letters might be sent to meet her there. In a day or so they arrived, and they gave so favourable an account of her son’s health that as there was no necessity for her hurrying home, she was able to wait till we were at liberty to accompany her, having given our evidence against the pirates. Several of them suffered, as the papers say, the extreme penalty of the law, and it was certainly a pity, for the sake of justice, that Miles Sandgate had not been alive to keep them company. At length we all reached England, and not long afterwards I had the satisfaction of seeing my friend Edward Hearty united to Miss Laura Mizen, and the next week was called away to act as best-man to Captain Carstairs on his marriage with the fair relict of the late Lieutenant Skyscraper, of the Rifle Brigade.

Poor Miss Seton suffered much from the severe trial she had gone through. It was, I rejoice to say, not without good effects, and I had the opportunity of observing a great improvement in her character. Some years passed by, during which she remained single, but on the death of her mother she became the wife of Sir Lloyd Snowdon; and, living constantly on his estate in Wales, proved a blessing to her family, and to the poorer inhabitants of the surrounding district. May all the trials any of us have to endure have a like good effect; for we may depend on it for that purpose are they sent.

I am happy to say that, notwithstanding old Snow’s prognostication, Hearty’s yacht was not sold, and that many a pleasant summer cruise did I afterwards take with him on board the “Frolic.”

The End.

William H G Kingston

"The Cruise of the Mary Rose"

Chapter One.

Uncle John’s Journal.

My family had for centuries owned the same estate, handed down from father to son undiminished in size, and much increased in value. I believe there had been among them in past generations those who feared the Lord. I know that my father was a man of true piety. “Casting all your care upon Him, for He careth for you,” was his favourite motto. What a world of doubt and anxiety, of plotting, and contriving, and scheming, does this trust in God save those who possess it. On this blessed assurance my father took his stand in all the difficulties of life. It never failed him, and so we his sons had a good training and a godly example.

The younger members of each generation followed various honourable professions, but they failed to rise to high rank in them, owing, I fancy, to a want of worldly ambition—the general characteristic of our race. Altogether, however, I believe them to have been a simple-minded, upright, clear sighted set of people, who did whatever their hands found to do honestly and with all their might. Such people ought to rise, it may be said. So they do,—but not to what the world calls the summit. They generally rise to a position of independence, where they may enjoy fair scope for the exercise of their mental and spiritual faculties. There they are content to remain, for a time. This world is not their rest. Another world opens to their view. In that they see the goal at which they aim. There is the golden crown. Why then be distracted by the glittering baubles which are held up to draw their attention from the real jewel—the gem without price? I am happy in the belief that such was the reason that my ancestors did not become men of much worldly note.

The occupant of the family estate had always attended to its cultivation, and was properly called a gentleman farmer. Unostentatious and frugal, he never lacked means, in spite of bad harvests or unexpected losses, to assist the younger members of the family in starting in life, or to help forward any good cause which required aid.

My father, Paul Harvey, was a perfect type of the family—so was my elder brother, his namesake. John came next; a daughter followed; I was his fourth child. He kept up a good old custom—never broken through from any excuse. An hour before bed-time his children and the whole household assembled in the sitting-room, when he read and explained a chapter in the Bible. A hymn was sung, and prayers full of fervour were offered up to the throne of grace. After this a simple supper was placed on the table, and we were encouraged to speak on the events of the day, or on what we had read or thought of. That hour was generally the pleasantest of the twenty-four. Our father guided, if he did not lead the conversation, and generally managed to infuse his spirit into it. Although many of the subjects discussed even now rise up to my memory, I will mention but one, which had a powerful influence on the career of some of those present. I had been reading an account of the Crusades, and my enthusiasm had been unusually stirred up on the subject. “I wish that I could have lived in those days!” I exclaimed (I was but a lad it must be remembered.) “What a glorious work those warriors of old undertook, who with sword and lance, under the banner of the cross, they went forth to conquer infidels, to establish the true faith, to recover the blessed land, hallowed by the Redeemer’s footsteps, from the power of the cruel followers of the false prophet of Mecca. How degenerate are we Christians of the present generation! Who among us dreams of expelling the Turks from Syria? On the contrary, our statesmen devote their energies to keep them there. I really believe that were Peter the Hermit to rise from his grave, he would not find a dozen true men to follow him.”

“Possibly not,” said my father, quietly; “though he might find two dozen fully as wise, and as honest, too, as those he led to destruction. But has it not struck you, David, that there are other conquests to be achieved in the present age more important than winning Palestine from the Moslem; that there is more real fighting to be done than all the true soldiers of the cross, even were they to be united in one firm phalanx, could accomplish? Sword and spear surely are not the weapons our loving Saviour desires His followers to employ when striving to bring fresh subjects under His kingdom. That they were to be used was indeed the idea of our ignorant ancestors, when the teaching of a corrupt Church had thrown a dark veil over their understandings. Christians only in name, the truth was so disfigured and transformed among them, that it exercised no influence over their hearts; and though they believed the Bible to be of value, they regarded it rather in the light of a mystic charm than the word of God. Thus all the great truths of our most holy faith were so travestied and changed as to produce alone a degrading superstition. They believed that the Bible had the power of exorcising spirits of evil. So it has; but it is not the closed Bible, which they in their ignorance employed—not the mere printed paper bound into a volume—unread, or if read, misunderstood, at which the devil and his angels tremble. No; it is the open Bible—the Bible in many tongues—read and understood through God’s gracious teaching, sought for by prayer earnestly. It is the blessed gospel of peace which alone can put to flight debasing superstition, gross customs, murderous propensities, cruel dispositions, barbarism in its varied forms, and all the works of darkness instigated by Satan and his angels. Again, I say that the Bible, and the Bible alone, is the true crusader’s weapon; armed with that sword of the Spirit, with the shield of faith on his arm, and under the guidance (never to be withdrawn while he seeks it) of God’s Holy Spirit, he may go boldly forth conquering and to conquer the numberless hosts of heathenism arrayed for battle against the truth. These weapons are dreaded by the spirit of evil more than all those iron implements of warfare on which man in his folly and blindness relies. The victories won by the Bible are lasting in this world, and not only in this world, but through eternity.

“To drop metaphor, what is, and what long has been the condition of those lands the crusaders vainly boasted they had won from the followers of Mohammed? In what state do we find those vast territories of the New World conquered by Spain? both gained by sword and spear, under a banner falsely called the ‘banner of the cross.’ Compare these and similar conquests over heathenism with those victories won in pagan lands by the Bible—the sword of the Spirit. How great the contrast!”

Our father spoke with far more animation than was his wont. I listened respectfully, though I confess that at first I did not comprehend the full meaning of his remarks. Still, they considerably dimmed the bright halo with which my imagination had surrounded the crusades. My second brother, John, however, fixing his eyes attentively on our father, drank in every word he uttered. “Yes, glorious indeed are the victories gained by the gospel of peace in heathen lands, and happy are those permitted to fight them,” he whispered, with a sigh, after a few minutes’ silence. John was less robust in health than were most of us, and it was intended that he should devote himself to mercantile pursuits, for which I had long suspected that he had no great taste; still, at the call, as he believed, of duty, he had begun the task of acquiring the necessary knowledge.

“I suppose, father, that you are alluding to the labours of missionaries in foreign lands?” I observed. “But I have heard it said, that in spite of all the money expended, their preaching produces but meagre results. In India, for instance, the Company will not admit them. In Africa, the climate destroys them. The fanatical Turks and other Mohammedan nations will not listen to their message; and it would be but time lost and energies wasted were they to attempt to preach to the cannibals of New Zealand and the other islands of the Pacific, or to the almost baboons of Australia and New Guinea.”

“You have not, I see, given much thought to the subject, David,” observed my father, mildly; “God’s grace is sufficient for all men. The gospel is to be preached to all men, without distinction of race, or colour, or nation, or rank. What says the Bible? ‘Go ye into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature.’ Who is to decide then from what depths of moral degradation the power of God’s grace will fail to lift up a human being? Certainly, we mortals, fallible, helpless, sinful, as we must feel ourselves, are not capable of judging. All we have to do is to receive the plain command, and obey it. Oh, there is scope, believe me, for the exertions, not of one missionary only, but of hundreds and thousands of the soldiers of the cross in those very regions of which you have spoken. How can we dare to doubt how the gospel will in the end be received? ‘Blessed are ye which sow beside all waters,’ ‘Cast thy bread upon the waters: for thou shalt find it after many days.’ ‘In the morning sow thy seed, and in the evening withhold not thine hand, for thou knowest not which shall prosper, either this or that, or whether they both shall be alike good.’ Our duty as disciples of Christ is plain. We are to sow. ‘God giveth the increase.’ That is not to be our care. We are to ‘preach the gospel to every creature.’ Some will hear; some will turn away from the truth. With that we have nothing to do, except to pray and work on, awaiting God’s time. You have none of you seen more than the outside of my Uncle John’s journal. Indeed, I had not myself till lately looked into it. He was, as you may have heard, a seaman, and he made more than one voyage to the Pacific. Possessing more education than most officers in the merchant service in those days, he seems to have carefully noted the observations he made as he sailed from place to place. His descriptions are graphic, and he was of an acute and inquiring mind; his remarks, too, are of value. I think, therefore, that we may glean from it both amusement and instruction.”

We of course all expressed a wish to hear the contents of our relative’s journal, and it was agreed that the next few evenings should be devoted to its perusal. I should observe that our father’s interest in the subject of missions to the heathen in foreign lands had lately been awakened by the visit of an old friend, one of that band of great and good men who were then endeavouring against contumely, ridicule, and every opposition which the prince of this world could raise, to send the glad tidings of salvation to the perishing millions scattered thickly on the surface of the globe, over which midnight—the midnight of heathen darkness—reigned.

I believe that the thought of our dear father’s heart at that time was—“I have many sons given me by God; surely not one of them have I a right to withhold from His service; all, all, every one of them should be freely, joyfully given if it be His will to accept their services.” I do not mean to say that he uttered these words, but that such was the language of his heart spoken to heaven, I am certain, from conversations and circumstances which subsequently occurred. Of all the family our brother, John, appeared to be the most deeply impressed with the remarks which had dropped from our father’s lips, and as I watched his expressive countenance, I observed the changes passing over it, and am now certain that feelings were then working within his bosom too deep for utterance, and which afterwards exerted a powerful influence on his career.

The following evening, the word of God having been read and our frugal supper discussed, the looked-for journal, a dogskin-covered, somewhat worn folio, was produced. John, by a unanimous vote, was chosen to read it, and I am bound to say that the honest seaman’s descriptions gained considerably by the spirit which our brother’s animated voice threw into them.

Chapter Two.

Supped at the “Three Crowns” with Phineas Golding our supercargo, and so aboard, my leave being up, and work enough and over to get the ship ready for sea. A long voyage before us of four, or it may be of five years. Meeting our supercargo at the owner’s, I had deemed him a quiet, well-behaved young man; I now find him a slashing blade, ever ready with his fist, or his sword, as with his pen,—hot in dispute, and always eager to bring a quarrel to the arbitration of one of the former. How differently do men appear when in presence of those they serve and when out of their sight! There exists One out of whose sight we cannot escape. How comes it that we do not always bear that truth in mind? Are we more afraid of a fellow-creature than of the Maker and Judge of all the world? I said thus much to Phineas Golding. He replied with an oath, which caused me to feel that I had been casting pearls before swine. And yet I was right, surely; for by speaking the truth boldly on fitting occasions, I do hold that the truth will in the end prevail, and may be conquer the unbeliever’s heart. On one thing, therefore, I am resolved, to go on as I have begun, and speak the truth always with earnestness of purpose.

Of my other shipmates I will speak a word. The master Simon Fuller, is grave man, the snows of nearly sixty winters settling on his head. He has made many voyages, and seems a fit man to command men. The first mate, too, James Festing, is every inch a seaman, but somewhat handy with his fist, a rope’s end, or a marline spike, or, truth to say, whatever lies nearest, and withal not over choice in his words when angered, or desirous of getting work done smartly. Of myself, as second mate, it becometh me not to speak. I have been five years at sea, am a fair navigator, and an average seaman. I fear God, and strive to do my duty, though not always succeeding. Our ship’s company muster thirty-five good men, I hope, all told fore and aft. The ship, as is requisite, is well armed, with six guns with swivels on the quarters, and muskets, pikes, axes, and cutlasses for all hands. We have to visit many strange places and strange people, and we must expect often and again to fight for our lives with the savages. Phineas Golding rejoices in adventure, and says such chiefly induced him to leave home. He has never before been at sea, and dreams not of the troubles in store for him.

June.—We have taken our departure from the land, which is even now sinking astern, a strong breeze blowing from the north-east.

July.—We have touched at Madeira, belonging to the Portingalls, as the old voyagers call them. They are a suspicious people, though civil when not angered. I witnessed some public exhibitions, which I was told were religious. I cannot suppose that such performances are acceptable to our Lord and Master, or He would surely have ordered such. But it becomes not me, after so slight acquaintance with a people, to pass much censure on their customs, though I see not how to approve them.

Crossing the Line, we had a usual Father Neptune and his Tritons on board. Tony Hinks, our boatswain, was Neptune. He and his mates severely handled some of the men who had shown ill manners or bad tempers, tarring their faces, and shaving their chins with rusty hoops. Phineas vowed that he would not be so treated, but had to succumb, escaping with a thorough sousing from a dozen buckets. Phineas vows vengeance on the boatswain; but I warn him that Tony Hinks followed but the custom of the sea, and is not a man over whom it would be easy to get an advantage, for he boasts that he always sleeps with one eye open.

We have touched at Rio, the chief town in the Brazils. From what I saw, I should take the people to be heathens, such as I have read of in Roman and Grecian history; but they say that they are Christians. One thing is certain, that if they desire to keep the sabbath holy, they have a curious way of so doing. Still I say, it would be easy to sail from place to place and to condemn all we visit unheard. One thought occurs to me: “Look to it that we fall not into like errors.”

Proceeding south before rounding Cape Horn, we again made the land, and standing in, anchored the ship in a sheltered cove. It was the southern part of that region known as Patagonia. The captain, with Phineas Golding and I, with a crew of eight men, well armed, took the long boat and went ashore. The aspect of the country was not pleasant; rocks, and trees, and marshes, but no signs of cultivation. Suddenly from among the rocks some creatures appeared watching us. “Are they men or are they baboons?” asked Phineas, levelling his musket; but the master held back his arm. They approaching slowly and with hesitation, we discovered that they were human beings, though marvellously ill-favoured in aspect. Their skin, which seemed of a dark brown, was covered with dirt, and their faces, which were flat with high cheek-bones, were besmeared with red and yellow ochre. Their long black coarse hair hanging down straight over their shoulders, their small twinkling bleared eyes peeping out between it, like two hot coals. They had spears in their hands and short clubs. They were nearly naked, their chief garment consisting in a piece of sealskin, which they wore on the side whence the wind blew. Again Phineas was about to shoot in very wantonness.

“What’s the harm?” he asked. “We have no chance of trading with such people; and if we were to kill a few, what would it matter?”

“They have souls, Master Golding,” said I, for I could not keep silence; “and souls, I have learned, are precious things.”

A scornful laugh was his reply, and he still kept his musket ready, as if to fire. The savages, however, seemed in no way afraid, but lifted up their hands, and made as if they too had muskets; and when we laughed they laughed, and when we shook our fists they shook theirs; and so we discovered that, though hideous, they were a harmless race, and great mimics. They readily accepted beads, and knives, and coloured handkerchiefs, and such like things.

These people, we learn from Tony Hinks, who has before been on the coast (indeed where has he not been?) are different from the tribes of Patagonians who inhabit the country to the north as far as the Spanish settlements. These latter are a fierce race, often of large stature, though not giants, as some suppose, and dress in skins and ride on horseback. Again, there are other tribes whose dwellings are among the marshes and inlets of the sea up the Straits of Magellan. They move about only in their canoes, living on shell-fish, seals’ flesh, and fish, their habits being more filthy and disgusting even than are those of our present friends. Phineas laughs at the notion of their being our fellow-creatures, and says that they must have sprung from apes; but Tony, who has seen many strange people, says that he would not give a fig for the supercargo’s opinion, for that he has known white men become almost as brutish in their appearance, and much more brutish in their manners, just from living a few years among born savages, cut off from all communication with their fellow whites. A little practical experience often shows the folly of these would-be philosophers.

On the Pacific coast of this end of America are found the unsubdued tribes of the Araucanians in vast numbers, so that in this one small portion of the continent are many hundred thousand savages, all lying in the midnight of heathen darkness.

Phineas observes that it is a pity they cannot be swept away, and civilised men, with whom it would be an advantage to trade, introduced in their stead. He esteems men in proportion as they are able to exchange gold dust, ivory, spices or precious stones, not knowing their value, for glass beads and Brummagem knives and needles. I cannot help thinking that all those savages have immortal souls, and regretting that they should be allowed to pass away from this life without having the light of gospel truth set before them. Year after year passes by, thousands are swept away, and still darkness dense as ever broods over the land.

Once more we are under weigh. With a fair breeze gliding over a long heavy swell, we pass Cape Horn, which stands out boldly into the blue waters, and enter the mighty Pacific. Tony Hinks tells us that, though peaceable enough at times, he has seen here as fierce gales and heavy seas as ever sent tall ships to the bottom. Grant that we do not encounter the loss and disaster met with by Lord Anson, whose voyage I have been reading. Hitherto a kind Providence has favoured us, and we are standing up along the coast of Chili, the lofty Andes rising blue and distinct against the sky in the distance.

Chapter Three.

Tahiti in heathen days.

Anchored in the Bay of Conception to obtain meat and vegetables, and to refresh our ship’s company. The town whence we obtained supplies is Talcaguana, the old town of Conception having been destroyed by an earthquake, and the new town standing some way inland. It is a wealthy place—no lack of silver and gold utensils in the houses, and flocks and herds outside, but the inhabitants lead uneasy lives, for not far off beyond the mountains are found tribes of fierce Araucanians, who, riding fleet horses, now and again pounce down on the town, and never fail to carry off a rich booty. They care not for the Spanish artillery and musketry, they keep out of range of them; but might not the power of gospel truth spoken in season change their savage natures? Could some Christian men find their way among them, they might tell them of happier employments than killing each other, and robbing their neighbours. Yet I dream. Such seems to be the chief occupation, not only of savages, but of civilised people all over the world. What power can assuage such a flood of iniquity? There is one and one alone, the bright light of gospel truth, and the living power of Divine grace.

Having shipped our stores, the boat was leaving the shore for the last time, when a brown man, dressed as a seaman, with strange marks on his face and hands, came down begging to be taken on board. His name he said was Taro, and that he was a native of an island far to the west, also that he had long been on board an English ship, the master of which had left him here sick. Captain Fuller believing his tale, and well pleased to obtain the services of one who might prove useful as an interpreter, consented to receive him among the crew. Our ship’s company gave him at first the name of Tar, and hence he soon became known among them as Tom Tar. He proves an amusing, and seemingly a good-natured fellow till he is angered, and then he will cast off his clothes, and seizing a billet of wood or whatever comes to hand, will flourish it, threatening the lives of all near him, exhibiting his body covered with strange devices, appearing, as he is still, the fierce, vindictive savage. He comes from an island called New Zealand, where the inhabitants are terribly fierce, and undoubted cannibals. I asked Taro whether he had ever eaten any of his fellow-creatures. He nodded, laughing, and I doubt not, from the expression of his countenance, that he had often done so, and would not hesitate in again indulging in such a practice. Though living so long among men professing to be Christians, he is still a heathen in all his thoughts and ways. I asked him one day how this was. His answer was simple: “They say and do just what heathen man say and do. They no pray to their God; they no care for their God; they no love their God. Why should I?”

Taro spoke the truth; I felt abashed. How can we expect the heathen to become Christians, when those who call themselves so show so little regard to the religion of Christ? I see the same sad shortcoming on shore. Christians do not strive to bring honour to the name of Christ.

For three weeks and more we traverse the Pacific, keeping bright look-out by night and day for rocks and reefs.

“Land on the starboard bow,” is the cry. We haul up for it. As the ship rises and falls on the long, slow swell, now the trees appear partly out of the water, now they disappear looking thus at a distance like a fleet at anchor. There are cocoa-nut palms, pandanus trees, and many shrubs, growing on a low island, fifteen feet at most above the level of the sea, some twelve miles long, and not a quarter of a mile wide, with a deep blue lagoon inside. This is one of those wonderful coral islands of which I have read, formed by minute insects working upwards from rocky foundations amid the ocean, and ceasing their work when they have reached the surface. The waves have torn off masses and thrown them up so as to form an elevation above the water; then birds have come, dropped seeds, and formed their nests, and dwelt there; and timber and plants floating about have been cast on shore, and their vitality not yet destroyed, have taken root; and more coral and shells have been heaved up and ground fine by the toiling waves to form a beach; and thus a fit dwelling-place for man has been formed. Nearing the sandy beach we heave-to for soundings, but finding none, the ship stands off, while Phineas and I, with Tom Tar and our boat’s crew, well armed, pull in with the intention of landing. This the surf will not let us do; and as we are lying off on our oars, presently, from out of the bushes, rush a herd of savages with spears and clubs, which they flourish furiously, making signs to us to be gone. We pull on, however, and find an opening in the reef, through which we get close to the beach. The natives shout and gesticulate more vehemently than ever. They declare (so Taro interprets) that we come for no good purpose, and that they want no strangers. Phineas hopes that they may possess pearls with which to trade, so we row in, he standing up in the bows of the boat, holding up a looking-glass and a string of glass beads in one hand, while he keeps his musket ready in the other. He is bold, and leaping on shore, approaches the natives. At first the savages retire; then one advances, stops, gazes at the supercargo, and with a loud shout, flourishing his club, rushes towards him. Phineas, flinging down the looking-glass and the beads, springs back, firing his musket in the air. The savage is upon him. In another moment that huge club will have dashed out his brains. I see his danger. I have no thought but to save him—no feeling that I am about to slay a fellow-creature. I raise my musket to my shoulder and fire, taking good aim. The savage falls. Phineas, shouting to us to give the Indians a volley, is hauled in. The men obey as the Indians, with terrific howls, rush towards us. Five more fall, some in the water, which is tinged with their blood, others on the land. Our passions are up. Golding urges us to load and fire again. Having thus done, we pull away. Says Golding, “They’ll not meddle another time with strangers who peaceably visit their shores to trade.” We leave ten or twelve poor heathens dead or wounded on their native strand. My thoughts are sad. The face of that hapless savage as he turned his eye on me when falling is still in my sight. True, I fired to save the life of a shipmate. Yet it is an awful thing to shed the blood of a fellow-being, let it be in warfare or in any other way which men justify as from stern necessity.

Are such, too, the blessings which we Christian and civilised men distribute in our course round the globe? The loud laugh of my companion sounds in my ear. “Come, rouse thee, John Harvey,” he says. “Art down-hearted, lad, because we have not been more successful in our traffic? Not a good beginning, but the Pacific is wide, and there will be no lack of customers.”

Standing on for three days we sight several islands. On the nearest is a grove of fine cocoa-nut trees. We require a supply of nuts. Two boats with crews well armed leave the ship. An opening appears in the reef—we pull through it and land easily. Our men climb the tall trees and shake down the nuts in heavy showers. While we are collecting the nuts, the men in the trees shout that they see a fleet of large canoes crossing from another island. We deem that it will be prudent to regain the boats. The Indians, seeing the broken nuts strewing the ground, and the heap we are carrying away, shriek, and shout, and shake their clubs and spears, and then furiously rush towards us. Golding, as before, cries out to the men to fire, but I order them to shove off, that we may escape without killing any, for which I see no necessity. We have stolen the savages’ provisions, and they have right on their side. The men obey me, and we strive to get the boat afloat. No time to lose. The Indians draw their bows, and the arrows fall thick around us; some come on with stones, and others plunge into the water with clubs and spears to do battle for their rights. Our lives are in jeopardy, and one of our men is fearfully wounded. The savages throng around the boat and try to drag her to the shore. We keep back the savages with the stretchers, and I hope to escape without bloodshed. Again Golding shouts out, “Fire, lads! fire! Why keep back the men from firing? We shall all be murdered.” Urged by his example, the men fire a volley among the surrounding savages. With fearful howls those grasping the boat let go; others fall back killed; the mass rush in terror up the beach. We escape into deep water, two or three arrows sticking in the arms of our men and in the sides of the boat. Golding cries out for vengeance; and the men fire till every savage has disappeared.

We return on board. It strikes me that we cannot appear very well favoured in the sight of these poor savages. I say as much that day at dinner to the captain. He is a man of few words.

“You are right, John; the next comers will suffer,” he remarks.

“That matters nought to us,” says Phineas Golding. “We shall not come here again.”

“Scant kindness to the next comers; as scant as that we have showed the natives,” I observe.

“We must all look out for ourselves in these seas,” says the captain. “It will be our own fault if we are at any time caught unawares. Remember that, Master Harvey.”

I make no answer, for the captain does not bear contradiction. The first mate, Golding, and the doctor, keep always well with him. So do I, for this reason: I heard him once say, “That John Harvey needs keeping under.” On that, I resolved, as far as it should lie in my power, to keep myself under—to do my duty, and give him no occasion to find fault. Thus far I have succeeded—but not always with ease; for Simon Fuller has had uncontrolled power as a sea captain for many a long year, often over rogues and vagabonds, whom fear alone will keep in order, so he fancies. I have heard say that the rule of kindness will work wonders. I have never seen it tried as I could desire, but I find that the worst of our ship’s company obey me more readily than they do James Festing, and yet the first mate is an older, and, I truly believe, a better seaman than I am. I speak quietly to the lads, eschew oaths, and never handle a rope’s end in wrath. He swears loudly, and uses both.

I was called forward to see Tom Collis, the poor fellow who was wounded in the boat. The surgeon can do nothing for him, he says, and I see that the man’s countenance is marked by death’s hand. Around us, as I sit by him, we hear laughter, and oaths, and gross talking. Collis is suffering great agony. “Mercy! mercy!” he shrieks out. “To die thus—no time for repentance, with hideous crimes weighing down my soul!” Sometimes he raves, and says things which make my blood run cold; but I talk quietly to him, and he grows calmer. I tell him in few words of that simple plan God in His gracious mercy arranged before the world began, by which sinners even great as he might be saved. He drinks in every word. I tell him how the loving Jesus came on earth to live as a man a life of suffering, that men might understand that He knows how they suffer; that He was tempted, that they might feel assured He pities, and will help them when they are tempted; that He was crucified,—made a sacrifice, that He might take their sins on His shoulders; that His blood was shed that it might wash away the sins of all who trust in it, and look to Him; that He was buried, and rose again, that He might conquer death, and show that all who follow Him must conquer too; and that He ascended up on high, that He might present all who place their faith in Him washed from their sins pure and undefiled before the throne of God.

“But all that could not be done for such a wretch as me,” says Collis. “If God would let me live, I might repent, and lead a different sort of life, and do all sorts of things to please Him; and then perchance He might think me more fit for heaven.”

“Oh, my dear shipmate,” I say, “don’t think of such folly. You could never do anything to make you more fit for heaven than you now are, vile, sinful, guilty wretch as you may be.”

I then read to him how the Israelites, bit by the fiery serpents in the wilderness, were saved from death and cured by looking at the brazen serpent held up by Moses. And then I read about the thief on the cross, and then I say:

“Just look to Jesus in that way. Feel that you are bitten by sin, helpless, and dying, and deserving of death; and He says to you, as He said to the thief on the cross, ‘To-day shalt thou be with Me in paradise.’—‘Thy sins are forgiven thee.’”

“What, sir!” exclaims Collis, “you don’t mean to say that the Son of the great God who made heaven and earth, and all those thousands of stars we see up there, did all that for me, and such as me,—that He says all that to me, and such as me?”

“Shipmate,” I answer, solemnly, “He did do all that for you, and such as you,—and He says all that to you. Take hold of but the hem of His garment, so to speak, by faith, and you are saved. As to satisfaction to Divine justice, it is done. You have nothing to do with that, you have but to feel that you are sinful and guilty. You have to repent, which, may God the Holy Spirit help you to do. You have to look to Jesus as the only cure, as the only Saviour,—to His blood as the only means by which you can be cleansed; and the holy word of God says it, ‘Thy faith hath saved thee,’—‘By faith ye are saved,’—‘His blood cleanseth from all sin.’ He doesn’t say from little sins, or slight sins, but from all sin. He doesn’t say He will receive you by-and-by, perhaps, when you have done something to please Him; but He does invite you, He does receive you. No power of earth or hell can prevent Him from presenting you faultless before the throne of grace. Shipmate, if you only feel your guiltiness, it is you He invites, with all your sins upon you, to come to Him,—it is you He will present faultless and fearless before God’s judgment throne, welcomed as a son of God,—not crying out, as numbers will be doing, for the mountains to cover them, for the rocks to fall on them.”

“This is news indeed,—glorious news!” says the poor fellow, in a cheerful, happy tone, very different from what he had before spoken in. “I wish that I had known it before. But I know it now, and that’s enough. Jesus died for me, and I trust in Jesus.”

I have soon to leave him to attend to my duty on deck. Captain Fuller would not hold it as an excuse that I was attending to a dying man. After some time, my watch on deck being almost out, Tony Hinks comes to me and tells me that Collis is dead; but says he, “It was strange to hear him saying over and over, again and again, ‘Jesus died for me, and I trust in Jesus.’ What does that mean, Mr Harvey?”

I tell him. He goes forward, muttering, “Strange! I never heard the like.”

I see Collis once more before he is sewn up in his hammock. There is a smile on his features, such as I had never before seen there.

Six days more, and we sight the high land of King George the Third Island, called by the natives Otaheite, or Taheite. As we draw near it, the prospect becomes truly pleasing to the sight. Lofty hills, covered with beautiful flowering shrubs, and fringed by pandanus, cocoa-nut, and various other trees which we see in these tropical regions, rise up into the clear blue sky, with green valleys between them, and sparkling waterfalls rushing down their sides. A line of white breakers intervene, however, foaming over a coral reef, with a belt of deep blue water between it and the white glittering beach and the feathery fringe of vegetation which springs up close to the strand, the trees overshadowing it with their branches. Never have I seen a more lovely picture; and Tony Hinks, who has been here before, tells us there is no country, to his mind, more pleasant to dwell in. “A man may live here,” says he, “with nothing to do, abundance to eat, and plenty of people to tend on him.” He gives the first mate and me a hint to keep a sharp look-out on the ship’s company, or some of them may be missing when we sail. No wonder, I think, if the place is such an earthly paradise. He speaks of many other things likely to prove attractive to seamen. I ask if the natives are Christians. “Christians? no,” he answers, with a laugh. “They would be spoilt, to my mind, if they were. They are much better as they are, as you’ll agree, Mr Harvey, when you go on shore.” I am inclined to be at issue with Tony on that point; but still I would fain judge of the savage virtues of which he speaks before I condemn them.

We coast some way round the island, till we reach an opening in the reef, entering through which we moor the ship in a commodious harbour. Soon she is surrounded with native canoes, laden with cocoa-nuts, bananas, bread-fruits, apples, figs, and other pleasant vegetable productions. The natives bring boughs with them, which Tom Tar tells us we are to make fast to the rigging, to show that we are friends. We now drive a brisk trade, giving beads, and trinkets, and looking-glasses, and bits of cloth and coloured calico, for fruit, vegetables, pigs, and fowls; but the captain will allow no one to come on board. He says that they are arrant thieves, and so we find them. By-and-by Phineas, with the doctor, Tony, and I, having Tom Tar to interpret, go on shore, but take ten men well armed at our heels. It is a hard matter to keep the men together: but it is not safe to let them separate. The natives are treacherous and revengeful, at least if they are like those we have already encountered. Our men might easily provoke them, especially by rude conduct to the women. Seldom have I seen more comely females. Their manners are attractive, and they know how to add to their charms, by dressing their glossy hair with flowers and shells, and such like ornaments. The country is as beautiful as it appeared a distance. The houses are mostly open at the sides, and thatched with palmetto leaves; but some are enclosed, and all are neat and clean. A house is offered to us by the chief, in which we may take up our abode while we remain on shore. It is amidst a grove of trees, with matting for the walls and floor. A sparkling torrent, rushing down the side of a hill, flows in front of it, cooling the air, while afar off is seen the deep blue sea. Provisions of all sorts are sent us by the king,—baked pig, and roasted bread-fruit, and plantains, and fish, and other articles of food, all served in large leaves. The bread-fruit is about the size of a horse-chestnut, and when baked is somewhat of the consistency of new bread. It is not fit to be eaten raw. The king and the people seem friendly; but to my mind there is no dependence to be placed on them. It is made clear to us that they are sadly depraved, nor can I describe many of the scenes which take place. Suffice it to say that, like other heathens who know not God, they give themselves up to work all manner of abominations without constraint or shame. We place a guard during the night; but when we awake there is great shouting among our party for missing articles, and it is found that we all have been robbed of articles of dress, knives, pistols, handkerchiefs, and pocket-books. Phineas declares that he will shoot the first savage he finds purloining, chief or not. We complain of our loss to the king, who gets back some of the articles; but Taro surmises that he has got the remainder himself.

After a bountiful breakfast we continue our progress through the island. Our surprise is great to come upon a large edifice of stone among a people supposed only able to erect huts of leaves. It is a pyramid, nearly three hundred feet long and one hundred wide, with a flight of steps on either side leading to the summit, which is fifty feet from the ground. On the top is a bird made of wood, and a fish of stone. This building forms one side of a court, the other three sides being composed of a wall of hewn stone; the enclosed area is covered with a pavement of flat stones. In this court are several altars of stone, on which are placed baskets of bread-fruit, sweet potatoes, cocoa-nuts, and other food, which we conclude were offerings to their Eatuas, or gods, which they ignorantly worship. Not far off we come upon a figure of one of these gods. It is made of wicker-work, in the form of a man; it is seven feet high, and covered over with black and white feathers. We learn that this pyramid is a temple, and that the court is a burying-place, called a Morai; the altars are called Ewattuas. While we are about to proceed on our journey we see a concourse of people collecting from all quarters, and hurrying toward the morai. We inquire of Taro for what object they are assembling.

“To offer a sacrifice to their Eatua, their god,” he answers.

“Of what will the sacrifice consist?” I ask, thinking that it would be of the bread-fruit and other fruits we saw on the altars.

“You will see,” he answered, with one of those gleams of savage pleasure which ever and anon pass over his countenance.

We remark that there are only men and boys among the crowd,—no women nor girls. The crowd increases,—there is expectation on their countenances, as if something of importance is about to happen. Still we can obtain no information from Taro; he only says, “You will see, you will see.”

“A very well-behaved set of people are these,” observes Golding. “In England, among such a crowd, there would be fighting and squabbling. I would as lief be one of these happy islanders as an Englishman, with all our religion and civilisation.”

“I have an idea, begging pardon, Master Golding, that you are not yet very well acquainted with these happy islanders,” observes Tony Hinks. “It strikes me that ere long you will change your opinion. Wait a bit; as Tom Tar says, you will see—you will see.”

Chapter Four.

A narrow escape.

The air is warm and balmy, the blue sea sparkles brightly, the lofty mountains, glowing in the sunshine, rise up majestically into the clear sky, the graceful palm-trees gently wave their boughs; all nature is smiling with life, and health, and beauty, and all the perfections which a bountiful Creator has spread over these regions. “What a paradise,” exclaims the surgeon. “I agree with Golding, I should be well content to remain here to end my days.”

While watching for what is next to occur, we see four chief men, so they seem by their dress and bearing, walking along the beach. Taro says they are priests. There are several men in attendance. They stop, as if waiting for some one. They are armed with clubs and knives. Among the crowd comes a young man taller than his companions, and comely in his appearance. He seems joyous and light of heart, for he sings and laughs, regardless of coming ill. The priests, watching him steadfastly, slowly approach. He stops and looks at them with an inquiring expression on his youthful countenance. “We require one quick of foot to bear a message to the Eatua,” says the chief priest. The youth starts. Before he can reply, a blow from the priest’s club lays him low on the sand. The others fall on him with their clubs, and drive out any life remaining. The priests, surrounding the corpse, place it with the feet towards the sea, and utter some long incantations, each priest holding in his hand a bunch of red feathers. Then they rise and place the body of their victim parallel with the line of the sea beach, and more incantations are uttered. The king, meantime, and his principal chiefs have assembled, and take their stand near the temple. Hair is now plucked from the head of the victim, and one eye is taken out and wrapped in leaves, and presented to the king. With drums beating slowly the body is now borne up by the attendants of the priests, and placed on one of the altars. The tufts of red feathers are at the feet, and rolls of cloth at the head. After this, for a quarter of an hour or more the chief priest addresses it, and pretends to give the message it is to convey to the world of spirits. The surrounding populace look on with stupid amazement, no one knowing whose turn it may be next to be slaughtered as a sacrifice to their blood-loving deity.

While the priests are chanting round the corpse the attendants dig a shallow grave, into which it is thrown with little ceremony, and covered up with stones and earth. Fires are now lighted, and dogs and pigs are slaughtered and roasted, and these being placed on the altars, the Eatua is invited to partake of the feast prepared for him. When we left the spot, I shuddering with a horror I had never before felt, the provisions remained on the altars. Taro tells us that the priests, if angered with a person, avenge themselves by selecting him as a victim, and that for fear of offending them no one ventures to interfere. The priests have thus gained more real power than the chiefs themselves. They generally, however, select some of the poorer people as their victims.

We see arranged near the morai a pile of sixty skulls, and that of the youth just slain is now added to it. They appear but little changed by the air, and Taro says that they are those of victims who have all been offered up within the last few months. He tells us that whenever one of the chiefs is about to commence an undertaking, he selects some unhappy victim, who is forthwith slaughtered and sacrificed. We have undoubted evidence, too, that they often eat their enemies, and they do this without shame or compunction. We see many of the chiefs and warriors going about with human jawbones hanging as ornaments round their necks, and we learn that they are those of enemies slain in war.

Sick at heart I accompany my shipmates. “Friend Golding, what do you now say of these pleasant-mannered, happy islanders?” I ask.

“I knock under,” says he. “England is a better place; but there are thousands there who get on very well without religion, so I say religion has nothing to do with it.”

“Religion has everything to do with it,” I answer, in a somewhat hasty tone. “Religion influences those who have no religion themselves. The heathen world of old, with all its civilisation, was not one jot better than are these cannibals, equally given over to work all manner of uncleanness. If it were not for the true faith of some, influencing general opinion, many Englishmen would even yet be the same as these savages. I may say, as said a pious minister of whom I have read, if it were not for God’s grace, we ourselves should be as are these poor barbarians; we might well see ourselves in them.”

“A truce with your preaching, John Harvey. You would make us all out blacker than we are,” says Phineas, walking on quickly.

“That were a hard matter,” I say. “Be not offended, I include myself, remember. It is only as we see ourselves in Christ Jesus that we are otherwise than most black, guilty, and lost.”

“I understand you not, John,” he answers. “But you shall not force me to acknowledge that I am not better than these half-naked savages.”

“I did not say that; by God’s grace, or in His providence, there are great differences, but all are sinners in the sight of God’s holy law. But we will talk more of this another time.”

This island of Tahiti, or Otaheite, is the largest of a group known as the Society Islands. It is about fifty miles long, consisting of two peninsulas joined by a narrow isthmus. It contains a mountain rising twelve thousand feet above the level of the sea. The other islands of the group are mostly lofty. They are Eimeo, Huaheine, Ulitea, Bolabola, and others. They are volcanic, and mostly fertile in the extreme.

We visit Ulitea, a beautiful island where there is a vast morai. Numbers of priests reside here, and it is looked on as the sacred island of the group. In reality it is more given over to horrible wickedness than any other. While on shore we witness another terrible human sacrifice. Not a week passes but some unhappy people fall victims to the bloodthirsty passions of the priests.

This my first introduction to savage life makes me feel doubly grateful to God that I was born of Christian parents, and in a land where the law of Christ, however imperfectly obeyed, is acknowledged in some sort as the standard.

The wind being fair, we sail north-east towards the Marquesas.

We have been for ten days at the anchorage of Taogou, off the island of Ohevahoa, the most fertile of the Marquesas. We have been engaged most profitably in purchasing sandal-wood, and hogs, and fruits, and vegetables of all sorts, and Phineas Golding is in high spirits, and declares that these are a people truly after his own heart. Their country certainly is beautiful, for though the mountains are not so lofty as those of the islands we have lately left, they equally please the eye, as do the groves, the valleys, and the waterfalls. The men are tall, handsome, and athletic, and the women are scarcely inferior in beauty to those of Tahiti. Alas, that I can say no more in their praise. Both men and women are most depraved, of which we have constant evidence. Hitherto we have been on good terms with these islanders. We have a strict watch kept, and whatever may be their secret disposition, they have had no opportunity of taking us at advantage. Taro warns us to be on our guard. He tells us that they are treacherous, and that if they thought they would gain by murdering every man of our crew they would do so. Taro understands their language, which is much like that of Tahiti and his own country. The men are much tattooed, their only clothing being a piece of native cloth round their loins, but the women wear a petticoat and a mantle over the shoulder. This cloth is made of the fibre of a sort of mulberry tree—not woven, but beaten into a consistency of paper. When torn the rent is mended by beating on a fresh piece. It will bear washing only once. A garment thus lasts about six weeks. The women are better treated than among most Indian tribes. Their occupations are entirely domestic—they manufacture cloth, cook, tend the house, and look after the children, but from all we hear and see, their morals are degraded in the extreme.

Having completed refitting the ship as far as is necessary, I have been able to go on shore. We form a strong body, twelve officers and men in all, with muskets. Our chief object is to visit a valley where the sandal-wood grows, to learn on what supply we can depend. High up the valley we come suddenly on a platform on which grows a large grove of bread-fruit, cocoa-nut, toa, and other trees. Amid them is a large idol of hewn stone of a man in a squatting posture. The figure is not ill sculptured. His mouth is wide, and his eyes and ears large, while his arms and legs are short and out of proportion. There are numerous other idols, of the same size and form, made out of the bread-fruit tree, arranged on either side and behind him, as if they were his ministers and attendants. To the right and left of these hideous idols are two obelisks, about thirty-five feet in height, built very neatly of bamboos, with the leaves of palm and cocoa-nut trees interwoven. At the base are hung the heads of hogs and tortoises, offerings to the idols. They are also ornamented with streamers of white cloth. A few paces to the right of the grove we see four large war-canoes, furnished with their out-riggers, and decorated with ornaments of human hair, coral, shells, and white streamers. In the stern of each sits the figure of a man steering with a paddle, and in full dress, with plumes, ear-rings shaped like whale’s teeth, and all the ornaments fashionable in the country. These canoes are placed here to be blessed, we suppose, by the priests. These priests have great power, for they are looked upon as little inferior to the idols. We see this same stone idol represented in a variety of ways, made of human bones, hung round their necks, or carved on their clubs, or making handles to their fans and walking-sticks.

We find that there is no lack of sandal-wood, which raises Golding’s spirits. Mine sink when I see the idolatry of these poor people, with no hope that they may be taught better. On descending the valley we pass a morai, or worshipping place, I may call it. On the ground is seated the chief, with his sons, and a large number of his attendants, or courtiers. In front of them are a number of little houses, or sheds, made of bamboo, each about two feet long and rather less in height, and ornamented with shreds of cloth. There are a dozen or more, forming a cluster like a village. The chief and the rest are singing and clapping their hands, and thus they go on for an hour or more. This they call praying to their gods,—a fit homage to gods of wood and stone. Sometimes they stop, and laugh and talk together, as if they have forgotten what they are about. We have seen no human sacrifices, but we have reason to believe that they take place, and from what we hear the people are undoubtedly cannibals. There are several tribes on the islands, in some instances two or more an the same island, who carry on devastating wars with each other, and who all slaughter and eat the captives taken in battle. Though they seem much attached to their country, they firmly hold to the belief that there is a far better land to the east, and numbers are seized with a strong desire to visit it. Year after year the largest canoes are fitted out and provisioned, and men, women, and children crowding on board, they set sail, and away they glide, never to return. Strange to say, that although those who have gone have not again been heard of, others are found equally ready to go in the same direction, believing that their predecessors have reached the happy land. The priests encourage this infatuation, as those who embark leave their property to them. This is faith, but alas! sadly misdirected. It shows a yearning for something better,—to escape from cruel wars and practices and misgovernment, to attain peace and quiet and rest. It is certain that almost all who thus embark perish horribly at sea. A few may be thrown on coral islands,—probably to die,—certainly never to return.

I must speak of the sandal-wood in which we are trading. It is a small tree, with numerous irregular branches, and which with the trunk are covered with a thick red-brown bark. The leaves, which turn inwards, are of a very dark green colour. The flowers, growing in clusters, are white, with a red exterior. The wood is of a light yellow colour, and is very fragrant. It is sold to the Chinese, who burn it as incense in their temples, and manufacture from it a variety of articles. Candles are also made from it thus: a thin sheet of the wood forms a wick, which is surrounded by a mixture of its sawdust and rice-paste.

Our traffic has continued without interruption. Tony Hinks, in command of a boat with Golding, is embarking the sandal-wood, of which a pile lies on the beach. I am watching from the deck through my glass what is taking place. The vendor of the wood is a young chief: he has been examining the articles given him in barter. Suddenly he seems discontented with them, and refuses to put more wood into the boat Golding, who is on shore, threatens him. He lifts his club, and I believe that the last moment of the supercargo has arrived. Tony Hinks is in the boat; he lifts his musket, and before the club can descend on Golding’s head a bullet is sent through the chiefs shoulder, and the weapon drops powerless. Howling with rage, he retreats; but it is to summon his countrymen, who with threatening gestures rush on. Golding leaps into the boat amid showers of stones cast from the natives’ slings, followed by spears and darts. While some of the men shove off others fire, and load again and fire. The boat is heavily laden, and can with difficulty be moved. I fear that my shipmates will be cut off, and share the fate of Captain Cook, and many others since his day. I order another boat to be lowered, and cry out for volunteers. No lack of them. I send down to the captain—there is not a moment to be lost. I, with eight hands, leap into the boat. Away we pull. The captain comes on deck and calls us back. He points to a fleet of war-canoes coming round the point: he fears that we also shall be cut off, and that the ship, with the loss of half her crew, may fall a prey to the savages. Still I cannot without an effort see my shipmates destroyed. We dash on,—the foam flies from our bows. Hinks has got his boat afloat, but several of his men are wounded; yet they struggle bravely. We open fire, and keep the savages at bay. The war-canoes, however, approach,—Hinks’ boat gets up to us. It is doubtful whether we or our enemies will gain the ship first. We pull for our lives. Simon Fuller will fight his ship to the last. Our shipmates are casting loose the guns ready for action. The savages in the war-canoes stand up ready to shower down their darts and stones at us.

“Give them a volley,—give them a volley,” shouts Golding.

“It were lost time,” I tell my men. “It were better get on board.”

We keep ahead of the enemy, and gain the ship’s side. The falls are ready,—we hook on,—the boats are hoisted up, and we hasten to man the guns. There is a favourable breeze out of the harbour, the anchor is being hove up, the sails are loosed. The canoes gather round us; the savages begin to assail us with all their weapons, shouting and shrieking terribly. The ship gathers way; the savages, grown bold, are climbing up the sides.

“Depress your guns, lads,” says the captain. “Small-arm men, give it them.”

The shot goes crashing in among the canoes, knocking many to pieces. Not a native clinging to the sides escapes the small-arm men. Again and again we fire, leaving the natives terrified and amazed at the power of our arms. Our guns loaded with langrage commit great havoc among them. They lose courage,—the ship is clear of them.

“And so we bid you farewell,” says Phineas Golding, firing his musket at a chief with whom he had the day before been lodging. We sail out of the bay, firing shot on either side.

“We have a good supply of sandal-wood, however,” observes Phineas Golding. “But we had a narrow escape from the savages.”

Not a word does he say of his merciful preservation from death; and far be it from me to hint that by my promptness I had a second time saved him, and all with him, from destruction. Tony Hinks, however, when we are clear away at sea, comes up to me and says—

“We owe our lives to you, Mr Harvey. If you hadn’t come when you did, it’s my belief that not one of us would have escaped.”

Chapter Five.

Among the cannibals.

Afar off appears above the blue line of the horizon a silvery dome clearly defined against the sky. It might be taken for a cloud, but that it never moves its position. It is the summit of the lofty mountain of Mona Roa in Owhyee, the largest of the Sandwich islands, now fully fifty miles away. There are ten of these islands, though eight only are inhabited, the other two being barren rocks on which fishermen dry their nets. As we draw near, other mountain tops are seen, those of Mona Kea and Mona Huararia. Mona Roa is a volcano, and the whole country round is volcanic. It is said to rise above twelve thousand feet above the level of the sea. It is night before we cast anchor in a sheltered bay. Next morning we are surrounded by canoes, and many people come swimming off to the ship, for they are as expert as other islanders of the Pacific in the water. We are plentifully supplied with taro, yams, cocoa-nuts, bananas, and water melons, also with hogs, which are of a large size. Friend Golding, however, finds that he cannot trade with them on the same easy terms as with other savages we have met, for many ships have visited them, and they now require firearms, and powder and shot. These people are much in appearance like those we have before seen—they are tall and athletic, and many of the chief people, both men and women, are of great bulk.

I cannot but remember that it was at this island the renowned navigator, Captain Cook, was slain; and the people have long in consequence been looked upon as very savage and treacherous. This we do not find them to be, but they are heathens given up to gross superstition, and are ignorant and immoral. They carry on bloody wars with each other, offer up human sacrifices, and are, it is reported, cannibals. But if so be they are all this, and more, surely it behoves us as Christians to teach them better things. What, however, do we do? We sell them firearms and ammunition to carry on their wars, we partake in their immorality; so far from showing them any of the graces of our religion, we make them by our lives believe that we have no religion at all, while by all those who visit these shores not a voice is raised to tell them of the truth. We find them more mild and gentle than the people of Tahiti, and very different from the fierce savages of the Marquesas. Not far off is Karakaka Bay, where Captain Cook fell.

We communicate with two other ships while lying here, and the officers all speak in favourable terms of the people. Captain Fuller, therefore, allows us to visit the shore more than he would otherwise have considered safe. We find these people very different from the wild inhabitants of the coral islands we have visited. They have attained considerable proficiency in many arts—their cloth is fine, and beautifully ornamented, as are their mats, but they excel in feather work. The helmets, and mantles, and capes of their chiefs are very beautiful. The helmets are in the form of those of ancient Greece, and are covered with bright red feathers, worked in to look like velvet, with tall plumes, and as their cloaks are of the same texture and colour, and the wearers are tall, powerful men, they have, when armed with dubs or spears, a very imposing and warlike appearance. The king alone is allowed to wear a dress of yellow feathers. The common people, however, wear but scant clothing, none being required in this favoured climate. Their great war-god is Tairi. To propitiate him human sacrifices are offered up, and his idol is carried at the head of their armies. Lesser chiefs have also their idols carried before them. One of their temples, a morai, merits description. It is formed by walls of great thickness, like that at Tahiti. It is an irregular parallelogram, two hundred and twenty-four feet long, and a hundred wide. The walls on three sides are twenty feet high and twelve feet thick, but narrowing towards the top. The wall nearest the sea is only eight feet high. The only entrance is by a narrow passage between two high walls leading up to an inner court, where stands the grim god of war, with numerous other idols on either side of him. In front rises a lofty obelisk of wicker-work, and inside this the priest who acts the part of the oracle takes his stand. Just outside this inner court is the altar on which the human sacrifices are made. Near it stands the house occupied by the king when he resides in the temple, and numerous other idols fill the rest of the space. All have hideous countenances, large gaping mouths, and staring eyes. Tairi is crowned with a helmet, and covered with red feathers. Great labour must have been expended in rearing this vast structure, and in carving all these hideous images, and sad indeed is it to consider the object for which all these pains have been taken.

The king, with whom we have been on good terms, sends to Captain Fuller to beg that he will lend him some of his ship’s guns and muskets, and a few of his crew, as he is about to make war on a neighbouring island. I am on shore with Golding and Taro, and while a message is being returned, he invites us to witness the usual ceremonies which take place before war. As we accompany him to the morai, we see dragged on by the crowd no less than eleven men, whose looks of terror, show that something they dread is about to happen. Arrived before the temple, there is a cry from the multitude, who instantly set on them with their clubs. Taro tells us not to grieve; that some are prisoners taken in war, others guilty persons who have broken a taboo, and others the lowest of the people. While we stand shuddering, a concourse of people arrive bearing fruits of all sorts, and hogs, and dogs. The human victims are stripped of all their garments, and placed in rows on the altars; the priests now offer up some prayers to the hideous idol, and then the hogs and dogs are piled up over the human bodies, and the whole, we are told, are left to rot together. Sometimes, on occasions of great importance, twenty-two persons have been offered up.

The oracle is favourable, we hear, and the king sends round to all his subjects to collect at his camp with their arms—spears, clubs, javelins, and slings—ready for battle. No one dares refuse. Vast numbers assemble, but a few only of his immediate attendants have firearms. Nothing can be more fittingly hideous than their idol god of war, with his grinning mouth armed with triple rows of sharks’ teeth. A hundred war-canoes are prepared. The army embarks, and, like a flight of locusts, they descend on the opposite coast. We see flames ascending from spots where lately stood smiling villages. A few days pass, and the army returns victorious with numerous captives. Some are forthwith offered up to the war-god, others are kept to be sacrificed on a future occasion. A great chief dies of his wounds, and several victims are offered at his tomb, while, as a sign of grief, his relations and followers knock out their front teeth, and fix them in a tree in his morai. His people also appear to have gone mad, committing every species of abomination, and we hear that many people lose their lives on the occasion.

The Sandwich Islanders have many more idols than those of which I have spoken. There is Mooaru, or the shark god, whose temple stands on almost every point or headland. To him the fishermen offer, on landing, the first fish they have caught that day—for they imagine that he it is who drives the fish to their shores. But the greatest of all their gods, or, at all events, the most feared, is Pelé, the goddess of the volcano. She resides on the summit of Mona Roa, and descends in fire and flames to punish her enemies below. She has many priestesses, who appear in the villages with singed garments and marks of fire on their persons, to demand tribute from the inhabitants to avert her vengeance. I do not hear of one of their idols who has a mild or beneficent disposition. All the sacrifices offered are simply to avert their vengeance. The people have no love nor veneration for their idols, and they believe that their idols’ chief pleasure is in tormenting and punishing them.

One of the most remarkable objects I have met with in the Sandwich Islands is what may properly be called a city of refuge. It is a sort of morai, surrounded by strong walls, with an entrance on each side. In the interior are temples and numerous houses, in which the priests and occasional occupants reside. Here, whatever crime a fugitive may have committed, if he can reach it he is safe. A victorious enemy in pursuit of foes will come up to the gates, but if the vanquished have entered they are safe. During an invasion of the territory, therefore, all the women and children are sent in here, where they may remain in security. There are several such places of refuge in the islands.

The taboo system is also very curious. The priests govern chiefly in this matter. They settle what or who is to be tabooed, and how long it is to last. To taboo is not only to set aside for a particular object, but to make sacred. The king, a hog, or a house, may be tabooed. During that time people may not do certain acts, and animals or things may not be touched or used. So important are these taboos held, that any person breaking through one of them is punished severely, often with death.

Is it not possible that some of the customs I have mentioned, though barbarous and debased, may have been derived from ancient tradition? Whence has sprung that strange expectation of the return of their long-lost god, Rona, to bring a blessing on their nation? What means that longing for a better land far away in the east, entertained by the Marquesas islanders? The king of this island seems to have great power. He is the owner of all the land, and is the lord and master of all his subjects. He rules wisely, and has the affection of his people.

I might say a great deal more about these Sandwich islanders—their history, habits, and customs, and of the events which have taken place since we have been here, but should I write all I might, my journal would be soon filled. To describe them briefly thus:—Their islands are grand and picturesque; they are very intelligent, and are physically powerful, but they seem abandoned to a debased idolatry, to cruel customs, and to a gross licentiousness. Constant and barbarous warfare, infanticide, and the diseases introduced by their foreign visitors have so rapidly decreased their numbers that the population consists of one-third less now than it did at the time of Cook. Captain Fuller, and the other masters and mates of the ships here laugh at the idea of their ever becoming Christians or civilised, and, in truth, unless they have faith in God’s grace, it would seem a hard matter; but I know that He can order all things according to His will, and that, in spite of all man’s theories and doubts, He will find means to accomplish His work.

Phineas Golding has just come on board in high glee. He says that he has just heard from Taro, who gets the information I know not how, that there are to the southward of this several coral islands, where abundance of mother-of-pearl and also pearls of great size are to be procured; and thus, instead of sailing west, as we had proposed, he has arranged with Captain Fuller to sail once more south towards the Hervey group, and to touch at the Friendly, Fiji, and many other islands, ere we once more steer north-west towards our destination. To complete our stores, we take in a good supply of salt, to be obtained here in abundance; and then bidding farewell to our friends the Sandwich islanders, we make sail, and steer south.

We find a young lad, the son of a chief, who had managed to secrete himself on board. We ask him why he has done so. He answers that he wishes to see the great country from which we come, and promises to do everything we require if we will let him remain. Captain Fuller consents; but I fear sometimes that he will have a hard life of it. I resolve, however, to protect him as far as I can. He gets the name of Charlie, but no other.

We have sighted several low coral islands, but at length we reach the neighbourhood of a group known as the Penrhyn Islands, about six hundred miles due north of the Hervey group, which we also purpose to visit. We sight a coral island, which we estimate as fifty feet high, nine or ten miles long and five broad, with a deep lagoon in the centre. It is as if a huge coral ring had been thrown down in the ocean. At one end there is an opening, through which a boat can enter the lagoon. The island is covered with groves of cocoa-nut, pandanus, and other trees; and, from the number of huts we see, and the people moving about, it seems to be thickly populated. While the ship is hove-to, I take charge of a boat to carry the supercargo, and Taro, and Charlie; with six men, on shore. We pull round, but find that there is so heavy a surf running that we cannot land on the outside. To save time, Taro and Charlie swim on shore to communicate with the natives. I anxiously wait off to receive their report. After some time we see them running, pursued by many natives. They leap into the water, and dash through the surf. Some of the natives attempt to follow, but our shipmates distance them, and are taken safe on board.

They say the natives, though looking very wild and fierce, were kind in their manners, and invited them up to their houses, and brought them food; but that they soon pressed round them, and began to strip off their clothes, and to take possession of everything they had. Seeing them preparing some hot stones with which to heat an oven, they believed that they were to be cooked and eaten, and so starting up, they rushed headlong for the shore, so completely taking their entertainers by surprise, that no one at first attempted to stop them. They report, however, that they saw pearl-shell ornaments, and even pearls, worn by the savages; which so excites Golding’s imagination, that he insists on our attempting further communication with the people. Finding at length the opening into the lagoon, we approach the mouth, the surf breaking over the rocks on either side with great violence. There is a narrow lane of clear water; we pull in; a strong current carries the boat along with fearful speed, and several seas break into her. It seems as if we were in a whirlpool. The rudder has lost its power, and we are spun round and round helplessly; about every moment it seems to be hove on the rocks. She violently rises and falls, and then we are cast, as it were, into the smooth water of the lagoon, though still carried upward for some distance. It strikes me at the moment that we are like mice caught in a trap, and that it must depend on the pacific disposition of the natives whether or not we escape.

At length we steer for the shore, where we see several Indians collected. They retire as we draw near. We again send Taro and Charlie on shore with looking-glasses and trinkets; they go not very willingly. The savages stop, and cast at us glances of suspicion. Then they make a rush forward, seize all the articles they can lay hands on, and again run off. Our two interpreters now come down shaking their heads, and saying that there is no hope of trading with these savages. Still Phineas will not give up the attempt; he has seen the pearls, and is longing for them.

“Why, such a necklace as that would be worth a hundred pounds, or more,” he exclaims. “We must have the fellow dead or alive.”

He stands up in the boat with his piece, ready to fire. I sternly draw him back, crying out, indignantly:

“I will not allow murder to be committed; for murder it would be, if the men were ten times more savage than they are. They have souls immortal as ours, which we have no right to drive out of their bodies before their time.”

“Souls or not, mate, you have made me lose my pearl necklace,” says the supercargo, angrily.

“It were better to lose a dozen pearl necklaces, or all the pearls the bottom of the sea can produce, than commit a great crime,” I answer, more hotly than usual; and then, knowing that another sort of argument would have more weight with such a man, I added, “Remember, too, we are yet inside the trap. If we kill one of these people, their countrymen may assemble at the entrance, and slaughter every one of us.”

This silenced Golding. We pull some way up the lagoon. The water swarms with fish, and the shore seems more fertile than any of the coral islands we have visited. In all directions we see signs of inhabitants, and in some places small canoes hauled up, but none approach us. We now pull back towards the passage by which we entered; but the tide still runs in like a mill-stream. Suddenly we run aground. The men jump out and lift the boat off. We are in a wrong channel. We at length get into what we believe to be the right passage. The men track the boat along, but we make little way. Night comes on rapidly. There will be a moon, but it has not yet risen, and without its light we cannot escape. We secure the boat to the rock, and wait anxiously for that time. Few of us can sleep, for we know not any moment whether the savages may be upon us. Both Taro and Charlie declare, from what they saw on shore, that the people are cannibals. There was also the remains of a wreck burnt on the beach, and they declare their belief that some ship has been cast away there, and the unfortunate crew destroyed. We wait anxiously. Golding says very little; he is evidently ill at ease. I write it, not to boast, but my own mind is far more at ease; for I can say, “In God put I my trust: I will not fear what man can do unto me.” Thus, through God’s grace, I have always been allowed to feel when in positions of great peril. My shipmates I have heard speak of me as the bravest man among them. So I verily believe I am; but then I am brave not in my own strength, but in the strength of Him who is strong to save. There would be many more brave men in the world, if all knew on whom they may leap confidently for support. There is a kind of bravery that is natural to some, and is a constitutional fearlessness; but a far higher and surer courage belongs to those who have committed their souls to their God and Saviour, and who feel that whatever may befall them, when in the way of duty, must be for the best.

These thoughts pass through my mind as I keep watch while the men are sleeping around me. Still the night continues dark; but as I peep through the obscurity, I fancy that I see against the sky some objects flitting here and there over the rocks. I step cautiously back into the boat, rouse up the men, who seize their arms, and with the oars ready to shove off, if necessary, we wait prepared. The figures approach silently in great numbers, but cautiously stealing along, as if not aware that we are awake. We make no sound. On they come over the rocks, with more ease than we could advance in daylight. In less than a minute they will be upon us. I wish to save bloodshed. There is a faint light in the sky: it is the looked-for moon about to rise. Suddenly the silence is broken by loud unearthly yells, and hundreds of naked forms spring up as it were from the ground upon us.

Chapter Six.

Saved by a storm.

Never have I heard yells more terrific than those with which the Penrhyn Islanders set on us. We are assailed also with showers of darts and stones, which wound many of our people sorely. Golding, brave as he is on most occasions, utters a cry of terror, and nearly leaps overboard on the opposite side of the boat I give unwillingly the word to fire. Many of the foremost savages fall—the rest hang back. We shove off. The oars are quickly got out. The moon rises. I distinguish the channel. It is almost slack water. We pull for our lives. Golding and Taro stand up and fire. The savages either do not see their comrades fall or do not dread the bullets, for they rush along the rocks still within a few yards of us hurling their stones and darts. I feel assured that if we strike a rock our lives will pay the penalty. The rising moon gives me more light to steer, and allows Golding and Taro to take better aim. It shows us, however, more clearly to the savages. There is still the narrowest channel to pass. The savages are making for the point when, Golding and Taro firing together, two of their chief men fall. It is as I thought, they had not before noticed who had been struck. Now they stop, and with loud howls lift up the bodies of their chiefs. Our men bend to their oars—we dart through the narrow opening, and though many of the savages spring after us, they fail to reach the point in time. Golding and Taro continue firing without necessity. The poor wretches have received punishment enough, and why thus slaughter them when our own safety does not sternly require us to kill? The lights on board our ship greet our sight, and we pull gladly towards her—Golding still uttering his regrets at the loss of his pearl necklace. We reach the ship, and stand off for the night, Golding insisting that he will try his luck to-morrow. The morrow comes, but when we pull in the aspect of the people on shore is so hostile that even Golding acknowledges that we are not likely to get pearls from them this visit. Captain Fuller, therefore, resolves to steer south for the Hervey Islands, according to orders, although, from the accounts I find in Captain Cook’s voyages, I doubt much whether our supercargo will be satisfied with the traffic we may chance to open up with the natives.

The first island we made is that of Atiu, the same which Captain Cook calls Wateeoo. It is about seven hundred miles west of Tahiti. We passed not far from the low island known as Hervey Island, which gives its name to the whole group.

We now sail round this island of Atiu, in hopes of finding a landing-place, but none appears—a coral reef surrounds the whole. Still our bold supercargo is anxious to land, and so while the ship stands off and on, I take him, with Taro as interpreter, towards the shore, in the long boat, in which we have a gun mounted. We pull in as close as we may venture outside the surf. Numerous natives are on the shore. Taro beckons, and three small canoes are launched. They paddle swiftly through the surf, and come alongside. Those on the shore stand waving green branches as a sign of amity, so Golding determines to land with Taro. Away they go, and as I may not quit the boat, I watch them anxiously. They land in safety, and vast numbers of the natives instantly close round them. I see them borne up by the throng away from the beach, and then lose sight of them. Two hours pass away, and they do not appear. I begin to dread that they have been cut off. I wait another hour. Just as I am about to return to the ship, the canoes are launched. As they approach, to my disappointment I do not see our shipmates. “The Indians are just thinking that they will knock us on the head,” I hear one of my men say. “It will be our fault if we let them,” I answer, not feeling, however, altogether satisfied that the man was wrong, yet unwilling to show any fear; “we’ll let them know what we can do if they play us tricks. Hand me the slow match.” There was a clump of palm-trees close down to the beach. I step forward to the gun, and have the boat’s head put towards the shore. On come the Indian canoes paddling rapidly through the surf—the men shouting and shrieking, and whirling their paddles round their heads. I am unwilling to injure the poor wretches. I aim instead at the trees. The white splinters start off on either side from a palm-tree struck by the shot. The effect is like magic, the Indians’ threatening shrieks are changed to cries of terror, and in hot haste they dash back through the surf towards the shore. Still we are left in doubt as to the fate of our friends. It is clear that we cannot land to go to their assistance. But I resolve not to give them up. We rest on our oars watching the beach. At length we see a concourse of people coming over a ridge of sand which shuts out the view of the interior from us. Golding and Taro appear in the midst of them. The savages seem to be paying them great respect, and Golding bows with infinite condescension now on one side, now on the other. Canoes are launched, they step into them, and the obedient natives come paddling off to us through the surf. Golding steps on board and signs to the Indians to return. “Now, Harvey, get on board as fast as we can,” says he. “It has been a question in my mind all day whether we were to be treated as gods, or to be cooked and eaten; and even now I don’t feel quite comfortable on the subject. Your shot turned the scale in our favour, for notwithstanding all Taro’s boastings, they had no great opinion of us when they found that we could not bring our big boat through the surf.” Taro at length bethought himself of boasting that we could make thunder and lightning, and set off a few cartridges he had in his pocket to convince them. The effect was considerable, but not as great as was hoped for. There was the lightning, but the thunder was wanting. On the hill-side were some ovens with fire in them heating. Taro looked at them suspiciously, not quite satisfied that he might not before long be put inside one of them. Turning about, he saw some warriors walking round and round with huge clubs in their hands. He had no longer any doubt of their intentions. Golding saw them also, and became not slightly uncomfortable. Just then our gun was fired. Many of the natives fell flat on the ground, others rushed hither and thither, while some of the braver examined the trees which had been struck, and reported the effects of the white man’s thunder and lightning. Instead of knocking our friends on the head and eating them as they had purposed, the savages came crouching down before them in the most abject manner, as if they were beings altogether of a different nature. Still, as Golding says, the look of those ovens made him glad to get down to the beach, lest the Indians should again change their minds about him.

Two days after this we sight another island. Again Golding goes on shore with Taro, and the captain, and Tony Hinks.

I cannot be surprised if some day Golding is cut off by the savages. He is bold and daring, and far from cautious. Aitutaki is the name of the island. Natives come off to us in great numbers singing and shouting. They are tattooed from head to foot. Never have I seen wilder savages. Some of their faces are smeared with ochre, others with charcoal, and are frightful to behold. We keep on our guard, for we know not any moment that they may venture to attack us. As Taro is on shore we cannot understand what they say. Festing and I allow only a few at a time to come on board. They attempt to climb up the sides, but we keep them off by striking at their hands with boarding pikes, and pointing to the gangway, showing that they may only enter there, a few at a time. Still they persist, when Festing taking up a musket ready at hand, fires it over their heads. They look around for a moment, as if not certain whether they are standing on their heads or their feet, and then leap headlong, some into their canoes and some into the water. They paddle to a distance, but then stopping, look back and threaten us. Festing insists that the only way to make these countries of any use is to sweep the people off into the sea. As to civilising them, that, he says, is impossible. I differ from him. We wait anxiously as before for the return of the captain and our other shipmates. Hour after hour passes by. However great the danger in which they may be placed, we cannot go to their assistance. We begin to fear that they have fallen victims to the savages.

“You and I, Harvey, will have to take the ship home, I suspect,” observes Festing; “I am sorry for the old man especially, as we can do nothing to revenge his death.”

“That were small consolation,” I observe; “nor is that as God wills it.”

Festing looks astonished. He would be very angry if he were accused of not being a Christian, and yet, it seems to me, that he encourages feelings and ideas very much opposed to the rules Christ our Master laid down for the government of His disciples.

Evening approaches. With thankfulness I see the boat putting off from the beach. We stand in as close as the reef will let us to meet her. She makes for a narrow channel between the breakers. It is a question whether she will get through. The spray, as it curls upwards, completely conceals her. Or—I look through my glass—has she been capsized by the breakers? No, she is seen again. Her crew give way. She is soon alongside. All have come back safe, though they have been in great peril of their lives.

Captain Fuller has a curious story to tell of the inhabitants of this lovely spot. They are the wildest savages he has ever seen. More like wild beasts than men, yet not so cruel as some of the islanders we have met. As an example. It appears from what Taro has learned on shore, that a vessel calling off here but a few days back, landed a number of natives from another island, who, instead of being killed and eaten, have been kindly treated. The name of the island is Raratonga, but whereabouts it lies Taro could not learn, for the vessel appeared off the coast at early dawn on the east side, and no one saw whence she came. They are young women, and have a pitiable tale to tell of the cruel way in which they were kidnapped by these monsters in human shape. Probably to prevent disputes among his crew, the captain landed these poor creatures, certainly from no motives of humanity if the account Taro gives of them is true.

The vessel only left the island three days ago, so that we may chance to fall in with her. Both Captain Fuller and the supercargo declare that they will give the master a bit of their mind. “Suppose,” say they, “we had chanced to call off that island directly after those fellows had perpetrated this rascality, not suspecting harm, what would have been our fate? Without doubt we should have been clubbed.”

“So we might, indeed!” I observe, but I think to myself, what may other voyagers say who follow in our footsteps. Have we not shot down the poor savages, who have been defending their own shores? Well may the islanders be ready to destroy any white men they can get into their power.

Captain Fuller says that he never was in greater danger of losing his life than on this morning. If one of the party had wavered, the savages would have been encouraged to rush in on them and club them. He and Golding talk of looking for Raratonga in the hopes of trading with the natives, but we can by no means learn in what direction it is to be found. There is another group we hear of to the south of the Society Islands called the Austral Islands, but it would take up too much time to visit them, and so we shape a course for the Tonga or Friendly Islands. Rumours have reached us that the people do not quite deserve the character given of them by Captain Cook.

Steeling west, we again sight land. We stand in, and heave-to off the coast. It is Savage Island, justly so-called by Captain Cook. Several canoes, with uncouth, fierce-looking savages, come off to us, with painted faces and long hair, even more brutal than those of Aitutaki. Taro ascertains from them that another vessel with two masts has just called there, but gone away,—undoubtedly the brig which carried off the poor people from Raratonga, the unknown island. We may therefore overtake her. A calm comes on,—the savages surround the vessel, and contemplate an attack on us, it seems. The guns are loaded with langrage, and Captain Fuller issues orders to prepare for our defence. Their numbers increase. Taro warns us that they are about to commence an assault on the vessel. He signs to them that they had better not make the attempt; but by their gestures they show their contempt and boldness. Again with loud shouts they come on, shooting their arrows, and hurling darts, and spears, and stones.

“Depress the guns, and fire,” cries Captain Fuller.

The order is obeyed. In an instant the sea is covered with the forms of human beings, some swimming from their canoes cut in two, others having jumped overboard through terror. The sea is red with the blood of those wounded. The captain orders that the guns be again loaded. Shrieks, and groans, and cries rise from the water. It is fear, I feel sure, prevents the poor wretches moving. I wish that I might beg the captain not again to fire; but he would not listen. He is about to lift his hand when I see the topsails fill, and the vessel glides out from among the crowd of canoes.

“Hold,” cries the captain; “they have had enough of it.”

Away we sail, following the setting sun. “A pretty day’s work,” I think to myself, as I get into my berth. “Yet how is it to be avoided?”

I drop asleep. I know that I am asleep, and yet I fancy that I am looking over the side of a vessel,—not the Mary Rose, though,—and I see the ocean covered with the forms of men, their skins brown, and white, and black, swimming towards all points of the compass. They swim strongly and boldly; each on his head wears a crown of gold, and in his right hand carries a book,—an open book. I look again,—it is the Bible. They read the book as they swim, and it gives them strength to persevere; for sharks rise up to threaten them, and other monsters of the deep. And now land appears, the very island we have left, and two or more swim towards it, and the savage inhabitants come out in their canoes to attack them, and I tremble for their fate; but the swimmers hold up their Bibles, and the savages let them pass, and follow slowly. Soon the swimmers land, and numbers collect round them and listen attentively while they read. Weapons are cast away,—the countenances of the islanders are no longer savage. They kneel,—they clasp their hands—they lift up their eyes towards heaven,—their lips move in prayer. They soon appear well clothed, parents with their children dwelling in neat cottages, and lo! a large edifice rises before my eyes: it is a house of God. A bell sounds, and from every side come men, women, and children all neatly clad; and then the words of a hymn strike my ear. The music is sweet, but the words are strange. It grows louder and louder, till I hear the cry of “All hands shorten sail!”

I spring on deck. The ship has been struck by a squall; she is almost on her beam-ends. It is blowing heavily, the thunder rolls along the sky, the lightning flashes vividly. Not without difficulty the canvas is got off her. Once more she rights, and now away she flies before the gale. The sea rises covered with foam. Still she flies on. We prepare to heave her to; for thus running on, with coral islands abounding, may prove our destruction. It is a moment of anxiety, for it is questioned whether the canvas will stand. It requires all hands, and even then our strength is scarce sufficient for the work. We, under circumstances like these, see the true character of men. Golding, hitherto so daring and boastful, trembles like an aspen leaf. He believes that the ship is going down, and dares not look death in the face. I may write what I feel: “Whoso putteth his trust in the Lord shall be safe,” as says Solomon, and as his father David had often said in other words before him. It is this knowledge makes the truly bold and brave seaman at all times.

This night is one truly to make a stout heart sink not thus supported. At the main-mast-head appears a ball of fire. Now it descends,—now it runs along the main-yard-arm,—now it appears at the mizen-mast-head,—now there is a ball at each mast-head. The men declare that it is a spirit of evil come to guide us to destruction. Often while the foaming seas are roaring and hissing round us, and the wind is shrieking and whistling through the shrouds, and all is so dark that a hand held up at arm’s length can scarcely be seen, flashes of lightning burst forth making it light as day, and revealing the pale and affrighted countenances of those standing around.

Day dawns at length. As I looked to leeward, not half a mile away, I see a vessel. She is dismasted, labouring heavily. We are drifting slowly down towards her. Now she rises, now she falls in the trough of the sea, and is hid from view. She is a brig, as we discover by the stumps of her two masts, and we do not doubt the very vessel of which we have lately heard. A signal of distress is flying from a staff lashed to the main-mast; but, with the sea now running, what help can we render her hapless crew?

We watch her anxiously; even Phineas Golding, his thoughts generally running on dollars, seems to commiserate the fate of those on board, especially when Tony Hinks remarks in his hearing that such may be ours ere long. The men are at the pumps, and we can see them working for their lives; but, by the way she labours, there seems but little chance that they will keep her afloat. We are gradually dropping down towards her; we can distinguish through our glasses the countenances of the crew, their hair streaming in the gale. What looks of horror, of hopeless despair are there! They know that we cannot help them, though so near. The vessel is sinking lower and lower; the crew desert the pumps, and hold out their hands imploringly towards us as we drive down towards them. Their boats have been all washed away: it were madness in us to attempt to lower one. Some with hatchets are cutting away at the bulwarks and companion hatch to form rafts, others run shrieking below to the spirit-room, or rush bewildered here and there; not one do I see on bended knees imploring aid from heaven. The vessel now labours more heavily than ever; a huge sea rolls towards her,—she gives a fearful plunge. Many of our people, rough and hardened as they are, utter cries of horror. I pass my hands across my eyes, and look, and look again. She is gone!—not a trace of her remains but a few struggling forms amid the white foam. One by one they disappear, till one alone remains clinging to a plank. We see him tossed to and fro, looking wildly towards us for help. Not another human being of those who stood on the deck of the foundered vessel remains alive. Will this one be saved? I feel a deep pity for him. As I watch him, I lift up my heart in prayer to God that he may be saved.

The gale has been decreasing, and the ship lies-to more easily. We hope in a short time to make sail. The seaman still floats in sight. At length I believe a boat would live. I ask Captain Fuller leave to go in search of the man, and sing out for volunteers. No lack of them. We must have drifted some way to leeward of the man; but still, as I took the bearings when I last saw him, I believe that I can find him. Away we pull; the seas are heavy, but long, and do not break much. I look out in vain for the seaman.

“He must have gone down before this,” I hear one of the crew remark.

“But the plank would be floating still,” I observe. “That man has a soul, whoever he may be. If we save his body, by God’s grace his soul may be saved.”

This thought encourages me to persevere. Often the boat is half full of water, but we bail her out, and pull on. Already we are at some distance from the ship, when I see a dark, speck rise on the crest of a sea and then disappear. My hopes rise that it is the person of whom we are in search. We hear a faint cry. He is still alive. The crew cheer, and pull lustily towards him. The stranger gazes at us eagerly: he if a youth, with long light hair hanging back in the water. His strength is evidently failing. I urge on my men. Even now I fear that he will let go his hold ere we can reach him. Again he cries out imploringly. A sea striking the boat half fills her with water, and I lose sight of the lad.

“He is gone, he is gone!” some of the men cry out. But no; I see his hair far down, close under the stern of the boat I plunge in, and diving, grasp it and bring him to the surface. The boat has forged ahead. With difficulty I get him alongside, and we are hauled on board. The young man has still life in him, but cannot speak. We pull back to the ship, more than once narrowly escaping being swamped. It is some time before the stranger can speak. Even then he does not seem willing to say much. He does not mention the name of the brig to which he belonged, nor whether he was serving before the mast or as an officer; but he speaks like a lad of education. He is, however, so much exhausted, that it would be cruel to ask him questions. Indeed, from a remark he made, I suspect that he believes himself to be dying. I fear that he may be right; but, alas! it is without hope that he looks on death,—only with dark horror and despair. I speak to him of One who died to save all sinners who look to Him for salvation and repent; but my words seem to fall unheeded on the young man’s car.

Chapter Seven.

A land of horrors.

The young man we picked up two days ago is better. He takes more to me than to any one else, yet he is reserved even to me. His name is, he says, Joseph Bent, and the brig was the Wanderer. I suspect that he is one of those castaways who have fled from the restraints of parents, or pastors and masters, and that he has been reaping the fruits of his folly, and found them bitter. The brig undoubtedly visited the island of which we have heard, and her crew were the men who committed those black deeds of which I have spoken, but do not here again describe.

How soon are they all sent to their dread accounts except this youth! Great is his astonishment when I speak to him of what was done, and of the poor natives so barbarously carried away.

“The vengeance of a pure and just God quickly finds out the doers of such deeds,” I remark. “And, Joseph, my friend, where would you now have been had you not been rescued by the hand of mercy from the jaws of death?”

“In torment—in torment!” he shrieks out; “in everlasting torments! Rightly condemned—rightly condemned!”

“But, think you not, that the same loving hand which saved your life from destruction will preserve your far more precious soul from death eternal if you will but believe in His power and will to save you? Do not have any doubts on the subject. The most guilty are entreated to repent and to come to Jesus—the loving Saviour—the Friend of sinners.”

“These are strange words you speak, mate,” said the young man sitting up and looking earnestly at me.

“Not strange, friend,” say I. “Thousands and thousands of times have they been spoken before to the saving of many a perishing soul. Let them not be spoken to you in vain.”

Thus do I continue for some time, till I see tears starting into the eyes of the young man. The knowledge of a Saviour’s love softens his heart, while his sins still make him afraid.

“I remember to have heard words like those you have been speaking, mate, long, long ago,” he observes. “I forgot them till now. They sound sweetly to my ears.”

“Never forget them again, friend,” I answered, having now to go on deck to keep my watch.

Joseph Bent lives, and is gaining strength, but as he does so he seems to be hardening his heart, and avoids religious subjects; yet he speaks of the doings of his late shipmates at Raratonga. What must have been their feelings when their ship was going down, and the thoughts of their late evil deeds came rushing on their minds. If people would but reflect each morning as they rise, and say to themselves, “For what I do this day I must most assuredly account before the judgment-seat of the Almighty,” how many a sin might be avoided; and yet, surely, the love of Jesus, the dread of grieving our blessed Master, will do more than that. With me love is the constraining power—with some men the fear of judgment may have more effect; fear may prevent sin, but love surely advances more the honour and glory of Christ’s kingdom. It is love to his blessed Master which will make a man give up home and country, and go forth to preach the unsearchable riches of Christ to the perishing heathen; fear will keep him strictly observant of his religious duties at home: fear rules where the law exists; love reigns through the liberty of the gospel. Yes, I am sure, that love, and love alone, will make a man a persevering missionary of the truth.

We bring up at length on the north shore of Tongatabu, at the same spot where, many years back, Captain Cook anchored his ships, when he called the island Amsterdam. It is the largest by far of all the Friendly Islands, being some twenty miles long and twelve broad, and it is very beautiful, though not rising anywhere more that sixty feet above the level of the sea. Its beauty consists in the great variety of trees and shrubs with which it is covered, while few spots on the earth’s surface are more productive; added to this there is a clearness and brightness in the atmosphere which is in itself lovely. Captain Cook bestowed the name of the Friendly Islands on this group, on account of the friendly way in which the natives received him. Captain Fuller says that he has heard certain reports which make him doubt as to the friendliness of the natives. They come off to us in large double canoes, unlike any we have before seen. They consist of two canoes secured side by side, though at some distance apart, by a strong platform, which serves as a deck. In the centre is a house with a flat roof on which the chiefs stand. The sail is triangular, and formed of matting, and long oars are also used, worked on either side. These canoes carry a hundred men or more, and make long voyages, often to Fiji, on the east, and lo! the Navigators Islands, on the north. When sailing forth for war covered with armed men, blowing conch-shells and flourishing their clubs and spears, they have a very formidable appearance. Many smaller single canoes came off to us ringing fruits and fowl of all sorts. They are a very fine race of men, taller than most Englishmen, and well formed and of a light healthy brown colour. They come on board in great numbers, and laugh, and appear to be well disposed. The Captain’s suspicions are soon lulled, and so are Golding’s. He wishes to trade with them for cocoa-nut oil and other articles. Several of our men ask leave to go on shore, and the captain allows them.

Just as they have gone off, Joseph Bent comes on deck. He has, he tells me, been living on shore here for some time, and knows the people. Notwithstanding their pleasant manners and handsome figures and countenances, they are treacherous in the extreme. He tells that of which I have not before heard, that missionaries have already been sent out to these seas; that some were landed on this very island, of whom three were killed, and the rest driven away. Some, strange to say, were in King George’s Islands while we were there, but we heard not of them nor they of us. Indeed, I fear that our captain would have taken but little interest in the matter, though he might have shown those poor banished ones, as countrymen, some of the courtesies of life. Thus I see that people may visit a place, and fancy that they know all about it, and yet be very ignorant of what is going on within. Other missionaries have gone, so says Bent, to the Marquesas Islands. We heard nothing of them; indeed, our captain laughs at the notion of such savages being turned into Christians.

“Who can this Bent really be?” I have asked myself more than once. For one so young he knows much about these seas, and what has taken place here. While I have been thinking how good a thing it would be to have missionaries sent out among them, I find that people at home have already done so, though as yet to no purpose, as far as man can see. The people seem everywhere sunk in heathen darkness. When Bent sees that some of our men are going on shore, he urges that they may be at once recalled; but Captain Fuller says that the supercargo, Taro, and Tony Hinks, will take care they do not get into mischief. The half-naked chiefs, with their clubs in their hands, and many other people are wandering about the deck, examining everything they see, and now and then standing and talking, as if expressing their wonder. I observe Bent moving quietly among them. Soon afterwards he comes up to me.

“Mate,” he says, in an ordinary tone, as if there was nothing the matter, “These men are plotting to take the ship. The fellows on shore will all be murdered, and so shall we unless we manage well. My advice is to get the chiefs into the cabin on pretence of giving them a feast, and then seize them and hold them as hostages. Directly that is done, run the after-guns inboard and clear the decks. It will be better to knock away the bulwarks than to be clubbed.”

The captain seems unwilling to believe this.

“I have little to thank you for in saving my life if you do not now take my advice,” says Bent, earnestly. “You, and I, and all on board may be numbered with the dead before many minutes are over. Look at those men’s arms, and at their heavy clubs. Whose head would stand a single blow from one of them?”

I urge the point with the captain, for I am convinced that Bent is right. He is still irresolute, when we see some more canoes coming off from the shore. This decides him. Fortunately the men’s dinner is ready. The captain sends for it into the cabin, and the steward covers the table with all other food he has at hand. We then fix upon four of the leading chiefs whom Bent points out, and by signs invite them to feast below. They look suspicious, and, we are afraid, will not come. Bent stands by to hear what they say. He whispers to me that one of them proposes coming, as it will throw us more off our guard. Again, by signs, we press them to come below. When at length they comply, we endeavour not to show too much satisfaction. We treat them with great courtesy seemingly, keeping our eyes, however, constantly fixed on them. We have the steward and two other men concealed with ropes ready to spring out and secure them. The captain, Festing, and Bent, go below, while I remain in charge of the deck, and Festing hands me up a brace of pistols and a cutlass, through the companion hatch. The crew have been prepared, and stand ready to run in the after-guns and to slew them round the instant the chiefs are secured. I listen for the signal, anxiously watching the proceedings of the savages. Now I see them talking together; now they handle their clubs, and look towards the cabin, as if waiting for the return of their chiefs to begin the work of death. They eye our men askance. It is clear that both parties mistrust each other. The suspense is painful in the extreme. There is a sound of struggling, and shouts from the cabin; the savage warriors press aft. Just then the captain cries out that the chiefs are secured. I order the guns to be slewed round, and sign to the natives to keep back. They are about to make a rush, when Bent springs on deck, and shouts to them in their own language, warning them that if they move our war-fire will burst forth on them, and that their chiefs will be killed. The men, looking grim and fierce, stand match in hand at the guns. Bent now orders the savages to return to their canoes. Sulkily, and with many a glance of defiance at us, they stand, unwilling to obey, till Captain Fuller brings on deck, bound, one of their chiefs, holding a pistol to his ear. The chief speaks to them, and one by one they go down the ship’s side. Bent now tells them that unless all our companions return in safety the lives of the chiefs will be taken. I bethink me of writing a note to the supercargo, telling him what has occurred, and urging him to return instantly. I give it to the last savage who leaves the deck, and Bent explains to whom the paper is to be delivered. We now use all haste to get ready for sailing. We have for the present escaped a great danger, but we tremble for the fate of our shipmates, and we are convinced that fear alone will keep these savages in order. The chiefs, finding that Bent can speak their language, endeavour to persuade him to let them go. “When our friends return you will be set at liberty,” is his answer. It seems at present very doubtful whether they ever will return. Bent says that these people are treacherous in the extreme, worshippers of devils, offerers up of human sacrifices, and cannibals, though not so bad as the people of Fiji, the next islands we are to visit. The chiefs all this time are kept in durance below. I have seldom seen four finer men in figure and feature. The children, Bent says, are often quite white, like English children, but as heathens they are born, and as heathens they die, without hope.

A boat is now reported coming off from the shore. A large canoe follows. In the boat are fewer men than left the ship. What has been the fate of the rest? They come alongside, and we order the big canoe to keep off. The supercargo and Taro make their appearance on deck. Their escape has been most miraculous. Already had the clubs of the natives begun to play on the heads of their companions, and five had fallen. Golding tells me that he expected every moment to be his last. The man next him had been struck down, and lay writhing on the ground, when a cry was raised, and the canoes were seen hurrying away from the ship, the savages refrained from letting drop their uplifted clubs, and watched the approaching canoes.

When the messenger with the note arrived there was a long consultation. Golding says he never felt so uneasy. It was handed to Tony Hinks, who, unable to read, gave it to Golding. He assumed a tone of authority, and through Taro told the savages that if all the survivors were not released their chiefs would be carried away captives. They seemed to hesitate. Golding believed that they were balancing in their minds whether they loved their chiefs or the blood of the white strangers most. At last they decided to let Golding and Taro with three other men go, and to keep Tony Hinks, whom they take to be a chief, as a hostage. Tony was very unhappy at being left, and tried to escape, but the savages held him fast, and Taro, it seems, who owes him a grudge, would not help him. Thus we are placed in a difficulty to know how to get Tony back without first liberating the chiefs. If it were not for the boatswain, the captain says he would hang all four at the yard-arm. At last it is decided that one alone shall go, and Bent is instructed to tell him, that unless the boatswain instantly returns alive and unhurt, the other three shall be hung up. I put him on board a canoe, which comes out to meet our boat as we pull in.

Some time passes, and at length Tony appears on the beach. We make signals that he must be brought off in a canoe. As he steps into the boat, stout-hearted fellow as he generally is, he sinks down, overcome with the terror he has been in. Several of the crew cry out that now we have got him back, we must hang the savages we have in our power in revenge for our shipmates who have been clubbed. The captain says that we are bound to let one go. I plead that all should be let go, that on the faith of this Tony was returned to us, and that it is both our duty, and wise as a Christian and civilised people, to show clemency to the savages. With difficulty, however, I prevail, and Bent tells the chiefs that they may order a canoe to come alongside, and may go free. They appear very much astonished, and doubtful whether we are in earnest. I watch their eyes when they fully understand that they are free to go. Savages though they may be, there is human sympathy between us; they are grateful for the way we have treated them; and I feel sure that we should be far safer on shore should we return, than if we had hanged them as proposed. “We are well quit of these savages,” observes Golding, as we get free of the reefs, and stand out to sea.

There is another group to the north of the Tongas called Samoa, or Navigators Islands. The people, Bent tells me, are very like those of the Tonga group. Of this Tonga group which we are leaving there are numerous islands—the first collection to the north, called the Haabai group, while further north is that of Vavau—all governed by different chiefs, who spend their time in fighting with each other.

While I am on deck in charge of the watch that night I see a bright light burst forth to the north-east, rising out of the sea and reaching to the sky. There is a noise at the same time as if there was distant thunder. I fancy at first that some hapless ship has caught fire, and I send below to ask leave of the captain that we may steer towards her to pick up any of the crew who may have escaped. The captain bids me come and examine the chart, and I see several islands with burning mountains on them marked down. The fire we see proceeds undoubtedly from one of them—Koa, perhaps. The matter is settled by finding our deck covered with fine ashes fallen from the sky.

Four days after leaving Tonga we find ourselves among islands of every size and shape and height, many of them having lofty mountains in their centres, while coral reefs are in all directions. Never has my eye rested on scenes of greater loveliness than these islands present; they are apparently fertile in the extreme, green gems dotting the blue ocean. If men could be perfectly happy and gentle and contented, loving each other and being loved, it would, I should think, be here. Each island looks like a paradise—the abode of peace and innocence. We are standing in towards a secure harbour formed by a coral reef, a native town appearing on the beach, with a hill covered with graceful trees rising above it, down which a waterfall tumbles and glitters in the sunbeams, forming a clear pool, from which we expect to fill our casks. I remark on its beauty to Bent.

“No doubt about that, Mr Harvey,” he answers. “But we have more need to be on our guard against the natives here than in any islands of the Pacific. A more treacherous, fierce, and determined race of cannibals is not to be found. Of all the islands we see scattered around, and of many score more, the inhabitants of one dare not visit their nearest neighbours, for fear of being entrapped and killed and eaten. Their great chiefs and warriors boast of the number of people they have killed and devoured; and if they have no captives in their hands when they wish to make a feast, they will kill some of their own slaves, or will send a party of their warriors to any small island near, to knock as many people on the head as they may require.”

I fancy that Bent is joking, though it is not a lively subject to joke about. The captain, however, says that he will be on his guard, and a strong party, well armed, will alone be allowed to go on shore. Still, as we require water and fuel and fresh meat and vegetables, we must put in here to obtain them.

We drop our anchor in a calm bay, with scarce a ripple on the surface of the clear blue waters, while against the outer edge of the coral reef the sea rolls in and breaks in masses of white foam. There is a town in sight, surrounded by a ditch and bank, and bamboo stockades, and full of cottages with high-thatched roofs. Above the town, on the hill, is a separate tall building with an exceedingly high-pitched roof, also thatched, the ridge-pole extending out on either side. It is a temple, Bent says, where human sacrifices are offered, and many other abominable things done. The god may be a whale’s tooth, or a piece of cloth, or a hideous wooden idol. Soon after we have furled sails, two large double canoes make their appearance inside the reef, running for the town. They have vast mat sails, and on the deck of each are fully a hundred black warriors armed with clubs and spears and bows. They are painted hideously. Several have huge heads of hair, and all are gesticulating violently, as if recounting their deeds of valour. They pass close to our vessel, but do not seem to heed us much. We have our guns run out and the crew at quarters ready for them.

As I look through my glass I see in the bows of each some twenty dead bodies arranged in rows—men, women, and children. “Alas! were these taken in war?” I ask. The canoes reach the beach, and crowds come down with loud shouting and wild leaps, and the canoes are hauled on shore, and then the dead bodies are dragged up the hill towards the temple, all the men shouting and shrieking louder than ever. They appear truly like a horde of evil spirits let loose on earth. I accompany the captain and supercargo with Bent, Taro, and a boat’s crew, all well armed, on shore. Taro explains that we come as friends, and as the people see that we are well prepared for war, no opposition is offered. We enter the house of a chief who has just died; his body lies at one end of a long hall full of people. Among them are some twenty women, most of them young and fine-looking persons. Their hair is adorned with flowers, and their bodies are oiled. Some look dull and indifferent to what is taking place, others are weeping, and others look well pleased. Taro tells us that they are the wives of the king. Several men stand near them; ropes are cast round their necks, and suddenly, before we have time to rescue them, as we feel inclined to do, five of them are strangled, and fall dead corpses on the ground. Their bodies are quickly carried off, with that of the chief, and all are buried in one common grave. The new king now appears, and the crowd come to do him honour. He is a tall, stout young man—every inch a savage. We look with horror at what we witness—the bodies are dragged up the hill, and thrust into huge ovens. Some of the captives not yet dead are blackened and bound in a sitting posture, and thus, horrible to relate, are placed in the ovens to be baked alive.

It is too sickening to write what afterwards follows. None of us can longer doubt that these people are the most terrible of cannibals. I feel inclined to charge forward to rescue them, but the captain orders us all to stand fast, or we may chance to be treated in the same way ourselves.

We now, through Taro, tell the chief that we require water and fruit and vegetables and hogs and fowls, and that we will pay for all. He receives the message somewhat haughtily, and informs us with the air of an emperor, that though he is one of the greatest sovereigns on earth, and that all men bow down to and fear him, he will grant our request. There he sits, a naked black savage, benighted and ignorant in the extreme; and yet such is his opinion of himself. I cannot help thinking, as I look at him, that I have seen civilised men almost as well contented with themselves with as little cause. We do not find any of our men inclined to straggle, after what they have seen. We hurry down to the beach. The boat has been left hauled off at some distance, under charge of three men, well armed. They pull in when they see us, and say that they are not a little glad to find us safe, for that many canoes with fierce-looking savages have been paddling round and round them, the cannibals showing their white teeth, and making signs that they would like to eat them. Whether this is only the fancy of our men I cannot say. Even Golding, when we get on board, looks pale and says little. It seems to me as if Satan had truly taken possession of the people of these islands, for Bent tells me that the scenes we have witnessed are only such as occur constantly.

We keep a watchful look-out all night, ready for action at a moment’s notice. Again we visit the shore, armed as yesterday. Preparations are making to build a house for the new chief. The four uprights for the corners are already placed in large holes dug deep into the earth. In each hole stands a living man bound to the post, with upturned eyes gazing at the light of day. What is our horror to see parties of savages begin to throw in the earth upon them. It covers their breasts, their shoulders, and rises up, the hapless wretches still breathing, till the tops of their heads are concealed, and then with eager haste the murderous wretches stamp down the ground over them. Taro tells us the savages say that the spirits of the dead men will guard the house, so that no evil will befall its inmates. Truly I shall be glad to be clear of this land of horrors, yet it is a fruitful land, and one producing a variety of articles for barter. With cocoa-nut oil alone we could quickly load our vessel, and with the population these islands possess, what numberless other tropical productions might they not furnish, if means could be found to civilise the people!

Chapter Eight.

In perils various.

Again we go on shore, armed as yesterday. The men cast uneasy glances around, and show no inclination to separate from each other. We meet the chief, who looks taller and fiercer than ever. His black hair is frizzled out in the most extraordinary manner, and on the top he wears twisted round it a piece of smoke-coloured native cloth like a turban. He has rings round his arms and legs, and a small piece of cloth round his loins, but otherwise this great king, as he believes himself, is entirely naked. He carries in his hand a richly carved black club—so heavy, that to strike with it is to kill. He receives us in the same haughty manner as before, as if he wished to impress us with his importance. As he strides along, the people fly on either side, or bow down before him, though he does not in the slightest degree heed them. He is on his way to witness the launching a large new war-canoe, and which, now decked with streamers, we see at some distance from the beach. Conch-shells are sounding, and there is much shouting and dancing. As we draw near, a band of prisoners, with downcast looks of horror, are driven along towards the canoe. Men stand ready with long ropes to drag her to the water. Before she is moved, the captives, bound hand and foot, are cast down before her; then loud shouts arise—the men haul at the ropes—the canoe moves, and is dragged over the bodies of the slaves, crushing them to death. No one pities them. This night the cannibal chiefs will feast on their bodies. Even now the ovens in the great square are heating to cook them. It strikes me that these people take a pride in showing to us the enormities they dare to commit.

As later in the day we are passing through the town, we see two people, a man and woman, wrangling. The man grows more and more angry. A young child is near them; it runs to its mother’s arms, but the man seizes it, and in an instant he has killed the poor little creature, and with a fierce gesture thrown the yet panting body on the ground. He gazes for a few seconds moodily at the dead child. The mother does not attempt to touch it; then he orders her to bring a spade. He digs a hole in the floor; the still warm body is thrust in; the earth is thrown back; both stamp it down, and then return to their seats as if nothing had happened.

We see another day a young man buried alive by his own parents. Taro says he had grown weary of life, and they did it to please him. We see very few old people, and we hear that when people get weak and ill from age, their children either strangle them or bury them alive. Bent tells me that human sacrifices are often made to their gods, when the priests and chiefs feast on the victims. We see many people with fingers cut off, and we hear that they have been devoted as offerings to their chiefs who have died, or may only have been ill. No crime is more common than that of killing children, especially girls, indeed, it is remarkable that these people do not seem at all sensible that they are committing crimes. At all events they glory in their shame.

I might note down many more things we see and hear during our stay in this group, but I feel sick at heart as I write and think of all that is told me; and every day, as I tread these blood-stained shores, the very air seems polluted, and the shrieks of the wretched victims of their fellows cruelty, ring in my ears. Wars seem never to cease among them. One tribe is always attacking another, and those inhabiting islands within two or three miles of each other cannot live at peace. The desire to retaliate is the great cause of all their quarrels. If a man is killed by those of another tribe, his friends are not content till they have killed some of that tribe; then the people of that tribe do not rest till they have avenged the death of their relations; and so it goes on, each murder producing another, till there is not a man among all their tribes who does not feel that there are numbers ready to take his life, while he is also on the watch to kill certain people with whom he is at feud.

Of another thing I hear, which, had I not seen so many horrible things they do, I could scarcely credit. If the people of a small island offend a chief, he does not kill them at once, but he takes away all their canoes, so that they cannot escape. Then, whenever he wants victims to offer in his temples, or to feast any friendly chief who may visit him unexpectedly, he sends and brings off one or more families, or parts of families, from the doomed island. No one knows who will be next taken, but they live on with the full consciousness of what their fate will be. They see their relatives and friends taken and carried off to be baked, and they know that, perhaps, their turn may come next. Bent was some time among them, protected by one of their chiefs, to whom he made himself useful, yet he says that he never felt sure of his life an hour together; and whenever he saw the chief handling his club, he could not help fancying that it might come down on his head.

Dreadful as these accounts are, we can speak of little else on board. “It would be as easy to wash a blackamoor white, as to make these men Christians,” observed Phineas, one evening, as we sit in the cabin. “What say you, Mr Bent; would you like to make the attempt?”

Bent casts his eyes on the deck, and does not answer. Golding looks at me. “I’ll tell you my opinion,” I reply. “If man alone had to accomplish the work, I would say, it is impossible. But man works not alone. God’s Holy Spirit is on his side. We are all by nature vile; we have all gone astray. All our natural hearts are of stone. God’s grace can alone soften our stony hearts, can alone bring us back to Himself, and as He surely is all-powerful, to my mind He can just as easily shed His grace on the hearts of these black heathen cannibals, and soften them, and bring them to love and worship Him, as He can work the same change in any white man; and so I see no reason to doubt that if the gospel is put before them some will hear it gladly and accept it.”

The captain, as I speak, begins to grow angry. Golding bursts into a fit of laughter.

“You’re talking Greek to me,” says he. “How could these black savages, who have never seen a book in their lives, understand the Bible, even if you gave it them? It’s hard enough for civilised white people to comprehend, eh, Captain Fuller! You find it a tough job? I’m sure I do.”

“As to that, I don’t pretend to much learning in that line—like my second mate here, but I always leave such matters to the parson.”

What the captain meant I cannot tell. On looking up, I see Bent’s eyes full of tears, and he says nothing. I do not press the subject now as it will only provoke hostility, but I resolve to speak privately to Bent whenever I can. Yes, I am sure, by God’s grace, and through the instrumentality of human ministers and His book, these dark heathens may become enlightened worshippers of Him.

We hear that there is a port at the great island of Vanua Levu, where sandal-wood is to be procured, and we accordingly forthwith sail there.

Truly it is dangerous work navigating these seas among coral banks in every direction, some just above water, others three, four, and fifteen feet below it. It is only when the sun is shining and the sea blue that we can distinguish the coral, which gives a green tinge to it, under water. One of us is always stationed aloft to pilot the ship. We have hitherto escaped. I pray we may, for if we were to wreck the good ship, these savages would spare the lives of none of us.

Once more we drop our anchor, and canoes come off to us. We make known that we have come for sandal-wood, and have axes, and knives, and nails, to give in exchange. The natives seem so ready to trade that Golding is quite enamoured of them, but the captain wisely will allow no one to go on shore. We keep a careful watch as before. The natives, however, seem very peaceable. They tell Taro that they wish to trade with us, and be our friends, and tempt us to come back again. The first mate, Tony Hinks, and others, declare that the captain’s regulations are too strict, and that they ought to be allowed to go on shore.

Two days pass by, and we are almost ready once more to sail. I am below talking with Bent and the doctor. Most of the men are forward at their dinner, the captain, and the first mate, and the watch only being on deck. There is a loud sound like a blow given on the deck, then a shout and a piercing shriek. Something is the matter. We seize cutlasses and pistols, and any weapons we can lay hands on, and spring on deck. Upwards of a dozen savages are collected there with heavy clubs in their hands uplifted, and our men are righting desperately with them, but almost overpowered. The first mate lies dead on the deck near the companion, and further forward are Tony Hinks and a seaman with their heads beaten in. The supercargo is defending himself with a capstan-bar against several savages, while the captain stands in one of the quarter boats, which has been lowered partly down, pointing a telescope at the savages, who look at it as if they think it some sort of firearm. Most of the cannibals turn upon us, and advance furiously with their heavy clubs. We have, I deem, but little chance of contending with numbers so overpowering. I hand a cutlass and a pistol to the captain, who springs out of the boat on deck. Bent stands wonderfully cool, and levelling his pistols kills two of our assailants almost at the same moment. The rest hesitate; they have not thought of putting on the hatches, and to our great relief we see the crew springing up from the forepeak armed with axes, knives, and harpoons. With loud shouts and threats of vengeance they rush at the savages, some of whom they cut down, others they hurl overboard; we from aft join in the onslaught, till the savages take fright, and in another instant our decks are clear. The guns are always kept loaded—the captain orders them to be depressed and fired at the canoes, towards which our late assailants are swimming. Many are struck, and several of the canoes are knocked to pieces. The greater number of the people swim to the shore with the greatest ease, diving when they see the guns fired, or the levelling of the muskets. We make sail and stand out of the harbour to the west, intending to bury our chief mate and boatswain in deep water, out of sight of these cannibal regions.

Truly it makes me sad to think of these two men thus suddenly cut off, utterly unprepared to go into the presence of a holy God. They trusted not to Him who alone could washed them clean. They were good seamen, but they were nothing else. The captain comes on deck, as their bodies lie near the gangway, lashed in their hammocks, with that of the other man killed, and covered up with flags. We read a portion of the burial service, and commit them to the deep, till “the sea shall give up her dead.”

The next island we make, sailing north, is Tutuila, one of the Navigators’, or Samoan group. The harbour we enter is Pango Pango. It is the most curious we have seen. It runs deep into the land, and on either side are high precipices, some a thousand feet high, with two or three breaks, by which the waters of the harbour are approached from the shore. The people come off to us with great confidence in their large dug-out canoes. They are a brown race, like those of Tahiti. They are evidently a better disposed people than those we have just left. We have no fear about going on shore, and meet with civil treatment. Yet they are great thieves and beggars—the greatest chiefs asking for anything to which they take a fancy. They are also debased idolaters; and Taro says they worship fish, and eels, and all sorts of creeping things. They are also savage and cruel, and constantly fighting among each other. As to their morals, they are undoubtedly superior to the people of Tahiti, yet, from the style of their dances, we cannot argue much in their favour.

There is much wild and beautiful scenery in the islands of this group, and as far as we are able to judge, the climate is good. We keep as usual on our guard, and from what we hear, not without reason, for numerous articles of dress, and carpenters tools, and iron work, and chests, and parts of a vessel, have been seen among the people, which leaves no doubt that some unfortunate ship’s company have been wrecked on their shores or put off by them. Indeed, it is worthy of remark that, with the exception of Tahiti, there is not a single group at which we have touched where we have not had evidence that ships had been attacked or wrecked, and a part, if not the whole, of the ship’s company cut off. In some, only boats’ crews have been destroyed, as was the fate of Captain Cook and his companions, but at several of the islands several ships’ crews have been captured, and the greater number of the people killed and eaten. Indeed, such is the barbarous heathen and debased condition of the countless inhabitants of this island-world of the Pacific, that the navigation of these seas is indeed an undertaking of great peril. No man can tell when he is safe, or at what moment the treacherous islanders may not turn round and destroy him, just as they did Captain Cook, and just as they have treated many other unfortunate Englishmen since his time. Truly, it may be said, that these islands lie in darkness and in the shadow of death. There is but one means by which they can be changed—the sending to them the gospel. Yet my brother seamen and the traders laugh at such a notion, and people at home, who ought to know better, call it fanatical nonsense. I do not wish to set my opinion up against that of others, but there are certain points where a man can feel that he is right and others wrong, and this is one of them. The gospel has power to change the evil heart. Nothing else can do it. That never fails if accepted. God has said it. Why should we doubt?

We hear that the people of this place are carrying on war with those of another island. Some of the chiefs come and invite Captain Fuller to help them, but he replies, that if they wish to fight, they must fight among themselves. I would rather he had tried to dissuade them not to fight at all. We make sail out of the harbour, and are becalmed not far off a fortress on the summit of a high cliff which is to be attacked.

It is crowded with the whole population of the island. With our glasses we can see clearly what is taking place. Soon the canoes from Pango Pango, and of other tribes, their allies, appear. The people land, and begin to scale the rock. Numbers are hurled down and killed, but others climb up. Higher and higher they get. They seem determined to conquer. I tremble for the fate of the hapless defenders if they succeed. We can hear their shouts and cries. Some of the assailants have gone round on the land side. We observe the multitude inside rushing here and there. Those scaling the rock on our side have reached the summit; several fall, but now the rest break through the stockade, and rush with their clubs and spears against the shrieking crowd. The rest of the invaders have succeeded in gaining an entrance on the opposite side. The work of death goes on. All are indiscriminately slaughtered—men, women, and children. The warriors hold together, and fight despairingly. One by one they fall before the victors’ clubs. A breeze springs up, and we stand clear of the reefs and once more out to sea. In the last glimpse we obtain of the fort the fighting is still going on, and thus it continues till the scene fades in the distance.

“Such is the warfare carried on among these savages,” observes Bent. “Those who are victorious to-day will be attacked by other tribes before long, and in like manner cut to pieces. In a few years not one of these numberless tribes will remain. War kills many; but in war, crops are destroyed, and famine ensues, and kills many more; and disease, with no sparing hand, destroys numberless others also. A few years hence, those navigating these seas will find none alive to welcome them.”

The carpenters declare the ship in such good condition that the captain and supercargo resolve to explore the Loyalty and New Hebrides, and other groups in that direction, before seeking our final port. These islands are especially rich in sandal-wood, with which it is resolved we shall fill up. The first land we make is Marè—one of the Loyalty Islands—a low coral island, about seventy miles in circumference. The inhabitants are almost black, and a more brutalised savage race we have not yet seen. There are four tribes constantly at war with each other—the victors always eating their captives.

Hence we steer north, and bring up in a fine harbour in the island of Faté, or Sandwich Island. It is a large, mountainous, and fertile island, with great beauty of scenery. The inhabitants are tall, fine-looking people, but most debased savages and terrible cannibals. Here sandal-wood is to be had in abundance, and very fine, so that Golding is highly delighted, and declares that it is the finest country he has yet been in. More than once, however, our suspicions are aroused with regard to the natives, who are, we think, meditating an attack on us on board, or when we go on shore to bring off the wood. While here I will write down a brief account of some of these numberless islands in the Western Pacific, among which we are cruising.

The largest is New Guinea, to the north of Australia, the inhabitants of which resemble the negroes of Africa, but are more barbarous. Next, to the south-east of it, is New Caledonia, also a very large island, with barbarous inhabitants. To the south-east is the Isle of Pines, and to the north-east is the Loyalty group, of which Marè is one, and Lîvu, and Uea. North-east again, we come to the considerable islands of Aneiteum, Tana, Eromanga, and Faté. North again, we fall in with the Shepherds’ Islands and the New Hebrides, of which Malicolo and Espiritu Santo are the largest; and then there are the Northern New Hebrides and the Santa Cruz group, and the Solomon Islands, and New Britain, and New Ireland, between where we now are and New Guinea. Then there are the Caroline group—the isles as thick as the stars in the milky way; and the Ladrone Islands, and Gilbert Islands, and many others, too many indeed to write down. I do not say, however, that the countless inhabitants of these islands do not differ from each other in appearance, and manners, and customs. Some are almost jet black, and others only of a dark brown, but in one thing they are similar—they are all equally fierce heathen savages, and mostly cannibals.

We have now a full cargo, and Golding rejoicingly calculates that he will make several hundreds per cent, on the original outlay. He does not, methinks, reckon the lives of those who have been lost in the adventure. Having laid in a supply of yams, taro, bread-fruit, cocoa-nuts, and other roots, fruits, and vegetables, we raise our anchor for the last time we hope till our voyage is over. The captain and Golding can talk of nothing but their plans for the future—how they will return and load the ship with sandal-wood and other valuables. Whether the captain is thinking more of his speculations than of our reckoning I know not. He has insisted that we are clear of all danger, and we are running on at night under all sail before a fresh breeze, when the cry of “breakers ahead” makes me spring from my berth. Before the ship can be rounded to she strikes heavily. Again and again she strikes, and I can hear the coral grinding through the bottom; the masts go by the board, and the ship lies a helpless wreck on the reef. The wind has fallen, and, being sheltered by another part of the reef, we have no fear of her yet going to pieces. We wait anxiously for day, not knowing whether we may not be near one of those cannibal islands from whose inhabitants we may expect little mercy.

Another day has passed. We find a sand-bank some eighty yards across, close inside the reef. On this, having saved one small boat, we are landing our stores, and provisions, and arms.

We set to work to build a small vessel. The men labour diligently, though they grumble. We, the officers, keep watch over the spirit casks. Our great want is water. We dig deep, but the little we find is brackish.

The schooner is finished, and Captain Fuller proposes steering for Port Jackson, where there is a convict settlement.

The schooner is launched, but when we search for a passage to take her over the reef, none is to be found. In vain we make the attempt. Everywhere we are baffled. Some of our people almost go mad with despair. I propose building a large flat-bottomed punt from the deck of the ship, which can pass over the reef. All agree.

Our punt is almost completed. We see three objects in the distance, which prove to be canoes. We are discovered, for they approach. They are filled with black savages, who keep at a little distance, shouting and flourishing their spears. We make signs of friendship, but they still come on. We stand to our arms, and as they begin to hurl their spears at us, we are compelled to fire; several fall. With loud howls they paddle off to a distance, watching us. We have little doubt that they will return.

The punt is completed and provisioned. We get her over the reef, and try again to get the schooner across. In vain. We abandon her on the reef. It is time to be away, for we see a fleet of canoes approaching from the north. We hoist sail. The sea is smooth, and we glide rapidly over it, but on come the canoes still faster. They may overwhelm us with their numbers. Much of our powder has got wet. The men do not know it though. Happily the savages catch sight of the schooner and our tent left on the sand-bank. Their eagerness to secure the plunder from the wreck overcomes every other consideration, and they dash over the reef, and allow us to proceed unmolested.

We have been many days at sea; frequent calms and little progress made. The men are becoming discontented, and several are sick. We have avoided nearing any land. Several islands have been seen, but were we to touch the shore, our prospect of escape would be small indeed. Far better, we agree, to trust to the fickle ocean. No, strange as it may seem, there is not among all these rich and lovely islands one on which we dare set foot.

Several of our men have died; the rest are in a state of insubordination. We are on a short allowance of water, and we fear that our provisions will not hold out. Our frail punt has been so damaged by a gale that we can never cease baling.

(Port Jackson.) When almost despairing that one of our company would escape to tell the tale of our disasters, a ship hove in sight, took us on board, and brought us hither. Thus ends our voyage, and all the bright anticipations of wealth enjoyed so long by Golding and our old captain—not a log of sandal-wood, not a string of pearls preserved. ... Bent has told me his history. He feels his heart warmed with gratitude to the Almighty, who by His grace has preserved him from death of body and soul, and his whole mind is bent on going home with me forthwith, and returning to carry the gospel of salvation to the perishing heathen of the wide-spreading islands we have visited. Surely he could not devote his strength and life to a more glorious purpose.

Chapter Nine.

A noble resolve.

I must ask the reader to return to the scene described in the introductory chapter, where we commenced hearing the extracts from the sea journal of old John Harvey. It will be remembered that at our family gathering at my father’s house my brother John was the reader.

“Father,” said my brother John, pausing awhile after he had finished reading our uncle’s journal, “God willing, and with your permission, I will go and preach the gospel to the heathen of those Pacific Islands.”

“Go, my son,” said our father, promptly. “You shall have my prayers that your preaching may not be in vain.”

“What! go off at once, dear John, and leave us all?” exclaimed several of the younger members of the family in chorus.

“I think not,” answered John, calmly, with that sweet smile and gentle voice which gained him so many hearts; “I have much to learn and much to do before I shall be fitted for the office of a missionary. It is not a task to be undertaken lightly and without consideration. When a man charges among a host of foes, he must be armed at all points. A missionary, too, should be like a light shining amid the surrounding darkness; he should be able to show the heathen how to improve their moral and physical, as well as their spiritual condition. He should be fairly versed in the most useful mechanical arts, and possess especially some knowledge of medicine and surgical skill.”

“Well, it will take you a good many years before you can do all that, and perhaps you will change your mind before the time comes,” said one of the younger ones, who did not, as indeed they could not be expected to do, enter into John’s thoughts and feelings on the subject.

I may say from that very moment John devoted all the energies of his mind and body to preparing himself for the high and holy calling he had undertaken. Long, I know, that night he knelt in prayer for grace, and wisdom, and strength to direct, fit, and support him for the work. Besides giving much time to his studies at the theological college, he gained a considerable knowledge of medicine and surgery, and was to be seen now with saw and plane labouring with a carpenter,—at the blacksmith’s anvil, with hammer in hand, forming a bolt, or hinge, or axe,—and now at the gardener’s, with hoe or spade, planting or digging, or pruning. Many wondered how his mind could take in so many new things, or his slight frame undergo so much labour. Few could comprehend the spirit which sustained him. He grew indeed stronger and more robust than any one would have supposed he would become.

I had since my childhood wished to go to sea, and my father allowed me to follow the bent of my inclinations. I now and then thought that I ought to go forth as a missionary also; but when I compared myself with John, and considered his great superiority to me, I gave up the idea, which I had mentioned to no one, as preposterous. My first two voyages were to India and China, and when I came back from the second John was still at college. I remember thinking that he was losing a great deal of time in preparation. He, however, said that he was gaining time. “A blunt tool can never properly perform the work. I am getting sharpened, that I may be used to advantage,” was his remark.

On my return home from my third voyage, he had gone to the Pacific. Where he was to be stationed was not known. He had not gone alone, for he had taken a wife to support and solace him. I had never seen her; but I was told that her heart was bound up with his in the work in which he was engaged.

Having now become a fair seaman, I determined to seek a berth as a mate. An old shipmate and friend had just got command of a fine ship bound round Cape Horn; and though I had had no previous intention of going to the Pacific, I was glad to ship with him as third officer. My sisters had copied out our uncle’s journal for John; they now kindly performed the same task for me. My ship was the Golden Crown a South-sea whaler, and Mr Richard Buxton was master, belonging to Liverpool. Things had changed greatly since the days of my uncle John. We had a definite object: no supercargo was required, and every spot we were likely to visit was well known, and mapped down in the charts. We had several passengers—two missionaries and their wives, newly married. I thought them inferior to John; but they were good men, humble too, with their hearts in the work. We had also another gentleman, a merchant or speculator of some sort. What he was going to do I could never make out. His heart was in his business, and he seemed to consider it of greater importance than anything else. This made him look down with undisguised contempt on the missionaries and their work, nor could he comprehend their objects. “If people want to go to church, let them,” he more than once remarked: “but I don’t see why you two should be gadding about the world to teach savages, who would know nothing about chapels, nor wish to build them, if you would let them alone, and stay quietly at home and mind a shop, or some other useful business.”

The missionaries seldom answered his remarks. They continued perseveringly studying the language of the natives among whom they were to labour, and prayed with and expounded the Scriptures to all on board who would join them. I am writing an account of certain events, and not a journal, so I must suppose the Horn rounded, Chili visited, and Raratonga, where we were to land the missionaries, reached. This was the island whose very position was unknown when my uncle visited those seas, and for long afterwards lay sunk in heathen darkness. It had now become the very centre of Christianising influences, whence rays of bright light were emanating and reaching the farthest islands of the Pacific Ocean.

I have seldom seen a more attractive-looking spot than Raratonga appeared as we came off it. In the centre rise mountains four thousand feet above the level of the sea, with lower hills and beautiful valleys around them, clothed with every variety of tropical tree and shrub. At the foot of the hills is a taro swamp, and then a belt of rich country covered with cocoa-nut, bread-fruit, and banana trees; and then a broad white sandy beach, and a band of blue water; and next a black broad coral reef, like a gigantic wall, against which the swell of the Pacific comes thundering, and rising majestically to the height of twenty feet, curls over and breaks into masses of sparkling foam. The openings in the reef are few and narrow, so that no ship can anchor near the coral-girt isle. Canoes, however came off to us with natives on board, well clothed, and gentle in their manners, who welcomed the missionaries with a warmth and affection which must have been very gratifying to them.

I accompanied the captain on shore to obtain supplies. We took with us a chest of suitable goods for barter. An officer met us on the beach, the appointed salesman of the place, and putting out his hand, said, “Blessing on you.” He then led us to the market-house, where we found collected a large store of all the chief productions of the island,—cocoa-nuts, bananas, potatoes, yams, pumpkins, hops, fowls, eggs, and many other things. We selected all we required, payment was made, and the salesman engaged four canoes to carry them off at once to the ship.

I was but a short time on shore, but I saw enough to wonder at. Everybody was well clothed,—the men in jackets, shirts, waistcoats, and trousers, with straw hats, and many had shoes and socks; the women in gowns, shawls or mantles, and bonnets. There were many stone cottages, neatly furnished, and others of a less enduring character. There was a handsome stone church, and an institution, a substantial stone building, for training native youths for the ministry, surrounded by cottages, the residences of those who were married; while gardens and cultivated fields were seen on every side. Such, I was assured, was the condition of the whole island, there being ample church and school accommodation for all the inhabitants, provided entirely by themselves. I saw also an excellent printing-press, at which several editions of the whole Bible had been printed, as well as commentaries, and numerous other works, and issued well bound, almost the whole work being performed by native youths, whose fathers were wild savage cannibals, as indeed were all the natives when first visited by the Reverend J Williams, in 1823, and such they would have remained, had not Christian missionaries arrived among them.

I have fallen in with many seafaring men who have abused the missionaries in no measured terms, and I have read books written by educated men who have done the same, and I was not quite decided whether they were right or wrong till I went to the Pacific. Then I discovered why those men abused the missionaries. Where the missionary has laboured faithfully, the natives will not desecrate the sabbath, and will not pander to the gross desires of their civilised visitors. That is the secret of their dislike to the missionaries.

Again, however, I have met many masters of whalers and numerous officers of the Royal Navy who have spoken and written in the highest terms of the missionaries, and acknowledged that the change which has been wrought through their instrumentality has been most beneficial to the cause of commerce as well as humanity; and that whereas where formerly, if a ship was wrecked, the destruction of her crew was almost inevitable, now through nearly the whole of Eastern, and a considerable portion of Western Polynesia, they would receive succour, and sympathy, and kindness. Still there are many—very many—dark places both in Eastern and Western Polynesia, and no Christian soldier need sigh, like Alexander, that no more worlds remain to be conquered.

During our voyage to Raratonga I learned a great deal more about the progress made by the missionaries of the gospel in these seas, which, while the Golden Crown lies off the island, I will briefly describe.

The London Missionary Society was established in 1795, and in the following year it sent forth, on board the Duff, a band of twenty-nine missionaries, who landed at Tahiti, one of the Society Islands, March, 1797. Some went on to Tongatabu, the chief of the Friendly Islands, and two to Christina, one of the Marquesas. The savage character of the inhabitants of the two last-named groups prevented success. At Tongatabu three missionaries were murdered, and the rest made their escape, as did those at the Marquesas. At Tahiti they were received at first in a friendly way by the chiefs and people; but for several years very little real progress was made in instructing the people in the truths of Christianity. Indeed, at one time all the missionaries, in despair of success, in consequence of the unceasing wars of the natives, sailed for New South Wales. Favourable reports, however, reaching them, some returned, and from that time forward slow but steady progress was made, though it was not till the year 1815 that Christianity was firmly established, and idolatry almost completely abolished. The year 1817 was memorable on account of the arrival of two of the most distinguished missionaries who have laboured among the isles of the Pacific—the Reverend J Williams and the Reverend W Ellis.

Mr Williams, who combined a wonderful mechanical talent with the most ardent zeal for the propagation of the gospel, soon after took up his abode at the island of Raiatea where by his example he advanced the natives in the arts of civilisation, at the same time that he instructed them in the truths of Christianity. The natives of the Society Islands having sincerely accepted Christianity, became anxious to spread the good tidings among their heathen neighbours. A considerable number prepared themselves for the office of teachers. Some went forth to the Paumotu Group, or Low Archipelago, to the east; others to the Austral Isles, to the south; and others, among whom was Papehia, accompanied Mr Williams on a voyage to the Hervey group. His first visit was to Aitutaki, where some native teachers were left, by whose means the natives became Christians.

After paying a second visit to Aitutaki, Mr Williams sailed in search of Raratonga, of the position of which even he was uncertain. He was accompanied by Papehia, and by some natives of Raratonga, who had been carried away by a trading vessel from their own island, and cruelly deserted on Aitutaki. Among them was Tapaeru, the daughter of a chief, who had become impressed with the truth of Christianity. At length Raratonga was discovered, and the native teachers were landed; but had it not been for the courage and constancy of Tapaeru, they and their wives would have been destroyed on the first night they were on shore. Sadly disconcerted, they returned next morning on board, and the enterprise was about to be abandoned, when the devoted Papehia stepped forward and volunteered to return on shore.

“Whether the natives spare me or kill me, I will land among them,” he exclaimed. “Jehovah is my Shepherd—I am in His hand.” Clothed in a shirt, with a few yards of calico in which he had wrapped some portions of the holy Scriptures, the intrepid pioneer landed alone among a host of heathen warriors, who stood on the reef with their spears poised ready to hurl at him. He had not trusted in vain. He persevered, and soon a powerful chief, Tinomana, turned to the truth, and burned his idols.

Again Mr Williams came to Raratonga—this time to remain for many months, to see Christianity established, to erect a large place of worship, and to perform one of the most wonderful tasks I have ever heard of a man single-handed doing. It was to build in three months a schooner of eighty tons, without one single portion of her being in readiness. He taught the natives to cut down, and saw, and plane the wood; then he erected a bellows and forge for the smith’s work, which he performed himself; a lathe to turn the blocks, a rope-making machine, and a loom to manufacture the sail-cloth. All the time he laboured, he taught the wondering natives in the truths of Christianity. In three months from the day the keel was laid, this prodigy of a vessel was safely launched, and named “The Messenger of Peace.” She proved a seaworthy, trusty little vessel, and from island to island, across many thousand miles of water, she was the means of conveying numerous missionaries of the gospel of peace to their benighted inhabitants.

First, several islands of the Hervey group were visited by her, and then she sailed for Raiatea; whence, after remaining some time, she once more sailed with a party of English missionaries and native teachers on a long voyage, calling at the Hervey Islands, then at Savage Island, where an unsuccessful attempt was made to land teachers. Next, she called at Tongatabu, already occupied by missionaries of the Wesleyan Missionary Society. Then she steered north for Samoa, known as the Navigators Islands. Here Mr Williams and his companions met with a most cordial reception from the chiefs and people, and teachers were soon established on several of the islands. The Wesleyans had before sent some missionaries to Samoa, but in a truly Christian spirit, worthy of imitation, they agreed to yield the group to the care of the London Missionary Society, while they devoted their exclusive attention to the Friendly and Fiji groups. They had made great progress among the Friendly Islanders, and the king himself had become a Christian, when it was resolved to attempt the conversion of the Fijians. Between Tonga and Fiji a constant intercourse was kept up, and thus the way seemed opened to carry the gospel to the latter group. There was also no lack of interpreters, an important advantage at the first. The first missionaries to Fiji were established on the island of Lakemba, where, in spite of great opposition, they laboured on faithfully and steadily, extending their efforts to other islands, till finally the Cross was triumphant even at Mbau, the blood-stained capital of the group, where the cannibal monarch himself, the dreaded Thakombau, became a Christian.

In the meantime, the inhabitants of the Sandwich Islands had heard of the gospel from English and American ships visiting the group. No sooner did King Rihoriho ascend the throne than he decreed that idolatry should be abandoned, because he had discovered that his idols could not benefit him; but he knew little or nothing of the Christian religion. At that very time, however, the American Board of Missions had sent out a band of missionaries to them, who on arriving to their joy heard that the idols of Hawaii were overthrown. They were, I believe, chiefly Episcopalians.

While these glorious events were taking place in Eastern Polynesia, the Church Missionary Society had sent forth missionaries among the fierce cannibals of New Zealand. They were joined by several Wesleyans, who together laboured with so much perseverance and success, that a very large number of the inhabitants became acquainted with the truths of the gospel. Numerous well-trained native teachers have gone forth from Tahiti and Raratonga to the surrounding isles, and many of them to the Loyalty and New Hebrides groups, and other parts of Western Polynesia. Following this example, the Bishop of New Zealand has brought natives from a large number of the islands in Western Polynesia, which he has visited, and having instructed them, at a college he has established near Auckland, is sending them back, to spread among their countrymen the truths they have learned. Thus Christianity has begun to spread among the dark-skinned races of those almost countless islands. To carry the gospel to them had been one of the energetic Williams’s darling schemes; and it was while carrying it out that, landing at Eromanga, he, with a young missionary, Mr Harris, was barbarously murdered by the savage natives. Still the Society persevered, and missionaries have been established at several of the islands, and many of the natives have become Christians. Among these islands several Presbyterian missionaries have been established, who have laboured steadily and successfully in the Lord’s vineyard. Thus several sections of the Protestant Church have been engaged cordially together in instructing the heathen nations of the Pacific in a knowledge of the truth, and in many instances the Holy Spirit has richly blessed their efforts. Still there are many hundred islands the inhabitants of which remain in gross darkness, while a large portion of those who have been converted require instruction, support, and the correction of errors. Much is done through native agency, but still the superintendence of well-educated and well-trained English missionaries is required at even the most advanced settlements to act as overseers or superintendents.

Having now given a very brief account of the progress of Christianity since those midnight hours when my uncle sailed in these seas, I may commence my personal narrative. It must be understood that I have somewhat anticipated events in the above account. At the time my narrative commences, Christianity, though advancing, had not made the great progress it has since done, and many of the islands which are now entirely Christian, were then only partially so, heathen practices prevailed, and the heathen chiefs had still influence and power. It is daylight over these regions, but nearer the dawn than noon. Many a year must pass away before the full blaze of the light of truth will shine from east to west across the vast Pacific. I must not forget to mention the impediments which the priests of Rome, chiefly Frenchmen, endeavour to throw in the way of the progress of the pure faith in Christ. To gain an influence with the natives they wink at many of their vices, they teach them an idolatrous faith, and try to prejudice them against the Protestants.

Having performed our contract at Raratonga, landing the missionaries and their goods, we sailed for our fishing ground in the south, where we were tolerably successful. Whale catching is very hard work, and at length it became necessary to return north, to obtain fresh provisions and to recruit our crew. Our captain had resolved also to try his fortune on the fishing grounds in the neighbourhood of the New Hebrides and the other Western Archipelago.

“A sail on the starboard bow,” cried the look-out man, from aloft. I was officer of the watch. We were far away from land, and meeting with a strange sail is always a matter of interest in those seas. I went to the mast-head with my glass, and made out that the sail was that of a large double canoe. We kept away for her, not doubting that she had been driven far out of her course. Of this the sad spectacle which met our eyes as we drew near convinced us. On her deck were numerous savages—some grouped together in the after part, others lying about in different places, or leaning against the mast, and some apart in every variety of attitude. Many appeared to be dead or in the last stage of existence. Some few lifted up their hands imploringly towards us. Others shook their spears and clubs, which they held in their fast-failing grasp, possibly unconscious of what they were doing—the ruling passion being, with them as with others, strong in death. The ropes of their mat sail had given way, and it no longer urged them on. It was necessary to approach them cautiously, for, though the savages had but little strength left, they might, in their madness, attack us. We lowered two boats, and, with our men well armed, pulled up to them. As we got nearly alongside, some of the people in the after group rose from their seats, and one endeavoured to drag himself towards us. He was a young man—a light-coloured Indian—tall and handsome, and, unlike most of the rest, clothed in jacket and trousers. The others moving, showed us a young girl of the same light hue, reclining on a pile of mats. She was clothed; her head was adorned with a wreath of coral, and her arms and ankles with strings of beads. She struck me at once as being very beautiful, though, as I saw her nearer, I perceived that her eye had lost its lustre, and that her face was wan and emaciated. The canoe was a very large one, capable of carrying a hundred and fifty people, though not more than sixty were on board, and of that number nearly half lay dead or dying on the deck. It was easy to divine what had become of the rest. The young man made a sign that he would speak, and pointing to the girl, he said, in a husky voice, “Save her, save her! she Christian!” and then sunk exhausted on the deck.

Chapter Ten.

The destruction of the idols.

The canoe, it was evident, had met with some severe weather, and she could scarcely, we considered, have held together had she encountered another gale. We lost no time in getting the survivors into the boats. The suspicions of the warriors were soon calmed by the explanations of the young man, and they allowed us without resistance to lift them on board. The chief’s daughter, or young princess, she might have been called, was less exhausted than many of the strong men. I lifted her up with care, and placed her on her mats in the stern sheets, and pulled back as fast as we could to the ship, that the sufferers might have the advantage of our surgeon’s assistance. Having removed the sinnets, mats, and other articles with which she was loaded, we abandoned the ill-fated canoe, and stood on our course. I asked the doctor what he thought of the state of the Indians. “The princess and her attendants require careful nursing, and so does that young man, but for the rest who are still alive I have no fear,” he answered. “The greater number died for want of water. They had no lack of food, I suspect.” I looked in his face, and shuddered at the answer he gave. Several days passed by before the young man who had addressed us in English was again able to speak. He spoke but a few words of English, but enough to let me understand that his name was John Vihala, that he was related to the young girl, daughter of the chief or king of one of the islands; that her name was Alea; that she had become a Christian; but that her father and most of the family remained heathens. She had been betrothed (as is the custom, at an early age) to a powerful chief of a distant island, still a heathen and a cannibal; and, notwithstanding all her prayers and entreaties, her father insisted on her fulfilling the contract. She, in due state, accompanied by several of her relations and female attendants, was placed on board the canoe, which sailed for its destination. At first the wind was propitious, but a fierce gale arose, which drove the canoe out of her course for many days before it, till those on board were unable to tell in what direction to steer to regain their own island. Another gale sprang up, which drove them still farther away, and then famine began, and sickness, and then water failed, and death followed, and despair took possession of even the bravest. Alea’s chief relations died, but she and Vihala were wonderfully supported. While their heathen companions lost all hope, they encouraged them, spoke to them of their own religion, and endeavoured to teach the truths of the gospel.

Much to my satisfaction, Captain Buxton agreed, on hearing their story, to take them back to their own island. I do not mention the name of the island for reasons which will appear. It took us some days to beat up to it. It was a lovely spot, of volcanic formation, with lofty mountains in the centre, and in most parts clothed with the richest vegetation. Alea and her female attendants were by this time able to come on deck. Her astonishment at seeing her native island was very great, but her satisfaction was less than I expected. I asked Vihala the reason of this. “She expects to be sent again to her intended husband,” he answered, in a melancholy tone. I suspected that Vihala loved his young cousin, nor was it surprising that he should do so. They were of the same faith, and pity for the sad condition to which she would be reduced if the wife of a heathen chief, would have made him wish to free her. We anchored the ship in a secure harbour, and at once sent Vihala and several natives on shore as a deputation to the chief, to inform him of the arrival of his daughter.

After some time, they returned with the announcement that the chief would receive us, and that his daughter would be welcome. We found him seated under a wide-spreading tree, on a bundle of mats, in great state, with numerous lesser chiefs and attendants standing on either side of him. His only clothing was a piece of native cloth wound round his body, and he looked every inch the savage. We expected Vihala to act as interpreter, but when we approached the chief, a person whom we supposed to be a native, though he had a rougher and more savage appearance than the rest, and had on as little clothing as they, advanced a few steps, and informed us in undoubted English, or rather Irish, that he had the honour of being the king’s prime minister, and that it was his duty to perform that office. His name was Dan Hoolan (a runaway seaman, we found), and he had been fifteen years on the island, and was married and settled with a family.

After we had made our statement, poor Alea was allowed to approach her father, which she did in a humble posture, with fear and trembling. He manifested very little concern at seeing her, and directed her to be conducted to her mother’s cottage. I was anxious to know how Alea and Vihala had become Christians, and asked Dan if he had taught them. “No, indeed, I have not,” he answered drawing himself up. “I hope that I am too good a Catholic to teach them the sort of religion they know. There is a sort of old missionary fellow comes over here who has taught them, and he has left a native teacher here, who does nothing but abuse me because I do not make the king here lotu, and do not lotu myself, as they call it, and give up my wives, and make myself miserable.” From this speech of Dan Hoolan’s, I had no difficulty in understanding the state of the case. The wretched man would not give up his own sins, and, therefore, tried to keep the chief in heathen darkness. It would, however, be impolitic to quarrel with him, or, rather, wrong, because the so doing would have increased the difficulty of bringing him round. I should explain that the term lotu means becoming a nominal Christian.

“But I thought, friend Hoolan, you said that you were a Christian,” I remarked quietly, looking fixedly at him.

“So I am inwardly, of course, mate,” he answered, with a wink he could not suppress. “That is to say, a right raal Catholic, as my fathers were before me, with nothing of your missionary religion about me; but just on the outside, maybe, I’m a heathen, just for convenience sake, you’ll understand.”

I did not press the subject then, but being interested about poor Alea, I inquired if he could tell me how her father would treat her.

“Why, send her on to her husband, of course, mate,” he answered, with the greatest unconcern; “it’s the right thing to do.”

“But the chief to whom she is to be given is a heathen and a cannibal, and old enough to be her grandfather,” I remarked.

“Maybe, but it’s the rule; we don’t set much value or women in this part of the world,” observed the prime minister; “I might have married her myself for that matter, but it would have brought on a war with the old chief for whom she is intended, so I did the right thing, do ye see, mate, and let it alone.”

I now turned the subject, and asked what assistance he could give in refitting the ship and supplying fresh provisions. He was immediately in his element, and showed himself in worldly matters a shrewd, clever fellow. Everything now seemed to go on smoothly, and the repairs of the ship progressed rapidly, while we had no lack of fresh provisions. We soon discovered that another double canoe was fitting out to carry Alea to her intended husband. My heart bled for the poor girl, and I would have done anything to save her, I thought over all sorts of plans. They were, however, needless, for the next morning I heard that she had disappeared. No one knew where she had gone. At first I feared that her father had sent her off secretly; but Hoolan’s rage and undisguised fears of the consequences which might occur when the old chief discovered that he had lost his bride, convinced me that such was not the case. I suspected that Vihala might have had something to do with it when I found that he had disappeared about the same time. We were at first suspected, but I convinced Hoolan that we had had nothing to do with the matter.

Several days passed, and not a clue was gained as to what had become of the young princess. One evening, when the men had knocked off work, as I was sitting under an awning on deck, I saw a large canoe entering the harbour. It struck me that it might contain the old chief come to claim his bride; so, as it was not my watch, I jumped into a boat and went on shore to see what would happen. As the canoe drew near, however, I saw that instead of her deck being crowded with tattooed, naked, and painted warriors, dancing, and shouting, and sounding conch-shells, all the people on board were well clothed, while in the after part stood a venerable-looking man with long white hair escaping from under his broad-brimmed hat, and by his side a young lady, both evidently Europeans. I at once naturally walked towards the part of the beach where they would land, and waited for them. No sooner did the canoe touch the shore than several natives from the crowd rushed forward, and lifting the strangers on their shoulders, bore them, with every demonstration of respect, to dry ground. I at once went forward and addressed them in English, and was warmly greeted in return. The old man said he came from a station about fifty miles off. The young lady was his daughter. They had come over on a periodical visit to the Christian converts of this island, and were much concerned to hear that Vihala and the young princess had disappeared.

“They should have abided the storm,” the old man remarked. “I will go see this heathen chief, and try again if by God’s grace his heart may be softened.”

I undertook to get Pat Hoolan out of the way, as it was evident that all his influence was exerted to prevent his master from becoming a Christian. I had fortunately arranged to transact some business with him about this time; so, leaving the missionary addressing the people under a cocoa-nut tree, I hurried up to the king’s village, and without much difficulty persuaded Hoolan to accompany me on board. I kept him there as long as I possibly could. Meanwhile the missionary sought out the chief, and found him willing to listen while he unfolded the story of the gospel. A long time the two conversed; and for the first time the benighted savage heard the message of salvation. Gradually the truth interested him, and he began to turn a more favourable ear to the missionary’s exhortations than he had ever before done.

“Ah, would that I had Vihala with me,” he would frequently exclaim to the missionary. “When you are gone he would instruct me further in the wonderful things I hear.” But neither Vihala nor Alea were to be found. He had driven them forth, there could be no doubt, by resolving to unite his daughter to a heathen chief; and yet was Vihala free from blame in carrying off the young princess? The heathens said that they had committed suicide, and were drowned, but judging from Vihala’s generally consistent character, I felt sure that that was not the case.

From the first I had felt myself drawn very much towards the venerable missionary. His gentleness, yet firmness of manner, his utter negation of self and devotedness to his Master’s cause were very remarkable. His tender love for his daughter, too, was very beautiful. She returned it with the deepest affection and devotion. Accustomed as I had been to the endearments of a happy, well-ordered home, I was sensibly touched by it, and took every opportunity of being in their company. It may appear curious that three days had passed before I learned the name of the good old man. Everybody called him the missionary, spoke of him as the missionary,—thrice-honoured name! In the same way he knew me only as the mate. He had a house assigned to him by the chief, which, by being partitioned off into three chambers, was made tolerably habitable. I was one evening drinking tea there with him and his daughter, when I happened to mention my name.

“What! are you any relative to that devoted missionary, John Harvey?” he asked. When I told him that I was his brother, “Ah, that accounts for your having so friendly a feeling for missionaries,” he observed.

“I learned to respect missionaries, and to see the importance of their work, long before my brother became one,” I answered; and I then told him of my uncle’s journal, which I promised to bring on shore to show him. He was evidently much interested, and made many inquiries about it.

“Does he mention the name of Joseph Bent?” he asked suddenly.

I remembered well several circumstances connected with that person.

“I am the very man,” he exclaimed, grasping my hand. “Oh, how much do I owe to that excellent man! He saved my life; but he did far more,—he brought the truth before me,—he showed me my own vileness by nature; and thus, by his instrumentality brought by grace to trust in Jesus, has my soul been saved. Can one man owe a greater debt to another than I owe to him? I had begun to like you for your own sake, and for that of John Harvey I shall ever regard you as a son. Your uncle was an example of the good a true Christian layman can effect in his ordinary course in life. Those on board every ship in which he sailed benefited by his presence, not so much from what he said as from what he did, from his pure and bright example; for he was a man of few words under ordinary circumstances, though he could speak on occasion, and well. Many by his means were brought to know Jesus, and to serve and love him as their Lord and Master. When John Harvey left the sea and went to live on shore, he devoted his whole time to doing God’s service, and great has long since been his reward.”

This was indeed an interesting discovery. It was gratifying to me to hear the fine old man speak thus of my uncle, as I was sure the praise was not undeserved. As I looked at him, too, I felt how great is the power of grace. I saw before me the drowning youth snatched from the very jaws of death, and of eternal death, too, and allowed to spend a long life in making known to the heathen the inexhaustible riches of Christ. From that day I naturally looked on Mr Bent as an old friend, and was more than ever with him. Indeed, I confess that I was thus drawn into a more intimate acquaintance with his daughter Mary than would have been otherwise the case, and to discover and admire her many excellences.

The missionary was never idle during his visit to the island, and in a week after his arrival the king declared openly that he could no longer withstand the arguments he brought forward in support of his religion, and that he was resolved to lotu. Hoolan, who had been tipsy for some days, or as he called it, enjoying himself, was very indignant when he recovered and heard this, and hastily going to the king, advised him to wait till the arrival of some Roman Catholic priests, who were the proper persons to whom to lotu; but the king replied, that the advice of a man who had been making himself no better than a hog was not worth having; that he had heard what he was sure was true from the missionary, and that therefore he should become of the missionary’s religion. To show his sincerity, he resolved to destroy his gods and burn their moraes, or temples. His great regret was that his daughter and Vihala were not present to see the work done. The missionary urged him to lose no time. It was impossible to say what a day might bring forth. It was not a thing to be done lightly. The missionary visited the king the evening before the ceremony, and many hours were passed in prayer and in reading the Scriptures.

The next morning the king, attended by some of his principal chiefs, and all those who had already professed Christianity, assembled at an early hour, armed with axes and clubs, and firebrands, and ropes, and proceeded to the principal morae, or temple. The heathens also assembled, and stood at a distance trembling, in the expectation that something dreadful would happen. As the king approached the morae, some of his own followers even drew back, and formed a knot at a distance. They had been taught that their gods were full of revenge and hatred, delighting in doing harm to mortals. As Mr Bent considered it to be most important that the natives should destroy their idols themselves, we also stood some way off watching proceedings. The king advanced, exclaiming, “Jehovah is the true God—these are but senseless blocks of wood. See!” As he uttered the last word he struck the principal idol a blow which brought it to the ground. He then rushed at another, several of his chiefs following his example, and in a few minutes every idol was overthrown. (See Note 1.) All the time it was interesting to watch the attitudes and gestures of the heathen, who were evidently under the expectation that fire would come down from heaven, or that the earth would open and destroy their impious chiefs. Their astonishment was proportionably great when nothing of the sort happened, and when the iconoclasts, fastening ropes round the senseless logs, dragged them ignominiously forth, while others of the king’s followers applied their torches in all directions to the morae, and set it on fire. While the conflagration was at its height several of the idols were thrown into it, and speedily consumed; others were dragged down to the sea, where blocks of coral were fastened to them, and they were put on board canoes, ready to be carried into deep water and sunk; while the remainder we secured, to be sent home as trophies won by the soldiers of Christ. The king and the chiefs dragged them up to us, shouting as they did so, “The reign of Satan is at an end—the reign of Satan is at an end.” So far I could agree with them that his kingdom was shaken to the foundation, as it always is where the free gospel is introduced.

Just at this juncture Hoolan, who had remained on board all night, came on shore. His astonishment gave way to rage, and walking up to the king, he shook his fist in his face, and asked him how he dared lotu to the missionaries, and not wait for the arrival of the Catholic priests whom he expected? The chief, accustomed to the eccentricities of his late prime minister, answered calmly:

“Because the reign of Satan is over. The missionaries told us news which we know to be good, and we have believed them. When the priests you speak of come, will they tell us better?”

Hoolan had nothing to say; he soon got calm again, and observed, as he turned on his heel, “Well, I only hope that you’ll be after getting on as well under your new system as you did under mine, that’s all.”

The king made no reply. He steadily progressed in his knowledge of the Scriptures, and gave very hopeful signs that he was really converted. No men could be more scrupulous as to receiving converts in name as really converted than were all the missionaries I met; and I boldly declare that very many of the newly converted could give a better reason for the faith that was in them than can, alas! a very large number both of young and old with whom I have conversed on the subject in England. There still remained, however, a strong heathen party in the island, under the leadership of a warlike and fierce chief, who was very likely, we feared, to give the king a good deal of trouble. It was necessary, however, for Mr Bent to return to his station. He says that, although called by the natives a missionary, he was not employed by any society, but felt it a privilege to help on the good work, supporting himself by trading, and supplying necessaries to the ships that touched at the island where he had fixed his residence. On asking him about some of the places mentioned in old John Harvey’s journal, he said he could tell me of wonderful works of God which he had either witnessed himself, or of which he had heard from those in whose reports he could place the fullest confidence. I need scarcely say how much I felt the idea of being parted from him and his daughter, and I bethought me that I would ask permission from the captain to carry them back in our largest boat. It was at once kindly granted, as a much safer mode of conveyance than a native canoe. I was very happy at being able to pay this last mark of attention to those I so much esteemed; and having made every arrangement I could think of for their comfort during our short voyage, I received them on board at the earliest dawn, in the hopes that we might reach the station before night fell. How true is the saying, “Man proposes, God disposes.” Oh that men would therefore throw all their cares on the Lord, remembering alway that “He careth for us.”

Note 1. In the early Missionary Reports wonderful narratives are given of the speedy destruction of idolatry in many of the islands. With too sanguine hopes, some of the missionaries spoke of these revolutions as the result of religious zeal, and even quoted the prophecy of “a nation being born in a day.” A few years’ experience taught them that in many instances the first profession of Christianity was due to various influences, and that the people with impetuous impulse followed the example of their chiefs. Not without prayerful labour and long patience did the missionaries at length obtain precious fruits of spiritual conversion from the good seed sown in these regions. The statement in our narrative only expresses what was often true as a historical fact. In “Brown’s History of Missions,” volume two, will be found some of the more remarkable instances of the sudden overthrow of idolatry.

Chapter Eleven.

Vihala’s narrative.

The missionary and his daughter were on the beach attended by a number of natives, among whom was the chief, so lately a fierce heathen, now deeply affected at the thought of parting from his friend. As the boat drew near, they all knelt down and offered up prayers, reminding me forcibly of the departure of Paul the apostle from Miletus. It was a deeply interesting sight. In the centre was the venerable missionary with his silvery hair, his daughter kneeling by his side, while around were the king and other chiefs and people, with many women and children. My men without my orders lay on their oars till the prayers had ceased. We then pulled in, and my friends embarked, when the natives burst forth into a hymn, and as we rowed away from the land, we continued to hear it still growing fainter and fainter, till the sound was lost in the increasing distance. We then set our sails and glided swiftly and pleasantly over the sparkling waters. I felt very happy. I would not think of the separation to take place, and determined to enjoy the society of my friends to the utmost. This, perhaps, prevented me from observing as carefully as I might have done the signs of a change in the weather. I believe, however, that Mr Bent, who had more experience as a seaman in this ocean than I possessed, had perceived but he said nothing. The wind suddenly dropped, then it sprung up again, then once more dropped, and the boat scarcely moved through the water. At last it fell altogether, and the sun’s rays struck down with intense violence. My men, however, willingly took to the oars, and we proceeded slowly on our course. Still the island was far away, and I lost all hopes of reaching it before dark, though I could not persuade myself that there was any danger to be apprehended. Mr Bent, however, more than once cast a look round the horizon, anxious more on his daughter’s account than his own. We had lowered the sail, for it was useless keeping it set. Suddenly Mr Bent exclaimed, “Here it comes, round with her head, David.” I looked up, and saw a foam-covered sea rolling towards us. I placed the boat’s head so as to receive it, while the men pulled on steadily as before. The question was whether they would be able to continue so doing. The gale was coming from the west, and should it blow with the same fury for any length of time, we might be driven far away to the east without falling in with any land where shelter could be found. I was thankful that my friends were not on board a native canoe. It would have fared much worse with them. We had the means of finding our way, and might beat back when the weather moderated. Mary behaved with beautiful composure when the sea came seething and hissing up alongside us. “This is only one of the trials and dangers to which missionaries are exposed,” she observed. “We should bear it patiently and trustfully.”

“Trustfully!” How seldom employed, how still less frequently made a practical use of. That one word described much of her character.

The gale soon reached its height; the sea, lashed into fury, seemed one mass of foam, and broke over us so frequently that every instant I expected the boat to be swamped. Two men baling could scarcely keep her free. Our only chance was to run before it, for the strength of the crew no longer availed to keep our small craft’s head to wind. The danger of getting her round was very great; should a sea strike her on the beam, it would have rolled her over helplessly. I gave exact orders what was to be done—one man to hoist the foresail, two to pull round with the starboard oars, the rest to spring aft so as to throw the greatest weight into the stern of the boat, thus allowing her head to come round more rapidly. I waited till a heavy sea had rolled past, and then before we had sunk to the hollow I gave the word. For the first time Mr Bent and his daughter turned pale. The boat flew round, and seemed to be climbing up the ascent towards the crest which had just hissed by, and then on we darted with the small patch of sail we could show to the gale.

On, on we went, the huge seas rolling up astern of us, and appearing as if they would come down and overwhelm us. During all my nautical career I had never been in an open boat exposed to such a gale, though frequently in a big ship, and even then I have felt the helplessness, the nothingness of man. Still more sensibly now was it brought before me—“He commandeth and raiseth the stormy wind, which lifteth up the waves thereof. They mount up to the heaven, they go down to the depths; their soul is melted because of trouble. Then they cry unto the Lord in their trouble, and He bringeth them out of their distresses.” The missionary was repeating those lines, which come so home to the Christian sailor’s heart; and at his exhortation, we offered up our united supplications for protection in our sore distress. To the few solemn words which he spoke, the seamen listened earnestly. They knew that at any moment they might be summoned away. I felt an unusual calmness. I may say that I had no fear: I knew the danger, and yet I believed that we should be preserved.

On, on we drove, farther and farther to the east, our view now confined to the sides of the two seas, in the dark trough between which we floated, seemingly about to be swallowed up, and now lifted on the summit of a foam-crested billow to the tumultuous mountain masses of water which madly leaped and danced one beyond the other till lost in the line where the murky sky sunk over the seething caldron. We had an abundance of provisions on board, but for many hours anxiety prevented any one of us from wishing to partake of them, even the rough seamen seemed indifferent about the matter. At length, however, Mr Bent and I agreed that Mary ought to take some food, which, after a blessing had been asked for, she did, the rest of the party following her example.

We all felt wonderfully refreshed, and hope revived in the hearts of the most desponding. Still we could scarcely dare to conjecture by what means we should be saved. We could not conceal from ourselves that the gale might continue to blow for many days, and that we might be driven far away to the east, whence a long time would be occupied in returning, or that we might be thrown on one of the numberless coral reefs of those seas, or hurled against some rocky shore and be dashed to pieces, while we knew that any moment some cross sea might strike us and send us to the bottom. I have heard of people’s hair turning grey in a single night. The anxiety I began to feel the moment I allowed myself to dwell on our too possible fate would quickly have turned my hair grey, and yet directly I turned my gaze upward, and put my trust in Him who said to the waves, “Peace, be still,” all my anxious fears vanished, and hope came back strong as ever. The missionary all the time maintained the most perfect and beautiful equanimity, not speaking much, but occasionally offering a few words of encouragement to his daughter. She looked up in his face and smiled.

“I have no fear,” she said, calmly. “We cannot be separated, dear father. Should the ocean overwhelm us, we shall together begin a joyful eternity. You have taught me that our Redeemer liveth. ‘I know in whom I have believed, and am persuaded that He is able to keep that which I have committed unto Him against that day.’” This hope gave her courage when others would have shrieked with fear.

The gale continued, the boat driven before it. The night approached. Darkness came down on the face of the waters. Oh, the horrors of that night. The sea roared and hissed, and we knew that those mountain waves were following us as before, though the sight could scarcely distinguish the vast watery masses which, in the obscurity, seemed doubled in height. That a delicate girl should exist through the time appeared indeed surprising; yet, anxious as I was, I could discover no failing of strength or energy in her.

When the sun went down, the missionary had called on us all to join in prayer. At midnight he did so again, thereby comfort and consolation being brought to the souls, I believe, of all of us. He then offered to take the helm, to allow me a short sleep, which nature much required. The instant my hand was off the helm, I dropped down and was fast asleep, too soundly even to dream. I was awoke by a cry from the men, and starting up, I beheld a sight sufficient to alarm the stoutest heart. Before us in the direction the men were gazing, as we rose to the summit of a sea, appeared in the grey light of morning a long row of breakers unbroken apparently for miles, the sign of a coral reef. The sea, hurled against it, rose to a height so great in a wall of foaming water that it was impossible to see beyond whether there was land or not; indeed that was a matter of indifference I felt, as the boat must be dashed to pieces and overwhelmed the instant it reached those fearful breakers. These were the thoughts which flew rapidly through my mind as with the first impulse of waking I looked ahead. My next was to turn round, when I saw the venerable missionary standing up on the after seat gazing earnestly ahead, while his daughter clung to his legs in her anxiety lest he should be thrown overboard with the violent movement of the boat.

I could not help being struck, even at that moment, with the appearance of the old man, so calm and collected, and so earnest as he kept his eye fixed on some object ahead. “Courage, courage, friends! God will find us a way to escape,” he cried out, at length. “An opening appears in the reef; yes, yes, the boat is heading in for it.” As he spoke, I observed a dark spot in the wall of foam which an unpractised eye would not have discovered. As we rushed on towards the breakers, it increased in width till I felt assured that it was indeed an opening, and now beyond it appeared the tops of palm, pandanus, and other trees of those regions, giving us the assurance that we should find land and a haven where we might rest secure from the storm. Still, humanly speaking, our peril was fearful. The greatest skill and judgment were required to guide a boat in a direct course across the tumultuous sea on which we floated. But looking up at the calm countenance of the missionary, as he called me to his side, I had no doubt about the result. On we flew. On either side appeared those walls of foam; one narrow space alone was to be seen where the waves rushed in unbroken by the resistance of the reef. We mounted to the summit of a vast billow—it seemed as if it were about to hurl us on the reef. In another instant we must be struggling helplessly amid that foaming mass of water I heard a cry of despair from more than one of my men. But no, the boat’s head again turned towards the opening, and gliding down the billow we dashed through it, and saw on either side a comparatively smooth lagoon extending between the reef and the shore. The sheet was immediately hauled aft, and we ran along parallel with the beach in search of a favourable place for landing. We could scarcely judge of the size of the island, but we supposed it to be about three miles in length, and a mile or two in width, but Mr Bent did not know its name nor the character of its inhabitants.

The question now arose as to whether they were the treacherous savages and cannibals most of the islanders of those seas were till the introduction among them of Christianity, and would attempt our destruction as soon as we landed, or whether they would receive us with kindness and hospitality. As yet we had seen neither houses nor people; but a smooth beach appearing, with a natural quay of rocks, we resolved to land. We stood in towards the shore, and soon found a calm dock, into which we ran the boat and secured her. With thankful hearts we stepped on the dry land, when the missionary exclaimed, “Let us, dear friends, return thanks to God for the merciful deliverance He has vouchsafed us.” Following his example, we all knelt in prayer, bursting forth at the end in a hymn of thanksgiving. While we were thus engaged a sound made me look up, and I saw emerging from among the cocoa-nut trees a band of unclad Indians with long hair and beards, and armed with spears, and bows, and clubs. That they were still savage heathens there could be no doubt. However, as emerging from the wood they saw us kneeling, they stopped, apparently watching us with the greatest astonishment. Not till we rose from our knees did they again advance. Flourishing their weapons, however, with frightful gestures, they rushed towards us. Happily they did not shoot their arrows. Mr Bent called out to them, but so loud were their shrieks and cries that his voice was not heard. We had a couple of muskets and a fowling piece in the boat; but so completely wetted had they been, that I doubted if they would go off, even had there been time to get them. We waved our handkerchiefs and lifted up our hands, to show that we were unarmed, and desired their friendship; but they disregarded all our signs, and came rushing on. Our destruction appeared inevitable.

“It’s hard lines to lose our lives by these savages, after escaping all the dangers of the seas,” exclaimed one of my men near me.

“Friend, God knows what is best for us,” said the missionary, calmly. “His will is never really hard, though we may think it so. Trust in Him.”

Mary was clinging to her father’s arm, ready to share his fate. I stood by her side, resolved to defend her to the last. The savages were close upon us, when another person appeared from the wood, flying at full speed towards us, shouting at the same time in a loud voice to the savages. He was fully clothed in native fashion, and at first I thought that he was a chief, till, as he came nearer, I recognised in him our missing friend Vihala, the Christian teacher. The natives stopped when they became aware of his approach, and, finding that we made no resistance, contented themselves with standing around us, till he, rushing through them, cast himself down at the feet of the missionary, sobbing with joy at again seeing him. He then turned round to the natives, telling them that we were their greatest friends, and had left our homes and come from a far-off land to do them good. He spoke in a manly, authoritative tone, and greatly to our relief the savages at once retired, watching us at a distance. Mary’s first inquiry was for Alea, in whom she took a great interest. “She is here, and safe,” answered Vihala; and he then briefly recounted the way in which they had been brought to the island.

When first escaping, their intention had been to visit Mr Bent, and to get him to intercede with Alea’s father, and to try and conciliate the heathen chief to whom she was betrothed: but the small canoe in which they had embarked being driven out of its course, they were unable to find their way back, and finally reached this island. The weather had greatly moderated before they got near it, or their frail canoe would in all probability have been dashed to pieces on the reef. They found a passage similar to that by which we entered, and with fear and hesitation approached the beach. Still they had no choice; their water and food was expended, they were suffering from hunger and thirst, and their limbs were cramped and chilled, and they must land or perish. Their chief hope was that the island was not inhabited; for they knew too well the savage character of the people of most of the islands surrounding their own to have much hope of escaping without being either killed or made slaves. They had little doubt that there were inhabitants, from the fertile appearance of the country, and as their canoe touched the beach a number of savages darted out of the wood and surrounded them. They cried out that they had come with no evil intent, and that they had some news of great importance to announce to them. Notwithstanding this, the savages showed an inclination to maltreat them, and were proceeding to rifle their canoe, when another party appeared on the stage. Vihala at once saw that they were chiefs or people of consideration, and immediately thereupon cried out, and entreated that their lives might be spared. The chiefs, for such they were, came forward, and with some interest asked numerous questions in their native tongue, and soon there commenced a most affectionate rubbing of noses all round, and Vihala discovered with great satisfaction that the chiefs were his own relatives, who had left their native island some years previously, and were supposed to have been lost. Alea, as the daughter of the king, they treated with even more consideration than Vihala.

Most providential was the influence the young people were thereby enabled to gain over their savage countrymen; nor did they fail to endeavour immediately to exercise it for good. This was clearly one of God’s ways of working, and one which has been more than once employed in Polynesia. They had glorious tidings to give,—to describe the new and beautiful religion brought to them by people from a far-off country, who had left their native land, their homes, and their families for love of their souls, in obedience to the loving, merciful God whom they served. Some listened, rejoicing in the news; others would not understand, and many turned aside altogether. A small band had, however, been taught by the Spirit to acknowledge Jesus as their Saviour, and they now welcomed heartily the missionary who had at first brought the glad news into that region. Vihala was able to repeat many of the words of truth, which were dropped as seeds in the hearts of the people. The conduct of Alea, even in her living in a different part of the island from Vihala, excited their curiosity and gained their attention. So admirable an example had they set, and assiduously had they laboured, that many of those who had become Christians were already well instructed in the faith, and could give a reason for the hope that was in them. Even the heathen party appeared to have no enmity towards them; when they heard that we were people of peace, and anxious only to do them good, they showed their friendly disposition by bringing us provisions, and in preparing a house for our reception under the direction of Vihala.

Alea was on the other side of the island when we arrived, so that we had been on shore some time before she appeared. The meeting between Mary and her was very affecting. She threw herself into Mary’s arms, and sobbed aloud with joy, exclaiming, “Oh, my sister, my sister,—my more than sister,—my teacher, my mother, my soul’s friend!—and have I found you again? Do I once more hear that dear voice,—do I once more kiss those sweet lips which have told me such holy truths? Ah me! I have gone through much pain and terror, and sorrow and suffering of the spirit, and I have done very wrong, I fear; but I think that I am forgiven, because that I am allowed once more to see you in this wonderful way.”

Often have I since thought of the words uttered by that young unsophisticated child of nature, so lately a child of Satan, and the remarks made by the venerable missionary to me:—“‘My soul’s friend!’ Do we, with all our learning, and knowledge, and religious privileges, thus measure the value of our friends? How many of our friends are our soul’s friends? Oh, as we value our souls, let us try and find out and cling to those which are so. Do we value most the lips which tell us holy truths or those which speak to us pleasant words,—flattering words? Let us seek, my friend, those only whose lips ever speak to us holy truths,—who will tell us of our faults,—who will not flatter with their tongues.”

I will not repeat more of his remarks, but I may mention that, like all faithful pastors of the Lord’s flock, he never lost an opportunity of inculcating the truth, of exhorting of advising. He knew the value of a soul in his Master’s sight. The chiefs assured us that our boat would be safe; so having unloaded her, we hauled her up on the beach, and left her in charge of some natives, with whom it was arranged my men should lodge till we were again able to put to sea. I took one of them with me well armed, as I was myself; for I own that I did not like altogether to trust the missionary and his daughter alone among the savages, the greater number of whom were still heathen in all their notions and customs.

Chapter Twelve.

A loving welcome.

We now set off with Alea and her friends through the woods to the other side of the island. The natives kept at a respectful distance, the children peeping at us out of the entrances to their huts or from behind the trees, we being the first white people they had ever seen. We reached at length the shore of a beautiful sandy bay, where in a grove of cocoa-nuts we found Vihala busily employed in forming divisions in a large native hut to suit our requirements. So assiduously had he and his Christian converts worked, that it was almost ready for our reception. The people began immediately to assemble round us, expecting that the missionary would address them, as Vihala had been accustomed to do, but he told them that we were weary from our long voyage and needed rest, as indeed we did. “No, no, my friend,” said Mr Bent, “do not send the people away till we have bestowed on them some portion of the bread of life.” On this, greatly fatigued though he was, the missionary spoke to them in plain and simple, yet in tender and glowing words, of the great love of God for a perishing world, which caused Him to send His only Son down on earth, that all who believe in Him should not perish, but have life everlasting. Many wept and cried out that they were sinners, and entreated that he would talk to them again of this matter as soon as he was able.

After an ample repast, provided by the natives, we retired to rest without fear, for we felt that we were watched over by One who never slumbers nor sleeps. I do not believe that I ever slept more soundly in my life.

The next morning the people again assembled to hear the missionary deliver his message, his glad tidings of great joy, and glad tidings indeed they were to many of those long-benighted beings. They had never dreamed of a God of love; their only notion of a superior power was one which inspired them with awe and terror. I have frequently observed that the unsophisticated minds of savages grasp the simple and glorious truths of the gospel with an avidity and a power of comprehension which would be surprising to those who have been accustomed week after week and year after year to set the same truths before those to whom they are familiar. As I heard Mr Bent and Vihala addressing the people, whose upturned eager earnest countenances I watched, my heart glowed within me, and I longed to be able also to spread the same glad tidings among a race so eager to receive them. Mary Bent was not idle either, for she had collected round her a number of young women and girls, to whom she was telling the same truths in a way calculated to fix them on their memories.

I deeply regretted that we could not remain on the island till some at least had been thoroughly instructed in the doctrines of Christianity, but it was clearly my duty to return as soon as I possibly could to my ship. “Find out what is right and do it, independent of all other considerations,” was a maxim in which I had been instructed. Mr Bent, although more anxious to remain for some time longer even than I was, saw things in the same light I set to work, therefore, with my crew to prepare our boat for sea, so as to commence our return voyage directly the storm should cease and the sea become calm.

A week, however, elapsed before I considered that we might safely venture to put to sea. When the natives heard that we were about to take our departure, they entreated with tears that we would remain some time longer. Finding that they could not prevail, they then of their own accord begged that Vihala might be left with them. This was a sore trial to him, for Alea had been convinced that it was her duty at once to return to her father, and the separation was grievous to both. Still the path of duty seemed clearly marked out for them. There was no hesitation. Vihala felt that he could not abandon those who had been so lately taught to know the truth, and who so much needed further instruction. The young people consoled themselves that they might soon again meet to be united for ever. “Fear not, dearest,” said Vihala. “Let us put our trust in God. We are doing our duty. He always protects those who do that.” Still, though they thus bravely spoke, they were both deeply affected at parting.

A large multitude of the natives accompanied us to the beach, and earnest prayers were offered up for our safety. Mary and her friend were already in the boat, when there was a cry among the crowd, which opening in the centre, several men appeared dragging by ropes what looked like logs of wood. “Here, take these things,” they shouted. “These were once our gods—we are ashamed of them; but they will serve to show the people of other lands that we are no longer what we were, trusting to blocks of wood and stone, but disciples of the true God, who made the heavens, and the earth, and all things therein. Take them—take them with you, or cart them into the sea, so that we may never behold them again.” The boat was already fully loaded; but we could not refuse this request, so fixing one at the stern, and another at the bows, and some smaller idols under the seats, we, thus freighted, pulled out through the reef and made sail for the mission station.

The wind was light, and we could scarcely expect to accomplish the voyage within three days. As however the boat was large, we were able to fit up a small shelter, in which Mary and Alea could sleep with tolerable comfort while the weather was fine. The conversation of Mr Bent I found of unspeakable advantage. He and I kept watch and watch, though I insisted on keeping five to his three, not to run the risk of fatiguing him overmuch. I remember, during a midnight watch, feeling some uneasy sensations come over me with occasional shivering, but at the time thought little of it.

The second morning dawn had just broken, when I saw in the distance an object, which, as we neared it, proved to be a large double canoe. Where she could have come from, and what was the character of the people on board I could not tell, and this caused me no little anxiety. Still, without going much out of our course, it would be difficult to avoid them. I awoke Mr Bent, and we agreed to sail directly on, taking no notice of them, unless the people showed a friendly disposition. In a short time we got near enough to ascertain without doubt that she was crowded with heathen warriors, who were indulging themselves in every conceivable variety of violent gesticulation. We had too much reason to believe that they would attack us. Our men loaded the firearms, but I hoped that we might avoid having to fight for our lives. Providentially the wind was light. Under sail the canoe could beat us hollow, but we could pull faster than she could. I accordingly ordered the oars to be got out, so as to avoid her if necessary. Suddenly, however, as she got close to us down came her sail, and all the warriors prostrated themselves on the deck, where they remained as we glided by. Had we been alone we should have boarded them, but with Mary and Alea on board, we felt it more prudent to avoid them.

The wind soon again springing up, on we sailed, and as long as we could distinguish the people on the deck, they were seen still lying down as they were when we passed. The cause of this strange behaviour did not till then strike me, when my eye fell on the hideous idol in our bow, and I found many months afterwards that I was right in my conjectures, when I met with one of the men who had formed the crew of the canoe. He and his companions were among the most ferocious of the cannibals of the Pacific. On seeing us they had borne down upon us intending our destruction. When, however, they saw the two hideous idols stuck up at either end of the boat, they were impressed with the idea that some powerful gods were on a cruise, or about to visit some new country, and completely awestruck, they dared not examine us further. Thus were we delivered from another great danger. It was not till we were out of sight of the war-canoe, that Mary and Alea awaking, we told them of what had occurred. The Indian girl trembled, as well she might, for there was much reason to suppose that it belonged to the heathen chief to whom she was betrothed, and that had she been discovered she would have been carried away as a prisoner. Again a feeling of illness came over me, for which I could not account, but I exerted myself and succeeded in overcoming the sensation.

Our voyage continued prosperous though our progress was slow, and it was not till the morning of the fourth day that we sighted the high land above the missionary station. As we sailed in through an intricate passage, under the guidance of Mr Bent, we saw people collecting on the beach. He stood up and waved to them with his daughter resting on his arm. A minute passed, when it was evident that he was recognised, for there was an immediate hurrying to and fro—numbers rushing down to the beach from all quarters, clapping and stretching out their hands, and leaping, and dancing, with other demonstrative gesticulations; and as we got closer we could hear them shouting forth their welcomes, and then a song of gratitude and praise arose from the mouths of the many hundreds collected together. The reception was truly touching and gratifying. “Oh, how they love my father!” said Mary. Those words spoke volumes. I did not propose allowing myself more than an hour on shore, intending to start immediately for my ship.

Scarcely, however, had I walked ten paces than I tottered, and should have fallen had not Mr Bent and some of the natives caught me; and I found myself carried away to his house. My impression was that I was dying, and Mr Bent insisting that he would not allow me to undertake the voyage, I begged that my men would return to the ship. As the coxswain was a steady fellow, and the wind was fair, I had no anxiety as to their finding their way. The boat, therefore, immediately sailed, and I was left alone at the missionary station. I have ever felt that it was providential my illness seized me when it did, for had I embarked, I do not believe, humanly speaking, that I should have survived. I use the term providential, at the same time that I believe nothing happens to us which is not subject to God’s providing care. For many days Mr Bent believed that my life hung by a thread, as the expression is, and it was owing, as far as human means were concerned, to his and his daughters watchful care that I recovered, and to his knowledge of medicine.

I do not wish to trouble the reader of this narrative with more than is seemly of my personal affairs, but I must briefly refer to what proved the happiest event of my life. After having seen so much of Mary Bent, I felt that no pain could be greater than that of having to part from her, and I found also to my joy that she had given me her affection. We at once told all to Mr Bent.

“My only regret, if I have one, David, is, that you are not a missionary,” was his reply. “I had wished Mary to have become the helpmate of one entirely devoted to the glorious service of our Lord and Master.”

“But, sir, surely without being set aside exclusively for the work of a missionary, I may labour not without effect in the Lord’s vineyard,” I answered, promptly, for I had often read and often felt how much might really be done by a Christian layman in the cause of Christ.

“True, true, David, and I pray God that you and many more like you may thus labour in whatever course of life you are called,” answered the missionary. “I believe you, indeed I may say that I know you, to be (as far as one man can judge another) a true and sincere Christian, or no consideration would induce me to entrust my child to you. I do, however, give her to you with confidence that you will watch over her spiritual, as I am assured you will over her temporal welfare.”

I will not repeat more that Mr Bent said to me on the occasion. The exhortation he then uttered I have repeated often to others. Husbands and wives, do you watch over each other’s spiritual welfare? Are you each jealously watchful over every word and action which may lead the other into sin? With whom do you associate? In what sort of amusements do you indulge? What sort of places do you prefer to visit? In these matters your consciences do not accuse you. Very well. But do you pray together, and pray aright? Do you read the Scriptures together? Are you constantly pointing out to each other the heavenward way? Do you more earnestly desire each other’s salvation than all the wealth the world can give, than all earthly blessings? Have you assured yourselves that you will meet together before the great white throne clothed in the bright robes of the Lamb? Surely those alone are truly happy and fitly matched who can answer yes, yes, in a joyful chorus, to such questions.

It would be profitable if I could repeat many of the remarks made to me from time to time by Mr Bent. “How sad it is that seamen are generally so ignorant of their awful responsibilities, and of the immeasurable amount of good they have it in their power to effect in the Christian cause during their visits to foreign lands,” he one day observed to me. “Ay, alas! and to think of the immeasurable amount of harm they by their too general conduct produce. Thousands and thousands of professed Christian seamen are found every day in the year at seaports inhabited by heathens. Into what disrepute do they too generally bring Christianity, instead of exhibiting its beauty and excellence by the propriety and correctness of their lives—I will not say, as I could wish, by their purity and holiness.

“It is impossible to calculate the amount of harm nominally Christian seamen have produced among these islands of the Pacific. There have been bright exceptions, especially among the British ships of war happily commanded by Christian officers; Sir Everard Home, Captain Waldegrave, and others—names that will ever be honoured among the isles of the Pacific. Several masters of whalers and merchantmen also have come here and done credit to the Christian character; but the larger number, with their crews, have done incalculable mischief to the hapless natives, and when they have found their evil practices opposed by the missionaries of the gospel, they have wreaked their revenge by spreading on their return home reports intended to injure them, and to prevent the spread of Christianity among the isles of the Pacific. God ever protects those labouring earnestly in His cause; and although these reports have done little harm at home, they will have to render up a tremendous account for their own doings among the inhabitants of Polynesia. The missionaries and their supporters only desire that those at home should read their statements as well as the reports of their traducers, feeling assured that every impartial judge will pronounce a verdict in their favour. The missionaries to the Pacific desire that their fellow-men should approve their proceedings, not for their own sakes (for to their Master they joyfully and confidently commit their cause), but that their so glorious cause may not suffer, and may obtain the required support.”

But to return to my narrative.

Chapter Thirteen.

The romance of Missions.

I have not described the mission station where I had spent the last few weeks. It was beautifully situated on gently rising ground backed by lofty hills wooded to their very summits. Here and there dark and rugged masses of rock might be seen peeping out from amid the trees and streams of sparkling water falling down their sides far away below into basins of foam, and then taking their course in rapid, bubbling rivulets towards the blue sea. The windows of the house, which were very large to admit a free current of air, and were shaded by a deep-roofed verandah, looked on one side up towards the hills, and on the other over the boundless ocean. The interior was a pattern of neatness. The furniture, though simple, was pretty and well made, with snowy white curtains to the windows and beds, and green blinds to keep out the glare of that hot clime. The verandah ran completely round the house, and a thick thatch of leaves formed a roof which effectually prevented the sun’s rays from penetrating below. In front was a pretty flower-garden, and in the rear a well-stocked kitchen garden, producing in perfection all the native vegetables, fruits, and roots, as well as many from Europe. The islanders there saw even their own fruits and roots increased in size, and improved in flavour by careful culture. Near it was a cool grove of cocoa-nut palm and bread-fruit trees, through which a fresh current of trade wind was continually blowing.

The church, although built by the natives of wood—under the direction of course of Mr Bent—was a commodious and imposing edifice. The school-house was also a large and neat building. In its neighbourhood was a long street of cottages inhabited by natives, constructed after the plan of the teachers’ dwellings—some of stone or rather rock coral, and others of wood—all having both flower and kitchen gardens, while round the settlement were extensive fields where the chief food for the support of the community was produced. Of the many missionary stations which I have visited, all are more or less like the one I have described. The missionaries have thus not only taught the natives of these wide-scattered islands the truths of the gospel, but by practically showing them the very great advantages which civilised men possess over savages, they have induced them to become industrious, and to learn those elementary arts by which alone their civilisation can be advanced and secured. However, it must be remembered that very few communities are so favourably placed that they can advance far in civilisation unless they have the means of exchanging the produce of their labour with that of other people, and on this account Mr Bent was very anxious to obtain another vessel in lieu of one which had been lost, so that he might enable the natives under his special charge to trade with other islanders, and might at the same time convey missionaries and teachers wherever they might desire to move.

I offered to assist in building such a craft—a schooner which could be easily handled—and afterwards to take command of her should the Golden Crown not return for me. In the event of her appearing, I hoped that still Captain Buxton would give me my discharge; but should he be unwilling to comply with my wish I purposed returning out to the island as soon as possible, that I might marry Mary Bent, and then commence the very important undertaking I had proposed.

That no time might be lost, we forthwith drew out the plan of our vessel. I was still unable to move about to assist Mr Bent; he, however, at once set the natives to work to cut down the necessary trees, and to prepare the timber. When we remembered how much that great and good missionary, Williams, had accomplished single-handed, we agreed that we ought not to be daunted by any difficulties which might occur. We had already an ample supply of tools, a carpenter’s and a blacksmith’s workshop, and several of the younger natives had become, if not perfectly skilled, at all events very fair artisans; indeed, fully capable of performing all the rougher work, both of wood and iron, which would be required. Indeed, I may say, that in a great degree they made up for their want of skill by their teachableness and anxiety to do their work in a satisfactory manner. They understood as clearly as we did the importance of the undertaking, both on account of the worldly advantage it might prove to them, and the benefit of a religious character the vessel might convey to others. The more I saw the work progressing as I lay helpless on my couch, and the more I thought of the benefit, not one alone, but a fleet of such vessels, might prove to the Pacific isles, the more eagerly I prayed for my recovery, that I might take my share in it. It was indeed a joyful day when at length I was able to go out and join the rest, even although only for a short time, in the work.

I had brought my uncle’s journal with me that I might lend it to Mr Bent, as I felt sure that he would be interested in reading it. “The perusal of that manuscript has caused me tears of joy and thankfulness,” he observed, as he returned it to me. “Wonderful, under God’s providence, are the changes which have been wrought among the inhabitants of a large portion of Polynesia since the time of which he wrote. They have indeed truly been called from out of darkness into light; and even those who have not been converted, benefit by the light which shines among them. The description he gives of their spiritual condition and of the scenes which were constantly enacted among them is indeed most true. You see what they have become; you see order and civilisation prevailing among those who were considered the most savage and debased; places of worship, educated and enlightened ministers, well-regulated schools, a large proportion able to read the word of God in their own tongue; but you are not acquainted with the means by which this glorious change has been wrought—with what may be called ‘the transition state’ of Polynesia. One of the chief reasons why people at home are incredulous as to the present condition of these islands is, that they are ignorant of the events which have occurred, and of the nature of the instrumentality which has been employed. They say that man could not have done it, and, therefore, that it cannot have been done. They are right in saying that man could not have done it, but it has been done by the Holy Spirit of God working by means of human agency; weak things have indeed been employed to confound the strong.”

I was seated with Mr Bent and his daughter at our evening meal—the labours of the day being over—enjoying the cool sea breeze, which blowing through the room afforded us that strength and refreshment which our frames, exhausted by the heat, greatly required. I assured him how thankful I should be to have the account he offered, confessing that except with respect to the islands at which we had touched, and where I could judge of the changed state of the people, I was still very ignorant of the condition of the principal part of the inhabitants of Polynesia. Indeed, I owned, that had I believed the accounts given in two works we had on board, I should have supposed that the inhabitants had rather suffered than benefited by the advent of missionaries among them, and that from being light-hearted, happy beings, they had become morose, discontented, and inhospitable. I mentioned Kotzebue’s “Voyage round the World,” in which work the author abuses the missionaries in unmeasured terms, and another by a Mr Beale, the surgeon of a South-Sea whaler, who, in a book full of valuable descriptions of whales, and the mode of catching them, loses no opportunity of showing his dislike to missionaries, and the principles they have inculcated on their native converts.

“Yes, indeed,” said Mr Bent; “I might mention several other works of a similar character, which, I believe, have prevented many persons from supporting missions to these seas, or served as an excuse to them for not doing so; but I also have many works written by men of high standing, and thoroughly unprejudiced as witnesses, who do full justice to the labours of my missionary brethren, or rather, I would say, to the results which by their instrumentality have been produced. The Hon. Captain Keppel (now Admiral Yelverton), of HMS Meander, who visited these islands in 1850, will, I know, speak in favourable terms. Captain Erskine, of HMS Havannah, has done so in a very interesting work on the ‘Islands of the Pacific’ Captain Wilkes, of the United States navy, in his ‘Voyages round the World,’ speaks most favourably of the result of missionary enterprise; and so indeed do many other naval officers of both nations. I myself must be considered as an impartial witness to the magnitude of the work which has resulted from the labours of the agents of the various societies which have sent the gospel of peace to the islands of these seas. On being rescued from more than death by your uncle I was received back as a returned prodigal by my family, and was enabled to pursue a course of studies which would fit me for the work to which I had resolved to devote myself. My father, when he consented to my wishes, made the proviso, however, that I should not connect myself with any religious body for the purpose, or act as the agent of any missionary society, but that I should go forth by myself, relying on the funds which he would place at my disposal. While he lived he supported me liberally, enabling me to marry and to bring out a wife to be the sharer of my toils, and on his death he left me an income which has been sufficient, with that derived by my own labours, for all my wants. I have thus been able, by means of the little vessel I spoke of, to move about among the islands as I judged best, and often to render assistance to brother ministers of various denominations, whose work had become too great for their strength. I do not speak of the mode of proceeding I adopted, to induce others to follow in the same course, but simply to explain how it is that you find me unattached to any missionary society, and yet acquainted with the transactions of all those labouring in this part of the world. I propose, my young friend, that you may the more clearly understand the present spiritual condition of these Pacific isles, to give you a brief sketch of what I consider the four great prominent events which have taken place connected with them, and almost immediately, I may say, under my own eye—events of importance unspeakable, as marking the signal overthrow of Satan’s power. First, the declaration by the king of Tahiti, one of the Georgian Islands, of his conviction of the truth of Christianity, and of his desire to become a servant of the true God, on the 12th June, 1812, just fifteen years after the arrival of the missionaries in that group, followed immediately by the open profession of several natives of Tahiti. The second event occurred in November, 1819, when King Rihoriho, of Hawaii, one of the Sandwich Islands, in one day breaking through the most revered of heathen customs, set fire to the temples, and destroyed the idols, a few months before the arrival of the missionaries, who were then on their way to attempt the conversion of his people. The third event occurred in 1829. It was the conversion of a powerful chief of the Friendly Islands, who afterwards became King George of Tonga. Some time before this, two Tahitian teachers connected with the London Missionary Society, on their way to Fiji had resided with Tubou, chief of Nukualofa. Under their influence and instruction Tubou gave up the Tonga gods, destroyed the spirit house, and erected a place for Christian worship, in which he and his people, to the number of two hundred and forty, assembled to listen to Divine truth in the Tahitian language, on the 4th of February, 1827. He was not, however, baptised till 1830. A fourth event, which appears still more wonderful to those who know the man than any I have before mentioned, was the conversion of the fierce and proud cannibal, King Thakombau, of Bau, the most powerful among the chiefs of Fiji, on the 30th April, 1854. He may, indeed, be considered the king of all Fiji, for all the other chiefs are either his vassals, or vassals to those who acknowledge him as their chief. Although a large number of the inhabitants of the group, of all ranks, had embraced Christianity before the king, yet his conversion more especially marked the triumph of the truth in Fiji, and proves the power of the gospel to change the heart of a man, however benighted, savage, and bloodthirsty he may have been.

“To these more prominently important events may be added the establishment of a church at Raratonga, in May, 1833, ten years after the landing of the first native teacher, which went on increasing till the entire population had been brought under Christian instruction.

“Still more important than the former events was the arrival of Messrs Williams and Barff at Samoa, with a band of native teachers, in 1830, at the moment when Tamafaigna, a despot, who united the supreme spiritual with great political power, and whose boundless sway presented a most formidable barrier to the introduction of the gospel, had just been slain, and their cordial reception by Malietoa, a chief of an acute and inquiring mind and amiable disposition, who himself, with his sons, and their wives and children, soon afterwards renounced their superstitions, and destroyed the only idol found in Samoa. The population, when the missionaries landed, amounted to forty thousand, who, though not so cruel and bloodthirsty as that of other groups, were still sunk in the lowest depths of pagan ignorance and misery.

“I have watched too the partial establishment of Christianity among the native inhabitants of New Zealand, and its extension thence northward, as also from the east among the islands of Western Polynesia—the New Hebrides, New Caledonia, and the Loyalty and Britannia Islands. Still the great work is progressing. New labourers are appearing in the field. From all directions the heathen are crying out for instruction in the wonderful gospel, and more and more labourers are required to supply their urgent wants. A very remarkable feature in this great work is the mode in which it has been accomplished. The number of educated white men engaged in it has been comparatively very small. The most unexpected results, the greatest triumphs have been brought about through native agency. The natives of the Society Islands and Hervey group especially, instructed by English missionaries, and inspired by the Holy Spirit, have, with love in their hearts for their perishing brethren and a burning desire for their conversion, gone forth, braving all perils, some to the surrounding, others to far distant islands, and their language being similar, they have at once been able to address their heathen inhabitants. Many have died from sickness, others have been murdered by those they came to help, but the remainder have persevered till they have seen the cause of the gospel triumphant.

“Oh, Mr Harvey, I wish that others were impressed as I am with the awful thought that day after day thousands upon thousands of heathen are perishing in darkness and sin who might, did their Christian fellow-men use more exertion, have had the glorious gospel preached to them, and have been brought to see the light. I will illustrate the remarks I have made,” said Mr Bent, “by examples as they occur to me, keeping, as much as my memory will allow, to the sequence of events.”

To the testimonies referred to in the foregoing chapter may be added that given by Dr Seemann, in “Viti: An Account of a Government Mission to the Vitian or Fijian Islands in the years 1860-61.” He was sent out by the English Government to ascertain the fitness of the group for the production of cotton. He was absent only thirteen months from England, and had time not only to sow the seed, but to pluck the cotton which it produced. Speaking of the missionaries to the group, he says: “It was all up-hill work; yet results have been attained to which no right-minded man can refuse admiration. According to the latest returns, the attendance on Christian worship in 1861 was 67,489, and there were 31,566 in the day-schools. For the supervision of this great work the Society had only eleven European missionaries and two schoolmasters, assisted by a large class of native agents who are themselves the fruits of mission toil, and some of whom, once degraded and cannibal heathens, are becoming valuable and accredited ministers of the gospel.” Dr Seemann is a naturalist, and certainly is not prejudiced in favour of the Wesleyans, or of any other religious body. His evidence is therefore of more value. A description of the condition of Fiji as it was is sickening; and yet it is necessary to show the depth of depravity to which human nature can sink, and the glorious change which the gospel can work even in savages such as these. They were constantly at war with each other, and often fought for no other purpose than to procure people for their ovens. They have been known even to bake men alive. Often a town was attacked, and all the inhabitants, sometimes four or five hundred in number, were slaughtered. When the son of a great chief arrived at manhood, it was the custom to endue him with his toga virilis on the summit of a large heap of slaughtered enemies; and the whole population of a town was ruthlessly murdered for no other purpose than to form such a heap.

When a chief received a visit from a brother chieftain, if he had no captives ready to kill, he would kill some of his own slaves, or send out to catch some men, women, or children from a neighbouring island, or from among his own people. Indeed, no man, whatever his rank, was safe; and hundreds thus lost their lives every year, that the cannibal propensities of the chiefs might be gratified.

Infanticide was common among the chiefs as well as among the lower orders; and mothers, abandoning all natural affection, considered it no crime to kill their children. It was an ordinary matter for children to bury their aged parents alive; and fathers and mothers have been known to bury alive their grown-up sons who might complain of illness, or have become weary of life, stamping down on their graves with the greatest unconcern.

On the death of a chief his favourite wives were invariably strangled with him. Numerous slaves also were killed, to form his band of attendants to another world; and a great cannibal feast was also held. Human victims were offered to their obscene deities by their priests in their temples, groves, and high places. When a house was to be built for a chief, four live slaves were placed in deep holes to support the corner posts, when the earth was filled in on them, that their spirits might watch over the edifice. When a large canoe was to be launched victims were clubbed, or the canoe was drawn over their living bodies like the car of Juggernaut, crushing them to death. For the slightest offence a chief would club to death one of his wives, or any of his people, and feast afterwards on their bodies.

But enough has been said to show the character of the people of Fiji. They are, especially the chiefs, tall, handsome men; and though their skin is black, they have not the features of negroes. They are also very intelligent, active and energetic.

Dr Seemann says, page 77 of his work, “Until 1854, Bau, which is the name of the metropolis as well as of the ruling state, was opposed to the missionaries, and the ovens in which the bodies of human victims were baked scarcely ever got cold. Since then, however, a great change has taken place. The king and all his court have embraced Christianity; of the heathen temples, which by their pyramidical form gave such a peculiar local colouring to old pictures of the place, only the foundations remain; the sacred groves in the neighbourhood are cut down; and in the great square, where formerly cannibal feasts took place, a large church has been erected. Not without emotion did I land on this blood-stained soil, where probably greater iniquities were perpetrated than ever disgraced any other spot on earth. It was about eight o’clock in the evening; and, instead of the wild noise which greeted former visitors, family prayer was heard from nearly every house.

“To bring about such a change has indeed required no slight efforts, and many valuable lives had to be sacrificed; for although no missionary in Fiji has ever met with a violent death, yet the list of those who died in the midst of their labours is proportionately great. The Wesleyans, to whose disinterestedness the conversion of these degraded beings is due, have, as a society, expended 75,000 pounds on this object; and if the private donations of friends to individual missionaries and their families be added, the sum reaches to the respectable amount of 80,000 pounds.”

Dr Seemann describes a visit to the island of Lakemba, hallowed as the spot on which the first Christian mission was established. Mr Fletcher, the resident missionary, conducted him and his companions through a grove of cocoa-nut palms and bread-fruit trees to his house, a commodious building, thatched with leaves, surrounded by a fence and broad-boarded verandah, the front of the house looking into a nice little flower-garden, the back into the courtyard.

The ladies gave them a hearty welcome, glad to look once more upon white faces, and to hear accounts from home. Though the thermometer ranged more than 80 degrees Fahrenheit, the thick thatch kept off the scorching rays, and there was a fresh current of trade wind blowing through the rooms. It was pleasing to see everything so scrupulously neat and clean; the beds and curtains as white as snow, and everywhere the greatest order prevailed.

“There are the elements of future civilisation,—models ready for imitation,—hallowed homes which no Romish priest can afford,” observes the Doctor, “the yard well-stocked with ducks and fowls, pigs and goats,—the gardens replete with flowers, cotton shrubs twelve feet high, and bearing leaves, flowers, and fruit in all stages of development. These missionary stations are fulfilling all the objects of convents in their best days, and a great deal more; for their inmates are teaching a pure and simple faith in Jesus, which those of the convents did not.”

Mr Fletcher showed them over the town, the first spot in Fiji where Christianity was triumphant and a printing-press was established, from which was issued an edition of the whole Bible in the language of the people, and several other works. There exist, indeed, two versions of the Bible in the language of Fiji. The church in the town is a substantial building, capable of holding three hundred people. There are some thirty other churches in the Lakemba district alone.

From Lakemba, occupying a week on the voyage, they proceeded to the island of Somosomo, till lately one of the strongholds of idolatry and cannibalism. Golea, the king, was a heathen, but his chief wife, Eleanor, was a Christian, and they believed a sincere one, judging from the almost frantic manner in which she endeavoured to obtain a Fijian Bible seen in their possession. She exhausted every argument to get it, and her joy was indescribable when her wishes were acceded to.

Dr Seemann writes: “If the Wesleyan Society had more funds at its disposal, so as to be able to send out a greater number of efficient teachers, a very few years would see the whole of Fiji Christianised, as all the real difficulties now in the way of the mission have been removed. On my representing the case in this light, his Majesty the King of Hanover was graciously pleased to subscribe his first gift of 100 pounds towards so desirable an object, at the same time expressing his admiration for the labours of the individual missionaries I named.”

Chapter Fourteen.

From darkness to daylight.

“My dear young friend,” said Mr Bent, addressing me, in continuation of the subject on which he had before been speaking, “we should never despair while God is with us of the success of our labours among the heathen. In my experience I have known numerous instances in which, when it appeared that profound darkness rested on the land, light has burst forth and spread far and wide around.

“I believe that thirteen years had passed after the Duff had made her most successful voyage to these seas in 1796, and landed a large body of missionaries at Tahiti, before one single acknowledged convert to Christianity was made. Still the diminished band of missionaries laboured on. They obeyed God’s express command to preach the word to all creatures, and they knew that His word would not return to Him void. God works through human agency, and it must be confessed that many of these missionaries were not fitted by education for the work they had undertaken. It may be said with justice that therefore they did not succeed. Still they laboured on, teaching many the principles of Christianity although none turned to the truth.

“Pomare, the king of Tahiti, although he was friendly to the missionaries, for long remained as determined a heathen as any of his people. At length, however, attacked by his own subjects, he could not protect the missionaries, and the larger number were compelled to retire to the island of Huahine, where they hoped to be in safety. So little progress did they appear to be making even here in their undertaking, that, with one exception, the following year they left Huahine and retired to New South Wales, thus bringing the once promising mission to the Society Islands to a termination. I refer to this time to show you how necessary it is that missionaries should not under any circumstances despair of success. Nothing could be more hopeless than this mission now seemed. Pomare, although he befriended the missionaries, remained still seemingly as dark and determined a heathen as at first, and he had now indeed no longer the power of helping them. He had, however, received a considerable amount of instruction from them. He had acquired the arts of reading and writing his own language, and had learned the first principles of Christianity.

“The seed had not, as was supposed, been sown on stony ground, though it took long in growing up. Adversity caused Pomare to think. He had been told that Jehovah is a God of purity and holiness, and he began to reflect that the life he and his people led must be very distasteful to such a God, and might be the cause of the sufferings he was enduring. The Holy Spirit seemed to apply the truth, so that he at length comprehended the nature of sin, and especially felt his own great sinfulness. He, therefore, wrote letter after letter, entreating the missionaries to return. With joy they accepted his invitation. On their arrival, the king and several of his people professed their belief in the new religion; but a coalition of heathen chiefs being formed against them, some severe fighting took place. The heathens were defeated. Pomare treated them with great leniency, allowing no one to be injured, and even sending the body of a chief killed in battle back to his own people to be buried. So great was the effect of this conduct that the heathen party became anxious to know more of the new faith, and in a few months the idols of Tahiti were thrown to the ground. Although Pomare and some of his chiefs, as well as the lower orders, had embraced Christianity in spirit as well as in name, the mass of the people remained, as might have been expected, ignorant of its principles, and indulged in habits the very reverse of those it inculcates. Still the true faith went on taking root downwards and bearing fruit upwards. In 1817 a large number of missionaries arrived from England at Eimeo. Among them came two whose names are known far beyond their spheres of action—William Ellis and John Williams. The following year some of them removed to Huahine, the principal of the Leeward or Society group, and soon after John Williams and Mr L Threlkeld, invited by Tapa and other chiefs of Raiatea, settled in that island. Similar invitations were received from the chiefs of other large islands, while native teachers were sent to the smaller islands which were also occasionally visited by the missionaries. Thus in a few years the entire population of the Georgian and Society Islands had renounced idolatry, and were in general outwardly very strict in their religious observances. I say outwardly, because many of those who attended religious worship and refrained from all work and amusement on the sabbath, still continued in the practice of heathen vices. Yet I believe that at that very time the great mass of the people were not more ignorant of Christian truth, nor more vicious, than are too many communities of like size in so-called Christian Europe. We should judge of people who have lately been brought out of a savage state, not by a standard which we should wish them to attain, but by other people who have long been considered civilised Christians; and thus judging of the inhabitants of Tahiti and the neighbouring islands, I am certain that they will not lose by comparison with many of those who have claimed for centuries to be civilised, and whose religion has long been nominally Christian. I say this with confidence, but after all it is not saying much in their praise. One thing, however, is very clear. A few years ago they were ignorant barbarians, savage and debased, not knowing right from wrong. Now they abstain from their former cruel and sanguinary practices, they go about clothed and live in neat cottages, and industriously cultivate the ground; they can generally read and write their own language, and have learned many mechanical arts; they understand the principles of Christianity, attend Divine worship, and respect the sabbath, while undoubtedly some, and perhaps many, have been ‘created anew in Christ Jesus unto good works,’ and not a few have risked their lives, and laid them down for the gospel’s sake. A large number of the native teachers who have gone forth among the savage tribes of the wide-scattered islands of the ocean to carry to them the glad tidings of salvation, have come from Tahiti and other parts of the Georgian and Society Archipelago.

“Great as was the change, after all allowances are made, in the islands of which I have been speaking, that produced by the promulgation of the truth in Raratonga was still greater. You know how John Williams, after founding the church in Huahine, moved to Raiatea, in the Hervey group, and thence sailing forth, discovered the then savage Raratonga, where the devoted Papehia landed to commence the work which he was afterwards enabled to perfect. Papehia began his ministrations by telling the people about the power and purity of God, and His love to mankind, and contrasting His attributes with those of their idols. By teaching both old and young portions of Scripture, and the latter to read, they began to perceive the follies of heathenism.

“Thus the old religion was undermined, and a way prepared for the introduction of the new faith. The priests were the most inveterate opponents of Christianity, yet the first person who destroyed his idols was a priest. Several others followed his example. Soon another native teacher from Tahiti joined Papehia to aid in the work which so rapidly progressed. The first chief converted was Tinomana. After a lengthened conversation with Papehia, in spite of the expostulations of priests and people, saying, ‘My heart has taken hold of the word of Jehovah,’ he ordered a servant to set fire to his idol and his temple. The Christians now united, with Tinomana at their head, to live together in one community, numbering four or five thousand. Not fifteen months after Papehia landed, they erected a chapel three hundred feet long, with a pulpit at either end, from which each teacher addressed nearly fifteen hundred wild, naked savages at once, without inconvenience. This wonderful change had been effected, you must remember, by two native teachers alone, in less than two years and a half from the day of their landing in Raratonga, and who were themselves born heathens and trained in idolatry in an island nearly seven hundred miles away.

“Four years after the discovery of the island, John Williams took up his abode there with the Reverend C Pitman, they being afterwards joined by the Reverend A Buzacott. Laws were now formed, and the first Christian community divided into two separate villages. A chapel of a substantial character was next planned. A site was cleared, large trees were cut down, coral lime was burned, the timber was sawn, and in two months from the commencement an edifice an hundred and fifty feet long and fifty-six feet wide, the thatched roof supported on either side by seven iron-wood pillars twenty-five feet high, was erected. There were ten doors, three at each side and two at each end, and twenty windows, with large Venetian blinds. This chapel was a substantial proof of the zeal of the Christian converts; but the heathens were still numerous and powerful, and at length, hoping to overthrow the new faith, they attacked the settlement, and burned the chapel and many of the Christians’ houses. A fearful storm and flood and a severe epidemic followed, carrying off hundreds of the natives. Though severely tried, the missionaries were not cast down. The heathen retired, the epidemic ceased, the damage caused by the storm was repaired, and the work of civilisation proceeded.

“It became expedient to form a new village for the immediate followers of Tinomana. A site was fixed on, the land was cleared, and in a few months the village was completed. It was nearly a mile and a half in length; a wide and straight road, gravelled with sea-side sand, was made from one extremity to the other, on either side of which were rows of the tall and beautiful tufted-top ‘ti’ trees. The houses were built of lime and wattle, each about forty feet long, twelve high, twenty wide, and divided into three or four rooms. They stood back some fifty yards from the road, and were that distance from one another. About the centre, on one side of the street, was the chapel, and on the other the school-house. A belt of trees protected the settlement on the sea-side, while inland rose ranges of picturesque mountains, the intervening space being occupied by pastures and fields cultivated or in the course of cultivation. I remember the scene well. It gave me an indescribable feeling of satisfaction when I first saw it, for it proved that a very great change must have been wrought in the habits of the people, and I trusted that their spiritual condition had likewise been much improved. This was the first on the same plan of many villages which were erected as Christianity spread among the people. At each village, or even where there was a chapel alone, a school-house was erected, where the elements of reading, writing, arithmetic, and geography, were taught to adults as well as to children, and only eight years after the landing of Papehia, two thousand children and one thousand six hundred adults were under instruction. Although many of the adults could never be taught to read, they learned portions of Scripture, and as they willingly listened to the teachers, the truth gradually spread among the whole population.

“A printing press was during this year of 1831 introduced into the island, and the first native Raratongan teacher went forth to carry the glad tidings of salvation to the people of the Samoan group, then lying in darkness. ‘Teava’ was one of the first converts made by Papehia, and a devoted imitator of the noble example he set. He wrote earnestly, praying to be allowed to go Samoa, thus expressing himself: ‘My desire is very great to fulfil Christ’s command when He said, “Go ye into all the world.” My heart is compassionating the heathen, who know not the salvation which God has provided. Let me go. Why this delay?’ He was conveyed to Samoa, and gained a position among its then savage people at Monono, where he has proved one of the most consistent pioneers to the European missionaries, and one of the best native assistants both in the schools and in translating the Bible and other works. A letter he wrote to his friends in Raratonga a few years afterwards is worthy of note. In it he says: ‘When I left you, the good work had not taken much root, but now I hear it has spread over the land. All the people have received it. My friends, be diligent in the use of the means, in learning, in reading, in hearing, in prayer; search the word of God. But I will ask you, Do you expect to be saved by your works? No; no man can thus be saved. Salvation is obtained through Jesus. There are two kinds of scaffolding, one of banana stalks and the other of iron-wood: those who trust in their own works are resting on the banana stalks, and will fall; but let our minds be fixed on Jesus alone, and we shall be safe.’ Such are nearly the exact words he used. They prove the soundness of his knowledge and faith. The glorious work progressed wonderfully in Raratonga. Churches and schools were built at all the settlements, and several works printed by natives, under the superintendence of the missionaries, issued from the press. I was present on the arrival of the Camden from England with an edition of five thousand copies of the New Testament in the language of the people, and several missionaries. Crowds came from morning till night to purchase the book, and for many days the missionaries house was more like a bazaar than a private dwelling.

“One day a messenger at full speed arrived from the old chief Tinomana. Seating himself cross-legged on the floor, he asked if a missionary had arrived for his part of the island. On one being pointed out to him as destined to labour in his settlement, he sprang up with an expression of joy, and hastened back at full speed with the intelligence to his chief. This was at Avarua, where a chapel had been erected worthy of description. It was built in a frame, a hundred and forty feet long and forty-five feet wide, filled up with wattle and lime plaster, white as snow. It was well floored, surrounded by a gallery, and had a pulpit and desk at one end. On the day I was there it was filled with sixteen hundred natives, mostly clothed in home-made cloth, the greater number really thirsting for religious knowledge. Next to the chapel stood the school-house filled in the morning with seven hundred children, each class of ten or twelve having its teacher. Near it was the missionaries’ cottage, neat, clean, and commodious; and not far off that of the chief, which was large, well-built, and convenient. It was thoroughly furnished with chairs, sofas, tables, and beds, and the floors covered with mats; while on the tables were several books, which he could read with fluency. Ten years before this he and his people were naked savage cannibals. Missionary meetings were held in the island to assist in sending the gospel to other lands. Thus spoke an aged native at one of them to the young people: ‘Exalt your voices high in praise of God. He has saved you from the pit of heathenism. We your fathers know the character of that pit; some of us were born there. The place on which we are now met was once a place of murder; spears and the sling and stone were our companions; we ate human flesh, we drank human blood. Let us do what we can to send the word of God to those who are as once we were.’ That year three thousand pounds of arrowroot were subscribed for missionary purposes.

“More effectually to carry out this object, it was resolved to establish a missionary college. A piece of ground was purchased, a number of neat stone cottages for the students and a house for resident missionaries, and lecture-halls, one of which was for female classes, were erected. The latter were under the charge of the missionary’s wife. Here one hundred men and women have been instructed, a considerable proportion of whom were married couples. Some have been employed on the home stations, and others have gone forth to the Western Islands to prepare the way for European teachers. A boarding-school was also established, where some forty boys have received instruction. At the college the students go through a course of theology, church history, Biblical exposition, biography, geography, grammar, and composition of essays and sermons. For three hours in the morning they are employed in the workshop, and in the afternoon in study, in class, or examination.

“In the Hervey group ten or more stations are well worked by these native teachers; in Samoa four of them have stations; they have introduced the gospel to the Maniiki group; and in Western Polynesia they have successfully preached the truth in the language of the inhabitants, and braved, and several have suffered, martyrdom for the gospel’s sake. What should you suppose is the total expense of instructing, clothing, feeding, and lodging these most valuable missionaries? Only five pounds a year; while the entire outlay of their providing for twenty students does not amount to the sum of three pounds a week, or less than a hundred and fifty pounds per annum. Comparatively very few of those educated at the college have fallen away or proved unworthy of the confidence placed in them. Of course there, as elsewhere, the faith of the missionaries has been tried. Storms, and floods, and disease have visited the island; evil-disposed persons have come from other lands and endeavoured to introduce drunkenness, and to turn the unstable to their own bad courses. Still I may safely say, that there are not twenty persons in the island, and very few in the whole group, who do not attend Christian worship.

“A large edition of the whole Bible has been purchased by them; and I may also venture to assert that, in consistency of conduct, in civil and social propriety, in commercial industry and honesty, and in zeal and liberality, they are not behind any other community in the world. The gospel has been introduced and completely established in the Penrhyn Islands, or Maniiki group, as they are more properly called, entirely by native teachers from Raratonga. But I wish to describe to you the progress made by the gospel in Samoa. Before I do so, however, I will give you a sketch of the way in which some of the missionaries I have met, whose duties require them to be stationary, spend their time.

“The missionary in some instances attends the early morning adult service, those present having then to go forth to their daily duties in the field or on the water. In other instances he devotes the hour from six to seven o’clock in dispensing medicine to the sick; from eight to nine he is either at the children’s general school in the village, or attending to private advanced classes at home, or discussing public matters with neighbouring chiefs. From nine to eleven he lectures in the class-room; thence till noon he is in the workshop, where the students or the boys at the boarding-school are learning the use of carpenters’ tools. Until dinner time, at one, he is in the printing-office, where the natives have been composing, printing, and binding for several hours. During the next hour the students dine and read. From two to three the missionary holds private conversation with members of the church, candidates for church fellowship, or inquirers. Four days in the week Bible-classes are held, and at most stations public services take place three days in the week, from five to six. The missionary and his wife generally walk out from six to seven, visiting any who are sick or unable to come to them. For an hour afterwards he is in his study reading, translating, writing sermons, or looking over proof-sheets. The next half hour is occupied in family prayer, and the last in pleasant and instructive conversation with his family and the natives in his household; and thus closes his day of labour. The missionary’s wife is as busy with the women and girls as is her husband with the men and boys, and her influence and example are calculated to produce a lasting effect on the rising generation. With this succession of occupations the missionaries have found time to write and to superintend the printing of numerous works in the language of Raratonga,—works which are eagerly sought for and read by all classes of the community,—the elder of whom were once naked cannibal savages. When you write home, mention this with your own experience, and ask whether they do not consider missionaries worthy of support, and the results they have produced an encouragement to perseverance.

“One remark more. You have often heard of the fearful decrease in the population of these islands. Raratonga has been no exception to the general rule, and yet its circumstances are very different from most others. Its climate is perfectly healthy; no foreigners reside on it; and, as it possesses no harbour, the crews of ships can never land on its shores, as they merely call off for supplies and proceed immediately on their voyage. Before the introduction of Christianity, when the islanders had not the slightest intercourse with Europeans,—were, indeed, entirely unknown,—the deaths must have been as six or eight to one in excess of the births. As Christianity spread, the deaths were as four to one, then as two to one, then but slightly in excess; and now I rejoice to say that the births slightly exceed the deaths. It is easy to account for their decrease while they were heathens,—their wars, and famine consequent on it,—disease, produced by immorality, and infanticide destroyed many, and prevented increase. Christianity at once mitigated these evils, but the effects of many of them still existed, and it has taken years before the population could gain that health and strength which is the reward in this world of virtuous and industrious lives.

“I find it stated that a hundred ships touch at the islands of the group annually, and receive produce of native labour for manufactured wares, amounting to not less than three thousand pounds. We have here a notable example of the way in which civilisation, industry, and commerce result from the establishment of Christianity. The commanders of many of those ships must remember the time when they dared not set foot on these shores, from which they now are sure to obtain the supplies on which the health of their crews and the success of their voyage so greatly depends, and will, I trust, be ready to bear witness that thousands on thousands of the once savages of Polynesia have become Christian in name and character, and truly and completely civilised.”

Chapter Fifteen.

Passing on the blessing.

“When describing missionary enterprise, we cannot dwell too much on the value of native agency, and should therefore endeavour to show the importance of establishing training colleges for native youths,” continued Mr Bent, who, once having entered on the subject to which he had devoted his life, showed no desire to drop it. “Humanly speaking, not one-third part of the work which has been done could without native help have been accomplished. Mangaia is a notable example. That island is about twenty miles in circumference, and contains about three thousand inhabitants. When Williams visited them in 1822 with a few native married missionaries, who went on shore for the purpose of remaining, the latter were so barbarously treated by the savage people that they were compelled to return on board the mission ship, thankful to escape without loss of life. Two years afterwards, however, he returned with two zealous Tahitians, Davida and Tiere, who swimming on shore through the surf, as did Papehia at Raratonga, with their books and clothes in a cloth on their heads, landed among the fierce natives. God had so ordered it that their reception was very different from what they had expected. An epidemic had attacked the island, carrying off chiefs and people, the old and young alike: and believing that it was a punishment sent by the white man’s God in consequence of the way they had treated the former missionaries, the inhabitants hoped to avert the evil by behaving in a more friendly manner to the new comers. The way was thus providentially prepared for Davida, who laboured on alone for fifteen years,—for Tiere was soon afterwards removed by death,—till assistance was sent him from Raratonga, itself lying in darkness when he commenced his ministrations. He received, however, occasional visits from the missionaries at Tahiti. Twenty years passed by before the Reverend William Gill arrived to spend some weeks among them. He found, with but few exceptions, that the whole population had renounced idolatry. Several large churches and schoolrooms had been built. In one school-room from eight hundred to nine hundred children and young persons were present, who, after singing and prayer, were led in classes to attend public worship. The church was very large, and really handsome. The numberless rafters of its roof, coloured with native paint, were supported by twelve or fourteen pillars of the finest wood, carved in cathedral style. It was crowded,—those unable to get in looking through the windows,—not less than two thousand being present. Still many at that time were very ignorant with regard to scriptural knowledge, though many even of the heathens could read.

“A few years have passed by, the heathens have one by one turned to the truth, and sound scriptural knowledge is possessed by the population generally. A European missionary lives among them. They have built a handsome stone church with a gallery, capable of seating two thousand persons. There exist two other large stone chapels and three stone school-houses, each about seventy feet long and thirty-five feet wide. But what is far more important, there are one thousand six hundred children and adults under daily instruction, besides five hundred members in consistent church communion, leaving but one-third of the population who, though educated and nominal Christians, must be looked on as yet not earnest in spiritual matters. Of the former, some seven or more are at the Raratonga training college, and several have gone forth as evangelists to the heathen many thousand miles away; while there are more than one hundred native teachers in the schools, gratuitously employing themselves in instructing the rising generation. The excess of births over the deaths is very considerable, so that the population, which at one time was diminishing, is rapidly on the increase. Davida is dead. He departed just twenty-five years after he commenced his missionary labours. ‘Is it right,’ he asked, in a humble tone, ‘for me to say, in the language of Saint Paul, “I have fought the good fight, I have finished my course”? These people were wild beasts when I came among them; but the sword of the Spirit subdued them. It was not I, it was God who did it.’ Davida and Papehia, and many other dark-skinned sons of these fair isles of the Pacific, themselves born in darkest heathenism, have gained their crowns of glory in the heavens, never to fade away, which the highly educated inhabitants of civilised Europe may have cause to envy.

“People in England are, I hear, astonished at the rapid progress made by Christianity in these islands, and assert that either the accounts are exaggerated, and that the great mass of the people remain heathens as before, or that if they have become nominal Christians, it is because they have been compelled by their chiefs to embrace the new faith. To this last objection I reply, first: You well know how slight is the influence exercised by the chiefs over the people, and in no island with which I am acquainted would a chief be able to compel his followers to abandon idolatry and embrace Christianity. In the greater number of instances by far, a considerable proportion of the people have become Christians before the chief has given up his idols. Pomare was still an idolater when many of his subjects had been converted. There were numerous Christians in Samoa before Malietoa became one; and services had been, held in Tongatabu before any of the chief men turned to the faith; and already numerous churches had been established in Fiji before Thakombau, the most despotic and fierce of the rulers of the isles of the Pacific, bowed his knee in worship to the true God. People who know how utterly savage and barbarous the natives had become will easily understand that numbers among them were pining for a purer faith, for some system which would relieve them from the intolerable burdens, from the utter misery under which they groaned. When Rihoriho overthrew his idols and burned his temples he knew nothing of Christianity; but he had discovered that his idols were no gods, and that the religion of his fathers was utterly abominable and foolish. In many islands, when a chief lotued before his subjects, he did so at the risk of being deposed by them; and in every direction there are instances of rebellions being raised by the heathens against the chiefs who had professed Christianity. For many years the fact, that whole communities of once cannibal savages had become civilised Christians was denied; and now that the fact can no longer be denied, certain so-called philosophers in Europe are at pains to invent explanations to suit their own theories. The natives might answer them as the blind man restored to sight by Jesus did the Pharisees of old: ‘Why, herein is a marvellous thing, that ye know not from whence He is, and yet He hath opened mine eyes.’ The explanation which should best satisfy Christians is, that God has worked with us. In His infinite compassion and love He has presented instruments exactly fitted for the work to be accomplished; and though He has thought fit in many instances to exercise the faith and patience of His servants, He has at length made the way clear before them.

“If I desired a particular proof that man has fallen from a high estate, and that he came forth pure and bright, and with a mind capable of rapidly acquiring knowledge, from the hands of his Maker, I should point to these savages, among whom, debased as they are, so many have a yearning after a better existence, a consciousness of sin, a desire to propitiate an offended deity, a weariness of their degraded condition, of the state of anarchy, of the bloodshed and immorality amid which they live. If these and other facts were known in England, though people might still wonder at the great change which has taken place in these islands, they would cease to disbelieve the statements which have been made by missionaries and others on the subject.

“But I must go on with my account. I was going to tell you how Christianity was introduced into Samoa,—and here the guiding hand of God can especially be traced.

“When John Williams sailed from Tahiti on his first long voyage in the Messenger of Peace, after visiting the Hervey group, and many other islands, he touched at the Tonga, or Friendly Islands, many of the inhabitants of which had already become Christian. The history of the group I will give you presently. At Tonga, a chief of the Navigator Islands, called Fanea, was met with, who had been eleven years away from home. His wife had become a Christian, and he himself was favourable to the new religion. He offered to accompany Mr Williams, and to introduce him to his brother chiefs. His account of himself being found correct, his offer was accepted, and he and his wife embarked. The voyage was prosperous, and Sapapalii, or Savaii, an island two hundred and fifty miles in circumference, was reached. Fanea now showed how especially fitted he was to assist the missionaries in their task. Calling them aside to a private part of the vessel, he requested them to desire the teachers not to commence their labours among their countrymen by condemning their canoe races, their dances, and other amusements, to which they were much attached, lest in the very onset they should conceive a dislike to the religion which imposed such restraints. ‘Tell them,’ said he, ‘to be diligent in teaching the people, to make them wise, and they themselves will put away that which is evil. Let the “word” prevail, and get a firm hold upon them, and then we may with safety adopt measures which at first would prove injurious.’ Fanea was related to Malietoa, one of the principal chiefs of the island, and was therefore, by his influence with his relatives, able to render great assistance to the work. He expressed, however, his fears that a powerful and perhaps an insuperable opposition would be offered by a still greater chief, who was besides a sort of pope or high priest, the head of such religious institution as they possessed. His name was Tamafaigna. Fanea asked after him in a trembling voice. ‘He is dead,—killed ten days,—clubbed to death, as he deserved,’ shouted the people, in evident delight, showing that they dreaded more than respected him. ‘The devil is dead,—the devil is dead,’ cried Fanea. ‘There will now be no opposition to the lotu.’ This was found to be the case. Had the event occurred a few days before, there would have been time to elect a successor. This man was supposed to have within him the spirit of one of the principal war-gods. The tithes of the two large islands had been given him, and in pride and profligacy he had become a pest and a proverb. He had, however, his supporters, who took up arms to avenge him, and among them were his relatives Malietoa and his brother Tamalelangi, who, although they rejoiced at his death, were compelled, according to the custom of the country, to endeavour to punish those who had killed him. Tamalelangi from the first showed himself a warm friend of the missionaries, and, while his brother was engaged in fighting, assisted them to land with their effects and stores, and to establish themselves on shore. Malietoa afterwards proved their warm friend, and four teachers were left with him, and four with Tamalelangi. Their people showed the teachers the greatest kindness, and, as a mark of it, each man who could get hold of a child carried it off to his own cottage, killed a pig for its food, and stuffed it to repletion before he carried it back to its anxious parents. Fanea, too, was unwearied in explaining the advantages of Christianity and the wonderful knowledge possessed by the missionaries, which enabled them to communicate their thoughts merely by making marks on a bit of paper. It is possible that he was somewhat influenced by ambitious motives, and the credit the introduction of Christianity would bring to him. His wife, however, appears to have been a sincere believer, and by her example and exhortations greatly to have forwarded the cause of truth. Malietoa, who inherited all Tamafaigna’s political influence, exerted it to the end of his life in favour of the Christians. The truth was not, as it might be expected, to be established without opposition; and on one occasion a large heathen party approached the dwellings of the teachers, resolved on their destruction. Their friends turned out completely armed in native fashion, with clubs, and bows, and slings, and spears, for their defence, not unfrequently expressing in their tone and gesture the untamed ferocity of their nature by their appearance and loud shouts, even when kneeling in the attitude of devotion. Thus the night was spent in expectation every moment of an attack; but when the morning came it was discovered that their foes had disappeared. The native teachers, who could preach as well as instruct in school, made rapid progress. The people began to eat the fish and other creatures which they had formerly worshipped as gods, and dreaded to injure or even to touch. Some daringly devoured them, others cautiously put the dreaded morsels in their mouths, while the awestruck spectators waited as did the people of Melita when Saint Paul was bitten by a snake, expecting to see them swell or fall down dead. From this the natives concluded that Jehovah was indeed the true God, and were about to cast their war-god Popo, a block covered with a piece of matting, into the sea, and had tied a stone round it to sink it, when the teachers rescued the image, that they might present him as a trophy of the triumphs of the gospel.

“The Samoans, though not such gross idolaters, and certainly not so inhuman in their practices, as most of the other islanders in the Pacific, were much degraded both in mind and morals. They are perhaps the finest people in a physical point of view of any, yet they had more pharisaical pride and less consciousness of sin; and this, it is possible, prevented them from adopting some of those cruel practices prevalent among their neighbours.

“The teachers left by Williams laboured perseveringly. Still they could not persuade Malietoa to abandon the war. He went on one occasion to Upolu with all his fighting men, and three of the teachers resolved to follow him, hoping thus to influence him the more. He had allowed his son to join them. On their way they preached the word at several villages through which they passed, and the people heard them gladly. Malietoa was unmoved, and they had to return; but their journey had not been so bootless as they supposed. Scarcely had they reached home, than a messenger arrived from the chief of a village they had visited at Apolulu, begging them to return in haste, as he and his people were waiting to hear from their lips the truths of the gospel. Three of them set out for the settlement, where they were warmly welcomed by the chief and a thousand followers. After the usual salutations, the chief turned to the teachers and said, ‘Have you brought a fish spear?’ Surprised at this strange inquiry, they replied, ‘No! why do you ask for that?’ ‘I want it,’ he answered, ‘to spear an eel. This is my etu—I will kill, cook, and eat it. I have resolved to become lotu.’ He then added that he would afterwards spear and eat a fowl, as the spirit of his god was supposed to reside in that also. And these bold designs were no sooner formed than executed, though none of his followers supported him, nor was it till they saw that no evil results were the consequence, that they ventured to imitate his example. Numbers then declared that they wished to become Christians, and to be instructed in that faith. Returning from this expedition, they saw the stronghold of the heathen party in flames. Malietoa treated the conquered party with great leniency, and on one of their battle-fields erected a church to the service of the true God, while Popo, the god of war, was banished for ever. Many other chapels were built in different directions, and the new faith made great progress, though at that time, probably, many of the converts were very far from enlightened Christians. While these events were taking place in the larger islands, a large canoe with some Christians on board was driven on Tau, the most eastern island of the group, having embarked at Ravavai, one of the Austral group, two thousand miles distant, intending to proceed to some neighbouring island. Their lives and their health had been providentially preserved, and they received a friendly greeting from the natives, to whom they imparted a knowledge of the faith they professed. Several joined them, and the little congregation thus formed without a teacher, was looking forward to the arrival of a missionary ship, which they had heard would bring one, when Williams himself touched at their settlement. Soon after this three English missionaries visited the group, and one remained till the arrival of a considerable number, who came out direct from England for especial service in Samoa. The first care of this most efficient body of men was to master the language, and when this was done they lost no time in commencing a translation of the Bible. A printing-press was set up in 1839, and in July of that year printing was commenced in Samoa. The natives took a deep interest in it, and called it the fountain whence the word of God flowed to all Samoa. The native youths quickly learned to work it, and surrounded by numbers of their countrymen, standing as if riveted to the spot, and gazing with intense interest, now speechless with wonder, now shouting with delight, they endeavoured to show with what dexterity they could throw off the sheets. Numerous works were printed by them—sermons, catechisms, hymn-books, works on geography, astronomy, arithmetic, Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress, and a native magazine. Upwards of 2,000 pounds was paid by the purchasers of the Scriptures and these books.

“In 1844, the ‘Samoan Mission Seminary’ was commenced. It was on a far larger scale than that I have described at Raratonga, though conducted on a very similar plan. It was for a group, it must be remembered, of considerable extent, containing not less than 34,000 inhabitants. Special attention is paid in the institution to the instruction of the wives of the students, and so highly are the labours of these female teachers prized in the islands, that inferior men are sometimes chosen on account of the high qualifications of their wives. I believe that nearly a hundred and fifty teachers have gone forth from the institution, some to labour in Samoa, and others in the Loyalty Islands, New Hebrides and Savage Island—many with their devoted wives having died from the effects of climate or fallen by the murderous hands of the savages to whom they carried the gospel. A high school is attached to the institution, as well as one for the children of the students. There are, I find, fifty boarding-schools in the group, having 800 scholars; 210 children’s day-schools with 6,000 scholars, and 210 adult sabbath and day-schools with 7,000 scholars. When first Williams landed at Samoa, the natives wore no clothing except the most scanty of leaves or native cloth. Now I find it stated, that apart from all other articles of foreign manufacture, the demand for cotton goods alone amounts to 15,000 pounds per annum, and is every year increasing. (See Note 1.) I mention these facts because they are beyond dispute, and I beg that you will repeat them when you write home, as they may convince some who deny that the Polynesian savage can comprehend the spirit of the gospel, that at all events he has made considerable advances in civilisation, and that his connection is worth cultivating. You and I, and all who take the trouble of observing, know that he is as capable as the most highly educated European of understanding the whole scope of the gospel in all its beauty and holiness, and accepting it in all its fulness. We must never forget the saying of our blessed Lord, who knew what was in man, ‘that many are called but few chosen,’ and that this is true in Samoa as elsewhere. Of the many thousands who have become nominal Christians, we have every reason to hope that some—I might dare to say many—have accepted Christ to their eternal salvation. And Samoa forms but one group out of the many thousand isles of this ocean.

“Let us take a glance at Tonga, at which Williams called, as I told you, on that first voyage, so peculiarly blessed to Samoa. You have heard how a body of missionaries so far back as 1797 were landed at Tongatabu, from the ship Duffy by Captain Wilson. They were all ultimately compelled to leave the island, very much in consequence of the conduct of some white runaway seamen or convicts, who set the natives against them. Several were ultimately murdered, the rest escaped to New South Wales with the exception of one, who, sad to say, apostatised, and lived as a savage among the savages for some years. More than twenty years passed by, and the savage character of the wrongly named Friendly Islanders prevented any further attempt being made to offer them the gospel of peace; when God put it into the heart of the Reverend W Laury, a Wesleyan minister residing in New South Wales, who had been interested in the people by a widow of one of the early missionaries, to attempt their conversion. He sailed from Sydney in June, 1822, on board the Saint Michael, a merchant vessel, with his family, accompanied by a carpenter and blacksmith, both pious young men. He reached Tonga in safety, and remained for upwards of a year, gaining the language of the people, and protected by the chiefs, but without making any converts. On his return to Sydney he left the two young mechanics, and they were afterwards joined by the Reverend John Thomas, a young ardent missionary from England. They had indeed need of faith and patience. The chiefs who at first protected them proved themselves fickle and treacherous, robbing them of all they possessed, and it was evident that they valued their presence among them on account of the property they brought, not for the sake of the religious instruction they would afford. Just before Mr Thomas’s arrival at Hihifo, on the west side of Tonga, two native teachers from Tahiti, on their way to Fiji, had landed at Nukualofa on the north coast. The preaching of these devoted men had awakened such a spirit of inquiry, that when Mr Thomas preached at Hihifo, numbers came over a distance of twelve miles to hear him. Tubou, the chief of Nukualofa, appeared convinced of the truths of Christianity, had a chapel built, and attended service; but tempted by his brother chiefs, who promised to make him king of the whole group if he would adhere to the old faith, he declined for the present to make a profession of Christianity. The work thus commenced at Nukualofa by the London Society’s Tahitian teachers, was carried on in a spirit of brotherly love by the Reverend N Turner and William Cross and their devoted wives, sent out by the Wesleyan Missionary Society in 1828. They began schools there, which were well attended, while Mr Thomas opened one at Hihifo, at which, in spite of the opposition of the chief Ata, some twenty boys attended. In two years Mr Thomas could preach fluently in the language of the people, and congregations for public worship were formed and well attended. Mr Thomas had gone over to Nukualofa to preach, when the king Tubou, who had been absent for six months, attended, with two hundred of his subjects, the chapel which he himself had built, and where he now heard in his own tongue from the lips of an English minister the gospel clearly explained. Other chiefs from the two groups of islands to the north, Vavau and Haabai, in the course of the year sent to petition for teachers, or rather, one sent, being indifferent about the matter; the latter, Tui-Haabai, as he was called, came to Tonga in person. Though he earnestly pressed the point, there was no one to send; and so on his return home, finding an English sailor who could read and write, though sadly ignorant of the truths of religion, he made him his teacher. His perseverance and earnestness were to be rewarded. A sick lad, a step-son of Ata’s, was the first convert at Hihifo, but on his death, the chief still more hardening his heart, it was agreed by the missionaries that Mr Thomas should remove from that station to Haabai. They however first sent one Peter, a native convert, to prepare the way, a plan which has been almost universally successful. The missionaries now spent some time together at Nukualofa, where the field appeared so promising. So indeed it proved; often so crowded was the chapel, that the missionaries went out amid the encampments of their visitors on the sea-side, that they might preach to them the words of eternal life under the free vault of heaven. It was at this time that King Tubou was baptised with his family and nearly thirty men and sixty women of his tribe. It was indeed a day to make the hearts of the long persevering and faithful missionaries rejoice.”

To many readers of missionary reports these statements may not be new, but it was pleasant to have such testimony amidst the scenes themselves.

Note 1. See Turner’s “Nineteen Years in Polynesia.”

“Of an evening,” says Lieutenant Walpole, RN, writing of Samoa, “when, taking advantage of intervals of fine weather, we went for a ramble in the delightful woods, the quiet of the grove was often disturbed by a ruthless savage, who would rush out upon you, not armed with club or spear, but with slate and pencil, and thrusting them into your hands, make signs for you to finish his difficult exercise or sum.”

Dr Coulter, surgeon of HMS Stratford, has given this testimony: “The power of religion has completely altered the naturally uncontrolled character of the natives, and effectually subdued barbarism. The former history of these islanders is well known to all readers. They were guilty of every bad and profane act. Infanticide and human sacrifices, in all their horrid shapes, were common occurrences. Utter abandonment and licentiousness prevailed over these islands (the Friendly Islands). What are they now? The query may be answered in a few words: They are far more decided Christians than the chief part of their civilised visitors.”

Chapter Sixteen.

How the Light came to Fiji.

“Tui-Haabai Tuafaahan, or George, the name he assumed when he became a Christian, the chief or king of the Haabai Islands, was no ordinary man. He possessed great influence over his people; and in this instance there can be no doubt that, in consequence of his embracing Christianity, great numbers of his subjects immediately professed it. So much was this the case, that out of eighteen inhabited islands of which the group consists, the people of all but two called themselves Christians when Mr Thomas arrived in 1830. Of course they were very ignorant of religious truths; but at the same time they were aware of their ignorance, and desired to be taught,—and what more could a missionary pray for? They consequently made great progress, though the work nearly wore out the missionary. A second, however, the Reverend Peter Turner, joined Mr Thomas the next year. Their wish at once was to extend the sphere of their labours.

“In April, 1831, King George, now himself well able to expound the gospel, with twenty-four sail of canoes, visited Finau, chief of Vavau, who had once sent for instruction to the missionaries at Tonga. With the king went the faithful missionary Peter, bearing a letter from Messrs Thomas and Turner. King George, too, endeavoured to convince Finau of the truth, and at length he promised to join in worshipping the Lord on the next sabbath. This he did accompanied by several chiefs and others; and when Monday came he directed that seven of his principal idols should be placed in a row. He then addressed them: ‘Listen to my words, that you may be without excuse. I have brought you here to prove you.’ Commencing with the first, he said, ‘If you are a god, run away, or you shall be burned in the fire which is ready for you.’ The idol made no attempt to escape. In the same manner he addressed the next, and the next, till he came to the last. As none of them ran, he directed that their temples should be set on fire. The order was at once obeyed, and some eighteen or more with their idols were consumed. George and all his people capable of explaining the truths of Christianity, were employed in preaching and speaking night and day during their stay, so eager were the people to be instructed. All ordinary occupation was suspended. The reply to any expostulation was, ‘We can labour when you are gone: let us while you stay learn how to worship God.’ Afterwards two native teachers were sent to Vavau, till a missionary could be spared for them.

“Finau, who had himself once strongly opposed the Christians, now met with opposition from one of his own chiefs, who had been absent at Fiji. This chief threw himself into a strong fort; but it was surprised by the Christians, and the insurgents being brought out, it was burnt to the ground, without one person being killed. Mr Cross was soon afterwards appointed to Vavau, and on his voyage there from Tonga his canoe was wrecked, and his wife was drowned besides twenty other persons.

“It was about this time that the Reverend William Yate, of the Church Missionary Society, visited Tonga from New Zealand. He had heard much of the great change among the people, and was disposed to regard part at least as too strange and too good to be true. He therefore went much among the people, observing their domestic habits, and their attention to their religious duties, and he assured the missionaries that what he saw exceeded all that he had heard.

“Christianity was making progress in all the three groups, though in Tonga a powerful body of heathens, under Ata of Hihifo, still remained, when Finau, king of Vavau, died, leaving his government to King George of Haabai, who thus became sovereign of both groups. He and his wife gave full evidence soon after this that they were Christians not only in name, but in spirit and in truth. They were made class-leaders,” and the king was appointed a local preacher. He did not presume on his high civil dignity, but always conducted himself in the house of God with becoming humility. One who heard him preach his first sermon told me that the great court-house, more than seventy feet long, could not contain the people who thronged to hear their king. Every chief on the island and all the local preachers were present. The king led the singing. He preached with great plainness and simplicity, and in strict accordance with the teaching of God’s word; dwelling on the humility and love of the Saviour, the cleansing efficacy of His atoning blood, and the obligations under which we are laid to serve and glorify Him. But a few years before part of this very congregation might have been seen in this same house preparing guns, spears, and clubs, in order to slay their fellow-men, and waiting to be led forth to battle by the great warrior who was now the royal preacher. He proved his Christianity in another way. Hearing that the English had abolished slavery and that it is abhorrent to the character of the gospel, he that very day called all his slaves together and forthwith gave them their liberty. He next employed himself in building a church upwards of a hundred feet long and fifty wide, the largest building that had ever been erected in Tonga. He also exhibited his wisdom by framing a code of laws, by which all chiefs as well as people were to be equally bound. They were most judicious, and admirably fitted for the wants of the people. Not one professed heathen now remained in the two groups governed by King George, and the blessings he had received he was anxious to send to others. A missionary and several native teachers therefore went forth and established churches in Samoa, as well as in some small islands lying between the two groups. The missionaries were afterwards removed, it having been agreed between the Wesleyan and London Missionary Societies that Samoa should be left entirely under the charge of the London Missionary Society,—a wise resolve, the object of which does not appear to have been very clearly comprehended by the Samoan Christians, accustomed to the Wesleyan form, or by King George, who made a voyage to Samoa to consult about the matter. The reason of the arrangement was, that the Wesleyan Society might be able to devote all their means and energies to the promulgation of the gospel in the Fiji Islands, a work which they forthwith commenced and have carried on with unsurpassed vigour and success. I will describe it to you presently.

“Josiah Tubou, the king of Tonga proper, or Tongatabu though a consistent Christian, was a man every way inferior to King George in energy and talent, and the heathen chiefs and other ill-disposed persons set his power at defiance. They even went so far as to take up arms, in the hope of deposing him. In this, however, they were disappointed; for King George, with a large body of warriors, came to his assistance, and they were compelled to take refuge in certain strongly-built forts in their native districts, where they continued to hold out against his power. The war thus commenced and carried on for some years, proved a sad hindrance to religion and the advancement of civilisation. Two Roman Catholic priests were also landed from a French ship of war, and took up their residence with the heathens, whom they undoubtedly supported against their chief.

“It was while endeavouring to negotiate with the rebels in one of these forts that Captain Croker of HMS Favourite, who had with him a party of his ship’s company, was shot at and killed. Another officer and several men fell on the occasion, while many were badly wounded. Several forts were taken or yielded, and the defenders pardoned; but the rebels were still holding out in the strongest, that of Bea, where the Romish priests resided, when Sir Everard Home, in the Calliope, arrived at Tonga. Several times the fort had been summoned to surrender, and Sir Everard Home had now the satisfaction of witnessing the way in which it was captured, and the leniency with which the rebels were treated, while he and King George himself were instrumental in saving the property of the Romish priests from destruction. From that time King George has been employed in consolidating his power, and in advancing the material as well as spiritual interests of his subjects.

“The success which attended the exertions of the missionaries at Tonga encouraged them to commence the work at Fiji, with which extensive group Tonga has for years been intimately connected, although the inhabitants are of a totally different race and character. I must go back again from the time of which I have just been speaking to the year 1835. Utterly debased and savage as were the people of Fiji at that period, the mission was commenced under peculiarly favourable circumstances. It was especially supported by King George of Tonga, who was much respected by the inhabitants of Lakemba, the spot which had been fixed on as the residence of the missionaries. Many Tongans also resided there, who could at once be addressed in their own language, which was also understood by the chief and many of the people of Lakemba. As many Fijians were living at Tonga, the missionaries were able likewise to prepare and print some books in Fijian. King George’s introduction insured them a favourable reception from the chief of Lakemba, who at once gave them ground for the missionary premises. House-building is short work in Fiji, and a large body of natives, having prepared posts, spars, reeds, etcetera, assembled at the chosen site, and commenced operations. On the third day all the furniture, articles for barter, books, clothes, doors, windows, and various stores were landed, and carried to the two houses, of which the families took possession that evening. Lakemba is thirty miles in circumference, and contains, besides the king’s town, eight other towns and three Tongan settlements. Many of the people inhabiting them, on their visits to head-quarters saw the mission premises, and went home to tell of what had excited their own admiration. Thus the number of visitors increased, and many becoming dissatisfied with their own gods, and tired with the exactions of the priests, came regularly on the sabbath to worship at the chapel. As they had to pass the king’s town they were observed, and abused for presuming, though common people, to think for themselves in the matter of religion, and even daring to forsake their own gods for the new God of whom the strangers spoke. Threats were used, and the Christians would immediately have been persecuted, had not a chief from Tonga, who had come over to protect the Christians from the people of Mbau, himself adopted the new faith, letting it be known that he would protect his co-religionists. They did not escape altogether: their houses were pillaged, and many had to fly for their lives. They however went to other islands, carrying, as did the Christians of old, their religion with them, and were the means of spreading it to other parts of the group. Many of the Tongans heard the word gladly, though hitherto known for their evil doings, and returned home changed in heart and manners. The king of Lakemba even pretended that he wished to become a Christian, though his profession was not sincere, as he continued to persecute the converts. He at last said that he would lotu if some other powerful chiefs would do so; and suggested that the missionaries should go to Mbau and see what change they could effect in the rulers of that notorious cannibal island. Mr Cross took the king at his word, and with his wife and family embarked for Mbau. On his arrival there, he found that war had been raging, that two bodies were in the ovens, and that very little attention to his preaching could be expected. Though Thakombau, the king’s son, promised him his protection and a spot of ground for a house, he considered it wiser to proceed to Rewa, a town about twelve miles away on the main island, where the chief promised to protect him, and to allow as many of his people to lotu as desired it. At first Mr Cross preached in the open air; but a chief of some rank and his wife becoming Christians, they opened their house for worship, and a hundred hearers would sometimes assemble there to listen.

“Off the island of Great Fiji is another small island, that of Viwa. The chief, Namosi, and his nephew, Verani, had captured a French brig and destroyed the crew. The captain, it was proved, had allowed his vessel to be used in the native wars, and had even suffered the body of an enemy to be cooked and eaten on board. To punish Namosi, two French men-of-war appeared off the coast, and the crews landing, burned down his town and destroyed his crops. This misfortune seems so to have affected him, that he begged a teacher might be sent to instruct him in the new religion; and to show his sincerity, he built a large chapel, where many of his people joined him in worshipping God. Thus were two centres formed in Fiji, where two men single-handed battled with almost incredible difficulties, cheered, however, by no inconsiderable success,—that is to say, Mr Cargill at Lakemba, and Mr Cross at Rewa.

“In 1838 three missionaries arrived from England. One of them was the devoted John Hunt, who at once volunteered to go to the assistance of Mr Cross, who was already breaking down with his labours at Rewa. With them also came a printer, a printing-press, and book-binding materials. Early in 1839 Saint Mark’s Gospel and a catechism in Fijian were printed,—an important event in the history of a people who three years before had no written language, and who seemed sunk in the utter depths of darkness and moral degradation. Fiji was indebted for Mr Hunt to the Christian liberality of a lady—Mrs Brackenbury, of Raithbury Hall, Lincolnshire, who offered to pay all the expenses of his outfit and passage, and 50 pounds a year for three years, provided the committee would send another missionary, and thus raise the number to seven.

“The mission establishment at Rewa drew many visitors, especially the people from Mbau, who came to make inquiries about the lotu. To this place the printing-press was moved, and it was made the head-quarters of the Fijian mission. On an island off Vanua Levu, or the Great Land, was situated the town of Somosomo, the chief of which, who had considerable power, begged that missionaries might be sent to him.

“Accordingly Mr Hunt and Mr Lyth, with their families, went there, and took up their quarters in a large house provided by the chief. He showed clearly, however, that he only required their goods; and not only were the families neglected, but the most horrible cannibal practices took place close to them, encouraged by the chief. His son was wrecked on an enemy’s shore, when he and his followers were killed and eaten. In consequence a number of women were murdered, in spite of the entreaties of the missionaries that their lives might be spared, while captives were constantly dragged before their windows to be killed and baked. Ultimately the station was abandoned, and the chief was murdered by one of his own sons, who was himself murdered by a brother; and such anarchy and confusion reigned, that Somosomo was laid almost desolate.

“After a time the remaining chiefs and people, brought low by distress, turned to the God of the strangers, and great numbers became Christians,—showing that the seed had been sown and taken root, though when the missionaries left the island they were disposed to fear that no good had been effected.

“The truth spread by a great variety of means. A chief named Wai, of the far-off island of Ono, tributary to Lakemba, came to that island to pay his dues. He there met with Takai, another Fijian chief, who had visited Sydney and Tahiti, and had become a Christian. With such knowledge as he could thus pick up he returned home. He there taught his people; and so great a thirst for further instruction sprang up among them, that a whaler calling at Ono for provisions, they engaged a passage in her for two messengers who were to beg the missionaries at Tonga to send them a teacher. A long time must have elapsed before one could have reached them; but the Lord knew the desire of their hearts, and took His own means for giving them the spiritual food after which they hungered.

“Early in 1836 a canoe, on board which was Josiah, a converted Tongan, with other Christians, sailed from Lakemba for Tonga, but was driven out of her course to Turtle Island, about fifty miles from Ono. Hearing when there that the people of Ono were seeking after religious instruction, Josiah hastened there to tell them all he could of the gospel. In a short time forty persons became worshippers of God, and a chapel was built to hold a hundred. In the meantime their two messengers reached Tonga, where they were told that as missionaries were now stationed at Lakemba they must apply there for the help they sought. A teacher was found, once a wild youth, who had been converted at Lakemba. Here he remained two years preparing for his work, till he had an opportunity of going to Ono. On his arrival he found that one hundred and twenty adults had become Christians. A strong heathen party was, however, formed against them, and they had more than once to fight for their lives. Even the king of Lakemba threatened to destroy them because they would not give up a young Christian girl who had in her infancy been betrothed to him. A gale drove back the king’s canoe, and some of those of his followers were lost; so that he was persuaded that the God of the Christians frowned on his design. The island was visited several times by English missionaries, and at last one was appointed to reside there.

“All the people have now become Christians, and probably fifty agents have been raised up there to carry the gospel to other parts of Fiji. Christianity spread among the islands in the neighbourhood of Lakemba subject to Somosomo. This was in spite of the belief in a threat of the king, that he would kill and eat any of his subjects who should lotu. The king arrived, and hearing of the tale indignantly denied it. He ordered, however, that tribute should be paid to him on Sunday. This the Christians refused to do, but the following day they appeared with their offerings. This produced a favourable impression on the king, showing as it did, what was the genuine effect of Christianity when carried out. No one was punished, though unhappily the king seemed to remain as complete a heathen as before till his death.

“In Lakemba the Christians multiplied, and the whole population of one town, that of Yaudrana, lotued in one day. They had been ill-treated, and two of their number had been killed by the king or his people. Suddenly they came to the conclusion that their own gods could no longer protect them, and they resolved to pray to Jehovah the God of the Christians. They accordingly sent to Mr Calvert, the missionary. The chiefs of the town met him to speak on the matter, in the principal temple in the place, and after singing and prayer they bowed down to worship God. The following Sabbath the whole population, by agreement, openly abandoned idolatry. The king sent to forbid them, but his message arrived after the ceremony had been performed, and they replied that they would pay him lawful tribute, but would not abandon their new faith. After this movement of the larger number of his subjects, the king himself became a Christian.

“I can with difficulty recollect the numerous events connected with missionary work as they occurred in the wide extending group of Fiji. Of the most important I have not yet spoken. It is necessary to remember the names of three important places: Mbau, though a small island, contains the capital of the powerful chief Thakombau, now called the king of all Fiji. Twelve miles off, on the mainland, is Rewa; and on another small island two miles from Mbau, is Viwa, the residence of Namosimalua, who had become nominally Christian, or was at all events favourable to the Christians. Here Mr Cross took up his abode, when Thakombau refused him admission to Mbau. Thakombau was the son of Tanoa, the chief of Mbau. Mbau had obtained the influence it possessed over other parts of Fiji in consequence of its having become the abode of Charles Savage, a runaway seaman, a horrible ruffian, a Swede by birth, who managed to obtain a large supply of firearms and ammunition, and led her armies for many years against her neighbours of the larger islands, compelling them to become tributary to her. At length, being defeated in Viti Levu, by a party of natives against whom, in conjunction with the master of an English trading vessel, the Hunter, of Calcutta, he was carrying on a war for the sake of procuring a cargo of sandal-wood for the ship, he was, together with fourteen of the crew, put to death and eaten, his body being treated with every mark of detestation, and his bones converted into sail-needles, and distributed among the people as a remembrance of the victory. Namosimalua was looked upon as the Ulysses of those regions. He in conjunction with other chiefs, weary of the exactions of Tanoa, rebelled against him, and compelled him to fly, also advising that his young son Thakombau, whose talents he had discovered, should be put to death. This not having been done, he resolved to gain the friendship of Tanoa without committing himself. He therefore offered to go in pursuit of the king, but secretly sent a messenger to warn him of his danger. When Thakombau restored his father to his possessions, Tanoa saved Namosi’s life, though the former never forgave him his intentions towards him.

“Among the greatest warriors and fiercest cannibals of Fiji was a nephew of Namosi’s, called Verani, who was a firm friend of Thakombau’s. At Rewa a mission had been established, but its chief Ratu Nggara remained a heathen, and was a powerful rival of Thakombau. Some time after the establishment of the missions at Viwa, Namosi its chief became a Christian; and as visitors from Mbau and other places visited the mission-house, the knowledge of the new faith spread in every direction around. The fierce warrior Verani even listened to what the missionary had to say, and hopes were entertained that he too might lotu; but his friend Thakombau urged him to remain firm to the old faith, and to join him as before in his wars. At first, Verani yielded to evil counsels; but, happily, again and again he visited the missionary, till he declared his conviction that Christianity was true; and from that day he became as resolute and bold in promulgating the truth, as he had before been in supporting the customs of heathenism. For several years he held a consistent Christian course of life, and his example had probably an influence on his friend Thakombau. His good influence was, however, opposed by some of the abandoned white men, resident on neighbouring islands, who dreaded, should the king turn Christian, that a stop would be put to their own evil doings. They even went so far, when they thought this possible, as to join the natives in carrying on war against him; and so successful were they that on every side he found his power decreasing. What force or persuasion could not effect, affliction accomplished. During the time of his greatest distress he received a letter from King George of Tonga, urging him to delay no longer, but to turn to the God of the Christians. This letter seems to have decided him.

“On the 30th April, 1854, at nine o’clock the death-drum was beaten—the signal for assembling in the great ‘Strangers’ House’ for the worshipping of the true God. Ten days before, its sound had called people together to a cannibal feast. Three hundred persons were present in the ample lotu dress, before whom stood Thakombau, the chief, with his children and wives. The missionary, who had so long watched for this event, was deeply moved, and could scarcely proceed with the service. It was indeed a day to be remembered in the annals of Fiji. After worship, the people crowded round the missionaries, to ask for alphabets, and gathered in groups to learn forthwith to read. The king, after this, caused the Sabbath to be observed. His deportment was serious, and his own attendance at preaching and prayer-meetings was regular. His little boy, about seven years old, had already learnt to read, and he now became the instructor of his parents, who were both so eager to acquire knowledge, that their young teacher would often fall asleep in the midst of his lesson.

“Among the most implacable enemies of Thakombau was the king of Rewa. Elijah Verani undertook a mission to that chief, in the hopes of bringing about peace, when he and most of his companions were traitorously murdered and eaten. Not long after this the king of Rewa himself died, and his people sued for peace.

“Thakombau, the once cannibal and homicide, was not allowed to remain quiet. He had enemies on every side; some of them he conquered in war, but often his life was in danger from his own former associates and relations. The effect, however, was good, as it made him turn more and more to God for pardon through Jesus Christ and to the consolations of religion. At length he triumphed, and his enemies were subdued under him. He had from the first prohibited cannibalism; murder was now declared to be against the law. The first two murderers guilty of the crime before the law was promulgated were pardoned, but the next, though a chief, was tried, and being found guilty of the murder of his wife, was publicly executed by his countrymen at Mbau, the missionary wisely absenting himself at the time. In the same year three chiefs of rank were publicly married, each to one wife, a step afterwards taken by the king himself. Churches were now built in every direction, and thousands of the people of Fiji abandoned their horrible customs, put away their idols, and turned to the true God.”

Chapter Seventeen.

The courage of Kapiolani.

“Although the change in Fiji is very great, much remains to be done. It is not more than we may justly say, that cannibalism and the more abominable crimes once common have ceased to exist wherever English missionaries reside, and in most places where native teachers have gained a footing. The kingdom of peace is making daily progress. The gospel has firmly established itself in the heart of Fiji. Thakombau remains firm and consistent in his profession of Christianity, and though certain chiefs rebelled against him, he has dealt as leniently with them as the maintenance of authority and order will allow, and has striven as far as possible to avoid bloodshed.

“It is satisfactory to see the way Captain Erskine, of HMS Havannah, speaks of those who have contributed to bring about this state of things. I cannot refrain from touching on a circumstance which he mentions, redounding as it does so greatly to the honour of the wives of two of the missionaries, Mrs Lyth and Mrs Calvert. It occurred while old Tanoa was still alive, and of course long before Thakombau became a Christian.

“A powerful tribe had sent a deputation to Mbau with tribute, and it was necessary to provide them with a banquet, a portion of which must, according to custom, be human flesh. The chief whose business it was to provide for the occasion, not having any enemies, set forth by night and captured a number of women belonging to a village along the coast, who had come down to pick shell-fish for food. Immediately Namosimalua, the Christian chief, heard of it, he hastened to the missionary station; but the missionaries’ wives alone were at home. These heroic women, however, resolved to go themselves, and to endeavour at all risks to save the lives of the captives. Accompanied by the faithful Christian chief they embarked in a canoe for Mbau. Each carried a whale’s tooth decorated with ribbons, a necessary offering on preferring a petition to a chief. As they landed near old Tanoa’s house, the shrieks of two women then being slaughtered for the day’s entertainment chilled their blood, but did not daunt their resolution. Ten had been killed; one had died of her wounds; the life of one girl had been begged by Thakombau’s principal wife, to whom she was delivered as a slave, and three only remained. Regardless of the sanctity of the place, it being tabooed to women, they forced themselves into old Tanoa’s chamber, who demanded, with astonishment at their temerity, what those women did there? The Christian chief, presenting the two whales’ teeth, answered that they came to solicit the lives of the remaining prisoners.

“Tanoa, still full of wonder, took up one of these teeth, and turning to an attendant, desired him to carry it immediately to Navindi—the chief who had captured the prisoners—and ask, ‘If it were good?’

“A few minutes were passed in anxious suspense. The messenger returned. Navindi’s answer was, ‘It is good.’ The women’s cause was gained, and old Tanoa thus pronounced his judgment: ‘Those who are dead, are dead; those who are alive shall live.’ The heroic ladies retired with their three rescued fellow-creatures, and had the satisfaction besides of discovering that their daring efforts had produced a more than hoped-for effect. A year or two ago, no voice but that of derision would have been raised towards them, but now returning to their canoe, they were followed by numbers of their own sex blessing them for their exertions, and urging them to persevere.

“Captain Erskine, who heard this account from the ladies themselves, and gives it much as I have done, adds, ‘If anything could have increased our admiration of their heroism, it was the unaffected manner in which when pressed by us to relate the circumstances of their awful visit, they spoke of it as the simple performance of an ordinary duty.’ He continues: ‘I could not fail to admire the tolerant tone of the missionaries when speaking of these enormities. Accustomed for years to witness scenes such as few believe are to be seen on the face of the earth, and to combat the wildest errors step by step, with slow but almost certain success, these good men know well that a constant expression of indignation, such as must naturally arise in the mind of a stranger, would not produce the desired effect on the unhappy beings to whose loftiest interests they have with much self-sacrifice devoted themselves. Navindi, the cannibal chief of the fishermen, whose natural disposition they describe as kindly and confiding, was received quite on the footing of a friend, and Thakombau was also spoken of as a man of great energy and good intentions, by whose instrumentality much good might yet be effected among his numerous subjects or dependants. The wisdom of their conduct has been proved. These men have been won over to the truth. When our blessed Lord walked on earth He reproved in strongest language the scribes and Pharisees who knew the law, but not the publicans and sinners who knew it not. Captain Erskine describes the missionaries as engaged in the translation of the Scriptures and other religious works to be completed before a given time—a labour to be carried on in the midst of constant interruptions, to which the members of this mission and their families are liable at all hours of the day. Besides being referred to in cases of quarrels and disputes, the care of the sick and the distribution of medicines are duties which they have undertaken, and carry out with unremitting attention.’

“I wish that people in England knew of the efforts made by the priests of Rome to impede the progress of the pure gospel. Their mode of proceeding is very clearly described in a few words by Captain Erskine. He says, ‘There are two French Roman Catholic missionaries stationed at Lakemba, but, as at Tongatabu, it is to be feared that their presence will tend rather to retard than advance the improvement of the natives. The practice of this (Roman Catholic) mission, in availing themselves of the pioneer-ship of men of a different sect, for the purpose of undermining their exertions, cannot be too severely reprobated. Being very irregularly furnished with supplies from their own country, these two are sometimes dependent for the common necessaries of life on the Wesleyans, for whom they entertain the strongest dislike, and who cannot be expected to treat them otherwise than as mischievous intruders; nor are their privations in any way compensated by success in their objects.’ He describes a visit to the fortress of Bea, in Tonga, where two Roman Catholic priests reside, and which is inhabited partly by Roman Catholics and partly by heathens. ‘The appearance of the people in this fortress was not such as to impress one favourably, compared with the others of their countrymen we had seen. They were more scantily clothed, and apparently less cleanly in their persons and houses, a natural consequence of living in a more confined space; and the absence of that cordiality which we everywhere met with from persons connected with the Protestant missions was very apparent. I heard also among the younger officers of pockets picked and handkerchiefs stolen, showing a more lawless state of life, and a retention of their old habits, which were so obnoxious to their early European visitors.’ The priests complained to Captain Erskine of the way the missionaries spoke of them, on which he says, ‘It is perhaps sufficient to remark that, even if the Wesleyans were guilty (which I do not believe) of all the improper conduct attributed to them by M Calinon, it has been occasioned entirely by the obtrusion of the Society to which he belongs into ground previously occupied by others, who would undoubtedly, had their efforts remained unopposed or unassisted, soon have numbered the whole of the population among their fellow-worshippers.’

“The priest also wrote to Captain Erskine, repeating his accusations of intolerance against the Wesleyans, and expressing his fears that their efforts to disparage him would be renewed on their departure, and the flight of the pope from Rome, of which they had heard, represented as the downfall of the Catholic Church.

“The captain says, ‘I thought it right to answer his letter, as I could exonerate the missionaries from any charge of having attempted to prejudice us against the Roman Catholic priests, nor did I believe that they would make use of any unfair argument against their faith, founded on the political position of the pope.’ I must also express my conviction that the charge against the Wesleyans made by the priests of adopting as proselytes all who offer without examination is quite unfounded. The putting away of all but one wife—no small sacrifice on the part of a people who have practised polygamy for ages—is always insisted on as a first step, and regular attendance on religious worship is also expected. Among the older Christians I saw every evidence of their having adopted the new faith from conscientious conviction, and the chiefs of the highest distinction are probably better read in the New Testament than any of the English met with among the islands.

“Captain Erskine also bears testimony to the character of other missionaries. Describing the work at Samoa, he says: ‘The first circumstance which must strike a stranger on his arrival, and one which will come hourly under his notice during his stay, is the influence which all white men, but in particular the missionaries, exercise over the minds of the natives.

“‘No unprejudiced person will fail to see that had this people acquired their knowledge of a more powerful and civilised race than their own, either from the abandoned and reckless characters who still continue to infest most of the islands of the Pacific, or even from a higher class engaged in purely mercantile pursuits, they must have fallen into a state of vice and degradation to which their old condition would have been infinitely superior. That they have been at least rescued from this state, is entirely owing to the missionaries; and should the few points of asceticism which these worthy men, conscientiously believing them necessary to the eradication of the old superstitions, have introduced among their converts, become softened by time and the absence of opposition, it is not easy to imagine a greater moral improvement than will then have taken place among a (once) savage people.

“‘With respect to those gentlemen of the London Mission, whose acquaintance I had the satisfaction of making in Samoa, I will venture, at the risk of being considered presumptuous, to express my opinion, that in acquirements, general ability, and active energy, they would hold no undistinguished place among their Christian brethren at home. The impossibility of accumulating private property, both from the regulations of the Society and the circumstances surrounding them, ought to convince the most sceptical of their worldly disinterestedness, nor can the greatest scoffers at their exertions deny to them the possession of a virtue which every class of Englishman esteems above all others, the highest order of personal courage.’ (See Note.)

“But I need not quote further from Captain Erskine, nor from other unprejudiced writers, to convince you, and through you your friends, of what has been accomplished through the instrumentality of missionaries. You will have many opportunities of judging for yourself. There is, however, another subject to which I would urge you to draw attention, that is, the attempts made by French priests of the Church of Rome to counteract the efforts of the missionaries. You know what has been done at Tahiti. You hear from Captain Erskine what is doing at Tonga and Fiji. The same attempts are being made at Samoa and elsewhere, wherever English missionaries have pioneered the way, and there are good harbours, but not otherwise. This almost looks as if their designs are political as well as religious, and that the object of those who send them is to establish French posts across the Pacific, so that in time of war they may have coaling stations and harbours of refuge in every direction. As they have by means of these priests a party in each group, they will never want an excuse for interfering in the affairs of the islands whenever they may have occasion to do so.

“But I must tell you more of many other islands brought under Christian instruction. Savage Island offers a notable example of what can be done in a short time. Captain Cook gave it that name, on account of the savage appearance of the inhabitants. When Williams first visited them in 1830, they appeared to be in no way improved. Several at length were induced to visit Samoa, where at the training college they gained so sound a knowledge of Christianity, that in 1846 two of them were well fitted to impart it to their long-benighted countrymen. They narrowly, however, escaped with their lives, and some time elapsed before they could gain the confidence of those they came to instruct. When visited by the Reverend A Murray in 1852, about two hundred converts had been made, and many others had learned to look at the teachers with affection. Unhappily that very year several of the natives were killed by the crew of a man-of-war which had called off the island, because one of them had stolen a carpenter’s tool, and among them was the chief who had protected the missionaries on first landing. Still they were already too well instructed to wish to return evil for evil, and with simplicity complained that the punishment was rather severe, especially as the innocent suffered, though not altogether undeserved. From this time forward, under their native teachers, the people made great progress in their knowledge of religious truth, and so rapidly were numbers added to the Church, that in a few years not a heathen remained on the island. It was not indeed till quite lately that an English missionary was placed on the island, and he found five large churches built, one of which was capable of holding more than a thousand people; and many young men were anxious to be trained, that they might carry the gospel to other lands. I might give you a similar account of the way Christianity has been introduced into many other islands, and small groups of islands in this part of the Pacific; but I have a very different one to give of the western part, or of those islands which form what is called Melanesia. They consist of five groups, and not only do the inhabitants of each group speak different languages, but frequently those of neighbouring islands.

“We will begin with the large island of New Caledonia, on which the French have lately formed a convict establishment. To the south of it is the Isle of Pines, and to the east the three islands of Marè, Lîvu, and Uea, forming the Loyalty group. At Marè and Lîvu chiefly, Christianity has made progress, and Protestant missionaries have for some years been residing on them, while the people of Uea have gladly received the word; but the Isle of Pines has been stained with the blood of several native missionaries; and not only did the savage people reject the offer themselves, but they impeded its progress on New Caledonia, by threatening all who became Christians, till the French arrived and put a stop to the promulgation of Protestant truth among the people. Altogether, the influence of Romanism has been most pernicious in these islands.

“To the north-east of them are the New Hebrides, the most southern of which is Aneiteum; next Tanna, Eromanga, Faté, Malicolo, Espiritu Santo, and many others. The next group is that of Banks’ Island, with Santa Maria, and many small isles. The Santa Cruz group is the fourth in the list; and to the north-west of them the Solomon Isles, consisting of many large islands, make the fifth group. The London Missionary Society have made every effort to carry the gospel to the inhabitants of the two first named groups, and in some instances successfully.

“It was at Eromanga that the devoted missionary John Williams fell, with his young companion Mr Harris, struck down by the club of a chief. This sad murder did not prevent the Society from making further efforts to send the gospel to the benighted inhabitants. Those efforts have been blessed, and among the converts was the chief who committed the deed, and who gave up to a missionary the very weapon with which the fatal blow was struck. On Aneiteum, English missionaries are located, Christian Churches have been established, and, with few exceptions, the whole of the population have in name become Christian.

“These five groups are now called Melanesia. They have for some years past been regularly visited by the energetic Bishop of New Zealand, who has induced young men from most of them to accompany him in his mission vessel to New Zealand, where at the Auckland training college they are prepared to carry back the gospel to their savage countrymen. A missionary bishop has lately been appointed to superintend the work, which, if carried on in the spirit with which it has been commenced, must with God’s blessing prosper.

“These islands were long noted for the deeds of blood committed on their shores, for the number of vessels cut off, and both white and native missionaries murdered, and the natives have been looked on in consequence as of the most fierce and sanguinary character. That they deserved it in a degree there is no doubt; but at the same time it is very certain that their conduct towards foreigners was caused by the unjust, cruel way in which they were treated by the crews of vessels which came to procure sandal-wood on their shores. These men shot them down, cheated them, and ill-treated them in every possible way, sometimes carrying off chiefs and people from one place to exchange them as slaves for sandal-wood in another. Over and over again natives have been shot both on board vessels and on shore by the traders. Such was the cause of the death of the lamented John Williams and young Harris. A trading vessel had touched at Eromanga a short time before their arrival, her crew having shot several natives, among whom was the son of a chief, who afterwards confessed that it was in retaliation he had instigated his countrymen to the attack, and had himself struck the fatal blow.

“But time will not allow me to give a further description of this portion of the Pacific. I have as yet told you nothing of the Sandwich Islands, or, as they are now called, the Hawaiian Islands, with their capital Honolulu, in the isle of Oahu, and their late sovereign, King Kaméhaméha the Fourth. They consist of several large and beautiful islands: that of Hawaii (Owhyee), containing two mountains, Mouna Kea and Mouna Roa, said to be eighteen thousand feet in height, and by far the most lofty in the whole Pacific. The inhabitants are a fine and handsome race. Their religion was one of gross superstition, and so overloaded with restrictions, constantly increasing, and curtailing the liberty of all classes except the priests, that the chiefs and people at length became utterly weary of it. Even when visited by Captain Vancouver in 1793, some of the chiefs requested him to send them instructors in the Christian faith,—a prayer to which little attention appears to have been paid.

“It was not till the year 1820 that the young King Rihoriho, who had ascended the throne established by his victorious father, no longer believing in the power of his idols, and weary of the restraints of the old religion, at one stroke broke through the hitherto sacred taboo and the entire system of priestcraft.

“Just before this eventful time it had been put into the hearts of Christian men in the United States, who formed the American Board of Missions, to send missionaries to the long-known savage murderers of Captain Cook. A band of devoted men, admirably selected, arrived on the 30th March, 1820, in sight of Mouna Roa. They were received in a friendly way by the king and many of the chiefs, and three stations were soon occupied by them and their families.

“Two years afterwards, Mr Ellis, of the London Missionary Society, was invited to come from Tahiti to aid in the work, which he was happily enabled to do. He came accompanied by some native Tahitian teachers, who were of the greatest assistance to the missionaries. He remained until the ill-health of Mrs Ellis compelled him to return to England. The king of the Sandwich Islands and his excellent queen, after they had become Christians, paid a visit to England, where they soon died from the measles, which they caught on landing. King Rihoriho, who had assumed the title of Kaméhaméha the Second, was succeeded by his younger brother, the islands being well governed in the mean time by his mother and one of his chiefs.

“The missionary stations were increased in number, many schools were established, and the natives began to understand the truths of the gospel, and to accept its offers, when there came a rude interruption from an outbreak of heathen chiefs, set on by their priests. After some severe fighting the rebels were defeated, and the insurrection completely put down. Christianity and civilisation once more again made progress; but the missionaries had to contend with opposition not only from the heathen natives, but from so-called Christian strangers, who were furious at finding that they could no longer indulge in the gross licence in which in former days they had been accustomed to revel. Not only were they insulted by masters of whalers, but the American missionaries complain that they were ill-treated by the commander of one of their own men-of-war, and by all his subordinates. From such sources have arisen the numerous calumnies current against the missionaries in the South-Sea.”

(See Note 2.)

“In about ten years from the landing of the first missionaries one-third of the population were under instruction, and there were no less than nine hundred native teachers; but even at that time, and much later, there were many heathens, and vice and immorality were very prevalent among professing Christians. Still among all classes there were notable examples of true piety, and ardent zeal for the propagation of the truth. The excellent queen-mother, Kaahumanu, by her precept and example did much to advance the cause of religion. I must tell you of another native lady, Kapiolani, the wife of Naike, the public orator of the kingdom, by whose courage and faith one of the most terrible of the old superstitions of Hawaii was overthrown. The old religion was coloured by the awful volcanic phenomena of which these islands are the theatre. The most fearful of all their deities was Pelé, a goddess supposed to reside in the famous volcano of Kilauea. Here, with her attendant spirits, she revelled amid the fiery billows as they dashed against the sides of the crater. To the base of this volcano the old heathenism, driven from the rest of Hawaii, slowly retreated, though the priestesses of Pelé several times ventured even into the presence of the king, to endeavour by threats of the vengeance of the goddess to induce him to support the faith of his fathers. These impostors still exercised considerable influence over the uneducated masses.

“Kapiolani, bold in the Christian faith, resolved practically to show how utterly powerless were these supposed fiery gods. After a journey of a hundred miles, as she neared the side of the mountain, a prophetess of the supposed goddess met her with warnings and denunciations of vengeance. But undauntedly she persevered, and as she stood on the black edge of the seething caldron she addressed, in words of perfect faith, the anxious bystanders watching for the effects of Pelé’s wrath: ‘Jehovah is my God: He kindled these fires. I fear not Pelé. If I perish, then you may believe that she exists, and dread her power. But if Jehovah saves me, then you must fear and serve Him.’ As she spoke, she cast with untrembling hand the sacred berries into the burning crater, quietly waiting till the spectators should be convinced that no result was to follow. Thus she succeeded in breaking through the last lingering remnant of the long-dreaded taboo; and while the priests and priestesses were compelled to support themselves by honest labour, their votaries abandoned their heathen practices, and in many instances sought instruction in the new faith.

“The examples I have given will show you the mode in which Christianity has spread over the isles of the Pacific. But there are still numberless dark spots to which the gospel has not been carried, and in all, the Churches still require the support, strengthening, and instruction which in general white men can alone afford.”

Note 1. “Journal of a Cruise among the Islands of the Pacific,” by Captain J Elphinstone Erskine, RN, page 100.

Note 2. The Quarterly Review, 1853, in noticing accounts of voyages in the Pacific, after quoting the favourable testimonies of some writers, thus refers to others: “There is one circumstance which produces a very painful impression: it is the extreme unfairness which has been brought to bear against the missionaries and their proceedings, even by reporters whose substantial good intentions we have no right to controvert. Surely their work was one which, whatever exception we may take against particular views or interests, ought to have excited the sympathies, not only of those who belong to the religious party, as it is commonly called, but of all who do not take a perverse pleasure in contemplating human degradation as a kind of moral necessity. The object of these devoted men was to redeem the natives from no mere speculative unbelief, but from superstitions the most sanguinary and licentious. Even those who were careless as to the great truths which the Polynesians had to learn, must feel, upon reflection, that merely to unteach the brutal and defiling lesson of ages of darkness was to confer a priceless blessing. Every prejudice should surely be in favour of the men who have by general confession accomplished the first and apparently most laborious part of this task; instead of which a large class of writers find a species of satisfaction in thinking nothing but evil.”

Chapter Eighteen.

A hazardous exploit.

Mr Bent had been waiting for my recovery to restore Alea to her father, and to revisit the newly-established Christian community in her native island. It was important to lose no time in doing this. Mary Bent would have accompanied us; but as her father proposed being absent only a short time, and as the inconveniences of voyaging in a native canoe were very great, he wished her to remain at home. She was, however, not alone; for the widow of a missionary resided with her, and shared her onerous duties in instructing the native girls, an occupation in which both ladies took the greatest delight. All the inhabitants of the island now, it must be understood, professed Christianity, and might justly be called thoroughly civilised. Many also were true and sincere believers; so that these two English ladies, left alone on a small island of the Pacific, felt as secure as they would have done in the centre of civilised England.

As we drew near her father’s island, Alea showed considerable trepidation and anxiety as to the way in which she would be received. She could not persuade herself that one from whom she had fled so short a time before, and left a fierce, ignorant heathen, would be willing to forgive her, and treat her with kindness. Might he not also, after all, compel her to become the wife of the cannibal chief to whom she had been betrothed? That was the most dreadful thought. Mr Bent used every possible argument to calm her apprehensions. Although the poor girl had felt the influence of grace in her own soul, she scarcely as yet comprehended its power to change the heart of men. I had entertained a sincere interest in the fate of the young princess from the day we had found her and her perishing companions on board the canoe. I was now able to exchange a few words with her, and there was one subject on which she was never tired of dwelling,—the praise of Mary Bent,—in which I could always join.

Believing that my future lot would be cast among the people of these islands, I had begun seriously to study their language, and I took every opportunity of practising myself in speaking it. We had two native teachers on board, who were to be left among the new converts, and all day long I was talking to them, so that I found myself making rapid progress in their somewhat difficult language.

With a fair wind, the missionary flag flying from the mast-head, we entered the harbour. The shore was crowded, and more and more people came rushing down from all quarters. It was evident that they would not receive us with indifference. Mr Bent had wished to prepare the king for his daughter’s return; but she was recognised before we reached the beach, and several people hurried off to inform her father of her arrival. As the vessel’s keel touched the strand we saw the people separating on either side, and between them appeared the old chief hurrying down towards us. We instantly landed with Alea, and no sooner did her father reach her than, contrary to all native customs, he folded her in his arms, and kissing her brow, burst into tears?—but they were tears of joy.

“Forgive you, daughter!” he answered to her petition. “It is I have to be thankful that I could not succeed in ruining your soul and body as I proposed. What agony should I now be feeling had I cast you into the power of the child of Satan, to the destruction of your soul and body alike!”

These words made Alea truly happy, and still more so when her father gave her free permission to become the wife of Vihala. During their first interview we stood aside; but now the king came forward, and invited us to come up to his abode. He had evidently some reason for wishing us to come at once. What was our surprise to see on the summit of a hill a building beyond all comparison larger than had ever been erected in the island. The king pointed it out to us with no slight pride. It was a church built entirely by the natives, according to the descriptions given them by Vihala, and the assistance of two or three of them who had seen Christian places of worship during their visits to other islands, though they were at the time themselves heathen. Often have I since seen heathens sitting at the porch of a place of worship, or standing outside the circle of eager listeners; and I have hoped, not without reason, that those men were imbibing some portion of the seed thus scattered, to bring forth fruit in due time. This fact alone is encouraging; indeed there is every encouragement to persevere in missionary labour throughout the Pacific. Where, indeed, is it not to be found, if waited for with patience? The missionary, too, feels that he goes not forth in his own strength,—that a far higher influence is at work, and on that he places his confidence of success.

Nothing could be more satisfactory than the reception afforded us by the chief; but I need not describe the number of hogs and fowls, of bread-fruit, of taro, of the sweet potato, and of numerous other articles of food which were collected to make a feast in honour of our arrival. Mr Bent lost no time in carrying out the object of our visit, in addressing the people, and in installing the teachers in their office. One of our first works was to plan a school-room and houses for the teachers, and to suggest certain alterations in the church to make it more suitable for public worship. It had been arranged that we should return before the next Sabbath; but as it was possible to complete the building by that day, Mr Bent resolved to remain and open it in due form, the natives redoubling their efforts, and working almost day and night to effect that object. I lent a hand, and in sailor fashion erected a pulpit, which, as there was no time to carve, I covered with matting and native cloth, which had a novel, though not unpleasing, appearance.

I did not before speak of my ship: I scarcely expected to find her here on my arrival. Indeed the captain, I understood, thought that all on board the boat had been lost. He had waited, however, day after day, till losing all patience, he had sailed at length the very day we had reached the missionary station. I was most concerned to hear that my boat had not reached the island, though I had a hope that she had fallen in with the Golden Crown, and been picked up. If, on the contrary, she had been lost or captured by savages, I felt how grateful I should be for having escaped destruction. Captain Buxton, fully believing that I was lost, had left no message for me, so that I could not tell where the ship had gone, nor what were his intentions.

I must now return to the subject of the church. The opening was one of the most interesting sights I ever beheld. It was crowded at an early hour with people, old and young, all clothed in native cloth, and with their hair cut short,—signs that they had lotued, or become Christians; while numbers were seen approaching from all directions, many of whom, being unable to obtain seats inside, crowded round the doors and windows. Mr Bent’s address was most fervent, and, though I could understand but little of it, yet, judging from the way in which the attention of every one present was absorbed, it must have been deeply interesting. Of course but comparatively a small number of those present were really Christians, or understood even the great principles of Christianity. They now required the instruction which man can give, and the work of the Holy Spirit to change their hearts. I may here remark, that I have often heard missionaries accused of over eagerness to increase the number of their flocks; but I should say that Protestant missionaries are never willing to consider those converted who are not really so, and that no ministers of the gospel are more strict in the tests they apply to ascertain the fitness of converts for baptism. Mr Bent well knew the character of his congregation, and addressed them accordingly; but surely it was glorious progress to have some hundreds of persons, not long ago untamed savages, listening attentively to the truths of the gospel. No work of man could thus have progressed,—no mere civilising influence would have produced such an effect. When the morning service was over, the people assembled on the hill-side and in open spaces in the neighbourhood of the church, and there, while eating the provisions they had brought with them, they eagerly discussed the subject of the discourse they had just heard. The teachers I observed went about among them, now sitting down with one group, now with another, and were thus able to answer questions, to give information, and to correct the erroneous notions which were likely to be entertained. Alea scarcely ever left her father’s side, and was continually engaged in imparting to him the instruction which she had received from Mr Bent and Mary; and it was interesting to observe the avidity with which the old man received the truth from the lips of the young girl.

I heard reports, however, that the heathen party, still numerous, were mustering strongly in another part of the island. It had been ascertained also that a canoe manned by heathens had left the island some time back, but where they had gone was not known. These circumstances I thought suspicious, and I feared foreboded evil. The meeting at the service in the afternoon, of the natives professing Christianity, was fully equal to that in the morning, but there were fewer heathens. The service continued with prayer and songs of praise, and an address full of instruction and exhortation from Mr Bent. It was almost concluded, when a heathen chief, an old friend of the king, I found, rushed breathless into the building, announcing that a large fleet of double canoes was approaching the island,—that it was that of the cannibal chief to whom Alea was betrothed, coming undoubtedly with hostile intent.

“How far off are the canoes?” asked the king.

“Some distance as yet,” was the answer.

“Then we will pray for protection from One mighty to save,” exclaimed the king. “We shall now judge which is the most powerful,—Jehovah, whom we have lately learned to worship, or the false gods whom we have cast away.”

None of the people moved from their places. The missionary concluded his discourse, and then offered up an earnest prayer for protection from all dangers, to which every one present repeated a loud Amen. They then moved in an orderly manner out of the church, when the greater number hurried up the hill, whence they could see the approaching canoes. Of these there were some fifteen or twenty of different sizes, but most of them large enough to contain a hundred men at least. They were making for a sandy point some way from the town or settlement, where we concluded the enemy would land. I could see with my glass the warriors dancing, and shaking their spears, and gesticulating violently, in a way intended to insult those they had come to attack, and to strike terror into their hearts. A council of war was now held. It was believed that the enemy would not attempt to make an attack that night, but would wait till the morning; still it was necessary to be prepared. The warriors accordingly armed themselves, and assembled in strong bodies under their different leaders. It was a difficult position for Mr Bent and me. He, however, at once stated that he could not assist our friends except by his advice and prayers, but he told me that I might act as I thought fit. Should I fight, or should I not? There was a sore conflict within me. My inclinations prompted me to fight, but my new-born principles taught me to pray rather than to fight, where not called on positively by duty to do so. In either case, my example might be of service. I prayed (as all men in a difficulty should pray) to be guided aright. I decided to remain with the missionary, and use every means to stay the fight, or to mitigate its horrors should it take place.

“I am glad, my son, that you have so resolved,” remarked Mr Bent, when I told him of my determination. “Surely the prayers of a believing man are of more avail than the strong arm of the bravest of warriors. It is a trial of your faith, certainly; but oh, pray that your faith may not waver.”

While I had been consulting with Mr Bent, I found that a herald from the enemy had arrived with a demand that the Princess Alea should be forthwith delivered up to his master, and threatening the king and all his adherents with utter destruction if he refused compliance.

“Tell your chief that once I was in the dark as he is. Then I thought it no sin to give him my daughter; now I have light, and see my wickedness and folly. When he has light, he likewise will see as I do. My daughter cannot be his wife.” This bold speech seemed to astonish the herald, who, having repeated his threats, took his departure.

Active preparations were now commenced for the defence of the settlement, and such fortifications as the natives use were thrown up on all sides. Slight as they may appear, they are capable of offering a considerable resistance, and on one occasion, in the island of Tongatabu, a brave English naval officer and several of his men lost their lives in an attack on one of them held by a rebel and heathen chief who had set at defiance the authority of King George.

As evening drew on we could see the enemy on the sand-bank, dancing round large fires which they had kindled, the sound of their war-shrieks and shouts, and the blowing of their conch-shells reaching us through the calm night air. Meantime the missionary repaired to the church, which during the night was visited at intervals by the whole Christian population. The king also sat frequently in council with his chiefs. One of the youngest, who had, however, greatly distinguished himself, arose and proposed leading a band of chosen warriors to attack the enemy before they commenced their march in the morning.

“While they are singing and dancing, they will not keep a good watch, and thus we may approach them without being discovered. Jehovah will aid us. It is Satan fights for them. We will prove which is the strongest.”

All approved the words of the young chief, and he had no lack of volunteers. About two hundred men were chosen and well armed; they at once set out on their hazardous exploit. They had resolved to conquer and save their brethren or die, and yet, perhaps, there was not one who did not expect to be victorious. I had not seen Alea for some time. While I was with the king, who was surrounded by several of his chiefs, she unexpectedly made her appearance among us. She was weeping bitterly.

“Father,” she said, “I am the cause of all the bloodshed which is about to occur. Let my life be sacrificed rather than that of so many of your friends. Give me up to the chief. He can then have no cause to complain. I will never be his wife. I may make my escape or I may die, but the lives of you and your friends will be preserved.”

On hearing this noble resolve, the chiefs to a man exclaimed that nothing should induce them to abandon the princess. Prayers from all sides were in the mean time offered up for the success of the band of warriors who had gone forth to attack the enemy. No one, however, slackened in their efforts to fortify the town, and all, from the king, when not engaged in council, down to the slave taken in battle, carried baskets of earth or posts for stockades, during the greater part of the night, to those parts of the fortifications which required strengthening. As the hours drew on we waited anxiously for the result of the expedition. I could not help feeling how critical was our position. I was not anxious, however, on my own account, but I could not help reflecting on the sad condition to which Mary would be reduced should her father and I be cut off, as we might too probably be if the heathens gained the victory. Then came the blessed and consoling thought that God cares for the orphans, especially of those who serve Him; what strength and courage does it give those who rest on His sure promises—a comfort which people of the world can never enjoy.

I went the rounds of the fortifications a short time before dawn, and found all the warriors at their posts. I then rejoined Mr Bent, and was conversing with him, when a loud shout from a distance reached our ears, followed by a confused sound of shrieks and cries mingled with the shouts, which continued without cessation for many minutes. Scouts were sent out to ascertain the cause, but no one returned before day broke. The light then revealed to us the fleet of the enemy shoving off from the land. Some of the canoes had already got away, others were hoisting their sails, while a body of the enemy were defending themselves on the beach, hard pressed by our friends. On seeing this the warriors in the town rushed from their trenches, but before they could reach the scene of action not an enemy remained on their strand, with the exception of three or four slain and some thirty or more taken prisoners. The rest sailed away in hot haste, seized with an unusual, if not an unaccountable panic. As their sails had become mere dots on the horizon, the victors entered the town singing, not as before songs of triumph in honour of their idols, but praises to Jehovah, to whom they ascribed their victory. Mr Bent and I, with the women and children and aged men who had not gone forth to the fight, met them, when the king, in set form, recounted what had occurred. The first band had remained concealed till near daylight, when the enemy appeared to be getting drowsy after all their feasting and dancing. At a signal from their leader they dashed forth on the foe, who, totally unprepared for them, were seized with a sudden panic, and the greater number, leaving even their arms, fled towards their canoes. The few who were killed had refused to receive quarter, and as many as could be seized were taken prisoners. These latter fully expected to be slaughtered immediately, and to be offered up to idols, if not to be eaten. They had been somewhat surprised in the first instance to see that their friends who had been killed in the fight were decently interred where they fell, instead of being dragged ignominiously by the heels to the town. They only concluded that this was one of the new customs of the lotu people, and had no expectation in consequence of escaping the common doom of captives. Several of them were chiefs who had attempted to defend the rear while their countrymen were embarking. They stood with downcast, sullen looks, prepared for torture and death. The king now approached them. “Why, O chiefs, did you come to attack my island and my people?” he asked calmly. “We are now among those who wish to live at peace with all men, to have enmity towards no one. Why did you desire to do us harm?”

“We came against you because our king and master ordered us,” answered one of the prisoners, looking up with a fierce scowl of defiance on his countenance. “Our object was to carry off your daughter to become our king’s wife; the rest of you we should have killed and eaten.”

“And I, O chiefs, let you go free because my King and Master orders me to be merciful, that I may obtain mercy,” answered the king. “You, O chiefs and people, are free to return to your own island, but before you go you must learn something of the new religion which we have been taught, that you may go back and speak of it to your people, or wherever you may go.”

The astonished captives could scarcely believe their senses, the treatment was so unlike anything those they had known taken in war had experienced. They consulted together and expressed their willingness to accept the offer. They were completely overcome when the king promised them a large canoe and ample provisions for their return. The people having taken some refreshment, assembled at the church, where hearty thanksgivings were offered up for the deliverance they had experienced. The captives attended. I watched their countenances. They seemed lost in amazement. All the sentiments were so new and strange. The reign of the Prince of Peace was spoken of. They soon after came to the missionary desiring that they might be allowed to serve so good a Master. They never seemed tired of receiving instruction in the new doctrine, and I was struck with its wonderful adaptability to unsophisticated man, and its power of satisfying his heart yearnings, from the avidity with which they seized each point as presented to them.

It was now time to return to the mission station. We bade an affectionate farewell to Alea, promising to send her intended husband back to the island as soon as possible. The now liberated captives agreed to embark on the same day. Their chief entreaty was that a missionary or a teacher might be sent them to instruct them in the way of eternal life, that way which, by a wonderful combination of circumstances, they were now anxious to follow. Thus the Almighty works often, and thus He has thought fit in an especial manner to work throughout the Pacific.

The difficulty was to obtain a teacher. Mr Bent had several under training at the station, and he told the captives that if they would accompany us he would endeavour to find one who would return with them to their island. They were delighted with the proposal, and exhibited an extraordinary eagerness to set forth. Their hurry was at the time unaccountable, as they were evidently sincere in their expressions. Anxious to please them, we accordingly had our canoe launched, taking several of them on board, the remainder going in the canoe given by the king. The wind being fair, we had a quick run till more than half way across. Just then, through our glasses, we caught sight of a canoe, which, on discovering us, as it seemed, paddled off at right angles to avoid us—her people evidently mistrusting our character. We instantly altered our course to cut her off, and approached her with our missionary flag flying. No sooner was this discovered than the canoe turned again towards us. She soon drew near, when we recognised the people in her as belonging to the station. By their gestures and countenances we had too much reason to believe that they brought us evil tidings. “Haste! haste! haste!” they exclaimed, leaping on board. “A heathen fleet has arrived at the island, and the chief threatens to attack the station. Even now he may have begun the onslaught, for his fury was great. Haste! haste! haste!”

Chapter Nineteen.

The launch of the Olive Branch.

We now understood more of the dangers to which the families of missionaries have often been exposed in all parts of the world. I must own that in my fears for Mary Bent’s safety, my own faith and fortitude were well nigh giving way. Mr Bent retained his calmness in a wonderful manner. “All things are in God’s hands,” he observed. “He will guide them as He knows to be best. We have to go on labouring to the utmost of our power, leaving the rest to Him.” I felt that I must be in action, and hauling the canoe on board with the aid of her crew, we got out the paddles and urged our craft ahead somewhat faster than the wind was doing. Every moment might be of consequence. As the cannibal chief, exasperated at having been deprived of Alea, might attempt to carry off Mary, the very thought drove me almost distracted. I had had few or no trials in life, and was not prepared for this one.

Mr Bent wished to ascertain whether, if required, we could depend on the assistance of our new friends. They had heard what had occurred, and at once volunteered to use every means in their power to prevent their chief from doing harm, even to turning against him.

“He will live perhaps to thank us,” one of them, a young and intelligent chief, observed. “At all events you have bound us to serve you.”

All now seemed to depend on our arriving before the attack had begun. We trusted that if not begun we should be able to prevent it. Meantime all we could do was to offer up constant, earnest prayer for the protection of one so dear to us, and for all those at the settlement. The wind, hitherto blowing a strong breeze, now fell light, and our progress was slower than before.

“All is for the best, depend on that, my son,” repeated the missionary several times, when he observed my look of anxiety. “God’s loving mercy endureth for ever. Pray against doubt—pray against doubt. Put on the armour of faith. In that you will find strength to quench all the fiery darts of the evil one.”

My venerable friend spoke the truth, and already my fears began to subside, although I could in no way see the mode of deliverance. I expressed the same to Mr Bent.

“Nor did we the other day, but God clearly fought for us as He did in days of old for the children of Israel, by putting fear into the hearts of their enemies, and so can He now find some means for the protection of those who serve Him.”

On we glided over the calm blue water. Now the breeze freshened, and as the surface became rippled over, it sparkled brightly in the sunbeams. As the island came in sight my heart beat quicker and quicker, and with difficulty I could restrain my impatience. I stood at the bows with my glass at my eye directed constantly at the spot where the station was to be found. As the sun then was, objects close in under the land were not distinctly discernible, but as my glass every now and then swept the horizon on either side, the sails of a fleet of canoes came into view. The instrument almost dropped from my hand. We were too late. The attack had been made and the victors were sailing away with their captives. My first impulse was to give chase, and to attempt their recovery. I did not consider how powerless we were even should our new allies remain faithful. For some time I could not bring myself to tell my fears to Mr Bent; but it was necessary to alter our course if we were to pursue the enemy. At length, therefore, it became necessary for me to tell him what I had seen. He took the telescope, and after a severe scrutiny of the horizon in every direction, and especially of the island, he asked, in a more cheerful voice than might have been expected:

“Can you not assign some other cause for the flight of the foe? Look again.”

I did so; and now, the sun having come round a little, I saw close in with the missionary station a large ship at anchor. She might be the Golden Crown, come to take me away. I hoped not. My heart again sunk. As we drew nearer I saw that she was much larger—a man-of-war. The station was safe. Otherwise she would have been sailing in pursuit of the canoes. With one voice we burst forth in the native tongue with songs of praise and thanksgiving; and now the canoe seemed to glide more swiftly over the glad blue sea. We entered the harbour, where lay a fine English frigate. As we passed her I hailed and inquired if the station was safe.

“Yes, yes, all right,” was the answer. “We came in just in time to prevent mischief.”

Our eagerness to reach home prevented us from stopping to make further inquiries. No sooner did our boat’s keel touch the strand than we leaped on shore. Even then before leaving the beach the missionary knelt down and offered up a few words of thanksgiving for the mercies vouchsafed us. We reached the house. Mary and her companion did not come out to welcome us. Voices reached our ears from within. One I thought I recognised. We looked in. Mary was doing the honours of the tea-table with some other ladies. There were three naval officers and two gentlemen in black coats. One of the latter turned his face. It was that of my brother John. I had time to greet him while Mary was receiving her father and introducing her guests. Then came my turn to be received by her. I need not describe that. I was very happy. The whole scene was so different from what I had but a short time before expected, that I was perfectly bewildered. I felt deeply grateful that Mary had escaped all the dangers I apprehended, and which had really threatened her.

The frigate had appeared off the station just at the very moment that the cannibal chief and his followers were about to land. She brought up with her guns commanding the approach to the town. The captain, suspecting mischief, instantly despatched an armed boat to warn the chief that he would allow no warlike demonstration to be made in his presence, and that if he attempted to land he would blow his canoes to pieces. The warning had had at first very little effect, and the chief, in defiance, leaping on shore with his followers from the largest canoe, left her deserted. The officer in charge of the boat immediately fired the gun in the bows right into her, and almost knocked her to pieces. The interpreter then shouted out, “If the small gun of this little boat will do all this mischief, what would all the great guns of the big ship do?”

The argument was irresistible. The chief, leaping on board another canoe, begged that no more damage might be done, and offered to sail away immediately, promising never again to come near the settlement. This he was allowed to do on condition of his returning directly home without committing further damage on the way, and he was compelled to leave two hostages as a guarantee that he would perform his promise. All this was told in a few words, and John now introduced me to his devoted wife; and as I heard of some of the many trials and dangers they had gone through, and how calmly she had endured them, I felt how admirably she was fitted to be the helpmate of a missionary. The captain of the frigate was, I discovered, an old family friend—one who, convinced of the importance of missionary labour, was zealous in aiding and supporting missionaries of the gospel wherever he met them engaged in their Master’s work. He had found John suffering from hard work and anxiety, and had persuaded him and his wife to take a trip among several of the Polynesian groups, to visit as many of the missionary stations as could be reached, in the hopes that he might return home with renewed strength for his work. One of the ladies was his wife’s sister, who had come out to assist her in her labours—not the only example of self-devotion to a glorious and thrice blessed cause. The other gentleman in plain clothes was the chaplain of the ship. While conversing with him an idea occurred to me which I took an early opportunity of communicating to John, who highly approved of it, and undertook to broach the subject to Mr Bent while I mentioned it to Mary. It was one which concerned us both very nearly, for it was a proposal to take the opportunity of marrying while a legally authorised person was present to perform the ceremony, with my own brother and our naval friend as witnesses. Mary had no objections to offer, and we soon overcame those Mr Bent suggested.

The benefit of the visit of the ship-of-war to the different missionary stations was very great, besides having preserved ours from almost certain destruction. The admirable discipline of the crew had a great influence on the minds of the heathen natives, so different from what they had been accustomed to witness on board many whalers; the perfect order of everything on board the ship, and the mighty power of her guns, awed them still more, and showed them the folly of offending people who had in their possession such instruments of punishment. I will not say that the appearance of any ship of war would do good. Unless discipline is strict and no licence is allowed, they might do, as some have done, a great deal of harm.

One of the worst of this kind, was that of Captain Kotzebue, commanding a Russian exploring expedition. Wherever he went he outraged decency by the licence he allowed his crew, and on his return home malignantly abused the English missionaries whom he found nobly struggling, against innumerable difficulties, to reclaim the hapless natives from the sin and corruption which he had done his utmost to encourage. Others, from ignorance or from vicious dispositions, followed his line of abuse, though happily the greater number of their publications have sunk into deserved oblivion, while the glorious result of missionary labour, evident to all who will inquire, proclaims the falsehood of their accusations. To the honour of the British navy be it said that by far the greater number of captains who have visited the isles of the Pacific have rendered essential service to the missionary cause while on the spot, and have spoken and written heartily in its praise on their return home.

We had very little time to prepare for the wedding as the frigate could not remain long. I employed the interval in getting assistance from the ship’s carpenters in building a vessel, and instruction, with the necessary plans for continuing the work after the frigate had gone. I had some knowledge of the art to begin with, so that I knew exactly what information I required. My ambition was to have a fine, serviceable little vessel, and I had every hope of succeeding. I was thoroughly up to rigging and fitting her.

The time passed very rapidly, and my wedding-day arrived, and Mary became my most loving and devoted wife,—a bright example to those among whom our lot was cast. I have not dwelt on the visit of my brother John, or the enjoyment and benefit I derived from his society. Our station was healthy, but the surgeon of the ship recommended his continuing the voyage, and with reluctance I parted from him, hoping, however, to visit him when my schooner should be completed. Once more the missionary station was left in its usual quiet state; but, though quiet, no one was idle. There were schools both for adults as well as children,—the males, under the superintendence of Mr Bent, with native teachers; the women and girls under Mary and her friend. Classes also assembled during most days in the week for religious instruction. Mr Bent was also frequently engaged in teaching the young men and boys various mechanical arts: house-building in its various departments, agriculture and gardening, and last, though not least, printing and book-binding. It is wonderful with what rapidity many acquired the art of printing, and many learned to bind books with great neatness and strongly. I meantime, aided by my wife, was making fail progress in the language, so that I was able to talk without difficulty to the men who assisted me in building the vessel. She was at length ready for launching. I proposed calling her the Mary, but to this my wife would not consent. We had a discussion on the subject round our tea-table during that pleasantest of all meals in most missionary, indeed in most quiet families. The Ark was proposed, and then the Olive Branch. The latter was the name decided on.

It was made a day of rejoicing and prayer and praise on the occasion of launching the little Olive Branch. Formerly one, or perhaps several, human victims would have been offered up to their idols by the then benighted inhabitants. The vessel herself was decked with flags and garlands, and surrounded by high poles, from which gay-coloured banners were flying.

A feast was prepared also, at which the chief, who came in state, presided. We had limited the quantity of provisions, or else, according to custom, far more than could have been consumed would have been collected. A large bower or tent of boughs and flowers had been erected for the chief and his principal attendants,—a very elegant, though a rapidly created structure. Mary named the vessel as she glided down the ways, and a hymn of thankfulness, combined with a prayer for the safety of all who might ever sail in her, was sung by the children of the school at the same time, the effect being admirable. I was somewhat anxious till I saw the little craft floating safely in the water.

We had purposely avoided anything savouring of heathenism, such as breaking a bottle of wine on her bows, taken evidently from the Greek custom of pouring out a libation to Neptune; nor would we make a mockery of the rite of baptism, by pretending to christen her. Living among heathens, it was our duty to be especially circumspect in all our proceedings. The natives are very acute, and are accustomed to make enquiries as to the meaning and origin of everything they see. How unsatisfactory would have been the answer we should have had to give, had we, without consideration or thought, adopted the practice generally followed in England.

The missionaries have endeavoured as much as possible to abolish all heathen customs, so that the evil-disposed may have no temptation to return to them. In this they show wisdom. Even the sports and pastimes of heathenism, though they may by some be considered harmless in themselves, are generally adverse to the spiritual life of a Christian, and therefore they have been discouraged. The missionaries have in consequence been accused of being morose and narrow-minded. Far, far different is their real character. As a class, they are zealous, earnest, devoted men, full of life, activity, and energy,—courageous and persevering,—gifted with high and varied attainments, which would enable them to shine among civilised communities, but they have joyfully abandoned home and country, and, in obedience to their Lord and Master, have gone forth to teach the heathen the unsearchable riches of Christ. Let those who may fancy that I overpraise these men, read their memoirs, and they will be convinced of the truth of my statements.

The native carpenters worked admirably. I had spars, rigging, and a suit of sails ready, supplied me by the frigate, with a compass and such nautical instruments as I required, so the Olive Branch was soon ready for sea. I proposed in my first experimental trip to pay a visit to Vihala, to leave two more native teachers on the island, and then, on my return, to see Alea, and to ascertain the progress made by her father and fellow-islanders in religion. Mary begged that she might accompany me, and, as her father made no objections, I was too glad of her company to refuse. For several days, however, I first made frequent trips out of the harbour, to exercise my native crew, who, although they had never before been on board a vessel, became efficient hands in a wonderfully short space of time. The reason of this was that they gave their minds thoroughly to their work, and were anxious to learn everything I could teach them.

The Olive Branch was completed to my satisfaction and to that of all who saw her. I was indeed very proud of her, as chiefly the work of my own hands; and yet when I compared the slight difficulties I had had to overcome with the great ones conquered by Mr Williams at Raratonga, when building the Messenger of Peace, I felt sensibly how little cause I had to boast.

As Mr Bent had promised to relieve Vihala of his charge as soon as possible, two teachers had been trained for the purpose, and these we now took on board. We had with us a number of axes and knives, and other articles most prized by the natives, both to pay for provisions or whatever we might require, as also to bestow on Vihala, hoping that, if he were thus richly endowed, the old king would not refuse longer to give him his daughter.

Two of the men who had come as heathen enemies now remained as friends, and earnest searchers after truth. The remainder, deeply imbued with the spirit of Christianity, had returned to their own island, we hoped to pave the way for a missionary among its still heathen and cannibal inhabitants.

Thus during the few months since I had left my ship I had seen a way made for the entrance of the gospel into these thickly-inhabited islands. Thus it has pleased God to work through human agency among a large proportion of the isles of the Pacific; nor has He ever failed to afford, after a time, superabundant encouragement to His faithful labourers. Oh that some of the many thousands and thousands of young men and women who read this would consider the noble, the glorious nature of missionary work, and esteem it as a high privilege to be allowed to employ their energies in the cause!

How different was our voyage from that which Mary, Mr Bent, and I before took in the same direction! But where were our companions? Were we the only ones alive out of the whole party? At all events, we had ample reason to be grateful. The wind was fair, and our passage promised to be as calm and pleasant as we could desire.

On getting near enough to the island to distinguish objects on shore, we saw a number of people hurrying down to the beach, from among the trees, while some launched their canoes and paddled off through the opening in the reef towards us. Their object was to welcome us, and to pilot the schooner into their harbour. They knew that the schooner was a missionary vessel from her flag, but they had not guessed who was on board. Their delight, when they recognised Mr Bent and Mary, was excessive; and so completely did they forget all about the vessel, that had I not kept a good look-out she would have run right on to the reef. On our enquiring for Vihala, the answer was, “He is well, and we all Christian.”

The glorious news we found on landing to be true. Vihala received us with joy unfeigned, and it was some little time before we could proceed, from the number of people who crowded round us to express their satisfaction at our arrival. Great also was ours when, at length moving on, we saw before us a handsome structure, a church erected entirely by the natives, under Vihala’s superintendence, capable of holding seven or eight hundred persons, and near it a school-house and two neat residences for teachers.

“Your church is indeed large,” observed Mr Bent, after expressing his admiration of it to Vihala.

“Yes,” was the quiet answer; “but all desire to hear the word, and why should any be excluded? The kingdom of heaven is wide enough for all.”

Alas! that any should so mistake the gospel message as to think differently, and to act as if all should be thrust out who do not conform to certain rules and regulations of man’s invention, although they with deep repentance trust in the blood of Christ alone for salvation. Many a once heathen savage will rise up in the day of judgment to condemn those men. Would that, for their own sakes, they could even now voyage amid the isles of the Pacific, and behold the glorious work wrought by the instrumentality of true Christian men of various branches of the one Church, and I believe that they would be compelled to acknowledge that an unction from on high is of more avail in saving souls alive than any mere official and external qualification, such as the Romish priesthood with its pretended apostolic succession claims. The means are best judged of by the result, and that can be known of all men. “By their works ye shall know them.” It was remarkable that, except for the few days Mr Bent had preached on the islands, none of the inhabitants had heard the truth from a white missionary, and yet the majority of them had cast away their idols, and become nominal Christians,—while many of them were really converted.

We had a most delightful time on the island. The two new teachers we brought somewhat reconciled the people to the loss of Vihala, though their grief was most unmistakable when they were told that he must leave them for a time at all events.

Again we were on the ocean, and approaching the island where Vihala expected to meet his promised bride. He had long been separated from her. He acknowledged that it had been for his good, and he hoped that, with the spiritual benefits he had received while engaged as a teacher, they should the better be able to walk together on their heavenward way, and lead others on to the same happy goal.

Chapter Twenty.

A fearful hurricane.

But a few years ago, before the power of God’s word was felt among the inhabitants of the fair islands of the Pacific, to the numerous dangers usually encountered by mariners, that of being attacked and cut off by cannibal savages was to be added throughout its whole extent. Now, throughout the eastern portion, the greater number of the islands may be visited, not only without fear, but with the certainty of a friendly reception. There are still some,—like the Marquesas and parts of the Pomautau group, or Low Archipelago,—which still remain in the darkness of heathenism; but on the western portion of that mighty ocean, the bright spots on which the gospel shines are the exception to the general rule, and over the widest parts the spirit of evil reigns supreme. It was here that true soldier of Christ, the energetic Williams, fell; and here, too, Mr Gordon and his wife and family were lately murdered by the savage inhabitants.

It was towards a group of islands in the eastern Pacific that the Olive Branch was now holding its course. We had seen Vihala happily united to Alea, with the full consent of the old king, and they had devoted themselves for missionary labour wherever they might be required. This was surprising to many, and to the heathen perfectly incomprehensible. It was as astonishing to them as it would be to people in England, if a young noble of high rank were to declare his resolution of going forth as a missionary of the gospel to these heathen lands. Yet what undertaking more glorious, what work more pleasing to the Lord and Master, whom Christians of all ranks, rich and poor, profess to serve. We had likewise visited the island of the once cannibal chief, who had heard of the new religion from his countrymen, had confessed its vast superiority to his own, cast away his idols, and gladly received the two teachers we had brought with us. All this had been most cheering and encouraging.

We had landed Mr Bent at the station, and now we hoped shortly again to meet my brother John and his wife, and to convey them, and some other missionaries and their wives, to a general meeting to be held shortly at the central station. We had received on board a variety of stores, and books, and numerous articles to distribute among the various stations at which we were to touch. Indeed, it was highly satisfactory to me to find how useful my little Olive Branch could be made.

Hitherto the little vessel had not encountered a single storm. It was like the rest we might suppose the ocean enjoyed after the subsidence of the waters when the ark rested on Ararat,—not a calm, though; for gentle breezes filled our sails, and rippled over the blue surface of the sea with glittering wavelets, laughing joyously in the sunbeams. A lovely island hove in sight, with blue mountains, and rocks, and sparkling waterfalls, and green shrubs, and pastures, and graceful palm-trees, and yellow sands; and we sailed in through an opening in the never absent reef, and dropped our anchor in a sheltered and beautiful harbour, and numbers of canoes surrounded us. But we had no boarding nettings up, no guns loaded, no pistols in our belts, no cutlasses and pikes ready at hand; for the gospel ruled here. The canoes were filled with well-clothed, intelligent natives. Not an oath was heard, not a man showed an angry temper, and not one who could not read the word of God, and understood it too, and could give a clear reason for the hope that was in him, and who was not probably, even in secular matters, far better educated than the larger portion of the watermen of any port in England, or other long-civilised country in the world.

Provisions of various sorts had been brought in the canoes; but when I enquired for John Harvey, and announced that I was his brother, and that my wife was the daughter of Mr Bent, not an approach to payment would any one receive. When we landed they lifted us up in their arms, and carried us thus to the mission house, where our appearance was a pleasant surprise to our sister-in-law, who had not been made aware of our arrival. My brother was away, but every hour expected back.

I had looked upon Mr Bent’s station as a model of neatness; this was larger, and superior in many respects; nor was it inferior in respect to spiritual things. The church, built entirely of stone, was a large and handsome building, and the most conspicuous object from the sea. Running parallel with the shore were two rows, facing each other, of neat cottages, many of stone, with verandahs round them, and gardens both in front and in the rear. Between them was a broad hard road, with two rows of trees, and a stream of sparkling water led through the centre, fed by a waterfall which came foaming down the side of a rocky hill at a little distance inland. Several streets of equal width had been commenced at right angles with the main street, and on the same plan, and new houses were in course of erection in several directions. Here it was evident, indeed, was the commencement of a large town. The cottages were all very fair copies of the mission-house, though on a smaller scale. Those of some of the chiefs, however, were of good size, and were arranged so that they could enjoy all the privacy of domestic life.

And why, it may be asked, was this congregation of natives in one place? What could be the attraction? My love and admiration of John suggested the answer, and I was right: the power of God’s word put forth through His faithful servant. The inhabitants of this town had been collected by concern for their soul’s welfare, and the belief that the nearer they were to the preacher the more that welfare would be cared for. They displayed a wisdom which is foolishness to the world, and is, alas! too often neglected by those at home, by those who profess to be seeking after the food which perisheth not. I write this, as well as other comparisons I have made, not to find fault with my countrymen at home, but that (should my journal ever be read by any of them) I may excite in them a holy emulation with these so late savage heathens, that they may examine themselves, and ascertain whether they are using all the means in their power to attain to holiness of life and conversation, and without which their spiritual life will too probably languish.

I found my sister-in-law actively engaged from morning till night in her household duties, and in affording instruction of every description to native women of all ages. She declared with perfect sincerity her belief that she was one of the happiest of her sex. She retained the most perfect health, though her figure was slight and delicate, and she had been most gently and tenderly nurtured. Not only that, but she had been what is called highly educated, and was not a stranger to the gay and brilliant assemblies of “civilised” life. It was not that she knew no other lot, and therefore esteemed her present one the best; but she had weighed it with many others she did know, and found it immeasurably superior. She knew from experience that worldly rank hides many a heavy or vacant heart where God is not acknowledged, that wealth cannot give peace of mind, and that gaiety and dissipation most assuredly quench spiritual life. She had found, too, that even a decent church-attending style of existence may be unprofitable to the soul, and as certain to lead to spiritual death. My sister-in-law was not entirely alone. There were two other stations on the island, which was large, and the missionaries and their wives enjoyed frequent intercourse, thus encouraging and supporting each other.

Indeed, I have as a rule found the stations the most prosperous both spiritually and physically where two missionary families have been living together, or where they are near enough to meet frequently. A missionary’s wife has to attend to her household duties, often not slightly onerous when she has children requiring instruction. Then she has the female schools to look after, adult classes to receive at her own house, to afford advice to all who ask it, to call on the sick and to administer medicine, and to visit often from house to house. She must correspond with friends at home; she has her private devotions, and must take time for reading and self-examination, or she will find that she can ill perform her other duties. I do not believe that I have overstated the amount of work I have known my sister-in-law and other missionaries’ wives perform. Indeed, my own wife was in the habit of getting through not less daily, for weeks together.

Although the greater number of the inhabitants of the island had become Christians in name, there was still a large district the powerful chief of which remained a stubborn heathen. He seemed to hate the gospel with a deadly hatred, and threatened to club any of his subjects who should venture to lotu. Notwithstanding this, several who had heard the truth, either directly or through their friends, had secretly escaped to Christian villages. Many of these persons had become really converted, and were of course longing to induce their relatives and friends to become Christians likewise.

Such was the state of things when the Olive Branch arrived at the island. A more beautiful picture could scarcely be found than that presented by the calm bay on which our little vessel floated, with her mission-flag flying,—the glittering sand, the tall cocoa-nut and bread-fruit trees, the wild rocks and fantastic-shaped hills, the green fields, the foaming waterfalls and shining streams, and the rows of neat habitations, the church and school-houses,—all showing that the gospel had indeed here found an entrance, and made it doubly beautiful in our sight.

We had been some hours on shore when we saw the natives hurrying out of their cottages and assembling in the chief street, and the cry arose that the missionary was coming. I was scarcely prepared for the warm and affectionate greeting with which they welcomed him. There was no adulation and nothing cringing in their manner; but it was evident that they knew him from experience as a sincere and loving friend.

Great as was our mutual satisfaction at again meeting, so multifarious were his duties that we had but little time for private conversation. I was able, however, to ascertain that John’s heart was in his work, and that he infinitely preferred being a missionary in the South-Seas to holding the highest secular office at home. The Sabbath came. It was a day of toil to the preachers and teachers, and yet a day of refreshing to them as it was to hundreds of others, who collected from all quarters to worship the true God, and to hear His word expounded. Many came with their wives and little ones, bringing their provisions, to spend the day of rest in obtaining spiritual food for their souls’ welfare. The service over, numbers collected round my brother and the native teachers, and almost the whole interval between the services was devoted to affording advice and consolation to these seekers after life eternal.

But the faith of the young Christian community in the especial providence of God was sorely to be tried. All things were prepared for our departure, and we were about going on board the Olive Branch, when the somewhat threatening appearance of the weather made me resolve not to sail before the following morning. I was convinced shortly that a gale of more or less strength was coming on, and leaving Mary at the mission house, I went on board to secure the vessel and make all things snug. Scarcely had I got out a second anchor and two fresh warps than dark clouds were seen rushing across the sky, the wind howled among the hills and trees, lightning flashed brightly, and the thunder roared and rattled fearfully. I was in hopes, however, that the vessel would, notwithstanding, ride in safety, when it struck me that the sea outside was roaring louder than usual, and in an instant a huge roller appeared rushing with fearful violence into the harbour, while before I could look round I found the vessel lifted up, cables and anchors dragging, and warps giving way, and on we drove helplessly towards the shore. My crew held on to the bulwarks with affrighted looks, for we could expect nothing else than that our little vessel would be dashed to pieces, and if so, that we ourselves should be swept out of the harbour by the receding wave. Another dread seized me, that the roller might sweep up to the mission house and overwhelm those so dear to me. This feeling made me forget all fear for my own life, or for those with me. As I gazed landward, I saw the devastation the hurricane was already committing. Several cottages were in view. Now the wind lifted the roof of one and bore it in shattered fragments to a distance. Now the walls of another trembled and fell; tall trees were bending and breaking, or being torn up by the roots and laid prostrate; house after house was thus destroyed; whole groves of trees, as it seemed to me, fell to the ground; darkness appeared to be coming down like a thick mantle to add to the horrors of the scene.

On drove our little vessel; the rocks against which I expected to be dashed appeared; these were covered, and over them we were carried by the raging tide, above even the sands, and lifted high up on to a soft bank amid brushwood stern first, where she hung while the waters rushed back leaving her uninjured on the shore. We were mercifully preserved from the sudden death we expected, and were grateful; but yet, though not cast down, knowing all would be for the best, I felt most anxious to assure myself of the safety of my dear wife and her companions.

We had come on shore, as far as I could judge, half a mile or more from the mission house, a distance which it would be not only difficult but extremely dangerous to traverse while the storm was raging and tall trees were being hurled about like straws. One of my crew—a true Christian man—volunteered to accompany me. The Olive Branch had already been made snug aloft, so when I had seen her securely shored up, trusting and believing that no second roller would come to move her, I set off, leaving the rest of the people on board to attend to her. My companion and I provided ourselves each with a stout pole. I led the way, he to help me should I fall, and I promising to turn back should he cry out.

The noise of the tempest prevented our having anything like conversation with each other, indeed it was only when we shouted at the very top of our voices that they could be heard. The darkness had increased, and as I began to move on I felt that the attempt was almost beyond my power; still the incentive was so great that I resolved to persevere. I prayed for strength and protection. In my own arm I knew that I could not trust. There were no stars to guide me, and the flashes of lightning sadly confused and dazzled my eyes, so that it was only by keeping as near as possible to the shore that I could hope to keep in the proper direction. This way was longer, however, and very rough where rocks covered the ground, and I dreaded a return of the roller, when we might have been swept helplessly away. The dangers to be encountered by keeping inland were equally great. We might be struck by lightning, crushed by falling trees, or losing our way, fall into some gully or chasm.

Feeling the ground before us with our poles, my companion and I began our hazardous march, I desired him to keep as close behind me as he could, and to shout frequently to assure me that he was following. The tempest increased in fury, the rain came down in torrents, causing such floods as in some places almost to sweep us off our feet.

We had made good some five or six hundred yards, when I thought that we might make faster progress on the higher ground, where the water would not be so great an impediment to our progress. I knew also that we should be able to steer our course more or less directly by feeling the direction the water was flowing, so that we might always regain the sea by following down the streams. Accordingly we attempted gradually to gain the higher ground, but as we ascended, we felt the wind blowing with greater force, and were again nearly carried off our legs by it. I had to exert all the energies of my mind not to become totally bewildered. Over rough rocks we climbed, and fallen trunks of trees, and through the beds of streams, down which the fierce waters now rushed foaming and roaring with fearful force, and across swamps and marshes, till at last we reached a grove of tall trees. We could discover no way round it, so I resolved to push through it by a path in which we found ourselves. The trees were bending and writhing, and the loud crashes we heard told us that every instant some were hurled to the ground. Now one fell directly before me, and impeded my progress. I climbed over it, my companion followed, and we continued our course, guided as before by the way the rain beat on our heads and the waters flowed past our feet. Again the thunder rolled loudly and the lightning flashed with startling vividness, casting a horrid glare over the whole scene, now darting amid the lofty boughs, and then snake-like running with loud hisses along the ground. How utterly helpless and insignificant I felt amid the war of the elements.

Still onward we must advance. How much farther I could not tell. My companion’s frequent shout cheered me. Perhaps trusting to the aid of another made me more careless, for neglecting for an instant to keep my stick feeling the ground before me, I stumbled forward, and found myself floundering in a foaming stream. My cry prevented my companion from falling likewise. Descending more cautiously he rushed into the flood after me, and seizing me by the jacket just as I was being borne down, assisted me to regain my feet, and helped me across, the water being scarcely up to our middles. In another instant I should have been carried helplessly down the stream beyond my depth. We struggled out, I scarcely know how, and pushed on.

Again, I took the lead. We were passing through a second grove of bread-fruit trees. Another tall tree fell directly before me. I climbed over it. Crash succeeded crash. I prayed for preservation from the fate which might any moment overtake me. I began to hope that we were approaching the station. Still we were not out of the wood. I was working my way on when it occurred to me that my companion had not sung out to me for a longer time than usual. I called to him. There was no answer. Eager as I was to push on, I could not desert him. I turned back. Again and again I called. There was no answer. I reached a fallen tree. Was it the one I had climbed over, or was it one which had fallen after I had passed? I felt along it. My foot struck against a soft substance. I stooped down. There lay a human form—quite still though—the hand I lifted fell powerless. My companion was dead. “One shall be taken and the other left.” God in His good providence had thought fit to spare me. My companion was trusting wholly in Christ’s blood. I could not mourn him as one without hope.

It was no time to delay. Once again I was straining all my energies to find and follow the right way. It appeared to me that far more than double the time had passed which I had believed would suffice to reach the station. I almost ran against the gable end of a house the greater part of which was in ruins. I heard a loud moan. It was repeated. I hunted about till I came on a native crouching down and endeavouring to find shelter under part of the building yet standing. I asked him if he would guide me to the mission house. My voice roused him, and he said he would gladly do so. He sprang to his feet, and led me on by the hand. “Here it is!” he exclaimed; but, alas, it was roofless and deserted.

Note 1. In the course of this volume the author, it will be observed, has transcribed much from the actual reports of missionaries, and from the journals of naval officers who have visited the South-Seas. Even in the connecting thread of narrative, and in descriptive scenes such as this of the storm, the writer has stated nothing for which he has not ample authority in published works. In a most interesting book, “Gems from the Coral Islands,” by the Reverend William Gill, volume two, chapter 9, an account is given of the fearful hurricane of 1846, which devastated the island of Raratonga. Dr Bourne, son of the Reverend R Bourne, one of the founders of the Tahitian mission, the friend and associate of Williams, thus writes concerning the illustrations which accompany our letterpress, proofs of which he had seen: “The engravings represent the tropical aspect of the vegetation with great correctness. Many are not aware of the grandeur of the mountain scenery in some of the islands. Dr Darwin, who was with Captain Fitzroy’s expedition, says of Tahiti: ‘Until I actually visited this island, and tried to penetrate its mountain fastnesses, I could never understand the statement made by Ellis, in his “Polynesian Researches,” that after the great battles of former times the defeated party took refuge in the mountains, where it was impossible to follow them.’ Mr Darwin then describes the rugged ravines and forest-clad precipices, wilder than anything he had witnessed in the South American Andes or Cordilleras.” Raiatea, Eimeo, and others in the Society group, are composed of vast and abrupt mountain ranges, rising almost abruptly from the sea, and having very little habitable ground, but all covered with the densest vegetation. The most stupendous volcanoes in the world are those of the Sandwich Islands, compared with which Etna and Vesuvius are mere hillocks.

Chapter Twenty One.

The ruined village.

For an instant the horror of finding the house in ruins, and being unable to discover my wife and the dear ones with her, almost overcame me. I should have sunk to the ground exhausted, had not the native supported me.

“Trust in Jehovah, friend,” he remarked, quietly. “He knows what is best for us all: your wife and our good missionary are in His hands.”

“How long have you been a Christian?” I could not help asking.

“Two years,” was the answer. “Before that I was a gross idolater and cannibal; there was no wickedness I did not do. But, praised be the Lord Jesus Christ, I was, through the teaching of the Holy Spirit, brought out of darkness into the light of His glorious truth.”

I felt rebuked, and grasping my staff once more, braced myself up to continue my search. The native accompanied me.

“They may have escaped to the mountains,” he observed. “We will go there. I can find the path even in the dark, and there is a cavern not far up, where they may have taken shelter. Once, when we were devil’s people, we dreaded to enter it, thinking it the abode of evil spirits; now that we are God’s people, we know that God is everywhere, and have no fear.”

Again I felt how the remark of this babe in Christ, this late savage heathen, would rebuke many of those in our own dear England who, even in this professedly enlightened nineteenth century, yet tremble at the thoughts of ghosts, witches, and other similar phantoms of their foolish imaginations.

It appeared to me that the hurricane was subsiding; but still our progress was slow and painful. It was, however, an advantage having a beaten path, though that in many places was cut up by the water, and in others, trees and roofs of cottages had been blown across it. I found that we were ascending,—higher and higher up the mountain we got. Lofty rocks appeared on every side,—the lightning seemed to be more vivid,—the crash of the thunder, as it reverberated in rattling peals amid the cliffs, was even louder than before. I remembered my companion’s remark, and felt no fear.

“There is the cavern,” he said, at length.

I hurried in through a narrow opening, following closely at his heels. A light was shining at the farther end: it was from a fire, round which a number of persons were collected. On the opposite side, with the light shining full on his countenance, stood my brother John. A book was in his hand,—the book of books undoubtedly. His eyes were turned toward heaven: he was praying for the safety of all those exposed to the fury of the tempest. My own name was mentioned. I advanced, and knelt down by the side of my own Mary. “God hears prayer,” I whispered. “He has preserved me.”

She soon lay in my arms, weeping tears of joy. I now learned that no sooner had the signs of the coming tempest appeared than several of the principal natives came to the mission-house, and advised John to remove his family, with his books, and such articles as the water might spoil, to a place of safety, offering to assist him. Of this kindness he gladly availed himself; but the journey was not performed without great danger and difficulty, as the tempest broke before they had proceeded far, and the wind and floods impeded their progress. Mary suffered most, from her anxiety for me. Now we praised God together joyfully for the preservation he had awarded us.

It was daylight before we were able again to set forward to return to my brother’s now desolate home. Still we could rejoice, and be thankful that none of those most dear to us had been lost. We hoped that the poor natives might have escaped as well; but we had not descended far through the lower ground before we found one crushed by a fallen tree, and another drowned in a water-hole, into which he had apparently stumbled. The lightning had struck a third whose blackened corpse we found beneath a tall tree stripped of its branches. These were beyond human help.

“Grant that they died in the Lord,” observed the missionary, as we noted the spots where they lay, that we might send and bury them.

The numbers wandering houseless and without food most claimed our sympathy. Our worst apprehensions were realised. In the late neat and pretty village not a cottage retained its roof, and by far the greater number lay levelled with the ground, some mere heaps of ruin, while of others not a remnant was to be seen, the whole building having been carried off by the floods or wind. Of the church only part of the walls remained standing; and even the heavier timbers of the roof lay scattered about in every direction. This destruction naturally deeply affected the missionary. “Still I pray that the faith and trust of the people will not be found wanting under this trial,” he murmured as we passed on.

The school-houses were much in the same condition; but happily the printing-office, a strong stone building, had escaped any serious damage, as had its valuable contents. Here not only was printing carried on, but the Bibles and other books were stored, as were the machines for binding, a work performed very neatly by the natives. This circumstance again raised my brother’s spirits: “While the Book of God remains, we have nought to fear.”

It was sad to see the natives collecting from all points to which they had fled to escape the flood and storm, as they first caught sight of their ruined habitations.

“The village must be rebuilt on Christian principles,” said my brother with a smile; and going among the people, he called them around him, and advised them to lose no time in collecting food and rebuilding their houses, urging those without young children or unmarried to assist those with families, or the sick and aged, before attending to their own wants. The reply was most satisfactory, and all agreed to follow his advice.

We now repaired to the mission-house, and, clearing out the rubbish from within the angle formed by two walls, were soon able to obtain some shelter and privacy for the ladies and children. It was melancholy work hunting about for the furniture, crockery, and other articles, among the ruins. However, we obtained a sufficient number of things to furnish our make-shift abode, though it was long before we could get the bedding sufficiently dry to be of any use. The flour and many other articles of food, were spoilt, or had disappeared; but we raked up sufficient for the present wants of the household; and as we assembled round a table once more together, we returned our grateful thanks to Heaven that we were still preserved to each other.

Among the ruins a chest of axes, and some saws, and other carpenters’ tools was found, and these my brother distributed among the chiefs and other principal people, that they might the better be able to rebuild their abodes. When assembled to receive these valuable gifts, their answer was: “We accept them with thanks, on one condition,—that we may first be allowed to rebuild our missionary’s abode.” They would take no denial; and forthwith forming themselves into gangs, some set to work to clear away the ruins, while others went off to cut fresh uprights and rafters to replace those that were broken. It was gratifying, as being so purely spontaneous, and showing the high estimation in which they held their missionary for his work’s sake. Thus, aided by zealous friends, the work proceeded rapidly.

I meantime hastened back to my vessel, taking with me some natives to aid in launching her. On our way we came unexpectedly on the spot where lay the body of my poor companion who had been crushed to death. We buried the remains not far off on the hill-side, while I offered some prayers and a short exhortation for the benefit of those present. As I went over the ground again I was more than ever surprised that I had been able to accomplish the journey on such a night, and deeply thankful that I had been preserved from the numberless dangers I had encountered.

On reaching the Olive Branch, I found that my mate had been making most judicious preparations for getting her off. He had formed a strong cradle, with rollers under her keel and posts ahead, to which to secure some strong tackles. By hauling on these tackles he hoped to get her off several feet every day. “Slow and steady wins the race, you know, sir,” he observed. His hopes of success were not without foundation.

Day after day we toiled on, aided by the indefatigable natives, who gave every evidence that they were working from pure Christian love.

“You have brought us the blessings of the gospel,—ought not we, who highly estimate its blessings, labour to enable you in your ship to carry it to others?” said the chief of the party, when I was one day thanking him for the energetic way in which he and his people were working. Their satisfaction when the Olive Branch at length floated securely in the harbour was nearly equal to mine.

Little time as there was to spare before the meeting would take place, at which my brother wished to be present, he was anxious to see the people housed before he would leave them. They meantime were working most heroically, and I was surprised to see the rapid way in which they put up their houses, and set to work to replant the fields of taro and other roots, which had been destroyed by the flood.

At length we were ready to continue our voyage. It had been intended that our wives should accompany us; but as, in consequence of the delay, John’s absence would be shorter than had been expected, it was thought better that they should remain and restore order to the establishment. As we were about to go the chief men of the island sent to beg that we would receive certain gifts which they had stored up to increase the funds devoted to sending missionaries to the other islands of the Pacific yet lying in heathen darkness.

“Had it not been for the storm, they would have been far greater,” they observed; “but, though we are feeling a want just now of this world’s goods, we are rich in gospel blessings; nor can we make our present condition an excuse for denying those blessed privileges to brethren in other lands, for whom our Lord died as well as for us.”

Surely, I thought, these remarks, were they known at home, would put to shame too many who are ready to make any slight decrease of income an excuse for not assisting the cause of the gospel either among the ignorant around them or in other countries. Since I went among these so late heathen savages, I have often had to think with grief and shame of the very low standard of Christian excellence considered requisite by many at home who profess, and probably have a wish, to be religious. Often and often I have wished that I could paint to them in their true and vivid colours the self-denying, laborious lives of the devoted missionaries, and the humble, zealous, faithful, truth-searching behaviour of the converts.

With a fair wind we sailed, praying that God would protect our dear ones, and bring us back to them in safety. We took up several missionaries who were going to the conference, and who had been waiting for the Olive Branch, and also some native teachers, who were destined to act as pioneers in islands where the light of the gospel had not yet penetrated.

Without any adventure especially worthy of notice we reached the head station, where a considerable number of missionaries were collected awaiting our arrival. All had more or less felt the storm at their respective stations, but few with the violence that we had. The discussions which took place at the meeting were most important and interesting, and encouraging to all to persevere in the work; but I must not now report them. Although only in a certain sense a looker-on, I felt greatly refreshed, and my spiritual life renewed by the exhortations delivered and the prayers engaged in. I had the privilege of attending all the meetings. Several had taken place, when the subject of the new stations to be occupied was brought forward. John was named to fill one of them. The inhabitants were looked upon as among the fiercest of the savages of the Pacific; the climate was far from salubrious. But John did not hesitate a moment; on the contrary, his countenance was radiant with satisfaction. It was an important post, and it was believed that a large accession might be made to the kingdom of Christ by the establishment of a mission there. “Wherever my overseer and brethren consider our holy cause can most be advantaged by my presence, there I am ready to go,” answered my brother, after the offer had been made him.

The ground had already been broken by native teachers, who had earnestly petitioned for an English missionary. Our passage to my brother’s station was somewhat circuitous, as we had to leave several missionaries at their posts, to carry stores and books to old stations, and to leave native teachers at new ones. We had brought with us the missionary who was to succeed John, whom I was directed to carry on to his new station.

We were received on our return to my brother’s home with unmistakable signs of pleasure by the natives, who collected to welcome him. I expected, however, that when he came to announce to his wife the proposed change, that it would be a sad damper to her happiness; but she simply observed: “Wherever you are called to go, dear husband, it will be my joy to go also. How much better am I off than the wife of a soldier serving in the army of some earthly monarch. She may not accompany him to the war; if he falls wounded, she may not be near to tend him; if he is slain, no reward is of value to him. Where, too, is her assurance that they will be reunited? Where my husband goes I may go,—if he is ill, I may watch over him,—if spirits and strength fail, I may support him. When death separates us, I know that we shall be reunited; and I know, too, that a glorious crown, the prize of his high calling, will assuredly be his, and that that crown I shall share with him, and full draughts of joy unspeakable for ever and ever.”

These words were spoken in so low and gentle a voice by my dear sister-in-law, that a stranger would scarcely have understood the firm faith and high resolve they indicated. The packing up occupied but little time. John’s household goods were few, nor did his library fill many boxes.

“But you will sell your cattle and poultry?” I observed.

“I do not consider them mine,” he answered. “I look upon them as belonging to the Society, and as necessary to my successor. A missionary should have as few worldly incumbrances as possible to draw him away from his work. He should labour solely for the Lord, and to the Lord leave the care of his wife and little ones. A missionary sent out by a Society should feel secure that they would provide for his worldly wants while he can work, would support him in his old age, and care at his death for his widow and children.”

Thus with perfect faith my noble brother went forth in the gospel’s glorious cause to conquer souls for Christ’s kingdom.

The grief of the people among whom he had ministered since his arrival in the Pacific, when they heard that he was to leave them, was excessive. At first they threatened to put a restraint upon him, and not to let him go.

“Would you then selfishly deprive others of the blessings you enjoy?” he asked. “Would you, who know the gospel, keep back the instrument which brought it to you from presenting it to others? No, no; surely you, dear friends, have not thus learned Christ.”

“Go, go; our prayers will ever be lifted up for your safety and success.”

Chapter Twenty Two.

Martyred for the Truth.

Scarcely a native in the settlement who was not present to bid farewell to their beloved missionary, and amid tears and prayers, he embarked on board the Olive Branch. My wife accompanied me, and though the little vessel was much crowded, we had a very happy party.

The weather was fine, and as we had numerous places to touch at, we were not more than twelve days without obtaining fresh provisions. Formerly, when the islands of the Pacific were little known, crews starving or suffering from scurvy must often have passed just out of sight of land, where they might have obtained an ample supply of fresh provisions; but now, very much through the instrumentality of the missionaries of the gospel, scarcely an island remains unknown, and entirely through their instrumentality the greater number may now be visited, not only without fear, but the voyager is certain to receive a Christian welcome on their shores.

An instance came under my notice where the natives did not only return good for good, but good for evil. The master and crew of a large English ship had grossly misbehaved themselves and ill-treated the people of an island. Scarcely had they sailed when a gale sprung up, and their ship was driven on shore and lost. The cargo and other property in the ship was taken possession of by the natives, who considered that they had a right to it. On the captain, however, claiming it through the missionary, the chiefs met and decided that it should be given up, which it was forthwith without a word of complaint. Here the brown Christian set an example to the white man, virtually a heathen.

The new post to which my brother was appointed was on a lovely island, fertile in the extreme, and thickly populated. Indeed it might have been said of it, “that only man was vile.” No natives appeared on the shore to welcome him, but after a time the teachers came off in their canoe, and gave us accounts which were far from cheering. Chiefs who had appeared friendly had turned against them, and some had prohibited their people from listening to the Word of God, or attending school or chapel. I suggested to my brother that under the circumstances it might be wiser not to land.

“What, because the enemy begins the fight shall the soldier desert his standard?” he asked, with a look of surprise. “No, David, you would not counsel such conduct.”

I could say nothing. The teachers were of opinion that he would be treated with indifference rather than actual hostility, at first, by the great mass of the people, and that his life at all events would be perfectly safe. They mentioned one chief who appeared to be more friendly disposed towards Christianity than the rest, and to him accordingly, we at once went to pay our court. The chief looked like a perfect savage, with his hair long and frizzed out, his eyes rolling wildly, and with scarcely any clothing on his dusky body. Still he received us politely, and not without a certain dignity, and promised if the missionary now remained he would be answerable to me for him, should I again visit the island.

The man was still a heathen, and I felt very unwilling to put any confidence in his promises. It was too evident to me that he wished for a missionary for the sake of axes and saws, and other articles he expected to obtain, rather than for any spiritual benefit he hoped to derive from his presence. I had, however, no alternative, than to land my dear brother with his wife and little ones, and household goods. My only consolation was that I was able with my crew to assist in putting up a house for him, many of the parts of which we had brought with us.

The teachers were good carpenters, and had already, with the aid of some natives whom they had instructed, prepared some stout uprights and beams and planks. Notwithstanding this, the rapidity with which we got up the house, dug up a garden and fenced it round, caused great astonishment among the people. Before we left, my brother had already begun a school-room, to serve also as a chapel till a larger edifice could be erected, while he received inquirers at his own house. My sister-in-law had also two female classes of adults and children, to whom she imparted such religious instruction as they would receive, and some of the arts of civilised life, while round the station resembled a busy hive, all the natives who had professed Christianity being actively employed as sawyers or in some other mechanical work. His aim at this early stage of the mission was to show the natives the advantages the Christians possessed over the heathens, and thus to make them look with favour on Christianity. He never failed while they were thus engaged to impart so much religious instruction as they could receive. Everything appeared now to be going on favourably. When I remarked that I now had reasonable hopes that he would succeed—

“Who can doubt it?” was his answer. “If I do not my successor will. The gospel will most assuredly cover the earth as the waters cover the sea. God has said it.”

One of the saddest moments of my life was that when I parted from my devoted brother as he stood on the beach while I returned for the last time to my vessel. Yet I asked myself more than once, Why should I grieve? why should I be anxious? He is engaged in the noblest cause in which the energies of a human being can be employed—gaining subjects for the Redeemer’s kingdom.

Still I was his brother, and as such I could not contemplate without fear the dangers to which he was exposed. I was now to return direct to Mr Bent’s station, where I proposed refitting the Olive Branch to be ready for any work she might be called on to perform. We found that great progress had been made at the station, both spiritual and material. There were many new converts, and several excellent little houses built, surrounded by neat gardens and fields. It had not been done without cost, and it was too evident to Mary and me that her father’s health and strength were failing. She spoke to him, and suggested a change of scene.

“Here I have been planted by the Lord of the vineyard, and here let me, if He so wills it, wither and fall, dear one,” he answered.

It was too evident to us that his body was withering, but not so his spirit—that was expanding more and more, ripening for heaven. It seemed to burn with a deep and unextinguishable love for the conversion of all the islanders among whom he had so long laboured—not those of his own group only, but for the inhabitants of all the isles of the Pacific, “ay,” he would finish, as if there had been a shortcoming of his love for the souls of his fellow-men, “of the whole heathen world. May they all come to know Thee, O Lord, and accept Thy great salvation.” Still his more constant prayers were for his own people. Gradually he sunk—evidently entering into the rest prepared for those who love Christ—his joy increased, his end was peace. Thus has many a missionary died, and who would not change all the world can give to be assured of such a death. Mary felt her father’s death severely, but yet as one who mourned with assured hope of a joyous resurrection.

My brother had earnestly petitioned to have another missionary or a native teacher of superior attainments sent him, and while I was debating what course to pursue, I received directions to carry the teacher Vihala and his wife to him, and to visit many other stations on my way. Vihala and Alea were delighted to see us again, but when they heard of Mr Bent’s death they shed tears of unfeigned sorrow at the thought that they should see his face no more. They both had advanced greatly in Christian knowledge, and Vihala appeared to me equal to the taking entire charge of a station, however large. He was delighted to hear that he was to join my brother, and made all his preparations with alacrity.

As I was preparing to sail, a ship hove in sight. She was from England direct, and brought letters for me and John.

I opened mine with trembling hands. All were well at home; but they contained news and of importance too. A distant relative had died and left a considerable fortune to my father’s second son, but in the case of his death it was to belong to the next, and so on. It could only descend to the children of the brother who had possessed it for five years. Thus John was to be the first possessor. It at once occurred to me, would it prove a snare to him? Would it induce him to abandon his high and holy calling? Would the man of property be unwilling to remain the humble missionary? Still I thought I knew what John would do. I felt that I was wronging him by having any doubts on the subject.

The delay was providential, for a gale sprung up as we were weighing anchor, and again dropping it, we remained safely in port till the storm had subsided. We had several places to call at, and baffling winds still more prolonged our voyage. At last we anchored in the beautiful bay opposite my brother’s station.

I looked out anxiously expecting him to come off to us. I was then about to land with Mary, thinking to take him and his family by surprise, when a canoe appeared with one of the native teachers on board. His first words were, “I am the only one left alive.” My heart sunk within me.

I put Mary again on board and went on shore. On the way the teacher told me the sad tale. At first the natives in the district had been friendly, but instigated by the heathen chiefs, they had, after a time, refused provisions or assistance. Even some who had professed Christianity were afraid to come openly to receive instruction. A little band was faithful, and many came at night to hear the word of God, and brought food, or the mission family might have been starved. Still my brother persevered, and not without effect. Fresh converts were made. Children were allowed to come to the girls’ school, and when it was discovered what useful arts they learned there in addition to reading and writing, even some chiefs became desirous of sending their daughters for instruction. This unexpected progress, made, in spite of opposition, by the missionaries, exasperated the heathen chiefs still further, and a plot was formed to cut off all the Christian teachers. Their safety was, however, watched over by their converts, and all attempts defeated. Treachery was next attempted, and one of the most savage of the heathen chiefs pretended to be desirous of hearing the truth. He sent to my brother, begging him to come to him. He was urged not to go.

“What, and run the risk of allowing a soul to be left in Satan’s power which may be rescued!” was his answer. He went, accompanied by a teacher and two Christian natives. They were unarmed. Day after day passed, and no tidings came of them. At last the bodies of all four were found. They had been barbarously murdered; but whether or not they had reached the old chiefs residence could not be ascertained. He sent a message expressing his regret that the missionary had not come to him. My sister-in-law was supported in a way the Holy Spirit can alone support a person in distress. Her longing desire was to meet him in heaven, and to prepare their two boys to follow in his footsteps.

Notwithstanding all that had occurred, Vihala undauntedly resolved to remain.

“If I fall, it is in God’s cause, and to advance His glory,” was his only remark.

Having done all I could, with a heavy heart I quitted the station with my sister-in-law and her children, and returned to head-quarters, where I had the satisfaction of presenting the Olive Branch for the service of the mission. I persuaded my sister-in-law to accompany Mary and me to England, where I have devoted a certain portion of the fortune of which I so painfully became possessed to her support and the education of her children, and at Mary’s urgent request, another, what the world would consider a no inconsiderable portion, to the support of missions. We live in a humble way, but are far more happy than we should be did we spend our wealth on ourselves. Our nephews, too, are amply rewarding us, and will, I trust, prove efficient soldiers in that glorious army which goes forth under the banner of the cross to fight against idolatry, ignorance, vice, and all the foes Satan can array against the truth as it is in Christ Jesus.

The End.

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